“Not a doubt of it, and if you tell them that I said so, they will confess it. You owe me five shillings.”
The farmer put his hand in his pocket, and placing the money before him, left the room, satisfied that there was no earthly subject, past, present, or to come, with which the learned conjurer was not acquainted.
The next individual that came before him was a very pretty buxom widow, who, having made the venerable conjurer a courtesy, sat down and immediately burst into tears.
“What is the matter with you, madam?” asked the astrologer, rather surprised at this unaccountable exhibition of the pathetic.
“O, sir, I lost, about fifteen months ago, one of the best husbands that ever broke the world's bread.”
Here came another effusion, accompanied with a very distracted blow of the nose.
“That must have been very distressing to you, madam; he must have been extremely fond of such a very pretty wife.”
“O sir, he doted alive upon me, as I did upon him—poor, darling old Paul.”
“Ah, he was old, was he?”
“Yes, sir, and left me very rich.”