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him, without being able to tell, whether it was a black or a blue one.
The difficulty was to get my uncle Toby, to look at one, at all.
'Tis surmounted. And
I see him yonder with his pipe pendulous in his hand, and the ashes falling out of it—looking—and looking—then rubbing his eyes—and looking again, with twice the good nature that ever Gallileo look'd for a spot in the sun.
—In vain! for by all the powers which animate the organ—Widow Wadman's left eye shines this moment as lucid as her right—there is neither mote, or sand, or dust, or chaff, or speck, or particle of opake matter floating in it—There
