"THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY, GENTLEMAN.\n\nBy Laurence Sterne\n\n\n\n(two lines in Greek)\n\n\nTo the Right Honourable Mr. Pitt.\n\nSir,\n\nNever poor Wight of a Dedicator had less hopes from his Dedication,\nthan I have from this of mine; for it is written in a bye corner of the\nkingdom, and in a retir'd thatch'd house, where I live in a constant\nendeavour to fence against the infirmities of ill health, and other\nevils of life, by mirth; being firmly persuaded that every time a man\nsmiles,--but much more so, when he laughs, it adds something to this\nFragment of Life.\n\nI humbly beg, Sir, that you will honour this book, by taking it--(not\nunder your Protection,--it must protect itself, but)--into the country\nwith you; where, if I am ever told, it has made you smile; or can\nconceive it has beguiled you of one moment's pain--I shall think myself\nas happy as a minister of state;--perhaps much happier than any one (one\nonly excepted) that I have read or heard of.\n\nI am, Great Sir, (and, what is more to your Honour) I am, Good Sir, Your\nWell-wisher, and most humble Fellow-subject,\n\nThe Author.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY, GENT.--VOLUME THE FIRST\n\n\n\nChapter 1.I.\n\nI wish either my father or my mother, or indeed both of them, as they\nwere in duty both equally bound to it, had minded what they were about\nwhen they begot me; had they duly consider'd how much depended upon what\nthey were then doing;--that not only the production of a rational\nBeing was concerned in it, but that possibly the happy formation and\ntemperature of his body, perhaps his genius and the very cast of his\nmind;--and, for aught they knew to the contrary, even the fortunes of\nhis whole house might take their turn from the humours and dispositions\nwhich were then uppermost;--Had they duly weighed and considered all\nthis, and proceeded accordingly,--I am verily persuaded I should have\nmade a quite different figure in the world, from that in which the\nreader is likely to see me.--Believe me, good folks, this is not so\ninconsiderable a thing as many of you may think it;--you have all, I\ndare say, heard of the animal spirits, as how they are transfused from\nfather to son, &c. &c.--and a great deal to that purpose:--Well, you may\ntake my word, that nine parts in ten of a man's sense or his nonsense,\nhis successes and miscarriages in this world depend upon their motions\nand activity, and the different tracks and trains you put them into, so\nthat when they are once set a-going, whether right or wrong, 'tis not\na half-penny matter,--away they go cluttering like hey-go mad; and by\ntreading the same steps over and over again, they presently make a road\nof it, as plain and as smooth as a garden-walk, which, when they are\nonce used to, the Devil himself sometimes shall not be able to drive\nthem off it.\n\nPray my Dear, quoth my mother, have you not forgot to wind up the\nclock?--Good G..! cried my father, making an exclamation, but taking\ncare to moderate his voice at the same time,--Did ever woman, since the\ncreation of the world, interrupt a man with such a silly question? Pray,\nwhat was your father saying?--Nothing.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.II.\n\n--Then, positively, there is nothing in the question that I can\nsee, either good or bad.--Then, let me tell you, Sir, it was a very\nunseasonable question at least,--because it scattered and dispersed the\nanimal spirits, whose business it was to have escorted and gone hand in\nhand with the Homunculus, and conducted him safe to the place destined\nfor his reception.\n\nThe Homunculus, Sir, in however low and ludicrous a light he may appear,\nin this age of levity, to the eye of folly or prejudice;--to the eye of\nreason in scientific research, he stands confess'd--a Being guarded and\ncircumscribed with rights.--The minutest philosophers, who by the bye,\nhave the most enlarged understandings, (their souls being inversely as\ntheir enquiries) shew us incontestably, that the Homunculus is created\nby the same hand,--engender'd in the same course of nature,--endow'd\nwith the same loco-motive powers and faculties with us:--That he\nconsists as we do, of skin, hair, fat, flesh, veins, arteries,\nligaments, nerves, cartilages, bones, marrow, brains, glands, genitals,\nhumours, and articulations;--is a Being of as much activity,--and in all\nsenses of the word, as much and as truly our fellow-creature as my Lord\nChancellor of England.--He may be benefitted,--he may be injured,--he\nmay obtain redress; in a word, he has all the claims and rights of\nhumanity, which Tully, Puffendorf, or the best ethick writers allow to\narise out of that state and relation.\n\nNow, dear Sir, what if any accident had befallen him in his way\nalone!--or that through terror of it, natural to so young a traveller,\nmy little Gentleman had got to his journey's end miserably spent;--his\nmuscular strength and virility worn down to a thread;--his own animal\nspirits ruffled beyond description,--and that in this sad disorder'd\nstate of nerves, he had lain down a prey to sudden starts, or a\nseries of melancholy dreams and fancies, for nine long, long months\ntogether.--I tremble to think what a foundation had been laid for\na thousand weaknesses both of body and mind, which no skill of the\nphysician or the philosopher could ever afterwards have set thoroughly\nto rights.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.III.\n\nTo my uncle Mr. Toby Shandy do I stand indebted for the preceding\nanecdote, to whom my father, who was an excellent natural philosopher,\nand much given to close reasoning upon the smallest matters, had oft,\nand heavily complained of the injury; but once more particularly, as\nmy uncle Toby well remember'd, upon his observing a most unaccountable\nobliquity, (as he call'd it) in my manner of setting up my top, and\njustifying the principles upon which I had done it,--the old gentleman\nshook his head, and in a tone more expressive by half of sorrow than\nreproach,--he said his heart all along foreboded, and he saw it verified\nin this, and from a thousand other observations he had made upon me,\nThat I should neither think nor act like any other man's child:--But\nalas! continued he, shaking his head a second time, and wiping away\na tear which was trickling down his cheeks, My Tristram's misfortunes\nbegan nine months before ever he came into the world.\n\n--My mother, who was sitting by, look'd up, but she knew no more than\nher backside what my father meant,--but my uncle, Mr. Toby Shandy, who\nhad been often informed of the affair,--understood him very well.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.IV.\n\nI know there are readers in the world, as well as many other good people\nin it, who are no readers at all,--who find themselves ill at ease,\nunless they are let into the whole secret from first to last, of every\nthing which concerns you.\n\nIt is in pure compliance with this humour of theirs, and from a\nbackwardness in my nature to disappoint any one soul living, that I have\nbeen so very particular already. As my life and opinions are likely to\nmake some noise in the world, and, if I conjecture right, will take in\nall ranks, professions, and denominations of men whatever,--be no less\nread than the Pilgrim's Progress itself--and in the end, prove the very\nthing which Montaigne dreaded his Essays should turn out, that is, a\nbook for a parlour-window;--I find it necessary to consult every one a\nlittle in his turn; and therefore must beg pardon for going on a little\nfarther in the same way: For which cause, right glad I am, that I have\nbegun the history of myself in the way I have done; and that I am able\nto go on, tracing every thing in it, as Horace says, ab Ovo.\n\nHorace, I know, does not recommend this fashion altogether: But that\ngentleman is speaking only of an epic poem or a tragedy;--(I\nforget which,) besides, if it was not so, I should beg Mr. Horace's\npardon;--for in writing what I have set about, I shall confine myself\nneither to his rules, nor to any man's rules that ever lived.\n\nTo such however as do not choose to go so far back into these things, I\ncan give no better advice than that they skip over the remaining part of\nthis chapter; for I declare before-hand, 'tis wrote only for the curious\nand inquisitive.\n\n--Shut the door.--\n\nI was begot in the night betwixt the first Sunday and the first Monday\nin the month of March, in the year of our Lord one thousand seven\nhundred and eighteen. I am positive I was.--But how I came to be so very\nparticular in my account of a thing which happened before I was born,\nis owing to another small anecdote known only in our own family, but now\nmade publick for the better clearing up this point.\n\nMy father, you must know, who was originally a Turkey merchant, but had\nleft off business for some years, in order to retire to, and die upon,\nhis paternal estate in the county of ----, was, I believe, one of\nthe most regular men in every thing he did, whether 'twas matter of\nbusiness, or matter of amusement, that ever lived. As a small specimen\nof this extreme exactness of his, to which he was in truth a slave,\nhe had made it a rule for many years of his life,--on the first\nSunday-night of every month throughout the whole year,--as certain as\never the Sunday-night came,--to wind up a large house-clock, which we\nhad standing on the back-stairs head, with his own hands:--And being\nsomewhere between fifty and sixty years of age at the time I have been\nspeaking of,--he had likewise gradually brought some other little family\nconcernments to the same period, in order, as he would often say to my\nuncle Toby, to get them all out of the way at one time, and be no more\nplagued and pestered with them the rest of the month.\n\nIt was attended but with one misfortune, which, in a great measure, fell\nupon myself, and the effects of which I fear I shall carry with me to my\ngrave; namely, that from an unhappy association of ideas, which have\nno connection in nature, it so fell out at length, that my poor mother\ncould never hear the said clock wound up,--but the thoughts of some\nother things unavoidably popped into her head--& vice versa:--Which\nstrange combination of ideas, the sagacious Locke, who certainly\nunderstood the nature of these things better than most men, affirms\nto have produced more wry actions than all other sources of prejudice\nwhatsoever.\n\nBut this by the bye.\n\nNow it appears by a memorandum in my father's pocket-book, which now\nlies upon the table, 'That on Lady-day, which was on the 25th of the\nsame month in which I date my geniture,--my father set upon his journey\nto London, with my eldest brother Bobby, to fix him at Westminster\nschool;' and, as it appears from the same authority, 'That he did\nnot get down to his wife and family till the second week in May\nfollowing,'--it brings the thing almost to a certainty. However,\nwhat follows in the beginning of the next chapter, puts it beyond all\npossibility of a doubt.\n\n--But pray, Sir, What was your father doing all December, January, and\nFebruary?--Why, Madam,--he was all that time afflicted with a Sciatica.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.V.\n\nOn the fifth day of November, 1718, which to the aera fixed on, was\nas near nine kalendar months as any husband could in reason have\nexpected,--was I Tristram Shandy, Gentleman, brought forth into this\nscurvy and disastrous world of ours.--I wish I had been born in the\nMoon, or in any of the planets, (except Jupiter or Saturn, because I\nnever could bear cold weather) for it could not well have fared worse\nwith me in any of them (though I will not answer for Venus) than it\nhas in this vile, dirty planet of ours,--which, o' my conscience, with\nreverence be it spoken, I take to be made up of the shreds and clippings\nof the rest;--not but the planet is well enough, provided a man could\nbe born in it to a great title or to a great estate; or could any how\ncontrive to be called up to public charges, and employments of dignity\nor power;--but that is not my case;--and therefore every man will speak\nof the fair as his own market has gone in it;--for which cause I affirm\nit over again to be one of the vilest worlds that ever was made;--for I\ncan truly say, that from the first hour I drew my breath in it, to this,\nthat I can now scarce draw it at all, for an asthma I got in scating\nagainst the wind in Flanders;--I have been the continual sport of what\nthe world calls Fortune; and though I will not wrong her by saying, She\nhas ever made me feel the weight of any great or signal evil;--yet with\nall the good temper in the world I affirm it of her, that in every stage\nof my life, and at every turn and corner where she could get fairly\nat me, the ungracious duchess has pelted me with a set of as pitiful\nmisadventures and cross accidents as ever small Hero sustained.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.VI.\n\nIn the beginning of the last chapter, I informed you exactly when I was\nborn; but I did not inform you how. No, that particular was reserved\nentirely for a chapter by itself;--besides, Sir, as you and I are in a\nmanner perfect strangers to each other, it would not have been proper to\nhave let you into too many circumstances relating to myself all at once.\n\n--You must have a little patience. I have undertaken, you see, to write\nnot only my life, but my opinions also; hoping and expecting that your\nknowledge of my character, and of what kind of a mortal I am, by the\none, would give you a better relish for the other: As you proceed\nfarther with me, the slight acquaintance, which is now beginning betwixt\nus, will grow into familiarity; and that unless one of us is in fault,\nwill terminate in friendship.--O diem praeclarum!--then nothing which\nhas touched me will be thought trifling in its nature, or tedious in its\ntelling. Therefore, my dear friend and companion, if you should think\nme somewhat sparing of my narrative on my first setting out--bear with\nme,--and let me go on, and tell my story my own way:--Or, if I should\nseem now and then to trifle upon the road,--or should sometimes put on\na fool's cap with a bell to it, for a moment or two as we pass\nalong,--don't fly off,--but rather courteously give me credit for a\nlittle more wisdom than appears upon my outside;--and as we jog on,\neither laugh with me, or at me, or in short do any thing,--only keep\nyour temper.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.VII.\n\nIn the same village where my father and my mother dwelt, dwelt also a\nthin, upright, motherly, notable, good old body of a midwife, who with\nthe help of a little plain good sense, and some years full employment\nin her business, in which she had all along trusted little to her own\nefforts, and a great deal to those of dame Nature,--had acquired, in her\nway, no small degree of reputation in the world:--by which word world,\nneed I in this place inform your worship, that I would be understood to\nmean no more of it, than a small circle described upon the circle of the\ngreat world, of four English miles diameter, or thereabouts, of which\nthe cottage where the good old woman lived is supposed to be the\ncentre?--She had been left it seems a widow in great distress, with\nthree or four small children, in her forty-seventh year; and as she was\nat that time a person of decent carriage,--grave deportment,--a\nwoman moreover of few words and withal an object of compassion, whose\ndistress, and silence under it, called out the louder for a friendly\nlift: the wife of the parson of the parish was touched with pity; and\nhaving often lamented an inconvenience to which her husband's flock had\nfor many years been exposed, inasmuch as there was no such thing as a\nmidwife, of any kind or degree, to be got at, let the case have been\nnever so urgent, within less than six or seven long miles riding; which\nsaid seven long miles in dark nights and dismal roads, the country\nthereabouts being nothing but a deep clay, was almost equal to fourteen;\nand that in effect was sometimes next to having no midwife at all; it\ncame into her head, that it would be doing as seasonable a kindness to\nthe whole parish, as to the poor creature herself, to get her a little\ninstructed in some of the plain principles of the business, in order\nto set her up in it. As no woman thereabouts was better qualified to\nexecute the plan she had formed than herself, the gentlewoman very\ncharitably undertook it; and having great influence over the female part\nof the parish, she found no difficulty in effecting it to the utmost of\nher wishes. In truth, the parson join'd his interest with his wife's in\nthe whole affair, and in order to do things as they should be, and give\nthe poor soul as good a title by law to practise, as his wife had given\nby institution,--he cheerfully paid the fees for the ordinary's licence\nhimself, amounting in the whole, to the sum of eighteen shillings and\nfour pence; so that betwixt them both, the good woman was fully invested\nin the real and corporal possession of her office, together with all its\nrights, members, and appurtenances whatsoever.\n\nThese last words, you must know, were not according to the old form in\nwhich such licences, faculties, and powers usually ran, which in\nlike cases had heretofore been granted to the sisterhood. But it was\naccording to a neat Formula of Didius his own devising, who having a\nparticular turn for taking to pieces, and new framing over again\nall kind of instruments in that way, not only hit upon this dainty\namendment, but coaxed many of the old licensed matrons in the\nneighbourhood, to open their faculties afresh, in order to have this\nwham-wham of his inserted.\n\nI own I never could envy Didius in these kinds of fancies of his:--But\nevery man to his own taste.--Did not Dr. Kunastrokius, that great man,\nat his leisure hours, take the greatest delight imaginable in combing of\nasses tails, and plucking the dead hairs out with his teeth, though he\nhad tweezers always in his pocket? Nay, if you come to that, Sir, have\nnot the wisest of men in all ages, not excepting Solomon himself,--have\nthey not had their Hobby-Horses;--their running horses,--their coins\nand their cockle-shells, their drums and their trumpets, their fiddles,\ntheir pallets,--their maggots and their butterflies?--and so long as\na man rides his Hobby-Horse peaceably and quietly along the King's\nhighway, and neither compels you or me to get up behind him,--pray, Sir,\nwhat have either you or I to do with it?\n\n\n\nChapter 1.VIII.\n\n--De gustibus non est disputandum;--that is, there is no disputing\nagainst Hobby-Horses; and for my part, I seldom do; nor could I with any\nsort of grace, had I been an enemy to them at the bottom; for happening,\nat certain intervals and changes of the moon, to be both fidler and\npainter, according as the fly stings:--Be it known to you, that I keep\na couple of pads myself, upon which, in their turns, (nor do I care who\nknows it) I frequently ride out and take the air;--though sometimes, to\nmy shame be it spoken, I take somewhat longer journies than what a wise\nman would think altogether right.--But the truth is,--I am not a wise\nman;--and besides am a mortal of so little consequence in the world, it\nis not much matter what I do: so I seldom fret or fume at all about it:\nNor does it much disturb my rest, when I see such great Lords and tall\nPersonages as hereafter follow;--such, for instance, as my Lord A, B, C,\nD, E, F, G, H, I, K, L, M, N, O, P, Q, and so on, all of a row, mounted\nupon their several horses,--some with large stirrups, getting on in a\nmore grave and sober pace;--others on the contrary, tucked up to their\nvery chins, with whips across their mouths, scouring and scampering it\naway like so many little party-coloured devils astride a mortgage,--and\nas if some of them were resolved to break their necks.--So much the\nbetter--say I to myself;--for in case the worst should happen, the\nworld will make a shift to do excellently well without them; and for\nthe rest,--why--God speed them--e'en let them ride on without opposition\nfrom me; for were their lordships unhorsed this very night--'tis ten\nto one but that many of them would be worse mounted by one half before\ntomorrow morning.\n\nNot one of these instances therefore can be said to break in upon my\nrest.--But there is an instance, which I own puts me off my guard, and\nthat is, when I see one born for great actions, and what is still more\nfor his honour, whose nature ever inclines him to good ones;--when I\nbehold such a one, my Lord, like yourself, whose principles and conduct\nare as generous and noble as his blood, and whom, for that reason, a\ncorrupt world cannot spare one moment;--when I see such a one, my Lord,\nmounted, though it is but for a minute beyond the time which my love\nto my country has prescribed to him, and my zeal for his glory\nwishes,--then, my Lord, I cease to be a philosopher, and in the first\ntransport of an honest impatience, I wish the Hobby-Horse, with all his\nfraternity, at the Devil.\n\n\n\n'My Lord, I maintain this to be a dedication, notwithstanding its\nsingularity in the three great essentials of matter, form and place: I\nbeg, therefore, you will accept it as such, and that you will permit\nme to lay it, with the most respectful humility, at your Lordship's\nfeet--when you are upon them,--which you can be when you please;--and\nthat is, my Lord, whenever there is occasion for it, and I will add, to\nthe best purposes too. I have the honour to be,\n\n                        My Lord,\n                        Your Lordship's most obedient,\n                        and most devoted,\n                        and most humble servant,\n                        Tristram Shandy.'\n\n\n\nChapter 1.IX.\n\nI solemnly declare to all mankind, that the above dedication was made\nfor no one Prince, Prelate, Pope, or Potentate,--Duke, Marquis, Earl,\nViscount, or Baron, of this, or any other Realm in Christendom;--nor has\nit yet been hawked about, or offered publicly or privately, directly\nor indirectly, to any one person or personage, great or small; but is\nhonestly a true Virgin-Dedication untried on, upon any soul living.\n\nI labour this point so particularly, merely to remove any offence\nor objection which might arise against it from the manner in which I\npropose to make the most of it;--which is the putting it up fairly to\npublic sale; which I now do.\n\n--Every author has a way of his own in bringing his points to bear;--for\nmy own part, as I hate chaffering and higgling for a few guineas in a\ndark entry;--I resolved within myself, from the very beginning, to\ndeal squarely and openly with your Great Folks in this affair, and try\nwhether I should not come off the better by it.\n\nIf therefore there is any one Duke, Marquis, Earl, Viscount, or Baron,\nin these his Majesty's dominions, who stands in need of a tight, genteel\ndedication, and whom the above will suit, (for by the bye, unless\nit suits in some degree, I will not part with it)--it is much at his\nservice for fifty guineas;--which I am positive is twenty guineas less\nthan it ought to be afforded for, by any man of genius.\n\nMy Lord, if you examine it over again, it is far from being a gross\npiece of daubing, as some dedications are. The design, your Lordship\nsees, is good,--the colouring transparent,--the drawing not amiss;--or\nto speak more like a man of science,--and measure my piece in the\npainter's scale, divided into 20,--I believe, my Lord, the outlines\nwill turn out as 12,--the composition as 9,--the colouring as 6,--the\nexpression 13 and a half,--and the design,--if I may be allowed, my\nLord, to understand my own design, and supposing absolute perfection\nin designing, to be as 20,--I think it cannot well fall short of 19.