ust go up to the first springs.

Now in order to clear up the mist which hangs upon these three pages, I
must endeavour to be as clear as possible myself.

Rub your hands thrice across your foreheads--blow your noses--cleanse
your emunctories--sneeze, my good people!--God bless you--

Now give me all the help you can.

Chapter 4.LXXX.

As there are fifty different ends (counting all ends in--as well civil
as religious) for which a woman takes a husband, the first sets about
and carefully weighs, then separates and distinguishes in her mind,
which of all that number of ends is hers; then by discourse, enquiry,
argumentation, and inference, she investigates and finds out whether
she has got hold of the right one--and if she has--then, by pulling it
gently this way and that way, she further forms a judgment, whether it
will not break in the drawing.

The imagery under which Slawkenbergius impresses this upon the reader's
fancy, in the beginning of his third Decad, is so ludicrous, that the
honour I bear the sex, will not suffer me to quote it--otherwise it is
not destitute of humour.

'She first, saith Slawkenbergius, stops the asse, and holding his halter
in her left hand (lest he should get away) she thrusts her right hand
into the very bottom of his pannier to search for it--For what?--you'll
not know the sooner, quoth Slawkenbergius, for interrupting me--

'I have nothing, good Lady, but empty bottles;' says the asse.

'I'm loaded with tripes;' says the second.

--And thou art little better, quoth she to the third; for nothing is
there in thy panniers but trunk-hose and pantofles--and so to the fourth
and fifth, going on one by one through the whole string, till coming to
the asse which carries it, she turns the pannier upside down, looks at
it--considers it--samples it--measures it--stretches it--wets it--dries
it--then takes her teeth both to the warp and weft of it.

--Of what? for the love of Christ!

I am determined, answered Slawkenbergius, that all the powers upon earth
shall never wring that secret from my breast.

Chapter 4.LXXXI.

We live in a world beset on all sides with mysteries and riddles--and
so 'tis no matter--else it seems strange, that Nature, who makes every
thing so well to answer its destination, and seldom or never errs,
unless for pastime, in giving such forms and aptitudes to whatever
passes through her hands, that whether she designs for the plough, the
caravan, the c