Fred. The sun.
Sir R. The sun! he's mad; you mean the moon, 1 believe.
Fred. Oh, my dear uncle, you don't know the effect of a fine spring morning upon a fellow just arrived from Russia. The day looked bright, trees budding, birds singing, the park was so gay that I took a leap out of your old balcony, made your deer fly before me like the wind, and chased them all around the park to get an appetite for breakfast, while you were snoring in bed, uncle.
Sir R. Oh, oh! So the effect of English sunshine upon a Russian, is to make him jump out of a balcony, and worry my deer.
Fred. I confess it had that influence upon me.
Sir R. You had better be influenced by a rich old uncle, unless you think the sun likely to leave you a fat legacy.
Fred. I hate legacies.
Sir R. Sir, that's mighty singular. They are pretty solid tokens, at least.
Fred. Very melancholy tokens, uncle; they are the posthumous dispatches
Affection sends to Gratitude, to inform us we have lost a gracious friend.
Sir R. How charmingly the dog argues!