\nBesides all this,--there is keeping in it, and the dark strokes in the\nHobby-Horse, (which is a secondary figure, and a kind of back-ground to\nthe whole) give great force to the principal lights in your own figure,\nand make it come off wonderfully;--and besides, there is an air of\noriginality in the tout ensemble.\n\nBe pleased, my good Lord, to order the sum to be paid into the hands of\nMr. Dodsley, for the benefit of the author; and in the next edition\ncare shall be taken that this chapter be expunged, and your Lordship's\ntitles, distinctions, arms, and good actions, be placed at the front of\nthe preceding chapter: All which, from the words, De gustibus non est\ndisputandum, and whatever else in this book relates to Hobby-Horses, but\nno more, shall stand dedicated to your Lordship.--The rest I dedicate to\nthe Moon, who, by the bye, of all the Patrons or Matrons I can think of,\nhas most power to set my book a-going, and make the world run mad after\nit.\n\nBright Goddess, If thou art not too busy with Candid and Miss Cunegund's\naffairs,--take Tristram Shandy's under thy protection also.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.X.\n\nWhatever degree of small merit the act of benignity in favour of the\nmidwife might justly claim, or in whom that claim truly rested,--at\nfirst sight seems not very material to this history;--certain however it\nwas, that the gentlewoman, the parson's wife, did run away at that time\nwith the whole of it: And yet, for my life, I cannot help thinking but\nthat the parson himself, though he had not the good fortune to hit upon\nthe design first,--yet, as he heartily concurred in it the moment it was\nlaid before him, and as heartily parted with his money to carry it into\nexecution, had a claim to some share of it,--if not to a full half of\nwhatever honour was due to it.\n\nThe world at that time was pleased to determine the matter otherwise.\n\nLay down the book, and I will allow you half a day to give a probable\nguess at the grounds of this procedure.\n\nBe it known then, that, for about five years before the date of\nthe midwife's licence, of which you have had so circumstantial an\naccount,--the parson we have to do with had made himself a country-talk\nby a breach of all decorum, which he had committed against himself, his\nstation, and his office;--and that was in never appearing better, or\notherwise mounted, than upon a lean, sorry, jackass of a horse, value\nabout one pound fifteen shillings; who, to shorten all description of\nhim, was full brother to Rosinante, as far as similitude congenial could\nmake him; for he answered his description to a hair-breadth in every\nthing,--except that I do not remember 'tis any where said, that\nRosinante was broken-winded; and that, moreover, Rosinante, as is the\nhappiness of most Spanish horses, fat or lean,--was undoubtedly a horse\nat all points.\n\nI know very well that the Hero's horse was a horse of chaste deportment,\nwhich may have given grounds for the contrary opinion: But it is\nas certain at the same time that Rosinante's continency (as may be\ndemonstrated from the adventure of the Yanguesian carriers) proceeded\nfrom no bodily defect or cause whatsoever, but from the temperance and\norderly current of his blood.--And let me tell you, Madam, there is a\ngreat deal of very good chastity in the world, in behalf of which you\ncould not say more for your life.\n\nLet that be as it may, as my purpose is to do exact justice to every\ncreature brought upon the stage of this dramatic work,--I could not\nstifle this distinction in favour of Don Quixote's horse;--in all other\npoints, the parson's horse, I say, was just such another, for he was as\nlean, and as lank, and as sorry a jade, as Humility herself could have\nbestrided.\n\nIn the estimation of here and there a man of weak judgment, it was\ngreatly in the parson's power to have helped the figure of this horse of\nhis,--for he was master of a very handsome demi-peaked saddle,\nquilted on the seat with green plush, garnished with a double row of\nsilver-headed studs, and a noble pair of shining brass stirrups, with a\nhousing altogether suitable, of grey superfine cloth, with an edging of\nblack lace, terminating in a deep, black, silk fringe, poudre d'or,--all\nwhich he had purchased in the pride and prime of his life, together with\na grand embossed bridle, ornamented at all points as it should be.--But\nnot caring to banter his beast, he had hung all these up behind his\nstudy door: and, in lieu of them, had seriously befitted him with just\nsuch a bridle and such a saddle, as the figure and value of such a steed\nmight well and truly deserve.\n\nIn the several sallies about his parish, and in the neighbouring visits\nto the gentry who lived around him,--you will easily comprehend, that\nthe parson, so appointed, would both hear and see enough to keep his\nphilosophy from rusting. To speak the truth, he never could enter a\nvillage, but he caught the attention of both old and young.--Labour\nstood still as he pass'd--the bucket hung suspended in the middle of\nthe well,--the spinning-wheel forgot its round,--even chuck-farthing and\nshuffle-cap themselves stood gaping till he had got out of sight; and as\nhis movement was not of the quickest, he had generally time enough\nupon his hands to make his observations,--to hear the groans of the\nserious,--and the laughter of the light-hearted; all which he bore with\nexcellent tranquillity.--His character was,--he loved a jest in his\nheart--and as he saw himself in the true point of ridicule, he would say\nhe could not be angry with others for seeing him in a light, in which he\nso strongly saw himself: So that to his friends, who knew his foible\nwas not the love of money, and who therefore made the less scruple in\nbantering the extravagance of his humour,--instead of giving the true\ncause,--he chose rather to join in the laugh against himself; and as\nhe never carried one single ounce of flesh upon his own bones, being\naltogether as spare a figure as his beast,--he would sometimes insist\nupon it, that the horse was as good as the rider deserved;--that they\nwere, centaur-like,--both of a piece. At other times, and in other\nmoods, when his spirits were above the temptation of false wit,--he\nwould say, he found himself going off fast in a consumption; and, with\ngreat gravity, would pretend, he could not bear the sight of a fat\nhorse, without a dejection of heart, and a sensible alteration in his\npulse; and that he had made choice of the lean one he rode upon, not\nonly to keep himself in countenance, but in spirits.\n\nAt different times he would give fifty humorous and apposite reasons for\nriding a meek-spirited jade of a broken-winded horse, preferably to one\nof mettle;--for on such a one he could sit mechanically, and meditate as\ndelightfully de vanitate mundi et fuga saeculi, as with the advantage of\na death's-head before him;--that, in all other exercitations, he could\nspend his time, as he rode slowly along,--to as much account as in his\nstudy;--that he could draw up an argument in his sermon,--or a hole\nin his breeches, as steadily on the one as in the other;--that brisk\ntrotting and slow argumentation, like wit and judgment, were two\nincompatible movements.--But that upon his steed--he could unite and\nreconcile every thing,--he could compose his sermon--he could compose\nhis cough,--and, in case nature gave a call that way, he could likewise\ncompose himself to sleep.--In short, the parson upon such encounters\nwould assign any cause but the true cause,--and he withheld the true\none, only out of a nicety of temper, because he thought it did honour to\nhim.\n\nBut the truth of the story was as follows: In the first years of this\ngentleman's life, and about the time when the superb saddle and bridle\nwere purchased by him, it had been his manner, or vanity, or call it\nwhat you will,--to run into the opposite extreme.--In the language of\nthe county where he dwelt, he was said to have loved a good horse, and\ngenerally had one of the best in the whole parish standing in his stable\nalways ready for saddling: and as the nearest midwife, as I told you,\ndid not live nearer to the village than seven miles, and in a vile\ncountry,--it so fell out that the poor gentleman was scarce a whole week\ntogether without some piteous application for his beast; and as he was\nnot an unkind-hearted man, and every case was more pressing and more\ndistressful than the last;--as much as he loved his beast, he had never\na heart to refuse him; the upshot of which was generally this; that\nhis horse was either clapp'd, or spavin'd, or greaz'd;--or he was\ntwitter-bon'd, or broken-winded, or something, in short, or other had\nbefallen him, which would let him carry no flesh;--so that he had every\nnine or ten months a bad horse to get rid of,--and a good horse to\npurchase in his stead.\n\nWhat the loss in such a balance might amount to, communibus annis, I\nwould leave to a special jury of sufferers in the same traffick, to\ndetermine;--but let it be what it would, the honest gentleman bore\nit for many years without a murmur, till at length, by repeated ill\naccidents of the kind, he found it necessary to take the thing under\nconsideration; and upon weighing the whole, and summing it up in his\nmind, he found it not only disproportioned to his other expences, but\nwithal so heavy an article in itself, as to disable him from any other\nact of generosity in his parish: Besides this, he considered that\nwith half the sum thus galloped away, he could do ten times as\nmuch good;--and what still weighed more with him than all other\nconsiderations put together, was this, that it confined all his charity\ninto one particular channel, and where, as he fancied, it was the least\nwanted, namely, to the child-bearing and child-getting part of\nhis parish; reserving nothing for the impotent,--nothing for the\naged,--nothing for the many comfortless scenes he was hourly called\nforth to visit, where poverty, and sickness and affliction dwelt\ntogether.\n\nFor these reasons he resolved to discontinue the expence; and there\nappeared but two possible ways to extricate him clearly out of it;--and\nthese were, either to make it an irrevocable law never more to lend his\nsteed upon any application whatever,--or else be content to ride the\nlast poor devil, such as they had made him, with all his aches and\ninfirmities, to the very end of the chapter.\n\nAs he dreaded his own constancy in the first--he very chearfully betook\nhimself to the second; and though he could very well have explained it,\nas I said, to his honour,--yet, for that very reason, he had a spirit\nabove it; choosing rather to bear the contempt of his enemies, and the\nlaughter of his friends, than undergo the pain of telling a story, which\nmight seem a panegyrick upon himself.\n\nI have the highest idea of the spiritual and refined sentiments of this\nreverend gentleman, from this single stroke in his character, which I\nthink comes up to any of the honest refinements of the peerless knight\nof La Mancha, whom, by the bye, with all his follies, I love more,\nand would actually have gone farther to have paid a visit to, than the\ngreatest hero of antiquity.\n\nBut this is not the moral of my story: The thing I had in view was to\nshew the temper of the world in the whole of this affair.--For you\nmust know, that so long as this explanation would have done the parson\ncredit,--the devil a soul could find it out,--I suppose his enemies\nwould not, and that his friends could not.--But no sooner did he bestir\nhimself in behalf of the midwife, and pay the expences of the ordinary's\nlicence to set her up,--but the whole secret came out; every horse\nhe had lost, and two horses more than ever he had lost, with all\nthe circumstances of their destruction, were known and distinctly\nremembered.--The story ran like wild-fire.--'The parson had a returning\nfit of pride which had just seized him; and he was going to be well\nmounted once again in his life; and if it was so, 'twas plain as the sun\nat noon-day, he would pocket the expence of the licence ten times told,\nthe very first year:--So that every body was left to judge what were his\nviews in this act of charity.'\n\nWhat were his views in this, and in every other action of his life,--or\nrather what were the opinions which floated in the brains of other\npeople concerning it, was a thought which too much floated in his own,\nand too often broke in upon his rest, when he should have been sound\nasleep.\n\nAbout ten years ago this gentleman had the good fortune to be made\nentirely easy upon that score,--it being just so long since he left his\nparish,--and the whole world at the same time behind him,--and stands\naccountable to a Judge of whom he will have no cause to complain.\n\nBut there is a fatality attends the actions of some men: Order them\nas they will, they pass thro' a certain medium, which so twists and\nrefracts them from their true directions--that, with all the titles\nto praise which a rectitude of heart can give, the doers of them are\nnevertheless forced to live and die without it.\n\nOf the truth of which, this gentleman was a painful example.--But to\nknow by what means this came to pass,--and to make that knowledge of use\nto you, I insist upon it that you read the two following chapters, which\ncontain such a sketch of his life and conversation, as will carry its\nmoral along with it.--When this is done, if nothing stops us in our way,\nwe will go on with the midwife.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XI.\n\nYorick was this parson's name, and, what is very remarkable in it, (as\nappears from a most ancient account of the family, wrote upon strong\nvellum, and now in perfect preservation) it had been exactly so spelt\nfor near,--I was within an ace of saying nine hundred years;--but\nI would not shake my credit in telling an improbable truth, however\nindisputable in itself,--and therefore I shall content myself with only\nsaying--It had been exactly so spelt, without the least variation or\ntransposition of a single letter, for I do not know how long; which is\nmore than I would venture to say of one half of the best surnames in the\nkingdom; which, in a course of years, have generally undergone as many\nchops and changes as their owners.--Has this been owing to the pride,\nor to the shame of the respective proprietors?--In honest truth, I think\nsometimes to the one, and sometimes to the other, just as the temptation\nhas wrought. But a villainous affair it is, and will one day so blend\nand confound us all together, that no one shall be able to stand up and\nswear, 'That his own great grandfather was the man who did either this\nor that.'\n\nThis evil had been sufficiently fenced against by the prudent care of\nthe Yorick's family, and their religious preservation of these records\nI quote, which do farther inform us, That the family was originally of\nDanish extraction, and had been transplanted into England as early as in\nthe reign of Horwendillus, king of Denmark, in whose court, it seems, an\nancestor of this Mr. Yorick's, and from whom he was lineally descended,\nheld a considerable post to the day of his death. Of what nature this\nconsiderable post was, this record saith not;--it only adds, That,\nfor near two centuries, it had been totally abolished, as altogether\nunnecessary, not only in that court, but in every other court of the\nChristian world.\n\nIt has often come into my head, that this post could be no other than\nthat of the king's chief Jester;--and that Hamlet's Yorick, in\nour Shakespeare, many of whose plays, you know, are founded upon\nauthenticated facts, was certainly the very man.\n\nI have not the time to look into Saxo-Grammaticus's Danish history, to\nknow the certainty of this;--but if you have leisure, and can easily get\nat the book, you may do it full as well yourself.\n\nI had just time, in my travels through Denmark with Mr. Noddy's eldest\nson, whom, in the year 1741, I accompanied as governor, riding along\nwith him at a prodigious rate thro' most parts of Europe, and of which\noriginal journey performed by us two, a most delectable narrative will\nbe given in the progress of this work. I had just time, I say, and that\nwas all, to prove the truth of an observation made by a long sojourner\nin that country;--namely, 'That nature was neither very lavish, nor\nwas she very stingy in her gifts of genius and capacity to its\ninhabitants;--but, like a discreet parent, was moderately kind to them\nall; observing such an equal tenor in the distribution of her favours,\nas to bring them, in those points, pretty near to a level with each\nother; so that you will meet with few instances in that kingdom of\nrefined parts; but a great deal of good plain houshold understanding\namongst all ranks of people, of which every body has a share;' which is,\nI think, very right.\n\nWith us, you see, the case is quite different:--we are all ups and downs\nin this matter;--you are a great genius;--or 'tis fifty to one, Sir, you\nare a great dunce and a blockhead;--not that there is a total want of\nintermediate steps,--no,--we are not so irregular as that comes to;--but\nthe two extremes are more common, and in a greater degree in this\nunsettled island, where nature, in her gifts and dispositions of this\nkind, is most whimsical and capricious; fortune herself not being more\nso in the bequest of her goods and chattels than she.\n\nThis is all that ever staggered my faith in regard to Yorick's\nextraction, who, by what I can remember of him, and by all the accounts\nI could ever get of him, seemed not to have had one single drop of\nDanish blood in his whole crasis; in nine hundred years, it might\npossibly have all run out:--I will not philosophize one moment with you\nabout it; for happen how it would, the fact was this:--That instead of\nthat cold phlegm and exact regularity of sense and humours, you would\nhave looked for, in one so extracted;--he was, on the contrary, as\nmercurial and sublimated a composition,--as heteroclite a creature in\nall his declensions;--with as much life and whim, and gaite de coeur\nabout him, as the kindliest climate could have engendered and put\ntogether. With all this sail, poor Yorick carried not one ounce of\nballast; he was utterly unpractised in the world; and at the age of\ntwenty-six, knew just about as well how to steer his course in it, as a\nromping, unsuspicious girl of thirteen: So that upon his first setting\nout, the brisk gale of his spirits, as you will imagine, ran him foul\nten times in a day of somebody's tackling; and as the grave and more\nslow-paced were oftenest in his way,--you may likewise imagine, 'twas\nwith such he had generally the ill luck to get the most entangled. For\naught I know there might be some mixture of unlucky wit at the bottom of\nsuch Fracas:--For, to speak the truth, Yorick had an invincible dislike\nand opposition in his nature to gravity;--not to gravity as such;--for\nwhere gravity was wanted, he would be the most grave or serious of\nmortal men for days and weeks together;--but he was an enemy to the\naffectation of it, and declared open war against it, only as it appeared\na cloak for ignorance, or for folly: and then, whenever it fell in his\nway, however sheltered and protected, he seldom gave it much quarter.\n\nSometimes, in his wild way of talking, he would say, that Gravity was\nan errant scoundrel, and he would add,--of the most dangerous kind\ntoo,--because a sly one; and that he verily believed, more honest,\nwell-meaning people were bubbled out of their goods and money by it in\none twelve-month, than by pocket-picking and shop-lifting in seven. In\nthe naked temper which a merry heart discovered, he would say there\nwas no danger,--but to itself:--whereas the very essence of gravity was\ndesign, and consequently deceit;--'twas a taught trick to gain credit of\nthe world for more sense and knowledge than a man was worth; and that,\nwith all its pretensions,--it was no better, but often worse, than what\na French wit had long ago defined it,--viz. 'A mysterious carriage\nof the body to cover the defects of the mind;'--which definition of\ngravity, Yorick, with great imprudence, would say, deserved to be wrote\nin letters of gold.\n\nBut, in plain truth, he was a man unhackneyed and unpractised in the\nworld, and was altogether as indiscreet and foolish on every other\nsubject of discourse where policy is wont to impress restraint. Yorick\nhad no impression but one, and that was what arose from the nature of\nthe deed spoken of; which impression he would usually translate into\nplain English without any periphrasis;--and too oft without much\ndistinction of either person, time, or place;--so that when mention was\nmade of a pitiful or an ungenerous proceeding--he never gave himself\na moment's time to reflect who was the hero of the piece,--what his\nstation,--or how far he had power to hurt him hereafter;--but if it was\na dirty action,--without more ado,--The man was a dirty fellow,--and\nso on.--And as his comments had usually the ill fate to be terminated\neither in a bon mot, or to be enlivened throughout with some drollery or\nhumour of expression, it gave wings to Yorick's indiscretion. In a\nword, tho' he never sought, yet, at the same time, as he seldom shunned\noccasions of saying what came uppermost, and without much ceremony;--he\nhad but too many temptations in life, of scattering his wit and his\nhumour,--his gibes and his jests about him.--They were not lost for want\nof gathering.\n\nWhat were the consequences, and what was Yorick's catastrophe thereupon,\nyou will read in the next chapter.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XII.\n\nThe Mortgager and Mortgagee differ the one from the other, not more in\nlength of purse, than the Jester and Jestee do, in that of memory. But\nin this the comparison between them runs, as the scholiasts call it,\nupon all-four; which, by the bye, is upon one or two legs more than some\nof the best of Homer's can pretend to;--namely, That the one raises a\nsum, and the other a laugh at your expence, and thinks no more about\nit. Interest, however, still runs on in both cases;--the periodical or\naccidental payments of it, just serving to keep the memory of the affair\nalive; till, at length, in some evil hour, pop comes the creditor upon\neach, and by demanding principal upon the spot, together with full\ninterest to the very day, makes them both feel the full extent of their\nobligations.\n\nAs the reader (for I hate your ifs) has a thorough knowledge of human\nnature, I need not say more to satisfy him, that my Hero could not go\non at this rate without some slight experience of these incidental\nmementos. To speak the truth, he had wantonly involved himself in a\nmultitude of small book-debts of this stamp, which, notwithstanding\nEugenius's frequent advice, he too much disregarded; thinking, that\nas not one of them was contracted thro' any malignancy;--but, on the\ncontrary, from an honesty of mind, and a mere jocundity of humour, they\nwould all of them be cross'd out in course.\n\nEugenius would never admit this; and would often tell him, that one day\nor other he would certainly be reckoned with; and he would often add,\nin an accent of sorrowful apprehension,--to the uttermost mite. To which\nYorick, with his usual carelessness of heart, would as often answer with\na pshaw!--and if the subject was started in the fields,--with a hop,\nskip, and a jump at the end of it; but if close pent up in the social\nchimney-corner, where the culprit was barricado'd in, with a table and\na couple of arm-chairs, and could not so readily fly off in a\ntangent,--Eugenius would then go on with his lecture upon discretion in\nwords to this purpose, though somewhat better put together.\n\nTrust me, dear Yorick, this unwary pleasantry of thine will sooner or\nlater bring thee into scrapes and difficulties, which no after-wit can\nextricate thee out of.