O, very well den, you understand.—But of what value is all that piggling, niggling,—you call little thing piggling, niggling?
CRAFTON.
Sometimes we do, perhaps.
SMITCHENSTAULT.
Very well: what is it, I say, but de piggling, niggling driblets of virtue? But de grand, de sublime, is in what you call—not de heart—(Striking his breast.)—not de heart.
CRAFTON.
Stomach?
SMITCHENSTAULT.
No, no!—Soul—(Striking his breast with greater energy.)—ay, de soul, dere be de sublime vertue. My sentiment, my entusiasm, my love for my friend do flame here; what tough in my rage I do cut his troat?
CRAFTON.
That were but a trifle. But suffer me to transpose the matter, and make the sublimity of sentiment to belong to your friend, and the throat to yourself.
