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Chapter 67 All womankind, continued Trim, (commenting upon his story) from the highest to the lowest, an please your honour, love jokes; the difficulty is to know how they chuse to have them cut; and there is no knowing that, but by trying, as we do with our artillery in the field, by raising or letting down their breeches, till we hit the mark. I like the comparison, said my uncle Toby, better than the thing itself Because your honour, quoth the corporal, loves glory, more than pleasure. I hope, Trim, answered my uncle Toby, I love mankind more than either; and as the knowledge of arms tends so apparently to the good and quiet of the worldand particularly that branch of it which we have practised together in our bowling-green, has no object but to shorten the strides of Ambition, and intrench the lives and fortunes of the few, from the plunderings of the manywhenever that drum beats in our ears, I trust, corporal, we shall neither of us want so much humanity and fellow-feeling, as to face about and march. In pronouncing this, my uncle Toby faced about, and marchd firmly as at the head of his companyand the faithful corporal, shouldering his stick, and striking his hand upon his coat-skirt as he took his first step marchd close behind him down the avenue. Now what can their two noddles be about? cried my father to my motherby all thats strange, they are besieging Mrs. Wadman in form, and are marching round her house to mark out the lines of circumvallation. I dare say, quoth my motherBut stop, dear Sirfor what my mother dared to say upon the occasionand what my father did say upon itwith her replies and his rejoinders, shall be read, perused, paraphrased, commented, and descanted uponor to say it all in a word, shall be thumbd over by Posterity in a chapter apartI say, by Posterityand care not, if I repeat the word againfor what has this book done more than the Legation of Moses, or the Tale of a Tub, that it may not swim down the gutter of Time along with them? I will not argue the matter: Time wastes too fast: every letter I trace tells me with what rapidity Life follows my pen: the days and hours of it, more precious, my dear Jenny! than the rubies about thy neck, are flying over our heads like light clouds of a windy day, never to return more every thing presses onwhilst thou art twisting that lock,see! it grows grey; and every time I kiss thy hand to bid adieu, and every absence which follows it, are preludes to that eternal separation which we are shortly to make. Heaven have mercy upon us both! |
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