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 opificers of chit chat have ever since been working upon Trims and my uncle Tobys pattern.—I care not what Aristotle, or ', or Bossu, or Ricaboni say,—(though I never read one of them)—there is not a greater difference between a single-horse chair and madam Pompadours vis a vis'', than betwixt a single armour, and an amour thus nobly doubled, and going upon all four, prancing throughout a grand drama.—Sir, a simple, single, silly affair of that kind,—is quite lost in five acts,—but that is neither here or there.

After a series of attacks and repulses in a course of nine months on my uncle Toby's quarter, a most minute account of every particular of which shall be given in its proper place, my uncle Toby, honest man! found it necessary to draw off