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my father, but not philosophical,—there is more religion in it than sound science. 'Twas no inconsistent part of my uncle Toby's character,—that he feared God, and reverenced religion.—So the moment my father finished his remark,—my uncle Toby fell a whistling Lillabullero, with more zeal (though more out of tune) than usual.—
What is become of my wife's thread-paper?
CHAP. XLII.
No matter,—as an appendage to seamstressy, the thread-paper might be of some consequence to my mother,—of none to my father, as a mark in Slawkenbergius. Slawkenbergius in every page of him was a rich treasury of inexhaustible knowledge to my father,—he could not open