--In these sallies, too oft, I see, it happens,\nthat a person laughed at, considers himself in the light of a person\ninjured, with all the rights of such a situation belonging to him; and\nwhen thou viewest him in that light too, and reckons up his friends,\nhis family, his kindred and allies,--and musters up with them the many\nrecruits which will list under him from a sense of common danger;--'tis\nno extravagant arithmetic to say, that for every ten jokes,--thou hast\ngot an hundred enemies; and till thou hast gone on, and raised a swarm\nof wasps about thine ears, and art half stung to death by them, thou\nwilt never be convinced it is so.\n\nI cannot suspect it in the man whom I esteem, that there is the least\nspur from spleen or malevolence of intent in these sallies--I believe\nand know them to be truly honest and sportive:--But consider, my dear\nlad, that fools cannot distinguish this,--and that knaves will not: and\nthou knowest not what it is, either to provoke the one, or to make merry\nwith the other:--whenever they associate for mutual defence, depend upon\nit, they will carry on the war in such a manner against thee, my dear\nfriend, as to make thee heartily sick of it, and of thy life too.\n\nRevenge from some baneful corner shall level a tale of dishonour at\nthee, which no innocence of heart or integrity of conduct shall set\nright.--The fortunes of thy house shall totter,--thy character, which\nled the way to them, shall bleed on every side of it,--thy faith\nquestioned,--thy works belied,--thy wit forgotten,--thy learning\ntrampled on. To wind up the last scene of thy tragedy, Cruelty and\nCowardice, twin ruffians, hired and set on by Malice in the dark, shall\nstrike together at all thy infirmities and mistakes:--The best of us,\nmy dear lad, lie open there,--and trust me,--trust me, Yorick, when to\ngratify a private appetite, it is once resolved upon, that an innocent\nand an helpless creature shall be sacrificed, 'tis an easy matter to\npick up sticks enough from any thicket where it has strayed, to make a\nfire to offer it up with.\n\nYorick scarce ever heard this sad vaticination of his destiny read over\nto him, but with a tear stealing from his eye, and a promissory look\nattending it, that he was resolved, for the time to come, to ride his\ntit with more sobriety.--But, alas, too late!--a grand confederacy\nwith...and...at the head of it, was formed before the first prediction\nof it.--The whole plan of the attack, just as Eugenius had foreboded,\nwas put in execution all at once,--with so little mercy on the side of\nthe allies,--and so little suspicion in Yorick, of what was carrying\non against him,--that when he thought, good easy man! full surely\npreferment was o'ripening,--they had smote his root, and then he fell,\nas many a worthy man had fallen before him.\n\nYorick, however, fought it out with all imaginable gallantry for some\ntime; till, overpowered by numbers, and worn out at length by the\ncalamities of the war,--but more so, by the ungenerous manner in which\nit was carried on,--he threw down the sword; and though he kept up\nhis spirits in appearance to the last, he died, nevertheless, as was\ngenerally thought, quite broken-hearted.\n\nWhat inclined Eugenius to the same opinion was as follows:\n\nA few hours before Yorick breathed his last, Eugenius stept in with an\nintent to take his last sight and last farewell of him. Upon his drawing\nYorick's curtain, and asking how he felt himself, Yorick looking up in\nhis face took hold of his hand,--and after thanking him for the many\ntokens of his friendship to him, for which, he said, if it was their\nfate to meet hereafter,--he would thank him again and again,--he told\nhim, he was within a few hours of giving his enemies the slip for\never.--I hope not, answered Eugenius, with tears trickling down his\ncheeks, and with the tenderest tone that ever man spoke.--I hope not,\nYorick, said he.--Yorick replied, with a look up, and a gentle squeeze\nof Eugenius's hand, and that was all,--but it cut Eugenius to his\nheart.--Come,--come, Yorick, quoth Eugenius, wiping his eyes, and\nsummoning up the man within him,--my dear lad, be comforted,--let not\nall thy spirits and fortitude forsake thee at this crisis when thou most\nwants them;--who knows what resources are in store, and what the power\nof God may yet do for thee!--Yorick laid his hand upon his heart, and\ngently shook his head;--For my part, continued Eugenius, crying bitterly\nas he uttered the words,--I declare I know not, Yorick, how to part with\nthee, and would gladly flatter my hopes, added Eugenius, chearing up\nhis voice, that there is still enough left of thee to make a bishop,\nand that I may live to see it.--I beseech thee, Eugenius, quoth Yorick,\ntaking off his night-cap as well as he could with his left hand,--his\nright being still grasped close in that of Eugenius,--I beseech thee to\ntake a view of my head.--I see nothing that ails it, replied Eugenius.\nThen, alas! my friend, said Yorick, let me tell you, that 'tis so\nbruised and mis-shapened with the blows which...and..., and some others\nhave so unhandsomely given me in the dark, that I might say with Sancho\nPanca, that should I recover, and 'Mitres thereupon be suffered to\nrain down from heaven as thick as hail, not one of them would fit\nit.'--Yorick's last breath was hanging upon his trembling lips ready to\ndepart as he uttered this:--yet still it was uttered with something of\na Cervantick tone;--and as he spoke it, Eugenius could perceive a stream\nof lambent fire lighted up for a moment in his eyes;--faint picture of\nthose flashes of his spirit, which (as Shakespeare said of his ancestor)\nwere wont to set the table in a roar!\n\nEugenius was convinced from this, that the heart of his friend was\nbroke: he squeezed his hand,--and then walked softly out of the room,\nweeping as he walked. Yorick followed Eugenius with his eyes to the\ndoor,--he then closed them, and never opened them more.\n\nHe lies buried in the corner of his church-yard, in the parish of...,\nunder a plain marble slab, which his friend Eugenius, by leave of his\nexecutors, laid upon his grave, with no more than these three words of\ninscription, serving both for his epitaph and elegy. Alas, poor Yorick!\n\nTen times a day has Yorick's ghost the consolation to hear his\nmonumental inscription read over with such a variety of plaintive tones,\nas denote a general pity and esteem for him;--a foot-way crossing the\nchurch-yard close by the side of his grave,--not a passenger goes by\nwithout stopping to cast a look upon it,--and sighing as he walks on,\nAlas, poor Yorick!\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XIII.\n\nIt is so long since the reader of this rhapsodical work has been parted\nfrom the midwife, that it is high time to mention her again to him,\nmerely to put him in mind that there is such a body still in the world,\nand whom, upon the best judgment I can form upon my own plan at present,\nI am going to introduce to him for good and all: But as fresh matter may\nbe started, and much unexpected business fall out betwixt the reader and\nmyself, which may require immediate dispatch;--'twas right to take care\nthat the poor woman should not be lost in the mean time;--because when\nshe is wanted, we can no way do without her.\n\nI think I told you that this good woman was a person of no small note\nand consequence throughout our whole village and township;--that her\nfame had spread itself to the very out-edge and circumference of that\ncircle of importance, of which kind every soul living, whether he has a\nshirt to his back or no,--has one surrounding him;--which said circle,\nby the way, whenever 'tis said that such a one is of great weight and\nimportance in the world,--I desire may be enlarged or contracted in\nyour worship's fancy, in a compound ratio of the station, profession,\nknowledge, abilities, height and depth (measuring both ways) of the\npersonage brought before you.\n\nIn the present case, if I remember, I fixed it about four or five miles,\nwhich not only comprehended the whole parish, but extended itself to two\nor three of the adjacent hamlets in the skirts of the next parish; which\nmade a considerable thing of it. I must add, That she was, moreover,\nvery well looked on at one large grange-house, and some other odd houses\nand farms within two or three miles, as I said, from the smoke of her\nown chimney:--But I must here, once for all, inform you, that all this\nwill be more exactly delineated and explain'd in a map, now in the hands\nof the engraver, which, with many other pieces and developements of this\nwork, will be added to the end of the twentieth volume,--not to\nswell the work,--I detest the thought of such a thing;--but by way of\ncommentary, scholium, illustration, and key to such passages, incidents,\nor inuendos as shall be thought to be either of private interpretation,\nor of dark or doubtful meaning, after my life and my opinions shall have\nbeen read over (now don't forget the meaning of the word) by all\nthe world;--which, betwixt you and me, and in spite of all the\ngentlemen-reviewers in Great Britain, and of all that their worships\nshall undertake to write or say to the contrary,--I am determined shall\nbe the case.--I need not tell your worship, that all this is spoke in\nconfidence.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XIV.\n\nUpon looking into my mother's marriage settlement, in order to satisfy\nmyself and reader in a point necessary to be cleared up, before we could\nproceed any farther in this history;--I had the good fortune to pop\nupon the very thing I wanted before I had read a day and a half straight\nforwards,--it might have taken me up a month;--which shews plainly, that\nwhen a man sits down to write a history,--tho' it be but the history of\nJack Hickathrift or Tom Thumb, he knows no more than his heels what\nlets and confounded hindrances he is to meet with in his way,--or what\na dance he may be led, by one excursion or another, before all is over.\nCould a historiographer drive on his history, as a muleteer drives on\nhis mule,--straight forward;--for instance, from Rome all the way to\nLoretto, without ever once turning his head aside, either to the right\nhand or to the left,--he might venture to foretell you to an hour when\nhe should get to his journey's end;--but the thing is, morally speaking,\nimpossible: For, if he is a man of the least spirit, he will have fifty\ndeviations from a straight line to make with this or that party as he\ngoes along, which he can no ways avoid. He will have views and prospects\nto himself perpetually soliciting his eye, which he can no more help\nstanding still to look at than he can fly; he will moreover have various\n\n     Accounts to reconcile:\n     Anecdotes to pick up:\n     Inscriptions to make out:\n     Stories to weave in:\n     Traditions to sift:\n     Personages to call upon:\n     Panegyricks to paste up at this door;\n\nPasquinades at that:--All which both the man and his mule are quite\nexempt from. To sum up all; there are archives at every stage to be\nlook'd into, and rolls, records, documents, and endless genealogies,\nwhich justice ever and anon calls him back to stay the reading of:--In\nshort there is no end of it;--for my own part, I declare I have been at\nit these six weeks, making all the speed I possibly could,--and am not\nyet born:--I have just been able, and that's all, to tell you when it\nhappen'd, but not how;--so that you see the thing is yet far from being\naccomplished.\n\nThese unforeseen stoppages, which I own I had no conception of when I\nfirst set out;--but which, I am convinced now, will rather increase than\ndiminish as I advance,--have struck out a hint which I am resolved to\nfollow;--and that is,--not to be in a hurry;--but to go on leisurely,\nwriting and publishing two volumes of my life every year;--which, if I\nam suffered to go on quietly, and can make a tolerable bargain with my\nbookseller, I shall continue to do as long as I live.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XV.\n\nThe article in my mother's marriage-settlement, which I told the reader\nI was at the pains to search for, and which, now that I have found it, I\nthink proper to lay before him,--is so much more fully express'd in\nthe deed itself, than ever I can pretend to do it, that it would be\nbarbarity to take it out of the lawyer's hand:--It is as follows.\n\n'And this Indenture further witnesseth, That the said Walter Shandy,\nmerchant, in consideration of the said intended marriage to be had,\nand, by God's blessing, to be well and truly solemnized and consummated\nbetween the said Walter Shandy and Elizabeth Mollineux aforesaid, and\ndivers other good and valuable causes and considerations him thereunto\nspecially moving,--doth grant, covenant, condescend, consent, conclude,\nbargain, and fully agree to and with John Dixon, and James Turner,\nEsqrs. the above-named Trustees, &c. &c.--to wit,--That in case it\nshould hereafter so fall out, chance, happen, or otherwise come to\npass,--That the said Walter Shandy, merchant, shall have left off\nbusiness before the time or times, that the said Elizabeth Mollineux\nshall, according to the course of nature, or otherwise, have left off\nbearing and bringing forth children;--and that, in consequence of the\nsaid Walter Shandy having so left off business, he shall in despight,\nand against the free-will, consent, and good-liking of the said\nElizabeth Mollineux,--make a departure from the city of London, in order\nto retire to, and dwell upon, his estate at Shandy Hall, in the county\nof..., or at any other country-seat, castle, hall, mansion-house,\nmessuage or grainge-house, now purchased, or hereafter to be purchased,\nor upon any part or parcel thereof:--That then, and as often as the said\nElizabeth Mollineux shall happen to be enceint with child or children\nseverally and lawfully begot, or to be begotten, upon the body of the\nsaid Elizabeth Mollineux, during her said coverture,--he the said Walter\nShandy shall, at his own proper cost and charges, and out of his own\nproper monies, upon good and reasonable notice, which is hereby agreed\nto be within six weeks of her the said Elizabeth Mollineux's full\nreckoning, or time of supposed and computed delivery,--pay, or cause\nto be paid, the sum of one hundred and twenty pounds of good and lawful\nmoney, to John Dixon, and James Turner, Esqrs. or assigns,--upon Trust\nand confidence, and for and unto the use and uses, intent, end, and\npurpose following:--That is to say,--That the said sum of one hundred\nand twenty pounds shall be paid into the hands of the said Elizabeth\nMollineux, or to be otherwise applied by them the said Trustees, for the\nwell and truly hiring of one coach, with able and sufficient horses, to\ncarry and convey the body of the said Elizabeth Mollineux, and the\nchild or children which she shall be then and there enceint and pregnant\nwith,--unto the city of London; and for the further paying and defraying\nof all other incidental costs, charges, and expences whatsoever,--in\nand about, and for, and relating to, her said intended delivery and\nlying-in, in the said city or suburbs thereof. And that the said\nElizabeth Mollineux shall and may, from time to time, and at all such\ntime and times as are here covenanted and agreed upon,--peaceably and\nquietly hire the said coach and horses, and have free ingress, egress,\nand regress throughout her journey, in and from the said coach,\naccording to the tenor, true intent, and meaning of these presents,\nwithout any let, suit, trouble, disturbance, molestation, discharge,\nhinderance, forfeiture, eviction, vexation, interruption, or incumbrance\nwhatsoever.--And that it shall moreover be lawful to and for the said\nElizabeth Mollineux, from time to time, and as oft or often as she shall\nwell and truly be advanced in her said pregnancy, to the time heretofore\nstipulated and agreed upon,--to live and reside in such place or places,\nand in such family or families, and with such relations, friends, and\nother persons within the said city of London, as she at her own will\nand pleasure, notwithstanding her present coverture, and as if she was a\nfemme sole and unmarried,--shall think fit.--And this Indenture further\nwitnesseth, That for the more effectually carrying of the said covenant\ninto execution, the said Walter Shandy, merchant, doth hereby grant,\nbargain, sell, release, and confirm unto the said John Dixon, and James\nTurner, Esqrs. their heirs, executors, and assigns, in their actual\npossession now being, by virtue of an indenture of bargain and sale for\na year to them the said John Dixon, and James Turner, Esqrs. by him the\nsaid Walter Shandy, merchant, thereof made; which said bargain and sale\nfor a year, bears date the day next before the date of these presents,\nand by force and virtue of the statute for transferring of uses into\npossession,--All that the manor and lordship of Shandy, in the county\nof..., with all the rights, members, and appurtenances thereof; and all\nand every the messuages, houses, buildings, barns, stables, orchards,\ngardens, backsides, tofts, crofts, garths, cottages, lands, meadows,\nfeedings, pastures, marshes, commons, woods, underwoods, drains,\nfisheries, waters, and water-courses;--together with all rents,\nreversions, services, annuities, fee-farms, knights fees, views of\nfrankpledge, escheats, reliefs, mines, quarries, goods and chattels\nof felons and fugitives, felons of themselves, and put in exigent,\ndeodands, free warrens, and all other royalties and seigniories, rights\nand jurisdictions, privileges and hereditaments whatsoever.--And also\nthe advowson, donation, presentation, and free disposition of the\nrectory or parsonage of Shandy aforesaid, and all and every the tenths,\ntythes, glebe-lands.'--In three words,--'My mother was to lay in (if she\nchose it) in London.'\n\nBut in order to put a stop to the practice of any unfair play on\nthe part of my mother, which a marriage-article of this nature too\nmanifestly opened a door to, and which indeed had never been thought of\nat all, but for my uncle Toby Shandy;--a clause was added in security of\nmy father which was this:--'That in case my mother hereafter should, at\nany time, put my father to the trouble and expence of a London journey,\nupon false cries and tokens;--that for every such instance, she should\nforfeit all the right and title which the covenant gave her to the next\nturn;--but to no more,--and so on, toties quoties, in as effectual a\nmanner, as if such a covenant betwixt them had not been made.'--This, by\nthe way, was no more than what was reasonable;--and yet, as reasonable\nas it was, I have ever thought it hard that the whole weight of the\narticle should have fallen entirely, as it did, upon myself.\n\nBut I was begot and born to misfortunes;--for my poor mother, whether\nit was wind or water--or a compound of both,--or neither;--or whether it\nwas simply the mere swell of imagination and fancy in her;--or how far\na strong wish and desire to have it so, might mislead her judgment;--in\nshort, whether she was deceived or deceiving in this matter, it no\nway becomes me to decide. The fact was this, That in the latter end of\nSeptember 1717, which was the year before I was born, my mother having\ncarried my father up to town much against the grain,--he peremptorily\ninsisted upon the clause;--so that I was doom'd, by marriage-articles,\nto have my nose squeez'd as flat to my face, as if the destinies had\nactually spun me without one.\n\nHow this event came about,--and what a train of vexatious\ndisappointments, in one stage or other of my life, have pursued me from\nthe mere loss, or rather compression, of this one single member,--shall\nbe laid before the reader all in due time.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XVI.\n\nMy father, as any body may naturally imagine, came down with my mother\ninto the country, in but a pettish kind of a humour. The first twenty\nor five-and-twenty miles he did nothing in the world but fret and teaze\nhimself, and indeed my mother too, about the cursed expence, which he\nsaid might every shilling of it have been saved;--then what vexed him\nmore than every thing else was, the provoking time of the year,--which,\nas I told you, was towards the end of September, when his wall-fruit and\ngreen gages especially, in which he was very curious, were just ready\nfor pulling:--'Had he been whistled up to London, upon a Tom Fool's\nerrand, in any other month of the whole year, he should not have said\nthree words about it.'\n\nFor the next two whole stages, no subject would go down, but the heavy\nblow he had sustain'd from the loss of a son, whom it seems he had fully\nreckon'd upon in his mind, and register'd down in his pocket-book, as\na second staff for his old age, in case Bobby should fail him. 'The\ndisappointment of this, he said, was ten times more to a wise man, than\nall the money which the journey, &c. had cost him, put together,--rot\nthe hundred and twenty pounds,--he did not mind it a rush.'\n\nFrom Stilton, all the way to Grantham, nothing in the whole affair\nprovoked him so much as the condolences of his friends, and the foolish\nfigure they should both make at church, the first Sunday;--of which, in\nthe satirical vehemence of his wit, now sharpen'd a little by vexation,\nhe would give so many humorous and provoking descriptions,--and place\nhis rib and self in so many tormenting lights and attitudes in the face\nof the whole congregation;--that my mother declared, these two stages\nwere so truly tragi-comical, that she did nothing but laugh and cry in a\nbreath, from one end to the other of them all the way.\n\nFrom Grantham, till they had cross'd the Trent, my father was out of all\nkind of patience at the vile trick and imposition which he fancied my\nmother had put upon him in this affair--'Certainly,' he would say\nto himself, over and over again, 'the woman could not be deceived\nherself--if she could,--what weakness!'--tormenting word!--which led his\nimagination a thorny dance, and, before all was over, play'd the duce\nand all with him;--for sure as ever the word weakness was uttered, and\nstruck full upon his brain--so sure it set him upon running divisions\nupon how many kinds of weaknesses there were;--that there was such a\nthing as weakness of the body,--as well as weakness of the mind,--and\nthen he would do nothing but syllogize within himself for a stage or two\ntogether, How far the cause of all these vexations might, or might not,\nhave arisen out of himself.\n\nIn short, he had so many little subjects of disquietude springing out of\nthis one affair, all fretting successively in his mind as they rose up\nin it, that my mother, whatever was her journey up, had but an uneasy\njourney of it down.--In a word, as she complained to my uncle Toby, he\nwould have tired out the patience of any flesh alive.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XVII.\n\nThough my father travelled homewards, as I told you, in none of the\nbest of moods,--pshawing and pishing all the way down,--yet he had\nthe complaisance to keep the worst part of the story still to\nhimself;--which was the resolution he had taken of doing himself\nthe justice, which my uncle Toby's clause in the marriage-settlement\nempowered him; nor was it till the very night in which I was begot,\nwhich was thirteen months after, that she had the least intimation of\nhis design: when my father, happening, as you remember, to be a little\nchagrin'd and out of temper,--took occasion as they lay chatting gravely\nin bed afterwards, talking over what was to come,--to let her know that\nshe must accommodate herself as well as she could to the bargain made\nbetween them in their marriage-deeds; which was to lye-in of her next\nchild in the country, to balance the last year's journey.\n\nMy father was a gentleman of many virtues,--but he had a strong spice of\nthat in his temper, which might, or might not, add to the number.--'Tis\nknown by the name of perseverance in a good cause,--and of obstinacy in\na bad one: Of this my mother had so much knowledge, that she knew 'twas\nto no purpose to make any remonstrance,--so she e'en resolved to sit\ndown quietly, and make the most of it.