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 world——and 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 _many_——whenever 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 march’d firmly as
at the head of his company——and the faithful corporal, shouldering his
stick, and striking his hand upon his coat-skirt as he took his first
step——march’d close behind him down the avenue.
——Now what can their two noddles be about? cried my father to my
mother——by all that’s 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 mother——But stop, dear Sir——for what my mother
dared to say upon the occasion——and what my father did say upon
it——with her replies and his rejoinders, shall be read, perused,
paraphrased, commented, and descanted upon—or to say it all in a word,
shall be thumb’d over by Posterity in a chapter apart——I say, by
Posterity—and care not, if I repeat the word again—for 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 on——whilst 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!