Methinks, said _Didius_, half rising from his chair, in order to remove a bottle and a tall decanter, which stood in a direct line betwixt him and _Yorick_——you might have spared this sarcastic stroke, and have hit upon a more proper place, Mr. _Yorick_—or at least upon a more proper occasion to have shewn your contempt of what we have been about: If the sermon is of no better worth than to light pipes with——’twas certainly, Sir, not good enough to be preached before so learned a body; and if ’twas good enough to be preached before so learned a body——’twas certainly Sir, too good to light their pipes with afterwards. ——I have got him fast hung up, quoth _Didius_ to himself, upon one of the two horns of my dilemma——let him get off as he can. I have undergone such unspeakable torments, in bringing forth this sermon, quoth _Yorick_, upon this occasion——that I declare, _Didius_, I would suffer martyrdom—and if it was possible my horse with me, a thousand times over, before I would sit down and make such another: I was delivered of it at the wrong end of me——it came from my head instead of my heart——and it is for the pain it gave me, both in the writing and preaching of it, that I revenge myself of it, in this manner—To preach, to shew the extent of our reading, or the subtleties of our wit—to parade in the eyes of the vulgar with the beggarly accounts of a little learning, tinsel’d over with a few words which glitter, but convey little light and less warmth——is a dishonest use of the poor single half hour in a week which is put into our hands—’Tis not preaching the gospel—but ourselves——For my own part, continued _Yorick_, I had rather direct five words point-blank to the heart.— As _Yorick_ pronounced the word _point-blank_, my uncle _Toby_ rose up to say something upon projectiles——when a single word and no more uttered from the opposite side of the table drew every one’s ears towards it—a word of all others in the dictionary the last in that place to be expected—a word I am ashamed to write—yet must be written——must be read—illegal—uncanonical—guess ten thousand guesses, multiplied into themselves—rack—torture your invention for ever, you’re where you was——In short, I’ll tell it in the next chapter. C H A P. LXII ZOUNDS!————————————————————————Z——ds! cried _Phutatorius_, partly to himself——and yet high enough to be heard—and what seemed odd, ’twas uttered in a construction of look, and in a tone of voice, somewhat between that of a man in amazement and one in bodily pain. One or two who had very nice ears, and could distinguish the expression and mixture of the two tones as plainly as a _third_ or a _fifth_, or any other chord in musick—were the most puzzled and perplexed with it—the concord was good in itself—but then ’twas quite out of the key, and no way applicable to the subject started;——so that with all their knowledge, they could not tell what in the world to make of it.