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XVIII.\n\nAs the point was that night agreed, or rather determined, that my mother\nshould lye-in of me in the country, she took her measures accordingly;\nfor which purpose, when she was three days, or thereabouts, gone with\nchild, she began to cast her eyes upon the midwife, whom you have so\noften heard me mention; and before the week was well got round, as\nthe famous Dr. Manningham was not to be had, she had come to a final\ndetermination in her mind,--notwithstanding there was a scientific\noperator within so near a call as eight miles of us, and who, moreover,\nhad expressly wrote a five shillings book upon the subject of midwifery,\nin which he had exposed, not only the blunders of the sisterhood\nitself,--but had likewise super-added many curious improvements for the\nquicker extraction of the foetus in cross births, and some other cases\nof danger, which belay us in getting into the world; notwithstanding all\nthis, my mother, I say, was absolutely determined to trust her life, and\nmine with it, into no soul's hand but this old woman's only.--Now this\nI like;--when we cannot get at the very thing we wish--never to take\nup with the next best in degree to it:--no; that's pitiful beyond\ndescription;--it is no more than a week from this very day, in which\nI am now writing this book for the edification of the world;--which is\nMarch 9, 1759,--that my dear, dear Jenny, observing I looked a little\ngrave, as she stood cheapening a silk of five-and-twenty shillings\na yard,--told the mercer, she was sorry she had given him so much\ntrouble;--and immediately went and bought herself a yard-wide stuff of\nten-pence a yard.--'Tis the duplication of one and the same greatness\nof soul; only what lessened the honour of it, somewhat, in my mother's\ncase, was, that she could not heroine it into so violent and hazardous\nan extreme, as one in her situation might have wished, because the old\nmidwife had really some little claim to be depended upon,--as much, at\nleast, as success could give her; having, in the course of her practice\nof near twenty years in the parish, brought every mother's son of them\ninto the world without any one slip or accident which could fairly be\nlaid to her account.\n\nThese facts, tho' they had their weight, yet did not altogether satisfy\nsome few scruples and uneasinesses which hung upon my father's spirits\nin relation to this choice.--To say nothing of the natural workings\nof humanity and justice--or of the yearnings of parental and connubial\nlove, all which prompted him to leave as little to hazard as possible in\na case of this kind;--he felt himself concerned in a particular manner,\nthat all should go right in the present case;--from the accumulated\nsorrow he lay open to, should any evil betide his wife and child in\nlying-in at Shandy-Hall.--He knew the world judged by events, and would\nadd to his afflictions in such a misfortune, by loading him with the\nwhole blame of it.--'Alas o'day;--had Mrs. Shandy, poor gentlewoman!\nhad but her wish in going up to town just to lye-in and come down\nagain;--which they say, she begged and prayed for upon her bare\nknees,--and which, in my opinion, considering the fortune which Mr.\nShandy got with her,--was no such mighty matter to have complied with,\nthe lady and her babe might both of them have been alive at this hour.'\n\nThis exclamation, my father knew, was unanswerable;--and yet, it was not\nmerely to shelter himself,--nor was it altogether for the care of\nhis offspring and wife that he seemed so extremely anxious about this\npoint;--my father had extensive views of things,--and stood moreover, as\nhe thought, deeply concerned in it for the publick good, from the dread\nhe entertained of the bad uses an ill-fated instance might be put to.\n\nHe was very sensible that all political writers upon the subject had\nunanimously agreed and lamented, from the beginning of Queen Elizabeth's\nreign down to his own time, that the current of men and money towards\nthe metropolis, upon one frivolous errand or another,--set in so\nstrong,--as to become dangerous to our civil rights,--though, by the\nbye,--a current was not the image he took most delight in,--a distemper\nwas here his favourite metaphor, and he would run it down into a\nperfect allegory, by maintaining it was identically the same in the body\nnational as in the body natural, where the blood and spirits were\ndriven up into the head faster than they could find their ways down;--a\nstoppage of circulation must ensue, which was death in both cases.\n\nThere was little danger, he would say, of losing our liberties by\nFrench politicks or French invasions;--nor was he so much in pain of a\nconsumption from the mass of corrupted matter and ulcerated humours in\nour constitution, which he hoped was not so bad as it was imagined;--but\nhe verily feared, that in some violent push, we should go off, all at\nonce, in a state-apoplexy;--and then he would say, The Lord have mercy\nupon us all.\n\nMy father was never able to give the history of this distemper,--without\nthe remedy along with it.\n\n'Was I an absolute prince,' he would say, pulling up his breeches with\nboth his hands, as he rose from his arm-chair, 'I would appoint able\njudges, at every avenue of my metropolis, who should take cognizance of\nevery fool's business who came there;--and if, upon a fair and candid\nhearing, it appeared not of weight sufficient to leave his own home, and\ncome up, bag and baggage, with his wife and children, farmer's sons,\n&c. &c. at his backside, they should be all sent back, from constable\nto constable, like vagrants as they were, to the place of their legal\nsettlements. By this means I shall take care, that my metropolis\ntotter'd not thro' its own weight;--that the head be no longer too big\nfor the body;--that the extremes, now wasted and pinn'd in, be restored\nto their due share of nourishment, and regain with it their natural\nstrength and beauty:--I would effectually provide, That the meadows and\ncorn fields of my dominions, should laugh and sing;--that good chear and\nhospitality flourish once more;--and that such weight and influence be\nput thereby into the hands of the Squirality of my kingdom, as should\ncounterpoise what I perceive my Nobility are now taking from them.\n\n'Why are there so few palaces and gentlemen's seats,' he would ask,\nwith some emotion, as he walked across the room, 'throughout so many\ndelicious provinces in France? Whence is it that the few remaining\nChateaus amongst them are so dismantled,--so unfurnished, and in so\nruinous and desolate a condition?--Because, Sir' (he would say) 'in that\nkingdom no man has any country-interest to support;--the little interest\nof any kind which any man has any where in it, is concentrated in the\ncourt, and the looks of the Grand Monarch: by the sunshine of whose\ncountenance, or the clouds which pass across it, every French man lives\nor dies.'\n\nAnother political reason which prompted my father so strongly to\nguard against the least evil accident in my mother's lying-in in the\ncountry,--was, That any such instance would infallibly throw a balance\nof power, too great already, into the weaker vessels of the gentry, in\nhis own, or higher stations;--which, with the many other usurped rights\nwhich that part of the constitution was hourly establishing,--would, in\nthe end, prove fatal to the monarchical system of domestick government\nestablished in the first creation of things by God.\n\nIn this point he was entirely of Sir Robert Filmer's opinion, That the\nplans and institutions of the greatest monarchies in the eastern parts\nof the world, were, originally, all stolen from that admirable pattern\nand prototype of this houshold and paternal power;--which, for a\ncentury, he said, and more, had gradually been degenerating away into\na mix'd government;--the form of which, however desirable in great\ncombinations of the species,--was very troublesome in small ones,--and\nseldom produced any thing, that he saw, but sorrow and confusion.\n\nFor all these reasons, private and publick, put together,--my father\nwas for having the man-midwife by all means,--my mother, by no means.\nMy father begg'd and intreated, she would for once recede from her\nprerogative in this matter, and suffer him to choose for her;--my\nmother, on the contrary, insisted upon her privilege in this matter,\nto choose for herself,--and have no mortal's help but the old\nwoman's.--What could my father do? He was almost at his wit's\nend;--talked it over with her in all moods;--placed his arguments in\nall lights;--argued the matter with her like a christian,--like a\nheathen,--like a husband,--like a father,--like a patriot,--like a\nman:--My mother answered every thing only like a woman; which was a\nlittle hard upon her;--for as she could not assume and fight it out\nbehind such a variety of characters,--'twas no fair match:--'twas seven\nto one.--What could my mother do?--She had the advantage (otherwise\nshe had been certainly overpowered) of a small reinforcement of chagrin\npersonal at the bottom, which bore her up, and enabled her to dispute\nthe affair with my father with so equal an advantage,--that both sides\nsung Te Deum. In a word, my mother was to have the old woman,--and the\noperator was to have licence to drink a bottle of wine with my father\nand my uncle Toby Shandy in the back parlour,--for which he was to be\npaid five guineas.\n\nI must beg leave, before I finish this chapter, to enter a caveat in the\nbreast of my fair reader;--and it is this,--Not to take it absolutely\nfor granted, from an unguarded word or two which I have dropp'd in\nit,--'That I am a married man.'--I own, the tender appellation of\nmy dear, dear Jenny,--with some other strokes of conjugal knowledge,\ninterspersed here and there, might, naturally enough, have misled\nthe most candid judge in the world into such a determination against\nme.--All I plead for, in this case, Madam, is strict justice, and that\nyou do so much of it, to me as well as to yourself,--as not to prejudge,\nor receive such an impression of me, till you have better evidence,\nthan, I am positive, at present can be produced against me.--Not that I\ncan be so vain or unreasonable, Madam, as to desire you should therefore\nthink, that my dear, dear Jenny is my kept mistress;--no,--that would\nbe flattering my character in the other extreme, and giving it an air of\nfreedom, which, perhaps, it has no kind of right to. All I contend for,\nis the utter impossibility, for some volumes, that you, or the most\npenetrating spirit upon earth, should know how this matter really\nstands.--It is not impossible, but that my dear, dear Jenny! tender as\nthe appellation is, may be my child.--Consider,--I was born in the\nyear eighteen.--Nor is there any thing unnatural or extravagant in\nthe supposition, that my dear Jenny may be my friend.--Friend!--My\nfriend.--Surely, Madam, a friendship between the two sexes may subsist,\nand be supported without--Fy! Mr. Shandy:--Without any thing, Madam,\nbut that tender and delicious sentiment which ever mixes in friendship,\nwhere there is a difference of sex. Let me intreat you to study the\npure and sentimental parts of the best French Romances;--it will really,\nMadam, astonish you to see with what a variety of chaste expressions\nthis delicious sentiment, which I have the honour to speak of, is\ndress'd out.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XIX.\n\nI would sooner undertake to explain the hardest problem in geometry,\nthan pretend to account for it, that a gentleman of my father's great\ngood sense,--knowing, as the reader must have observed him, and curious\ntoo in philosophy,--wise also in political reasoning,--and in polemical\n(as he will find) no way ignorant,--could be capable of entertaining a\nnotion in his head, so out of the common track,--that I fear the reader,\nwhen I come to mention it to him, if he is the least of a cholerick\ntemper, will immediately throw the book by; if mercurial, he will laugh\nmost heartily at it;--and if he is of a grave and saturnine cast, he\nwill, at first sight, absolutely condemn as fanciful and extravagant;\nand that was in respect to the choice and imposition of christian names,\non which he thought a great deal more depended than what superficial\nminds were capable of conceiving.\n\nHis opinion, in this matter, was, That there was a strange kind of\nmagick bias, which good or bad names, as he called them, irresistibly\nimpressed upon our characters and conduct.\n\nThe hero of Cervantes argued not the point with more seriousness,--nor\nhad he more faith,--or more to say on the powers of necromancy in\ndishonouring his deeds,--or on Dulcinea's name, in shedding lustre upon\nthem, than my father had on those of Trismegistus or Archimedes, on\nthe one hand--or of Nyky and Simkin on the other. How many Caesars\nand Pompeys, he would say, by mere inspiration of the names, have been\nrendered worthy of them? And how many, he would add, are there, who\nmight have done exceeding well in the world, had not their characters\nand spirits been totally depressed and Nicodemus'd into nothing?\n\nI see plainly, Sir, by your looks, (or as the case happened) my father\nwould say--that you do not heartily subscribe to this opinion of\nmine,--which, to those, he would add, who have not carefully sifted it\nto the bottom,--I own has an air more of fancy than of solid reasoning\nin it;--and yet, my dear Sir, if I may presume to know your character, I\nam morally assured, I should hazard little in stating a case to you, not\nas a party in the dispute,--but as a judge, and trusting my appeal upon\nit to your own good sense and candid disquisition in this matter;--you\nare a person free from as many narrow prejudices of education as\nmost men;--and, if I may presume to penetrate farther into you,--of a\nliberality of genius above bearing down an opinion, merely because it\nwants friends. Your son,--your dear son,--from whose sweet and open\ntemper you have so much to expect.--Your Billy, Sir!--would you, for\nthe world, have called him Judas?--Would you, my dear Sir, he would say,\nlaying his hand upon your breast, with the genteelest address,--and\nin that soft and irresistible piano of voice, which the nature of the\nargumentum ad hominem absolutely requires,--Would you, Sir, if a Jew of\na godfather had proposed the name for your child, and offered you his\npurse along with it, would you have consented to such a desecration of\nhim?--O my God! he would say, looking up, if I know your temper right,\nSir,--you are incapable of it;--you would have trampled upon the\noffer;--you would have thrown the temptation at the tempter's head with\nabhorrence.\n\nYour greatness of mind in this action, which I admire, with that\ngenerous contempt of money, which you shew me in the whole transaction,\nis really noble;--and what renders it more so, is the principle of\nit;--the workings of a parent's love upon the truth and conviction\nof this very hypothesis, namely, That was your son called Judas,--the\nforbid and treacherous idea, so inseparable from the name, would have\naccompanied him through life like his shadow, and, in the end, made a\nmiser and a rascal of him, in spite, Sir, of your example.\n\nI never knew a man able to answer this argument.--But, indeed, to speak\nof my father as he was;--he was certainly irresistible;--both in his\norations and disputations;--he was born an orator;--(Greek).--Persuasion\nhung upon his lips, and the elements of Logick and Rhetorick were\nso blended up in him,--and, withal, he had so shrewd a guess at the\nweaknesses and passions of his respondent,--that Nature might have stood\nup and said,--'This man is eloquent.'--In short, whether he was on the\nweak or the strong side of the question, 'twas hazardous in either case\nto attack him.--And yet, 'tis strange, he had never read Cicero, nor\nQuintilian de Oratore, nor Isocrates, nor Aristotle, nor Longinus,\namongst the antients;--nor Vossius, nor Skioppius, nor Ramus, nor\nFarnaby, amongst the moderns;--and what is more astonishing, he had\nnever in his whole life the least light or spark of subtilty struck into\nhis mind, by one single lecture upon Crackenthorp or Burgersdicius or\nany Dutch logician or commentator;--he knew not so much as in what the\ndifference of an argument ad ignorantiam, and an argument ad hominem\nconsisted; so that I well remember, when he went up along with me to\nenter my name at Jesus College in...,--it was a matter of just\nwonder with my worthy tutor, and two or three fellows of that learned\nsociety,--that a man who knew not so much as the names of his tools,\nshould be able to work after that fashion with them.\n\nTo work with them in the best manner he could, was what my father\nwas, however, perpetually forced upon;--for he had a thousand little\nsceptical notions of the comick kind to defend--most of which notions, I\nverily believe, at first entered upon the footing of mere whims, and of\na vive la Bagatelle; and as such he would make merry with them for half\nan hour or so, and having sharpened his wit upon them, dismiss them till\nanother day.\n\nI mention this, not only as matter of hypothesis or conjecture upon the\nprogress and establishment of my father's many odd opinions,--but as a\nwarning to the learned reader against the indiscreet reception of such\nguests, who, after a free and undisturbed entrance, for some years,\ninto our brains,--at length claim a kind of settlement there,--working\nsometimes like yeast;--but more generally after the manner of the gentle\npassion, beginning in jest,--but ending in downright earnest.\n\nWhether this was the case of the singularity of my father's notions--or\nthat his judgment, at length, became the dupe of his wit;--or how far,\nin many of his notions, he might, though odd, be absolutely right;--the\nreader, as he comes at them, shall decide. All that I maintain here, is,\nthat in this one, of the influence of christian names, however it gained\nfooting, he was serious;--he was all uniformity;--he was systematical,\nand, like all systematic reasoners, he would move both heaven and earth,\nand twist and torture every thing in nature to support his hypothesis.\nIn a word I repeat it over again;--he was serious;--and, in consequence\nof it, he would lose all kind of patience whenever he saw people,\nespecially of condition, who should have known better,--as careless and\nas indifferent about the name they imposed upon their child,--or more\nso, than in the choice of Ponto or Cupid for their puppy-dog.\n\nThis, he would say, look'd ill;--and had, moreover, this particular\naggravation in it, viz. That when once a vile name was wrongfully or\ninjudiciously given, 'twas not like the case of a man's character,\nwhich, when wrong'd, might hereafter be cleared;--and, possibly, some\ntime or other, if not in the man's life, at least after his death,--be,\nsomehow or other, set to rights with the world: But the injury of this,\nhe would say, could never be undone;--nay, he doubted even whether an\nact of parliament could reach it:--He knew as well as you, that the\nlegislature assumed a power over surnames;--but for very strong reasons,\nwhich he could give, it had never yet adventured, he would say, to go a\nstep farther.\n\nIt was observable, that tho' my father, in consequence of this opinion,\nhad, as I have told you, the strongest likings and dislikings towards\ncertain names;--that there were still numbers of names which hung so\nequally in the balance before him, that they were absolutely indifferent\nto him. Jack, Dick, and Tom were of this class: These my father called\nneutral names;--affirming of them, without a satire, That there had\nbeen as many knaves and fools, at least, as wise and good men, since\nthe world began, who had indifferently borne them;--so that, like equal\nforces acting against each other in contrary directions, he thought\nthey mutually destroyed each other's effects; for which reason, he would\noften declare, He would not give a cherry-stone to choose amongst them.\nBob, which was my brother's name, was another of these neutral kinds of\nchristian names, which operated very little either way; and as my father\nhappen'd to be at Epsom, when it was given him,--he would oft-times\nthank Heaven it was no worse. Andrew was something like a\nnegative quantity in Algebra with him;--'twas worse, he said, than\nnothing.--William stood pretty high:--Numps again was low with him:--and\nNick, he said, was the Devil.\n\nBut of all names in the universe he had the most unconquerable aversion\nfor Tristram;--he had the lowest and most contemptible opinion of it of\nany thing in the world,--thinking it could possibly produce nothing in\nrerum natura, but what was extremely mean and pitiful: So that in\nthe midst of a dispute on the subject, in which, by the bye, he was\nfrequently involved,--he would sometimes break off in a sudden and\nspirited Epiphonema, or rather Erotesis, raised a third, and sometimes a\nfull fifth above the key of the discourse,--and demand it categorically\nof his antagonist, Whether he would take upon him to say, he had ever\nremembered,--whether he had ever read,--or even whether he had ever\nheard tell of a man, called Tristram, performing any thing great\nor worth recording?--No,--he would say,--Tristram!--The thing is\nimpossible.\n\nWhat could be wanting in my father but to have wrote a book to\npublish this notion of his to the world? Little boots it to the subtle\nspeculatist to stand single in his opinions,--unless he gives them\nproper vent:--It was the identical thing which my father did:--for in\nthe year sixteen, which was two years before I was born, he was at\nthe pains of writing an express Dissertation simply upon the word\nTristram,--shewing the world, with great candour and modesty, the\ngrounds of his great abhorrence to the name.\n\nWhen this story is compared with the title-page,--Will not the\ngentle reader pity my father from his soul?--to see an orderly and\nwell-disposed gentleman, who tho' singular,--yet inoffensive in his\nnotions,--so played upon in them by cross purposes;--to look down upon\nthe stage, and see him baffled and overthrown in all his little systems\nand wishes; to behold a train of events perpetually falling out against\nhim, and in so critical and cruel a way, as if they had purposedly been\nplann'd and pointed against him, merely to insult his speculations.--In\na word, to behold such a one, in his old age, ill-fitted for troubles,\nten times in a day suffering sorrow;--ten times in a day calling the\nchild of his prayers Tristram!--Melancholy dissyllable of sound! which,\nto his ears, was unison to Nincompoop, and every name vituperative\nunder heaven.--By his ashes! I swear it,--if ever malignant spirit took\npleasure, or busied itself in traversing the purposes of mortal man,--it\nmust have been here;--and if it was not necessary I should be born\nbefore I was christened, I would this moment give the reader an account\nof it.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XX.\n\n--How could you, Madam, be so inattentive in reading the last chapter? I\ntold you in it, That my mother was not a papist.--Papist! You told me\nno such thing, Sir.--Madam, I beg leave to repeat it over again, that I\ntold you as plain, at least, as words, by direct inference, could tell\nyou such a thing.--Then, Sir, I must have miss'd a page.--No, Madam,\nyou have not miss'd a word.--Then I was asleep, Sir.--My pride, Madam,\ncannot allow you that refuge.--Then, I declare, I know nothing at all\nabout the matter.