WHEN we have got to the end of this chapter (but not before) we must
all turn back to the two blank chapters, on the account of which my
honour has lain bleeding this half hour——I stop it, by pulling off one
of my yellow slippers and throwing it with all my violence to the
opposite side of my room, with a declaration at the heel of it——
——That whatever resemblance it may bear to half the chapters which are
written in the world, or for aught I know may be now writing in it—that
it was as casual as the foam of _Zeuxis_ his horse; besides, I look
upon a chapter which has _only nothing in it_, with respect; and
considering what worse things there are in the world——That it is no way
a proper subject for satire——
——Why then was it left so? And here without staying for my reply, shall
I be called as many blockheads, numsculs, doddypoles, dunderheads,
ninny-hammers, goosecaps, joltheads, nincompoops, and sh-
-t-a-beds——and other unsavoury appellations, as ever the cake-bakers of
_Lernè_ cast in the teeth of King _Garangantan_’s shepherds——And I’ll
let them do it, as _Bridget_ said, as much as they please; for how was
it possible they should foresee the necessity I was under of writing
the 84th chapter of my book, before the 77th, &c?
——So I don’t take it amiss——All I wish is, that it may be a lesson to
the world, “_to let people tell their stories their own way._”