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day for at least ten years together did my father resolve to have it mended—'tis not mended yet;—no family but ours would have borne with it an hour,—and what is most astonishing, there was not a subject in the world upon which my father was so elegant, as upon that of door-hinges.—And yet at the same time, he was certainly one of the greatest bubbles to them, I think, that history can produce: his rhetoric and conduct were at perpetual handy-cuffs.—Never did the parlour-door open—but his philosophy or his principles fell a victim to it;—three drops of oyl with a feather, and a smart stroke of a hammer, had saved his honour for ever.