--That, Madam, is the very fault I lay to your charge;\nand as a punishment for it, I do insist upon it, that you immediately\nturn back, that is as soon as you get to the next full stop, and read\nthe whole chapter over again. I have imposed this penance upon the lady,\nneither out of wantonness nor cruelty; but from the best of motives; and\ntherefore shall make her no apology for it when she returns back:--'Tis\nto rebuke a vicious taste, which has crept into thousands besides\nherself,--of reading straight forwards, more in quest of the adventures,\nthan of the deep erudition and knowledge which a book of this cast, if\nread over as it should be, would infallibly impart with them--The\nmind should be accustomed to make wise reflections, and draw curious\nconclusions as it goes along; the habitude of which made Pliny the\nyounger affirm, 'That he never read a book so bad, but he drew some\nprofit from it.' The stories of Greece and Rome, run over without this\nturn and application,--do less service, I affirm it, than the history of\nParismus and Parismenus, or of the Seven Champions of England, read with\nit.\n\n--But here comes my fair lady. Have you read over again the chapter,\nMadam, as I desired you?--You have: And did you not observe the passage,\nupon the second reading, which admits the inference?--Not a word like\nit! Then, Madam, be pleased to ponder well the last line but one of the\nchapter, where I take upon me to say, 'It was necessary I should be\nborn before I was christen'd.' Had my mother, Madam, been a Papist, that\nconsequence did not follow. (The Romish Rituals direct the baptizing\nof the child, in cases of danger, before it is born;--but upon this\nproviso, That some part or other of the child's body be seen by the\nbaptizer:--But the Doctors of the Sorbonne, by a deliberation held\namongst them, April 10, 1733,--have enlarged the powers of the\nmidwives, by determining, That though no part of the child's body should\nappear,--that baptism shall, nevertheless, be administered to it by\ninjection,--par le moyen d'une petite canulle,--Anglice a squirt.--'Tis\nvery strange that St. Thomas Aquinas, who had so good a mechanical head,\nboth for tying and untying the knots of school-divinity,--should, after\nso much pains bestowed upon this,--give up the point at last, as a\nsecond La chose impossible,--'Infantes in maternis uteris existentes\n(quoth St. Thomas!) baptizari possunt nullo modo.'--O Thomas! Thomas!\nIf the reader has the curiosity to see the question upon baptism by\ninjection, as presented to the Doctors of the Sorbonne, with their\nconsultation thereupon, it is as follows.)\n\nIt is a terrible misfortune for this same book of mine, but more so to\nthe Republick of letters;--so that my own is quite swallowed up in\nthe consideration of it,--that this self-same vile pruriency for\nfresh adventures in all things, has got so strongly into our habit and\nhumour,--and so wholly intent are we upon satisfying the impatience of\nour concupiscence that way,--that nothing but the gross and more\ncarnal parts of a composition will go down:--The subtle hints and sly\ncommunications of science fly off, like spirits upwards,--the heavy\nmoral escapes downwards; and both the one and the other are as much lost\nto the world, as if they were still left in the bottom of the ink-horn.\n\nI wish the male-reader has not pass'd by many a one, as quaint and\ncurious as this one, in which the female-reader has been detected. I\nwish it may have its effects;--and that all good people, both male and\nfemale, from example, may be taught to think as well as read.\n\nMemoire presente a Messieurs les Docteurs de Sorbonne\n\nVide Deventer. Paris Edit. 4to, 1734, p. 366.\n\nUn Chirurgien Accoucheur, represente a Messieurs les Docteurs de\nSorbonne, qu'il y a des cas, quoique tres rares, ou une mere ne scauroit\naccoucher, & meme ou l'enfant est tellement renferme dans le sein de sa\nmere, qu'il ne fait paroitre aucune partie de son corps, ce qui seroit\nun cas, suivant les Rituels, de lui conferer, du moins sous condition,\nle bapteme. Le Chirurgien, qui consulte, pretend, par le moyen d'une\npetite canulle, de pouvoir baptiser immediatement l'enfant, sans faire\naucun tort a la mere.--Il demand si ce moyen, qu'il vient de proposer,\nest permis & legitime, & s'il peut s'en servir dans les cas qu'il vient\nd'exposer.\n\n\nReponse\n\nLe Conseil estime, que la question proposee souffre de grandes\ndifficultes. Les Theologiens posent d'un cote pour principe, que\nle bapteme, qui est une naissance spirituelle, suppose une premiere\nnaissance; il faut etre ne dans le monde, pour renaitre en Jesus Christ,\ncomme ils l'enseignent. S. Thomas, 3 part. quaest. 88 artic. II. suit\ncette doctrine comme une verite constante; l'on ne peut, dit ce S.\nDocteur, baptiser les enfans qui sont renfermes dans le sein de leurs\nmeres, & S. Thomas est fonde sur ce, que les enfans ne sont point nes, &\nne peuvent etre comptes parmi les autres hommes; d'ou il conclud, qu'ils\nne peuvent etre l'objet d'une action exterieure, pour recevoir par leur\nministere, les sacremens necessaires au salut: Pueri in maternis uteris\nexistentes nondum prodierunt in lucem ut cum aliis hominibus vitam\nducant; unde non possunt subjici actioni humanae, ut per eorum\nministerium sacramenta recipiant ad salutem. Les rituels ordonnent dans\nla pratique ce que les theologiens ont etabli sur les memes matieres, &\nils deffendent tous d'une maniere uniforme, de baptiser les enfans\nqui sont renfermes dans le sein de leurs meres, s'ils ne sont paroitre\nquelque partie de leurs corps. Le concours des theologiens, & des\nrituels, qui sont les regles des dioceses, paroit former une autorite\nqui termine la question presente; cependant le conseil de conscience\nconsiderant d'un cote, que le raisonnement des theologiens est\nuniquement fonde sur une raison de convenance, & que la deffense des\nrituels suppose que l'on ne peut baptiser immediatement les enfans ainsi\nrenfermes dans le sein de leurs meres, ce qui est contre la supposition\npresente; & d'un autre cote, considerant que les memes theologiens\nenseignent, que l'on peut risquer les sacremens que Jesus Christ a\netablis comme des moyens faciles, mais necessaires pour sanctifier les\nhommes; & d'ailleurs estimant, que les enfans renfermes dans le sein\nde leurs meres, pourroient etre capables de salut, parcequ'ils sont\ncapables de damnation;--pour ces considerations, & en egard a l'expose,\nsuivant lequel on assure avoir trouve un moyen certain de baptiser ces\nenfans ainsi renfermes, sans faire aucun tort a la mere, le Conseil\nestime que l'on pourroit se servir du moyen propose, dans la confiance\nqu'il a, que Dieu n'a point laisse ces sortes d'enfans sans aucuns\nsecours, & supposant, comme il est expose, que le moyen dont il s'agit\nest propre a leur procurer le bapteme; cependant comme il s'agiroit, en\nautorisant la pratique proposee, de changer une regle universellement\netablie, le Conseil croit que celui qui consulte doit s'addresser a\nson eveque, & a qui il appartient de juger de l'utilite, & du danger\ndu moyen propose, & comme, sous le bon plaisir de l'eveque, le Conseil\nestime qu'il faudroit recourir au Pape, qui a le droit d'expliquer les\nregles de l'eglise, & d'y deroger dans le cas, ou la loi ne scauroit\nobliger, quelque sage & quelque utile que paroisse la maniere de\nbaptiser dont il s'agit, le Conseil ne pourroit l'approver sans le\nconcours de ces deux autorites. On conseile au moins a celui qui\nconsulte, de s'addresser a son eveque, & de lui faire part de la\npresente decision, afin que, si le prelat entre dans les raisons sur\nlesquelles les docteurs soussignes s'appuyent, il puisse etre autorise\ndans le cas de necessite, ou il risqueroit trop d'attendre que la\npermission fut demandee & accordee d'employer le moyen qu'il propose si\navantageux au salut de l'enfant. Au reste, le Conseil, en estimant que\nl'on pourroit s'en servir, croit cependant, que si les enfans dont il\ns'agit, venoient au monde, contre l'esperance de ceux qui se seroient\nservis du meme moyen, il seroit necessaire de les baptiser sous\ncondition; & en cela le Conseil se conforme a tous les rituels, qui en\nautorisant le bapteme d'un enfant qui fait paroitre quelque partie\nde son corps, enjoignent neantmoins, & ordonnent de le baptiser sous\ncondition, s'il vient heureusement au monde.\n\n     Delibere en Sorbonne, le 10 Avril, 1733.\n     A. Le Moyne.\n     L. De Romigny.\n     De Marcilly.\n\nMr. Tristram Shandy's compliments to Messrs. Le Moyne, De Romigny, and\nDe Marcilly; hopes they all rested well the night after so tiresome a\nconsultation.--He begs to know, whether after the ceremony of marriage,\nand before that of consummation, the baptizing all the Homunculi at\nonce, slapdash, by injection, would not be a shorter and safer cut\nstill; on condition, as above, That if the Homunculi do well, and come\nsafe into the world after this, that each and every of them shall be\nbaptized again (sous condition)--And provided, in the second place, That\nthe thing can be done, which Mr. Shandy apprehends it may, par le moyen\nd'une petite canulle, and sans faire aucune tort au pere.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XXI.\n\n--I wonder what's all that noise, and running backwards and forwards\nfor, above stairs, quoth my father, addressing himself, after an hour\nand a half's silence, to my uncle Toby,--who, you must know, was sitting\non the opposite side of the fire, smoaking his social pipe all the time,\nin mute contemplation of a new pair of black plush-breeches which he\nhad got on:--What can they be doing, brother?--quoth my father,--we can\nscarce hear ourselves talk.\n\nI think, replied my uncle Toby, taking his pipe from his mouth, and\nstriking the head of it two or three times upon the nail of his left\nthumb, as he began his sentence,--I think, says he:--But to enter\nrightly into my uncle Toby's sentiments upon this matter, you must be\nmade to enter first a little into his character, the out-lines of which\nI shall just give you, and then the dialogue between him and my father\nwill go on as well again.\n\nPray what was that man's name,--for I write in such a hurry, I have no\ntime to recollect or look for it,--who first made the observation, 'That\nthere was great inconstancy in our air and climate?' Whoever he was,\n'twas a just and good observation in him.--But the corollary drawn from\nit, namely, 'That it is this which has furnished us with such a variety\nof odd and whimsical characters;'--that was not his;--it was found\nout by another man, at least a century and a half after him: Then\nagain,--that this copious store-house of original materials, is the true\nand natural cause that our Comedies are so much better than those\nof France, or any others that either have, or can be wrote upon the\nContinent:--that discovery was not fully made till about the middle of\nKing William's reign,--when the great Dryden, in writing one of his long\nprefaces, (if I mistake not) most fortunately hit upon it. Indeed toward\nthe latter end of queen Anne, the great Addison began to patronize the\nnotion, and more fully explained it to the world in one or two of his\nSpectators;--but the discovery was not his.--Then, fourthly and lastly,\nthat this strange irregularity in our climate, producing so strange an\nirregularity in our characters,--doth thereby, in some sort, make us\namends, by giving us somewhat to make us merry with when the weather\nwill not suffer us to go out of doors,--that observation is my own;--and\nwas struck out by me this very rainy day, March 26, 1759, and betwixt\nthe hours of nine and ten in the morning.\n\nThus--thus, my fellow-labourers and associates in this great harvest of\nour learning, now ripening before our eyes; thus it is, by slow steps\nof casual increase, that our knowledge physical, metaphysical,\nphysiological, polemical, nautical, mathematical, aenigmatical,\ntechnical, biographical, romantical, chemical, and obstetrical, with\nfifty other branches of it, (most of 'em ending as these do, in ical)\nhave for these two last centuries and more, gradually been creeping\nupwards towards that Akme of their perfections, from which, if we may\nform a conjecture from the advances of these last seven years, we cannot\npossibly be far off.\n\nWhen that happens, it is to be hoped, it will put an end to all kind of\nwritings whatsoever;--the want of all kind of writing will put an end to\nall kind of reading;--and that in time, As war begets poverty; poverty\npeace,--must, in course, put an end to all kind of knowledge,--and\nthen--we shall have all to begin over again; or, in other words, be\nexactly where we started.\n\n--Happy! Thrice happy times! I only wish that the aera of my begetting,\nas well as the mode and manner of it, had been a little alter'd,--or\nthat it could have been put off, with any convenience to my father or\nmother, for some twenty or five-and-twenty years longer, when a man in\nthe literary world might have stood some chance.--\n\nBut I forget my uncle Toby, whom all this while we have left knocking\nthe ashes out of his tobacco-pipe.\n\nHis humour was of that particular species, which does honour to our\natmosphere; and I should have made no scruple of ranking him amongst\none of the first-rate productions of it, had not there appeared too many\nstrong lines in it of a family-likeness, which shewed that he derived\nthe singularity of his temper more from blood, than either wind or\nwater, or any modifications or combinations of them whatever: And I\nhave, therefore, oft-times wondered, that my father, tho' I believe he\nhad his reasons for it, upon his observing some tokens of eccentricity,\nin my course, when I was a boy,--should never once endeavour to account\nfor them in this way: for all the Shandy Family were of an original\ncharacter throughout:--I mean the males,--the females had no character\nat all,--except, indeed, my great aunt Dinah, who, about sixty years\nago, was married and got with child by the coachman, for which my\nfather, according to his hypothesis of christian names, would often say,\nShe might thank her godfathers and godmothers.\n\nIt will seem strange,--and I would as soon think of dropping a riddle\nin the reader's way, which is not my interest to do, as set him upon\nguessing how it could come to pass, that an event of this kind, so many\nyears after it had happened, should be reserved for the interruption of\nthe peace and unity, which otherwise so cordially subsisted, between my\nfather and my uncle Toby. One would have thought, that the whole force\nof the misfortune should have spent and wasted itself in the family at\nfirst,--as is generally the case.--But nothing ever wrought with our\nfamily after the ordinary way. Possibly at the very time this happened,\nit might have something else to afflict it; and as afflictions are sent\ndown for our good, and that as this had never done the Shandy Family\nany good at all, it might lie waiting till apt times and circumstances\nshould give it an opportunity to discharge its office.--Observe,\nI determine nothing upon this.--My way is ever to point out to the\ncurious, different tracts of investigation, to come at the first springs\nof the events I tell;--not with a pedantic Fescue,--or in the decisive\nmanner or Tacitus, who outwits himself and his reader;--but with the\nofficious humility of a heart devoted to the assistance merely of the\ninquisitive;--to them I write,--and by them I shall be read,--if any\nsuch reading as this could be supposed to hold out so long,--to the very\nend of the world.\n\nWhy this cause of sorrow, therefore, was thus reserved for my father and\nuncle, is undetermined by me. But how and in what direction it exerted\nitself so as to become the cause of dissatisfaction between them, after\nit began to operate, is what I am able to explain with great exactness,\nand is as follows:\n\nMy uncle Toby Shandy, Madam, was a gentleman, who, with the virtues\nwhich usually constitute the character of a man of honour and\nrectitude,--possessed one in a very eminent degree, which is seldom\nor never put into the catalogue; and that was a most extreme and\nunparallel'd modesty of nature;--though I correct the word nature, for\nthis reason, that I may not prejudge a point which must shortly come\nto a hearing, and that is, Whether this modesty of his was natural or\nacquir'd.--Whichever way my uncle Toby came by it, 'twas nevertheless\nmodesty in the truest sense of it; and that is, Madam, not in regard to\nwords, for he was so unhappy as to have very little choice in them,--but\nto things;--and this kind of modesty so possessed him, and it arose to\nsuch a height in him, as almost to equal, if such a thing could be,\neven the modesty of a woman: That female nicety, Madam, and inward\ncleanliness of mind and fancy, in your sex, which makes you so much the\nawe of ours.\n\nYou will imagine, Madam, that my uncle Toby had contracted all this\nfrom this very source;--that he had spent a great part of his time in\nconverse with your sex, and that from a thorough knowledge of you, and\nthe force of imitation which such fair examples render irresistible, he\nhad acquired this amiable turn of mind.\n\nI wish I could say so,--for unless it was with his sister-in-law, my\nfather's wife and my mother--my uncle Toby scarce exchanged three words\nwith the sex in as many years;--no, he got it, Madam, by a blow.--A\nblow!--Yes, Madam, it was owing to a blow from a stone, broke off by a\nball from the parapet of a horn-work at the siege of Namur, which struck\nfull upon my uncle Toby's groin.--Which way could that effect it? The\nstory of that, Madam, is long and interesting;--but it would be running\nmy history all upon heaps to give it you here.--'Tis for an episode\nhereafter; and every circumstance relating to it, in its proper place,\nshall be faithfully laid before you:--'Till then, it is not in my power\nto give farther light into this matter, or say more than what I have\nsaid already,--That my uncle Toby was a gentleman of unparallel'd\nmodesty, which happening to be somewhat subtilized and rarified by the\nconstant heat of a little family pride,--they both so wrought together\nwithin him, that he could never bear to hear the affair of my aunt Dinah\ntouch'd upon, but with the greatest emotion.--The least hint of it was\nenough to make the blood fly into his face;--but when my father enlarged\nupon the story in mixed companies, which the illustration of his\nhypothesis frequently obliged him to do,--the unfortunate blight of one\nof the fairest branches of the family, would set my uncle Toby's honour\nand modesty o'bleeding; and he would often take my father aside, in the\ngreatest concern imaginable, to expostulate and tell him, he would give\nhim any thing in the world, only to let the story rest.\n\nMy father, I believe, had the truest love and tenderness for my uncle\nToby, that ever one brother bore towards another, and would have done\nany thing in nature, which one brother in reason could have desir'd of\nanother, to have made my uncle Toby's heart easy in this, or any other\npoint. But this lay out of his power.\n\n--My father, as I told you was a philosopher in\ngrain,--speculative,--systematical;--and my aunt Dinah's affair was\na matter of as much consequence to him, as the retrogradation of the\nplanets to Copernicus:--The backslidings of Venus in her orbit fortified\nthe Copernican system, called so after his name; and the backslidings\nof my aunt Dinah in her orbit, did the same service in establishing my\nfather's system, which, I trust, will for ever hereafter be called the\nShandean System, after his.\n\nIn any other family dishonour, my father, I believe, had as nice a\nsense of shame as any man whatever;--and neither he, nor, I dare say,\nCopernicus, would have divulged the affair in either case, or have taken\nthe least notice of it to the world, but for the obligations they\nowed, as they thought, to truth.--Amicus Plato, my father would say,\nconstruing the words to my uncle Toby, as he went along, Amicus Plato;\nthat is, Dinah was my aunt;--sed magis amica veritas--but Truth is my\nsister.\n\nThis contrariety of humours betwixt my father and my uncle, was the\nsource of many a fraternal squabble. The one could not bear to hear the\ntale of family disgrace recorded,--and the other would scarce ever let a\nday pass to an end without some hint at it.\n\nFor God's sake, my uncle Toby would cry,--and for my sake, and for all\nour sakes, my dear brother Shandy,--do let this story of our aunt's\nand her ashes sleep in peace;--how can you,--how can you have so little\nfeeling and compassion for the character of our family?--What is the\ncharacter of a family to an hypothesis? my father would reply.--Nay,\nif you come to that--what is the life of a family?--The life of a\nfamily!--my uncle Toby would say, throwing himself back in his arm\nchair, and lifting up his hands, his eyes, and one leg--Yes, the\nlife,--my father would say, maintaining his point. How many thousands\nof 'em are there every year that come cast away, (in all civilized\ncountries at least)--and considered as nothing but common air, in\ncompetition of an hypothesis. In my plain sense of things, my uncle Toby\nwould answer,--every such instance is downright Murder, let who will\ncommit it.--There lies your mistake, my father would reply;--for, in\nForo Scientiae there is no such thing as Murder,--'tis only Death,\nbrother.\n\nMy uncle Toby would never offer to answer this by any other kind of\nargument, than that of whistling half a dozen bars of Lillebullero.--You\nmust know it was the usual channel thro' which his passions got vent,\nwhen any thing shocked or surprized him:--but especially when any thing,\nwhich he deem'd very absurd, was offered.\n\nAs not one of our logical writers, nor any of the commentators upon\nthem, that I remember, have thought proper to give a name to this\nparticular species of argument.--I here take the liberty to do it\nmyself, for two reasons. First, That, in order to prevent all confusion\nin disputes, it may stand as much distinguished for ever, from every\nother species of argument--as the Argumentum ad Verecundiam, ex Absurdo,\nex Fortiori, or any other argument whatsoever:--And, secondly, That\nit may be said by my children's children, when my head is laid to\nrest,--that their learn'd grandfather's head had been busied to as\nmuch purpose once, as other people's;--That he had invented a name, and\ngenerously thrown it into the Treasury of the Ars Logica, for one of\nthe most unanswerable arguments in the whole science. And, if the end\nof disputation is more to silence than convince,--they may add, if they\nplease, to one of the best arguments too.\n\nI do, therefore, by these presents, strictly order and command, That\nit be known and distinguished by the name and title of the Argumentum\nFistulatorium, and no other;--and that it rank hereafter with the\nArgumentum Baculinum and the Argumentum ad Crumenam, and for ever\nhereafter be treated of in the same chapter.\n\nAs for the Argumentum Tripodium, which is never used but by the woman\nagainst the man;--and the Argumentum ad Rem, which, contrarywise, is\nmade use of by the man only against the woman;--As these two are enough\nin conscience for one lecture;--and, moreover, as the one is the best\nanswer to the other,--let them likewise be kept apart, and be treated of\nin a place by themselves.\n\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XXII.\n\nThe learned Bishop Hall, I mean the famous Dr. Joseph Hall, who was\nBishop of Exeter in King James the First's reign, tells us in one of\nDecads, at the end of his divine art of meditation, imprinted at London,\nin the year 1610, by John Beal, dwelling in Aldersgate-street, 'That\nit is an abominable thing for a man to commend himself;'--and I really\nthink it is so.\n\nAnd yet, on the other hand, when a thing is executed in a masterly kind\nof a fashion, which thing is not likely to be found out;--I think it is\nfull as abominable, that a man should lose the honour of it, and go out\nof the world with the conceit of it rotting in his head.\n\nThis is precisely my situation.