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CHAP. XXXVIII.
O Slawkenbergius! thou faithful analyzer of my Disgrázias,—thou sad foreteller of so many of the whips and short turns, which in one stage or other of my life have come slap upon me from the shortness of my nose, and no other cause, that I am conscious of.—Tell me, Slawkenbergius! what secret impulse was it? what intonation of voice? whence came it? how did it sound in thy ears?—art thou sure thou heard'st it?—which first cried out to thee,—go,—go, Slawkenbergius! dedicate the labours of thy life,—neglect thy pastimes,—call forth all the powers and faculties of thy nature,—macerate thyself in the service of mankind, and write a grand FOLIO for them, upon the subject of their noses.
How
