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whirling round and round about in it, all obfuscated and darkened over with fuliginous matter!—By the tomb stone of Lucian—if it is in being,—if not, why then, by his ashes! by the ashes of my dear Rabelais, and dearer Cervantes,—my father and my uncle Toby's discourse upon time and eternity,—was a discourse devoutly to be wished for! and the petulancy of my father's humour in putting a stop to it, as he did, was a robbery of the Ontologic treasury, of such a jewel, as no coalition of great occasions and great men, are ever likely to restore to it again.
CHAP. XX.
Tho' my father persisted in not going on with the discourse,—yet he could not get my uncle Toby's smoak-jack