\n\n For in this long digression which I was accidentally led into, as in all\nmy digressions (one only excepted) there is a master-stroke of\ndigressive skill, the merit of which has all along, I fear, been\nover-looked by my reader,--not for want of penetration in him,--but\nbecause 'tis an excellence seldom looked for, or expected indeed, in a\ndigression;--and it is this: That tho' my digressions are all fair, as\nyou observe,--and that I fly off from what I am about, as far, and as\noften too, as any writer in Great Britain; yet I constantly take care\nto order affairs so that my main business does not stand still in my\nabsence.\n\nI was just going, for example, to have given you the great out-lines of\nmy uncle Toby's most whimsical character;--when my aunt Dinah and the\ncoachman came across us, and led us a vagary some millions of miles into\nthe very heart of the planetary system: Notwithstanding all this, you\nperceive that the drawing of my uncle Toby's character went on gently\nall the time;--not the great contours of it,--that was impossible,--but\nsome familiar strokes and faint designations of it, were here and there\ntouch'd on, as we went along, so that you are much better acquainted\nwith my uncle Toby now than you was before.\n\nBy this contrivance the machinery of my work is of a species by itself;\ntwo contrary motions are introduced into it, and reconciled, which\nwere thought to be at variance with each other. In a word, my work is\ndigressive, and it is progressive too,--and at the same time.\n\nThis, Sir, is a very different story from that of the earth's moving\nround her axis, in her diurnal rotation, with her progress in her\nelliptick orbit which brings about the year, and constitutes that\nvariety and vicissitude of seasons we enjoy;--though I own it suggested\nthe thought,--as I believe the greatest of our boasted improvements and\ndiscoveries have come from such trifling hints.\n\nDigressions, incontestably, are the sunshine;--they are the life, the\nsoul of reading!--take them out of this book, for instance,--you might\nas well take the book along with them;--one cold eternal winter would\nreign in every page of it; restore them to the writer;--he steps forth\nlike a bridegroom,--bids All-hail; brings in variety, and forbids the\nappetite to fail.\n\nAll the dexterity is in the good cookery and management of them, so as\nto be not only for the advantage of the reader, but also of the author,\nwhose distress, in this matter, is truly pitiable: For, if he begins a\ndigression,--from that moment, I observe, his whole work stands stock\nstill;--and if he goes on with his main work,--then there is an end of\nhis digression.\n\n--This is vile work.--For which reason, from the beginning of this, you\nsee, I have constructed the main work and the adventitious parts of\nit with such intersections, and have so complicated and involved the\ndigressive and progressive movements, one wheel within another, that the\nwhole machine, in general, has been kept a-going;--and, what's more, it\nshall be kept a-going these forty years, if it pleases the fountain of\nhealth to bless me so long with life and good spirits.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XXIII.\n\nI have a strong propensity in me to begin this chapter very\nnonsensically, and I will not balk my fancy.--Accordingly I set off\nthus:\n\nIf the fixture of Momus's glass in the human breast, according to the\nproposed emendation of that arch-critick, had taken place,--first, This\nfoolish consequence would certainly have followed,--That the very\nwisest and very gravest of us all, in one coin or other, must have paid\nwindow-money every day of our lives.\n\nAnd, secondly, that had the said glass been there set up, nothing more\nwould have been wanting, in order to have taken a man's character, but\nto have taken a chair and gone softly, as you would to a dioptrical\nbee-hive, and look'd in,--view'd the soul stark naked;--observed all\nher motions,--her machinations;--traced all her maggots from their first\nengendering to their crawling forth;--watched her loose in her frisks,\nher gambols, her capricios; and after some notice of her more solemn\ndeportment, consequent upon such frisks, &c.--then taken your pen and\nink and set down nothing but what you had seen, and could have sworn\nto:--But this is an advantage not to be had by the biographer in this\nplanet;--in the planet Mercury (belike) it may be so, if not better\nstill for him;--for there the intense heat of the country, which is\nproved by computators, from its vicinity to the sun, to be more than\nequal to that of red-hot iron,--must, I think, long ago have vitrified\nthe bodies of the inhabitants, (as the efficient cause) to suit them for\nthe climate (which is the final cause;) so that betwixt them both, all\nthe tenements of their souls, from top to bottom, may be nothing else,\nfor aught the soundest philosophy can shew to the contrary, but one fine\ntransparent body of clear glass (bating the umbilical knot)--so that,\ntill the inhabitants grow old and tolerably wrinkled, whereby the rays\nof light, in passing through them, become so monstrously refracted,--or\nreturn reflected from their surfaces in such transverse lines to the\neye, that a man cannot be seen through;--his soul might as well, unless\nfor mere ceremony, or the trifling advantage which the umbilical point\ngave her,--might, upon all other accounts, I say, as well play the fool\nout o'doors as in her own house.\n\nBut this, as I said above, is not the case of the inhabitants of this\nearth;--our minds shine not through the body, but are wrapt up here in\na dark covering of uncrystalized flesh and blood; so that, if we would\ncome to the specific characters of them, we must go some other way to\nwork.\n\nMany, in good truth, are the ways, which human wit has been forced to\ntake, to do this thing with exactness.\n\nSome, for instance, draw all their characters with\nwind-instruments.--Virgil takes notice of that way in the affair of\nDido and Aeneas;--but it is as fallacious as the breath of fame;--and,\nmoreover, bespeaks a narrow genius. I am not ignorant that the Italians\npretend to a mathematical exactness in their designations of one\nparticular sort of character among them, from the forte or piano of a\ncertain wind-instrument they use,--which they say is infallible.--I dare\nnot mention the name of the instrument in this place;--'tis sufficient\nwe have it amongst us,--but never think of making a drawing by it;--this\nis aenigmatical, and intended to be so, at least ad populum:--And\ntherefore, I beg, Madam, when you come here, that you read on as fast as\nyou can, and never stop to make any inquiry about it.\n\nThere are others again, who will draw a man's character from no other\nhelps in the world, but merely from his evacuations;--but this often\ngives a very incorrect outline,--unless, indeed, you take a sketch\nof his repletions too; and by correcting one drawing from the other,\ncompound one good figure out of them both.\n\nI should have no objection to this method, but that I think it must\nsmell too strong of the lamp,--and be render'd still more operose, by\nforcing you to have an eye to the rest of his Non-naturals.--Why\nthe most natural actions of a man's life should be called his\nNon-naturals,--is another question.\n\nThere are others, fourthly, who disdain every one of these\nexpedients;--not from any fertility of their own, but from the various\nways of doing it, which they have borrowed from the honourable devices\nwhich the Pentagraphic Brethren (Pentagraph, an instrument to copy\nPrints and Pictures mechanically, and in any proportion.) of the brush\nhave shewn in taking copies.--These, you must know, are your great\nhistorians.\n\nOne of these you will see drawing a full length character against the\nlight;--that's illiberal,--dishonest,--and hard upon the character of\nthe man who sits.\n\nOthers, to mend the matter, will make a drawing of you in the\nCamera;--that is most unfair of all, because, there you are sure to be\nrepresented in some of your most ridiculous attitudes.\n\nTo avoid all and every one of these errors in giving you my uncle\nToby's character, I am determined to draw it by no mechanical help\nwhatever;--nor shall my pencil be guided by any one wind-instrument\nwhich ever was blown upon, either on this, or on the other side of the\nAlps;--nor will I consider either his repletions or his discharges,--or\ntouch upon his Non-naturals; but, in a word, I will draw my uncle Toby's\ncharacter from his Hobby-Horse.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XXIV.\n\nIf I was not morally sure that the reader must be out of all patience\nfor my uncle Toby's character,--I would here previously have convinced\nhim that there is no instrument so fit to draw such a thing with, as\nthat which I have pitch'd upon.\n\nA man and his Hobby-Horse, tho' I cannot say that they act and re-act\nexactly after the same manner in which the soul and body do upon each\nother: Yet doubtless there is a communication between them of some kind;\nand my opinion rather is, that there is something in it more of the\nmanner of electrified bodies,--and that, by means of the heated parts\nof the rider, which come immediately into contact with the back of the\nHobby-Horse,--by long journies and much friction, it so happens, that\nthe body of the rider is at length fill'd as full of Hobby-Horsical\nmatter as it can hold;--so that if you are able to give but a clear\ndescription of the nature of the one, you may form a pretty exact notion\nof the genius and character of the other.\n\nNow the Hobby-Horse which my uncle Toby always rode upon, was in my\nopinion an Hobby-Horse well worth giving a description of, if it was\nonly upon the score of his great singularity;--for you might have\ntravelled from York to Dover,--from Dover to Penzance in Cornwall, and\nfrom Penzance to York back again, and not have seen such another upon\nthe road; or if you had seen such a one, whatever haste you had been in,\nyou must infallibly have stopp'd to have taken a view of him. Indeed,\nthe gait and figure of him was so strange, and so utterly unlike was he,\nfrom his head to his tail, to any one of the whole species, that it\nwas now and then made a matter of dispute,--whether he was really a\nHobby-Horse or no: But as the Philosopher would use no other argument to\nthe Sceptic, who disputed with him against the reality of motion, save\nthat of rising up upon his legs, and walking across the room;--so would\nmy uncle Toby use no other argument to prove his Hobby-Horse was\na Hobby-Horse indeed, but by getting upon his back and riding him\nabout;--leaving the world, after that, to determine the point as it\nthought fit.\n\nIn good truth, my uncle Toby mounted him with so much pleasure, and he\ncarried my uncle Toby so well,--that he troubled his head very little\nwith what the world either said or thought about it.\n\nIt is now high time, however, that I give you a description of him:--But\nto go on regularly, I only beg you will give me leave to acquaint you\nfirst, how my uncle Toby came by him.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XXV.\n\nThe wound in my uncle Toby's groin, which he received at the siege of\nNamur, rendering him unfit for the service, it was thought expedient he\nshould return to England, in order, if possible, to be set to rights.\n\nHe was four years totally confined,--part of it to his bed, and all of\nit to his room: and in the course of his cure, which was all that\ntime in hand, suffer'd unspeakable miseries,--owing to a succession of\nexfoliations from the os pubis, and the outward edge of that part of the\ncoxendix called the os illium,--both which bones were dismally crush'd,\nas much by the irregularity of the stone, which I told you was broke off\nthe parapet,--as by its size,--(tho' it was pretty large) which inclined\nthe surgeon all along to think, that the great injury which it had\ndone my uncle Toby's groin, was more owing to the gravity of the stone\nitself, than to the projectile force of it,--which he would often tell\nhim was a great happiness.\n\nMy father at that time was just beginning business in London, and had\ntaken a house;--and as the truest friendship and cordiality subsisted\nbetween the two brothers,--and that my father thought my uncle Toby\ncould no where be so well nursed and taken care of as in his own\nhouse,--he assign'd him the very best apartment in it.--And what was a\nmuch more sincere mark of his affection still, he would never suffer a\nfriend or an acquaintance to step into the house on any occasion, but\nhe would take him by the hand, and lead him up stairs to see his brother\nToby, and chat an hour by his bed-side.\n\nThe history of a soldier's wound beguiles the pain of it;--my uncle's\nvisitors at least thought so, and in their daily calls upon him, from\nthe courtesy arising out of that belief, they would frequently turn the\ndiscourse to that subject,--and from that subject the discourse would\ngenerally roll on to the siege itself.\n\nThese conversations were infinitely kind; and my uncle Toby received\ngreat relief from them, and would have received much more, but that they\nbrought him into some unforeseen perplexities, which, for three months\ntogether, retarded his cure greatly; and if he had not hit upon an\nexpedient to extricate himself out of them, I verily believe they would\nhave laid him in his grave.\n\nWhat these perplexities of my uncle Toby were,--'tis impossible for you\nto guess;--if you could,--I should blush; not as a relation,--not as a\nman,--nor even as a woman,--but I should blush as an author; inasmuch\nas I set no small store by myself upon this very account, that my reader\nhas never yet been able to guess at any thing. And in this, Sir, I am\nof so nice and singular a humour, that if I thought you was able to form\nthe least judgment or probable conjecture to yourself, of what was to\ncome in the next page,--I would tear it out of my book.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XXVI.\n\nI have begun a new book, on purpose that I might have room enough\nto explain the nature of the perplexities in which my uncle Toby was\ninvolved, from the many discourses and interrogations about the siege of\nNamur, where he received his wound.\n\nI must remind the reader, in case he has read the history of King\nWilliam's wars,--but if he has not,--I then inform him, that one of the\nmost memorable attacks in that siege, was that which was made by the\nEnglish and Dutch upon the point of the advanced counterscarp, between\nthe gate of St. Nicolas, which inclosed the great sluice or water-stop,\nwhere the English were terribly exposed to the shot of the counter-guard\nand demi-bastion of St. Roch: The issue of which hot dispute, in\nthree words, was this; That the Dutch lodged themselves upon the\ncounter-guard,--and that the English made themselves masters of the\ncovered-way before St. Nicolas-gate, notwithstanding the gallantry of\nthe French officers, who exposed themselves upon the glacis sword in\nhand.\n\nAs this was the principal attack of which my uncle Toby was an\neye-witness at Namur,--the army of the besiegers being cut off, by the\nconfluence of the Maes and Sambre, from seeing much of each other's\noperations,--my uncle Toby was generally more eloquent and particular in\nhis account of it; and the many perplexities he was in, arose out of\nthe almost insurmountable difficulties he found in telling his story\nintelligibly, and giving such clear ideas of the differences and\ndistinctions between the scarp and counterscarp,--the glacis and\ncovered-way,--the half-moon and ravelin,--as to make his company fully\ncomprehend where and what he was about.\n\nWriters themselves are too apt to confound these terms; so that you will\nthe less wonder, if in his endeavours to explain them, and in opposition\nto many misconceptions, that my uncle Toby did oft-times puzzle his\nvisitors, and sometimes himself too.\n\nTo speak the truth, unless the company my father led up stairs were\ntolerably clear-headed, or my uncle Toby was in one of his explanatory\nmoods, 'twas a difficult thing, do what he could, to keep the discourse\nfree from obscurity.\n\nWhat rendered the account of this affair the more intricate to my uncle\nToby, was this,--that in the attack of the counterscarp, before the gate\nof St. Nicolas, extending itself from the bank of the Maes, quite up\nto the great water-stop,--the ground was cut and cross cut with such a\nmultitude of dykes, drains, rivulets, and sluices, on all sides,--and\nhe would get so sadly bewildered, and set fast amongst them, that\nfrequently he could neither get backwards or forwards to save his life;\nand was oft-times obliged to give up the attack upon that very account\nonly.\n\nThese perplexing rebuffs gave my uncle Toby Shandy more perturbations\nthan you would imagine; and as my father's kindness to him was\ncontinually dragging up fresh friends and fresh enquirers,--he had but a\nvery uneasy task of it.\n\nNo doubt my uncle Toby had great command of himself,--and could guard\nappearances, I believe, as well as most men;--yet any one may imagine,\nthat when he could not retreat out of the ravelin without getting into\nthe half-moon, or get out of the covered-way without falling down the\ncounterscarp, nor cross the dyke without danger of slipping into\nthe ditch, but that he must have fretted and fumed inwardly:--He did\nso;--and the little and hourly vexations, which may seem trifling and\nof no account to the man who has not read Hippocrates, yet, whoever has\nread Hippocrates, or Dr. James Mackenzie, and has considered well the\neffects which the passions and affections of the mind have upon the\ndigestion--(Why not of a wound as well as of a dinner?)--may easily\nconceive what sharp paroxysms and exacerbations of his wound my uncle\nToby must have undergone upon that score only.\n\n--My uncle Toby could not philosophize upon it;--'twas enough he felt\nit was so,--and having sustained the pain and sorrows of it for three\nmonths together, he was resolved some way or other to extricate himself.\n\nHe was one morning lying upon his back in his bed, the anguish and\nnature of the wound upon his groin suffering him to lie in no other\nposition, when a thought came into his head, that if he could purchase\nsuch a thing, and have it pasted down upon a board, as a large map of\nthe fortification of the town and citadel of Namur, with its environs,\nit might be a means of giving him ease.--I take notice of his desire\nto have the environs along with the town and citadel, for this\nreason,--because my uncle Toby's wound was got in one of the traverses,\nabout thirty toises from the returning angle of the trench, opposite\nto the salient angle of the demi-bastion of St. Roch:--so that he was\npretty confident he could stick a pin upon the identical spot of ground\nwhere he was standing on when the stone struck him.\n\nAll this succeeded to his wishes, and not only freed him from a world\nof sad explanations, but, in the end, it proved the happy means, as you\nwill read, of procuring my uncle Toby his Hobby-Horse.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XXVII.\n\nThere is nothing so foolish, when you are at the expence of making an\nentertainment of this kind, as to order things so badly, as to let your\ncriticks and gentry of refined taste run it down: Nor is there any thing\nso likely to make them do it, as that of leaving them out of the party,\nor, what is full as offensive, of bestowing your attention upon the rest\nof your guests in so particular a way, as if there was no such thing as\na critick (by occupation) at table.\n\n--I guard against both; for, in the first place, I have left half a\ndozen places purposely open for them;--and in the next place, I pay them\nall court.--Gentlemen, I kiss your hands, I protest no company could\ngive me half the pleasure,--by my soul I am glad to see you--I beg\nonly you will make no strangers of yourselves, but sit down without any\nceremony, and fall on heartily.\n\nI said I had left six places, and I was upon the point of carrying my\ncomplaisance so far, as to have left a seventh open for them,--and in\nthis very spot I stand on; but being told by a Critick (tho' not by\noccupation,--but by nature) that I had acquitted myself well enough,\nI shall fill it up directly, hoping, in the mean time, that I shall be\nable to make a great deal of more room next year.\n\n--How, in the name of wonder! could your uncle Toby, who, it seems, was\na military man, and whom you have represented as no fool,--be at the\nsame time such a confused, pudding-headed, muddle-headed, fellow, as--Go\nlook.\n\nSo, Sir Critick, I could have replied; but I scorn it.--'Tis language\nunurbane,--and only befitting the man who cannot give clear and\nsatisfactory accounts of things, or dive deep enough into the first\ncauses of human ignorance and confusion. It is moreover the reply\nvaliant--and therefore I reject it; for tho' it might have suited my\nuncle Toby's character as a soldier excellently well,--and had he not\naccustomed himself, in such attacks, to whistle the Lillabullero, as\nhe wanted no courage, 'tis the very answer he would have given; yet it\nwould by no means have done for me. You see as plain as can be, that I\nwrite as a man of erudition;--that even my similies, my allusions, my\nillustrations, my metaphors, are erudite,--and that I must sustain\nmy character properly, and contrast it properly too,--else what would\nbecome of me? Why, Sir, I should be undone;--at this very moment that\nI am going here to fill up one place against a critick,--I should have\nmade an opening for a couple.\n\n--Therefore I answer thus:\n\nPray, Sir, in all the reading which you have ever read, did you ever\nread such a book as Locke's Essay upon the Human Understanding?--Don't\nanswer me rashly--because many, I know, quote the book, who have not\nread it--and many have read it who understand it not:--If either of\nthese is your case, as I write to instruct, I will tell you in three\nwords what the book is.--It is a history.--A history! of who? what?\nwhere? when? Don't hurry yourself--It is a history-book, Sir, (which may\npossibly recommend it to the world) of what passes in a man's own mind;\nand if you will say so much of the book, and no more, believe me, you\nwill cut no contemptible figure in a metaphysick circle.\n\nBut this by the way.\n\nNow if you will venture to go along with me, and look down into the\nbottom of this matter, it will be found that the cause of obscurity and\nconfusion, in the mind of a man, is threefold.\n\nDull organs, dear Sir, in the first place. Secondly, slight and\ntransient impressions made by the objects, when the said organs are not\ndull. And thirdly, a memory like unto a sieve, not able to retain what\nit has received.--Call down Dolly your chamber-maid, and I will give you\nmy cap and bell along with it, if I make not this matter so plain that\nDolly herself should understand it as well as Malbranch.--When Dolly has\nindited her epistle to Robin, and has thrust her arm into the bottom\nof her pocket hanging by her right side;--take that opportunity to\nrecollect that the organs and faculties of perception can, by nothing\nin this world, be so aptly typified and explained as by that one thing\nwhich Dolly's hand is in search of.--Your organs are not so dull that I\nshould inform you--'tis an inch, Sir, of red seal-wax.\n\nWhen this is melted and dropped upon the letter, if Dolly fumbles too\nlong for her thimble, till the wax is over hardened, it will not receive\nthe mark of her thimble from the usual impulse which was wont to imprint\nit. Very well. If Dolly's wax, for want of better, is bees-wax, or of a\ntemper too soft,--tho' it may receive,--it will not hold the impression,\nhow hard soever Dolly thrusts against it; and last of all, supposing the\nwax good, and eke the thimble, but applied thereto in careless haste, as\nher Mistress rings the bell;--in any one of these three cases the print\nleft by the thimble will be as unlike the prototype as a brass-jack.