AS soon as the corporal had finished the story of his amour—or rather
my uncle _Toby_ for him—Mrs. _Wadman_ silently sallied forth from her
arbour, replaced the pin in her mob, pass’d the wicker gate, and
advanced slowly towards my uncle _Toby_’s sentry-box: the disposition
which _Trim_ had made in my uncle _Toby_’s mind, was too favourable a
crisis to be let slipp’d——
——The attack was determin’d upon: it was facilitated still more by my
uncle _Toby_’s having ordered the corporal to wheel off the pioneer’s
shovel, the spade, the pick-axe, the picquets, and other military
stores which lay scatter’d upon the ground where _Dunkirk_ stood—The
corporal had march’d—the field was clear.
Now, consider, sir, what nonsense it is, either in fighting, or
writing, or any thing else (whether in rhyme to it, or not) which a man
has occasion to do—to act by plan: for if ever Plan, independent of all
circumstances, deserved registering in letters of gold (I mean in the
archives of _Gotham_)—it was certainly the PLAN of Mrs. _Wadman_’s
attack of my uncle _Toby_ in his sentry-box, BY PLAN——Now the plan
hanging up in it at this juncture, being the Plan of _Dunkirk_—and the
tale of _Dunkirk_ a tale of relaxation, it opposed every impression she
could make: and besides, could she have gone upon it—the manœuvre of
fingers and hands in the attack of the sentry-box, was so outdone by
that of the fair _Beguine_’s, in _Trim_’s story—that just then, that
particular attack, however successful before—became the most heartless
attack that could be made——
O! let woman alone for this. Mrs. _Wadman_ had scarce open’d the
wicker-gate, when her genius sported with the change of circumstances.
——She formed a new attack in a moment.