XXXVII
вАЬNihil me poenitet hujus nasi,вАЭ quoth Pamphagus;вБ†вЄЇвБ†that isвБ†вАФвАЬMy nose has been the making of me.вАЭвБ†вЄЇвБ†вЄївАЬNec est cur poeniteat,вАЭ replies Cocles; that is, вАЬHow the duce should such a nose fail?вАЭ
The doctrine, you see, was laid down by Erasmus, as my father wished it, with the utmost plainness; but my fatherвАЩs disappointment was, in finding nothing more from so able a pen, but the bare fact itself; without any of that speculative subtlety or ambidexterity of argumentation upon it, which Heaven had bestowвАЩd upon man on purpose to investigate truth, and fight for her on all sides.вБ†вЄЇвБ†My father pishвАЩd and pughвАЩd at first most terriblyвБ†вЄївАЩtis worth something to have a good name. As the dialogue was of Erasmus, my father soon came to himself, and read it over and over again with great application, studying every word and every syllable of it throвАЩ and throвАЩ in its most strict and literal interpretationвБ†вАФhe could still make nothing of it, that way. Mayhap there is more meant, than is said in it, quoth my father.вБ†вЄЇвБ†Learned men, brother Toby, donвАЩt write dialogues upon long noses for nothing.вБ†вЄїIвАЩll study the mystick and the allegorick senseвБ†вЄЇвБ†here is some room to turn a manвАЩs self in, brother.
My father read on.вБ†вЄїNow I find it needful to inform your reverences and worships, that besides the many nautical uses of long noses enumerated by Erasmus, the dialogist affirmeth that a long nose is not without its domestic conveniencies also; for that in a case of distressвБ†вАФand for want of a pair of bellows, it will do excellently well, ad ixcitandum focum (to stir up the fire).
Nature had been prodigal in her gifts to my father beyond measure, and had sown the seeds of verbal criticism as deep within him, as she had done the seeds of all other knowledgeвБ†вЄїso that he had got out his penknife, and was trying experiments upon the sentence, to see if he could not scratch some better sense into it.вБ†вЄЇвБ†IвАЩve got within a single letter, brother Toby, cried my father, of Erasmus his mystic meaning.вБ†вАФYou are near enough, brother, replied my uncle, in all conscience.вБ†вЄїPshaw! cried my father, scratching onвБ†вЄЇвБ†I might as well be seven miles off.вБ†вАФIвАЩve done itвБ†вАФsaid my father, snapping his fingersвБ†вАФSee, my dear brother Toby, how I have mended the sense.вБ†вЄЇвБ†But you have marrвАЩd a word, replied my uncle Toby.вБ†вЄЇвБ†My father put on his spectaclesвБ†вЄЇвБ†bit his lipвБ†вЄїand tore out the leaf in a passion.