\n\nNow you must understand that not one of these was the true cause of the\nconfusion in my uncle Toby's discourse; and it is for that very reason\nI enlarge upon them so long, after the manner of great physiologists--to\nshew the world, what it did not arise from.\n\nWhat it did arise from, I have hinted above, and a fertile source of\nobscurity it is,--and ever will be,--and that is the unsteady uses\nof words, which have perplexed the clearest and most exalted\nunderstandings.\n\nIt is ten to one (at Arthur's) whether you have ever read the literary\nhistories of past ages;--if you have, what terrible battles, 'yclept\nlogomachies, have they occasioned and perpetuated with so much gall\nand ink-shed,--that a good-natured man cannot read the accounts of them\nwithout tears in his eyes.\n\nGentle critick! when thou hast weighed all this, and considered within\nthyself how much of thy own knowledge, discourse, and conversation has\nbeen pestered and disordered, at one time or other, by this, and this\nonly:--What a pudder and racket in Councils about (Greek); and in the\nSchools of the learned about power and about spirit;--about essences,\nand about quintessences;--about substances, and about space.--What\nconfusion in greater Theatres from words of little meaning, and as\nindeterminate a sense! when thou considerest this, thou wilt not wonder\nat my uncle Toby's perplexities,--thou wilt drop a tear of pity upon\nhis scarp and his counterscarp;--his glacis and his covered way;--his\nravelin and his half-moon: 'Twas not by ideas,--by Heaven; his life was\nput in jeopardy by words.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XXVIII.\n\nWhen my uncle Toby got his map of Namur to his mind, he began\nimmediately to apply himself, and with the utmost diligence, to the\nstudy of it; for nothing being of more importance to him than his\nrecovery, and his recovery depending, as you have read, upon the\npassions and affections of his mind, it behoved him to take the nicest\ncare to make himself so far master of his subject, as to be able to talk\nupon it without emotion.\n\nIn a fortnight's close and painful application, which, by the bye, did\nmy uncle Toby's wound, upon his groin, no good,--he was enabled, by the\nhelp of some marginal documents at the feet of the elephant, together\nwith Gobesius's military architecture and pyroballogy, translated from\nthe Flemish, to form his discourse with passable perspicuity; and before\nhe was two full months gone,--he was right eloquent upon it, and\ncould make not only the attack of the advanced counterscarp with great\norder;--but having, by that time, gone much deeper into the art, than\nwhat his first motive made necessary, my uncle Toby was able to cross\nthe Maes and Sambre; make diversions as far as Vauban's line, the abbey\nof Salsines, &c. and give his visitors as distinct a history of each of\ntheir attacks, as of that of the gate of St. Nicolas, where he had the\nhonour to receive his wound.\n\nBut desire of knowledge, like the thirst of riches, increases ever with\nthe acquisition of it. The more my uncle Toby pored over his map,\nthe more he took a liking to it!--by the same process and electrical\nassimilation, as I told you, through which I ween the souls of\nconnoisseurs themselves, by long friction and incumbition, have the\nhappiness, at length, to get all be-virtu'd--be-pictured,--be-\nbutterflied, and be-fiddled.\n\nThe more my uncle Toby drank of this sweet fountain of science, the\ngreater was the heat and impatience of his thirst, so that before the\nfirst year of his confinement had well gone round, there was scarce a\nfortified town in Italy or Flanders, of which, by one means or other,\nhe had not procured a plan, reading over as he got them, and carefully\ncollating therewith the histories of their sieges, their demolitions,\ntheir improvements, and new works, all which he would read with that\nintense application and delight, that he would forget himself, his\nwound, his confinement, his dinner.\n\nIn the second year my uncle Toby purchased Ramelli and Cataneo,\ntranslated from the Italian;--likewise Stevinus, Moralis, the Chevalier\nde Ville, Lorini, Cochorn, Sheeter, the Count de Pagan, the Marshal\nVauban, Mons. Blondel, with almost as many more books of military\narchitecture, as Don Quixote was found to have of chivalry, when the\ncurate and barber invaded his library.\n\nTowards the beginning of the third year, which was in August,\nninety-nine, my uncle Toby found it necessary to understand a little of\nprojectiles:--and having judged it best to draw his knowledge from the\nfountain-head, he began with N. Tartaglia, who it seems was the first\nman who detected the imposition of a cannon-ball's doing all that\nmischief under the notion of a right line--This N. Tartaglia proved to\nmy uncle Toby to be an impossible thing.\n\n--Endless is the search of Truth.\n\nNo sooner was my uncle Toby satisfied which road the cannon-ball did not\ngo, but he was insensibly led on, and resolved in his mind to enquire\nand find out which road the ball did go: For which purpose he was\nobliged to set off afresh with old Maltus, and studied him devoutly.--He\nproceeded next to Galileo and Torricellius, wherein, by certain\nGeometrical rules, infallibly laid down, he found the precise path to\nbe a Parabola--or else an Hyperbola,--and that the parameter, or latus\nrectum, of the conic section of the said path, was to the quantity and\namplitude in a direct ratio, as the whole line to the sine of double the\nangle of incidence, formed by the breech upon an horizontal plane;--and\nthat the semiparameter,--stop! my dear uncle Toby--stop!--go not one\nfoot farther into this thorny and bewildered track,--intricate are the\nsteps! intricate are the mazes of this labyrinth! intricate are the\ntroubles which the pursuit of this bewitching phantom Knowledge\nwill bring upon thee.--O my uncle;--fly--fly,--fly from it as from a\nserpent.--Is it fit--goodnatured man! thou should'st sit up, with\nthe wound upon thy groin, whole nights baking thy blood with\nhectic watchings?--Alas! 'twill exasperate thy symptoms,--check thy\nperspirations--evaporate thy spirits--waste thy animal strength, dry up\nthy radical moisture, bring thee into a costive habit of body,--impair\nthy health,--and hasten all the infirmities of thy old age.--O my uncle!\nmy uncle Toby.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XXIX.\n\nI would not give a groat for that man's knowledge in pen-craft, who does\nnot understand this,--That the best plain narrative in the world, tacked\nvery close to the last spirited apostrophe to my uncle Toby--would\nhave felt both cold and vapid upon the reader's palate;--therefore I\nforthwith put an end to the chapter, though I was in the middle of my\nstory.\n\n--Writers of my stamp have one principle in common with painters. Where\nan exact copying makes our pictures less striking, we choose the less\nevil; deeming it even more pardonable to trespass against truth, than\nbeauty. This is to be understood cum grano salis; but be it as it\nwill,--as the parallel is made more for the sake of letting the\napostrophe cool, than any thing else,--'tis not very material whether\nupon any other score the reader approves of it or not.\n\nIn the latter end of the third year, my uncle Toby perceiving that the\nparameter and semi-parameter of the conic section angered his wound,\nhe left off the study of projectiles in a kind of a huff, and betook\nhimself to the practical part of fortification only; the pleasure of\nwhich, like a spring held back, returned upon him with redoubled force.\n\nIt was in this year that my uncle began to break in upon the daily\nregularity of a clean shirt,--to dismiss his barber unshaven,--and to\nallow his surgeon scarce time sufficient to dress his wound, concerning\nhimself so little about it, as not to ask him once in seven times\ndressing, how it went on: when, lo!--all of a sudden, for the change\nwas quick as lightning, he began to sigh heavily for his\nrecovery,--complained to my father, grew impatient with the\nsurgeon:--and one morning, as he heard his foot coming up stairs,\nhe shut up his books, and thrust aside his instruments, in order to\nexpostulate with him upon the protraction of the cure, which, he told\nhim, might surely have been accomplished at least by that time:--He\ndwelt long upon the miseries he had undergone, and the sorrows of his\nfour years melancholy imprisonment;--adding, that had it not been for\nthe kind looks and fraternal chearings of the best of brothers,--he\nhad long since sunk under his misfortunes.--My father was by. My uncle\nToby's eloquence brought tears into his eyes;--'twas unexpected:--My\nuncle Toby, by nature was not eloquent;--it had the greater effect:--The\nsurgeon was confounded;--not that there wanted grounds for such, or\ngreater marks of impatience,--but 'twas unexpected too; in the four\nyears he had attended him, he had never seen any thing like it in\nmy uncle Toby's carriage; he had never once dropped one fretful or\ndiscontented word;--he had been all patience,--all submission.\n\n--We lose the right of complaining sometimes by forbearing it;--but we\noften treble the force:--The surgeon was astonished; but much more so,\nwhen he heard my uncle Toby go on, and peremptorily insist upon his\nhealing up the wound directly,--or sending for Monsieur Ronjat, the\nking's serjeant-surgeon, to do it for him.\n\nThe desire of life and health is implanted in man's nature;--the love of\nliberty and enlargement is a sister-passion to it: These my uncle Toby\nhad in common with his species--and either of them had been sufficient\nto account for his earnest desire to get well and out of doors;--but\nI have told you before, that nothing wrought with our family after the\ncommon way;--and from the time and manner in which this eager desire\nshewed itself in the present case, the penetrating reader will suspect\nthere was some other cause or crotchet for it in my uncle Toby's\nhead:--There was so, and 'tis the subject of the next chapter to set\nforth what that cause and crotchet was. I own, when that's done, 'twill\nbe time to return back to the parlour fire-side, where we left my uncle\nToby in the middle of his sentence.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XXX.\n\nWhen a man gives himself up to the government of a ruling passion,--or,\nin other words, when his Hobby-Horse grows headstrong,--farewell cool\nreason and fair discretion!\n\nMy uncle Toby's wound was near well, and as soon as the surgeon\nrecovered his surprize, and could get leave to say as much--he told\nhim, 'twas just beginning to incarnate; and that if no fresh exfoliation\nhappened, which there was no sign of,--it would be dried up in five or\nsix weeks. The sound of as many Olympiads, twelve hours before, would\nhave conveyed an idea of shorter duration to my uncle Toby's mind.--The\nsuccession of his ideas was now rapid,--he broiled with impatience to\nput his design in execution;--and so, without consulting farther with\nany soul living,--which, by the bye, I think is right, when you are\npredetermined to take no one soul's advice,--he privately ordered\nTrim, his man, to pack up a bundle of lint and dressings, and hire a\nchariot-and-four to be at the door exactly by twelve o'clock that day,\nwhen he knew my father would be upon 'Change.--So leaving a bank-note\nupon the table for the surgeon's care of him, and a letter of\ntender thanks for his brother's--he packed up his maps, his books of\nfortification, his instruments, &c. and by the help of a crutch on one\nside, and Trim on the other,--my uncle Toby embarked for Shandy-Hall.\n\nThe reason, or rather the rise of this sudden demigration was as\nfollows:\n\nThe table in my uncle Toby's room, and at which, the night before this\nchange happened, he was sitting with his maps, &c. about him--being\nsomewhat of the smallest, for that infinity of great and small\ninstruments of knowledge which usually lay crowded upon it--he had\nthe accident, in reaching over for his tobacco-box, to throw down his\ncompasses, and in stooping to take the compasses up, with his sleeve he\nthrew down his case of instruments and snuffers;--and as the dice took\na run against him, in his endeavouring to catch the snuffers in\nfalling,--he thrust Monsieur Blondel off the table, and Count de Pagon\no'top of him.\n\n'Twas to no purpose for a man, lame as my uncle Toby was, to think\nof redressing these evils by himself,--he rung his bell for his man\nTrim;--Trim, quoth my uncle Toby, prithee see what confusion I have here\nbeen making--I must have some better contrivance, Trim.--Can'st not thou\ntake my rule, and measure the length and breadth of this table, and\nthen go and bespeak me one as big again?--Yes, an' please your Honour,\nreplied Trim, making a bow; but I hope your Honour will be soon well\nenough to get down to your country-seat, where,--as your Honour takes so\nmuch pleasure in fortification, we could manage this matter to a T.\n\nI must here inform you, that this servant of my uncle Toby's, who went\nby the name of Trim, had been a corporal in my uncle's own company,--his\nreal name was James Butler,--but having got the nick-name of Trim, in\nthe regiment, my uncle Toby, unless when he happened to be very angry\nwith him, would never call him by any other name.\n\nThe poor fellow had been disabled for the service, by a wound on his\nleft knee by a musket-bullet, at the battle of Landen, which was two\nyears before the affair of Namur;--and as the fellow was well-beloved\nin the regiment, and a handy fellow into the bargain, my uncle Toby took\nhim for his servant; and of an excellent use was he, attending my uncle\nToby in the camp and in his quarters as a valet, groom, barber, cook,\nsempster, and nurse; and indeed, from first to last, waited upon him and\nserved him with great fidelity and affection.\n\nMy uncle Toby loved the man in return, and what attached him more to him\nstill, was the similitude of their knowledge.--For Corporal Trim, (for\nso, for the future, I shall call him) by four years occasional attention\nto his Master's discourse upon fortified towns, and the advantage of\nprying and peeping continually into his Master's plans, &c. exclusive\nand besides what he gained Hobby-Horsically, as a body-servant, Non\nHobby Horsical per se;--had become no mean proficient in the science;\nand was thought, by the cook and chamber-maid, to know as much of the\nnature of strong-holds as my uncle Toby himself.\n\nI have but one more stroke to give to finish Corporal Trim's\ncharacter,--and it is the only dark line in it.--The fellow loved to\nadvise,--or rather to hear himself talk; his carriage, however, was so\nperfectly respectful, 'twas easy to keep him silent when you had him\nso; but set his tongue a-going,--you had no hold of him--he was\nvoluble;--the eternal interlardings of your Honour, with the\nrespectfulness of Corporal Trim's manner, interceding so strong\nin behalf of his elocution,--that though you might have been\nincommoded,--you could not well be angry. My uncle Toby was seldom\neither the one or the other with him,--or, at least, this fault, in\nTrim, broke no squares with them. My uncle Toby, as I said, loved the\nman;--and besides, as he ever looked upon a faithful servant,--but as an\nhumble friend,--he could not bear to stop his mouth.--Such was Corporal\nTrim.\n\nIf I durst presume, continued Trim, to give your Honour my advice, and\nspeak my opinion in this matter.--Thou art welcome, Trim, quoth my uncle\nToby--speak,--speak what thou thinkest upon the subject, man, without\nfear.--Why then, replied Trim, (not hanging his ears and scratching his\nhead like a country-lout, but) stroking his hair back from his forehead,\nand standing erect as before his division,--I think, quoth Trim,\nadvancing his left, which was his lame leg, a little forwards,--and\npointing with his right hand open towards a map of Dunkirk, which was\npinned against the hangings,--I think, quoth Corporal Trim, with humble\nsubmission to your Honour's better judgment,--that these ravelins,\nbastions, curtins, and hornworks, make but a poor, contemptible,\nfiddle-faddle piece of work of it here upon paper, compared to what your\nHonour and I could make of it were we in the country by ourselves, and\nhad but a rood, or a rood and a half of ground to do what we pleased\nwith: As summer is coming on, continued Trim, your Honour might sit\nout of doors, and give me the nography--(Call it ichnography, quoth my\nuncle,)--of the town or citadel, your Honour was pleased to sit down\nbefore,--and I will be shot by your Honour upon the glacis of it, if\nI did not fortify it to your Honour's mind.--I dare say thou would'st,\nTrim, quoth my uncle.--For if your Honour, continued the Corporal, could\nbut mark me the polygon, with its exact lines and angles--That I could\ndo very well, quoth my uncle.--I would begin with the fosse, and if your\nHonour could tell me the proper depth and breadth--I can to a hair's\nbreadth, Trim, replied my uncle.--I would throw out the earth upon\nthis hand towards the town for the scarp,--and on that hand towards\nthe campaign for the counterscarp.--Very right, Trim, quoth my uncle\nToby:--And when I had sloped them to your mind,--an' please your Honour,\nI would face the glacis, as the finest fortifications are done in\nFlanders, with sods,--and as your Honour knows they should be,--and I\nwould make the walls and parapets with sods too.--The best engineers\ncall them gazons, Trim, said my uncle Toby.--Whether they are gazons or\nsods, is not much matter, replied Trim; your Honour knows they are ten\ntimes beyond a facing either of brick or stone.--I know they are,\nTrim in some respects,--quoth my uncle Toby, nodding his head;--for a\ncannon-ball enters into the gazon right onwards, without bringing any\nrubbish down with it, which might fill the fosse, (as was the case at\nSt. Nicolas's gate) and facilitate the passage over it.\n\nYour Honour understands these matters, replied Corporal Trim, better\nthan any officer in his Majesty's service;--but would your Honour please\nto let the bespeaking of the table alone, and let us but go into the\ncountry, I would work under your Honour's directions like a horse,\nand make fortifications for you something like a tansy, with all their\nbatteries, saps, ditches, and palisadoes, that it should be worth all\nthe world's riding twenty miles to go and see it.\n\nMy uncle Toby blushed as red as scarlet as Trim went on;--but it was not\na blush of guilt,--of modesty,--or of anger,--it was a blush of joy;--he\nwas fired with Corporal Trim's project and description.--Trim! said\nmy uncle Toby, thou hast said enough.--We might begin the campaign,\ncontinued Trim, on the very day that his Majesty and the Allies take the\nfield, and demolish them town by town as fast as--Trim, quoth my uncle\nToby, say no more. Your Honour, continued Trim, might sit in your\narm-chair (pointing to it) this fine weather, giving me your orders, and\nI would--Say no more, Trim, quoth my uncle Toby--Besides, your Honour\nwould get not only pleasure and good pastime--but good air, and good\nexercise, and good health,--and your Honour's wound would be well in a\nmonth. Thou hast said enough, Trim,--quoth my uncle Toby (putting his\nhand into his breeches-pocket)--I like thy project mightily.--And if\nyour Honour pleases, I'll this moment go and buy a pioneer's spade\nto take down with us, and I'll bespeak a shovel and a pick-axe, and a\ncouple of--Say no more, Trim, quoth my uncle Toby, leaping up upon one\nleg, quite overcome with rapture,--and thrusting a guinea into Trim's\nhand,--Trim, said my uncle Toby, say no more;--but go down, Trim, this\nmoment, my lad, and bring up my supper this instant.\n\nTrim ran down and brought up his master's supper,--to no\npurpose:--Trim's plan of operation ran so in my uncle Toby's head, he\ncould not taste it.--Trim, quoth my uncle Toby, get me to bed.--'Twas\nall one.--Corporal Trim's description had fired his imagination,--my\nuncle Toby could not shut his eyes.--The more he considered it, the more\nbewitching the scene appeared to him;--so that, two full hours before\nday-light, he had come to a final determination and had concerted the\nwhole plan of his and Corporal Trim's decampment.\n\nMy uncle Toby had a little neat country-house of his own, in the village\nwhere my father's estate lay at Shandy, which had been left him by\nan old uncle, with a small estate of about one hundred pounds a-year.\nBehind this house, and contiguous to it, was a kitchen-garden of about\nhalf an acre, and at the bottom of the garden, and cut off from it by\na tall yew hedge, was a bowling-green, containing just about as much\nground as Corporal Trim wished for;--so that as Trim uttered the\nwords, 'A rood and a half of ground to do what they would with,'--this\nidentical bowling-green instantly presented itself, and became curiously\npainted all at once, upon the retina of my uncle Toby's fancy;--which\nwas the physical cause of making him change colour, or at least of\nheightening his blush, to that immoderate degree I spoke of.\n\nNever did lover post down to a beloved mistress with more heat and\nexpectation, than my uncle Toby did, to enjoy this self-same thing in\nprivate;--I say in private;--for it was sheltered from the house, as I\ntold you, by a tall yew hedge, and was covered on the other three sides,\nfrom mortal sight, by rough holly and thick-set flowering shrubs:--so\nthat the idea of not being seen, did not a little contribute to the\nidea of pleasure pre-conceived in my uncle Toby's mind.--Vain thought!\nhowever thick it was planted about,--or private soever it might\nseem,--to think, dear uncle Toby, of enjoying a thing which took up a\nwhole rood and a half of ground,--and not have it known!\n\nHow my uncle Toby and Corporal Trim managed this matter,--with the\nhistory of their campaigns, which were no way barren of events,--may\nmake no uninteresting under-plot in the epitasis and working-up of this\ndrama.--At present the scene must drop,--and change for the parlour\nfire-side.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XXXI.\n\n--What can they be doing? brother, said my father.--I think, replied\nmy uncle Toby,--taking, as I told you, his pipe from his mouth, and\nstriking the ashes out of it as he began his sentence;--I think, replied\nhe,--it would not be amiss, brother, if we rung the bell.\n\nPray, what's all that racket over our heads, Obadiah?--quoth my\nfather;--my brother and I can scarce hear ourselves speak.\n\nSir, answered Obadiah, making a bow towards his left shoulder,--my\nMistress is taken very badly.--And where's Susannah running down the\ngarden there, as if they were going to ravish her?--Sir, she is running\nthe shortest cut into the town, replied Obadiah, to fetch the old\nmidwife.--Then saddle a horse, quoth my father, and do you go directly\nfor Dr. Slop, the man-midwife, with all our services,--and let him know\nyour mistress is fallen into labour--and that I desire he will return\nwith you with all speed.\n\nIt is very strange, says my father, addressing himself to my uncle Toby,\nas Obadiah shut the door,--as there is so expert an operator as Dr. Slop\nso near,--that my wife should persist to the very last in this obstinate\nhumour of hers, in trusting the life of my child, who has had one\nmisfortune already, to the ignorance of an old woman;--and not only the\nlife of my child, brother,--but her own life, and with it the lives of\nall the children I might, peradventure, have begot out of her hereafter.\n\nMayhap, brother, replied my uncle Toby, my sister does it to save the\nexpence:--A pudding's end,--replied my father,--the Doctor must be paid\nthe same for inaction as action,--if not better,--to keep him in temper.\n\n--Then it can be out of nothing in the whole world, quoth my uncle Toby,\nin the simplicity of his heart,--but Modesty.--My sister, I dare say,\nadded he, does not care to let a man come so near her.... I will not say\nwhether my uncle Toby had completed the sentence or not;--'tis for his\nadvantage to suppose he had,--as, I think, he could have added no One\nWord which would have improved it.