[115]
Toby of his repose, as the very eye, at which he was looking———it was not, Madam, a rolling eye———a romping or a wanton one—nor was it an eye sparkling—petulant or imperious—of high claims and terrifying exactions, which would have curdled at once that milk of human nature, of which my uncle Toby was made up———but 'twas an eye full of gentle salutations———and soft responses———speaking———not like the trumpet stop of some ill-made organ, in which many an eye I talk to, holds coarse converse———but whispering soft———like the last low accents of an expiring saint———"How can you live comfortless, captain Shandy, and alone, without a bosom to lean your head on———or trust your cares to?"
It
