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chair, and lifting up his hands, his eyes, and one leg.—Yes the life,—my father would say, maintaining his point. How many thousands of 'em are there every year that come cast away, (in all civilized countries at least)—and consider'd as nothing but common air, in competition of an hypothesis. In my plain sense of things, my uncle Toby, would answer,—every such instance is downright Murder, let who will commit it.—There lies your mistake, my father would reply;—for, in Foro Scientiæ there is no such thing as Murder,—'tis only Death, brother.
My uncle Toby would never offer to answer this by any other kind of argument, than that of whistling half a dozen bars of Lillabullero.—You must knowit