\n\nIf, on the contrary, my uncle Toby had not fully arrived at the period's\nend--then the world stands indebted to the sudden snapping of my\nfather's tobacco-pipe for one of the neatest examples of that ornamental\nfigure in oratory, which Rhetoricians stile the Aposiopesis.--Just\nHeaven! how does the Poco piu and the Poco meno of the Italian\nartists;--the insensible more or less, determine the precise line of\nbeauty in the sentence, as well as in the statue! How do the slight\ntouches of the chisel, the pencil, the pen, the fiddle-stick, et\ncaetera,--give the true swell, which gives the true pleasure!--O my\ncountrymen:--be nice; be cautious of your language; and never, O! never\nlet it be forgotten upon what small particles your eloquence and your\nfame depend.\n\n--'My sister, mayhap,' quoth my uncle Toby, 'does not choose to let a\nman come so near her....' Make this dash,--'tis an Aposiopesis,--Take\nthe dash away, and write Backside,--'tis Bawdy.--Scratch Backside\nout, and put Cover'd way in, 'tis a Metaphor;--and, I dare say, as\nfortification ran so much in my uncle Toby's head, that if he had been\nleft to have added one word to the sentence,--that word was it.\n\nBut whether that was the case or not the case;--or whether the snapping\nof my father's tobacco-pipe, so critically, happened through accident or\nanger, will be seen in due time.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XXXII.\n\nTho' my father was a good natural philosopher,--yet he was something of\na moral philosopher too; for which reason, when his tobacco-pipe snapp'd\nshort in the middle,--he had nothing to do, as such, but to have taken\nhold of the two pieces, and thrown them gently upon the back of the\nfire.--He did no such thing;--he threw them with all the violence in the\nworld;--and, to give the action still more emphasis,--he started upon\nboth his legs to do it.\n\nThis looked something like heat;--and the manner of his reply to what my\nuncle Toby was saying, proved it was so.\n\n--'Not choose,' quoth my father, (repeating my uncle Toby's words) 'to\nlet a man come so near her!'--By Heaven, brother Toby! you would try the\npatience of Job;--and I think I have the plagues of one already without\nit.--Why?--Where?--Wherein?--Wherefore?--Upon what account? replied my\nuncle Toby: in the utmost astonishment.--To think, said my father, of a\nman living to your age, brother, and knowing so little about women!--I\nknow nothing at all about them,--replied my uncle Toby: And I think,\ncontinued he, that the shock I received the year after the demolition of\nDunkirk, in my affair with widow Wadman;--which shock you know I should\nnot have received, but from my total ignorance of the sex,--has given me\njust cause to say, That I neither know nor do pretend to know any thing\nabout 'em or their concerns either.--Methinks, brother, replied my\nfather, you might, at least, know so much as the right end of a woman\nfrom the wrong.\n\nIt is said in Aristotle's Master Piece, 'That when a man doth think of\nany thing which is past,--he looketh down upon the ground;--but that\nwhen he thinketh of something that is to come, he looketh up towards the\nheavens.'\n\nMy uncle Toby, I suppose, thought of neither, for he look'd\nhorizontally.--Right end! quoth my uncle Toby, muttering the two words\nlow to himself, and fixing his two eyes insensibly as he muttered them,\nupon a small crevice, formed by a bad joint in the chimney-piece--Right\nend of a woman!--I declare, quoth my uncle, I know no more which it is\nthan the man in the moon;--and if I was to think, continued my uncle\nToby (keeping his eyes still fixed upon the bad joint) this month\ntogether, I am sure I should not be able to find it out.\n\nThen, brother Toby, replied my father, I will tell you.\n\nEvery thing in this world, continued my father (filling a fresh\npipe)--every thing in this world, my dear brother Toby, has two\nhandles.--Not always, quoth my uncle Toby.--At least, replied my father,\nevery one has two hands,--which comes to the same thing.--Now, if a man\nwas to sit down coolly, and consider within himself the make, the shape,\nthe construction, come-at-ability, and convenience of all the parts\nwhich constitute the whole of that animal, called Woman, and compare\nthem analogically--I never understood rightly the meaning of that\nword,--quoth my uncle Toby.--\n\nAnalogy, replied my father, is the certain relation and agreement\nwhich different--Here a devil of a rap at the door snapped my father's\ndefinition (like his tobacco-pipe) in two,--and, at the same time,\ncrushed the head of as notable and curious a dissertation as ever was\nengendered in the womb of speculation;--it was some months before my\nfather could get an opportunity to be safely delivered of it:--And, at\nthis hour, it is a thing full as problematical as the subject of the\ndissertation itself,--(considering the confusion and distresses of our\ndomestick misadventures, which are now coming thick one upon the back\nof another) whether I shall be able to find a place for it in the third\nvolume or not.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XXXIII.\n\nIt is about an hour and a half's tolerable good reading since my uncle\nToby rung the bell, when Obadiah was ordered to saddle a horse, and go\nfor Dr. Slop, the man-midwife;--so that no one can say, with reason,\nthat I have not allowed Obadiah time enough, poetically speaking, and\nconsidering the emergency too, both to go and come;--though, morally and\ntruly speaking, the man perhaps has scarce had time to get on his boots.\n\nIf the hypercritick will go upon this; and is resolved after all to take\na pendulum, and measure the true distance betwixt the ringing of the\nbell, and the rap at the door;--and, after finding it to be no more than\ntwo minutes, thirteen seconds, and three-fifths,--should take upon him\nto insult over me for such a breach in the unity, or rather probability\nof time;--I would remind him, that the idea of duration, and of its\nsimple modes, is got merely from the train and succession of our\nideas--and is the true scholastic pendulum,--and by which, as a scholar,\nI will be tried in this matter,--abjuring and detesting the jurisdiction\nof all other pendulums whatever.\n\nI would therefore desire him to consider that it is but poor eight miles\nfrom Shandy-Hall to Dr. Slop, the man-midwife's house:--and that whilst\nObadiah has been going those said miles and back, I have brought my\nuncle Toby from Namur, quite across all Flanders, into England:--That\nI have had him ill upon my hands near four years;--and have since\ntravelled him and Corporal Trim in a chariot-and-four, a journey of near\ntwo hundred miles down into Yorkshire.--all which put together, must\nhave prepared the reader's imagination for the entrance of Dr. Slop upon\nthe stage,--as much, at least (I hope) as a dance, a song, or a concerto\nbetween the acts.\n\nIf my hypercritick is intractable, alledging, that two minutes\nand thirteen seconds are no more than two minutes and thirteen\nseconds,--when I have said all I can about them; and that this plea,\nthough it might save me dramatically, will damn me biographically,\nrendering my book from this very moment, a professed Romance, which,\nbefore, was a book apocryphal:--If I am thus pressed--I then put an\nend to the whole objection and controversy about it all at once,--by\nacquainting him, that Obadiah had not got above threescore yards from\nthe stable-yard, before he met with Dr. Slop;--and indeed he gave a\ndirty proof that he had met with him, and was within an ace of giving a\ntragical one too.\n\nImagine to yourself;--but this had better begin a new chapter.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XXXIV.\n\nImagine to yourself a little squat, uncourtly figure of a Doctor Slop,\nof about four feet and a half perpendicular height, with a breadth of\nback, and a sesquipedality of belly, which might have done honour to a\nserjeant in the horse-guards.\n\nSuch were the out-lines of Dr. Slop's figure, which--if you have\nread Hogarth's analysis of beauty, and if you have not, I wish you\nwould;--you must know, may as certainly be caricatured, and conveyed to\nthe mind by three strokes as three hundred.\n\nImagine such a one,--for such, I say, were the outlines of Dr. Slop's\nfigure, coming slowly along, foot by foot, waddling thro' the dirt upon\nthe vertebrae of a little diminutive pony, of a pretty colour--but of\nstrength,--alack!--scarce able to have made an amble of it, under such\na fardel, had the roads been in an ambling condition.--They were\nnot.--Imagine to yourself, Obadiah mounted upon a strong monster of\na coach-horse, pricked into a full gallop, and making all practicable\nspeed the adverse way.\n\nPray, Sir, let me interest you a moment in this description.\n\nHad Dr. Slop beheld Obadiah a mile off, posting in a narrow lane\ndirectly towards him, at that monstrous rate,--splashing and plunging\nlike a devil thro' thick and thin, as he approached, would not such a\nphaenomenon, with such a vortex of mud and water moving along with it,\nround its axis,--have been a subject of juster apprehension to Dr. Slop\nin his situation, than the worst of Whiston's comets?--To say nothing of\nthe Nucleus; that is, of Obadiah and the coach-horse.--In my idea, the\nvortex alone of 'em was enough to have involved and carried, if not the\ndoctor, at least the doctor's pony, quite away with it. What then do you\nthink must the terror and hydrophobia of Dr. Slop have been, when you\nread (which you are just going to do) that he was advancing thus warily\nalong towards Shandy-Hall, and had approached to within sixty yards of\nit, and within five yards of a sudden turn, made by an acute angle\nof the garden-wall,--and in the dirtiest part of a dirty\nlane,--when Obadiah and his coach-horse turned the corner, rapid,\nfurious,--pop,--full upon him!--Nothing, I think, in nature, can be\nsupposed more terrible than such a rencounter,--so imprompt! so ill\nprepared to stand the shock of it as Dr. Slop was.\n\nWhat could Dr. Slop do?--he crossed himself + --Pugh!--but the doctor,\nSir, was a Papist.--No matter; he had better have kept hold of the\npummel.--He had so;--nay, as it happened, he had better have done\nnothing at all; for in crossing himself he let go his whip,--and in\nattempting to save his whip betwixt his knee and his saddle's skirt, as\nit slipped, he lost his stirrup,--in losing which he lost his seat;--and\nin the multitude of all these losses (which, by the bye, shews what\nlittle advantage there is in crossing) the unfortunate doctor lost his\npresence of mind. So that without waiting for Obadiah's onset, he left\nhis pony to its destiny, tumbling off it diagonally, something in the\nstile and manner of a pack of wool, and without any other consequence\nfrom the fall, save that of being left (as it would have been) with the\nbroadest part of him sunk about twelve inches deep in the mire.\n\nObadiah pull'd off his cap twice to Dr. Slop;--once as he was\nfalling,--and then again when he saw him seated.--Ill-timed\ncomplaisance;--had not the fellow better have stopped his horse, and\ngot off and help'd him?--Sir, he did all that his situation would\nallow;--but the Momentum of the coach-horse was so great, that Obadiah\ncould not do it all at once; he rode in a circle three times round Dr.\nSlop, before he could fully accomplish it any how;--and at the last,\nwhen he did stop his beast, 'twas done with such an explosion of mud,\nthat Obadiah had better have been a league off. In short, never was a\nDr. Slop so beluted, and so transubstantiated, since that affair came\ninto fashion.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XXXV.\n\nWhen Dr. Slop entered the back parlour, where my father and my uncle\nToby were discoursing upon the nature of women,--it was hard to\ndetermine whether Dr. Slop's figure, or Dr. Slop's presence, occasioned\nmore surprize to them; for as the accident happened so near the house,\nas not to make it worth while for Obadiah to remount him,--Obadiah had\nled him in as he was, unwiped, unappointed, unannealed, with all his\nstains and blotches on him.--He stood like Hamlet's ghost, motionless\nand speechless, for a full minute and a half at the parlour-door\n(Obadiah still holding his hand) with all the majesty of mud. His hinder\nparts, upon which he had received his fall, totally besmeared,--and in\nevery other part of him, blotched over in such a manner with Obadiah's\nexplosion, that you would have sworn (without mental reservation) that\nevery grain of it had taken effect.\n\nHere was a fair opportunity for my uncle Toby to have triumphed over\nmy father in his turn;--for no mortal, who had beheld Dr. Slop in that\npickle, could have dissented from so much, at least, of my uncle Toby's\nopinion, 'That mayhap his sister might not care to let such a Dr. Slop\ncome so near her....' But it was the Argumentum ad hominem; and if my\nuncle Toby was not very expert at it, you may think, he might not care\nto use it.--No; the reason was,--'twas not his nature to insult.\n\nDr. Slop's presence at that time, was no less problematical than the\nmode of it; tho' it is certain, one moment's reflexion in my father\nmight have solved it; for he had apprized Dr. Slop but the week before,\nthat my mother was at her full reckoning; and as the doctor had heard\nnothing since, 'twas natural and very political too in him, to have\ntaken a ride to Shandy-Hall, as he did, merely to see how matters went\non.\n\nBut my father's mind took unfortunately a wrong turn in the\ninvestigation; running, like the hypercritick's, altogether upon\nthe ringing of the bell and the rap upon the door,--measuring their\ndistance, and keeping his mind so intent upon the operation, as to have\npower to think of nothing else,--common-place infirmity of the greatest\nmathematicians! working with might and main at the demonstration, and so\nwasting all their strength upon it, that they have none left in them to\ndraw the corollary, to do good with.\n\nThe ringing of the bell, and the rap upon the door, struck likewise\nstrong upon the sensorium of my uncle Toby,--but it excited a very\ndifferent train of thoughts;--the two irreconcileable pulsations\ninstantly brought Stevinus, the great engineer, along with them, into\nmy uncle Toby's mind. What business Stevinus had in this affair,--is\nthe greatest problem of all:--It shall be solved,--but not in the next\nchapter.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XXXVI.\n\nWriting, when properly managed (as you may be sure I think mine is) is\nbut a different name for conversation. As no one, who knows what he is\nabout in good company, would venture to talk all;--so no author, who\nunderstands the just boundaries of decorum and good-breeding, would\npresume to think all: The truest respect which you can pay to the\nreader's understanding, is to halve this matter amicably, and leave him\nsomething to imagine, in his turn, as well as yourself.\n\nFor my own part, I am eternally paying him compliments of this kind, and\ndo all that lies in my power to keep his imagination as busy as my own.\n\n'Tis his turn now;--I have given an ample description of Dr. Slop's\nsad overthrow, and of his sad appearance in the back-parlour;--his\nimagination must now go on with it for a while.\n\nLet the reader imagine then, that Dr. Slop has told his tale--and in\nwhat words, and with what aggravations, his fancy chooses;--Let him\nsuppose, that Obadiah has told his tale also, and with such rueful looks\nof affected concern, as he thinks best will contrast the two figures as\nthey stand by each other.--Let him imagine, that my father has\nstepped up stairs to see my mother.--And, to conclude this work of\nimagination,--let him imagine the doctor washed,--rubbed down, and\ncondoled,--felicitated,--got into a pair of Obadiah's pumps, stepping\nforwards towards the door, upon the very point of entering upon action.\n\nTruce!--truce, good Dr. Slop!--stay thy obstetrick hand;--return it\nsafe into thy bosom to keep it warm;--little dost thou know what\nobstacles,--little dost thou think what hidden causes, retard its\noperation!--Hast thou, Dr. Slop,--hast thou been entrusted with the\nsecret articles of the solemn treaty which has brought thee into this\nplace?--Art thou aware that at this instant, a daughter of Lucina is put\nobstetrically over thy head? Alas!--'tis too true.--Besides, great son\nof Pilumnus! what canst thou do?--Thou hast come forth unarm'd;--thou\nhast left thy tire-tete,--thy new-invented forceps,--thy crotchet,--thy\nsquirt, and all thy instruments of salvation and deliverance, behind\nthee,--By Heaven! at this moment they are hanging up in a green bays\nbag, betwixt thy two pistols, at the bed's head!--Ring;--call;--send\nObadiah back upon the coach-horse to bring them with all speed.\n\n--Make great haste, Obadiah, quoth my father, and I'll give thee a\ncrown! and quoth my uncle Toby, I'll give him another.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XXXVII.\n\nYour sudden and unexpected arrival, quoth my uncle Toby, addressing\nhimself to Dr. Slop, (all three of them sitting down to the fire\ntogether, as my uncle Toby began to speak)--instantly brought the great\nStevinus into my head, who, you must know, is a favourite author with\nme.--Then, added my father, making use of the argument Ad Crumenam,--I\nwill lay twenty guineas to a single crown-piece (which will serve to\ngive away to Obadiah when he gets back) that this same Stevinus was some\nengineer or other--or has wrote something or other, either directly or\nindirectly, upon the science of fortification.\n\nHe has so,--replied my uncle Toby.--I knew it, said my father, though,\nfor the soul of me, I cannot see what kind of connection there can\nbe betwixt Dr. Slop's sudden coming, and a discourse upon\nfortification;--yet I fear'd it.--Talk of what we will, brother,--or let\nthe occasion be never so foreign or unfit for the subject,--you are\nsure to bring it in. I would not, brother Toby, continued my\nfather,--I declare I would not have my head so full of curtins and\nhorn-works.--That I dare say you would not, quoth Dr. Slop, interrupting\nhim, and laughing most immoderately at his pun.\n\nDennis the critic could not detest and abhor a pun, or the insinuation\nof a pun, more cordially than my father;--he would grow testy upon it at\nany time;--but to be broke in upon by one, in a serious discourse, was\nas bad, he would say, as a fillip upon the nose;--he saw no difference.\n\nSir, quoth my uncle Toby, addressing himself to Dr. Slop,--the\ncurtins my brother Shandy mentions here, have nothing to do with\nbeadsteads;--tho', I know Du Cange says, 'That bed-curtains, in all\nprobability, have taken their name from them;'--nor have the horn-works\nhe speaks of, any thing in the world to do with the horn-works of\ncuckoldom: But the Curtin, Sir, is the word we use in fortification, for\nthat part of the wall or rampart which lies between the two bastions and\njoins them--Besiegers seldom offer to carry on their attacks directly\nagainst the curtin, for this reason, because they are so well flanked.\n('Tis the case of other curtains, quoth Dr. Slop, laughing.) However,\ncontinued my uncle Toby, to make them sure, we generally choose to place\nravelins before them, taking care only to extend them beyond the fosse\nor ditch:--The common men, who know very little of fortification,\nconfound the ravelin and the half-moon together,--tho' they are very\ndifferent things;--not in their figure or construction, for we make\nthem exactly alike, in all points; for they always consist of two faces,\nmaking a salient angle, with the gorges, not straight, but in form of\na crescent;--Where then lies the difference? (quoth my father, a little\ntestily.)--In their situations, answered my uncle Toby:--For when a\nravelin, brother, stands before the curtin, it is a ravelin; and when a\nravelin stands before a bastion, then the ravelin is not a ravelin;--it\nis a half-moon;--a half-moon likewise is a half-moon, and no more, so\nlong as it stands before its bastion;--but was it to change place, and\nget before the curtin,--'twould be no longer a half-moon; a half-moon,\nin that case, is not a half-moon;--'tis no more than a ravelin.--I\nthink, quoth my father, that the noble science of defence has its weak\nsides--as well as others.\n\nAs for the horn-work (high! ho! sigh'd my father) which, continued my\nuncle Toby, my brother was speaking of, they are a very considerable\npart of an outwork;--they are called by the French engineers, Ouvrage a\ncorne, and we generally make them to cover such places as we suspect\nto be weaker than the rest;--'tis formed by two epaulments or\ndemi-bastions--they are very pretty,--and if you will take a walk, I'll\nengage to shew you one well worth your trouble.--I own, continued my\nuncle Toby, when we crown them,--they are much stronger, but then they\nare very expensive, and take up a great deal of ground, so that, in my\nopinion, they are most of use to cover or defend the head of a camp;\notherwise the double tenaille--By the mother who bore us!--brother Toby,\nquoth my father, not able to hold out any longer,--you would provoke a\nsaint;--here have you got us, I know not how, not only souse into the\nmiddle of the old subject again:--But so full is your head of these\nconfounded works, that though my wife is this moment in the pains of\nlabour, and you hear her cry out, yet nothing will serve you but to\ncarry off the man-midwife.--Accoucheur,--if you please, quoth Dr.\nSlop.--With all my heart, replied my father, I don't care what they\ncall you,--but I wish the whole science of fortification, with all its\ninventors, at the devil;--it has been the death of thousands,--and it\nwill be mine in the end.--I would not, I would not, brother Toby,\nhave my brains so full of saps, mines, blinds, gabions, pallisadoes,\nravelins, half-moons, and such trumpery, to be proprietor of Namur, and\nof all the towns in Flanders with it.\n\nMy uncle Toby was a man patient of injuries;--not from want of\ncourage,--I have told you in a former chapter, 'that he was a man of\ncourage:'--And will add here, that where just occasions presented, or\ncalled it forth,--I know no man under whose arm I would have sooner\ntaken shelter;--nor did this arise from any insensibility or obtuseness\nof his intellectual parts;--for he felt this insult of my father's\nas feelingly as a man could do;--but he was of a peaceful, placid\nnature,--no jarring element in it,--all was mixed up so kindly within\nhim; my uncle Toby had scarce a heart to retaliate upon a fly.\n\n--Go--says he, one day at dinner, to an over-grown one which had buzzed\nabout his nose, and tormented him cruelly all dinner-time,--and which\nafter infinite attempts, he had caught at last, as it flew by him;--I'll\nnot hurt thee, says my uncle Toby, rising from his chair, and going\nacross the room, with the fly in his hand,--I'll not hurt a hair of\nthy head:--Go, says he, lifting up the sash, and opening his hand as he\nspoke, to let it escape;--go, poor devil, get thee gone, why should I\nhurt thee?--This world surely is wide enough to hold both thee and me.\n\nI was but ten years old when this happened: but whether it was, that the\naction itself was more in unison to my nerves at that age of pity, which\ninstantly set my whole frame into one vibration of most pleasurable\nsensation;--or how far the manner and expression of it might go towards\nit;--or in what degree, or by what secret magick,--a tone of voice and\nharmony of movement, attuned by mercy, might find a passage to my heart,\nI know not;--this I know, that the lesson of universal good-will then\ntaught and imprinted by my uncle Toby, has never since been worn out of\nmy mind: And tho' I would not depreciate what the study of the Literae\nhumaniores, at the university, have done for me in that respect, or\ndiscredit the other helps of an expensive education bestowed upon me,\nboth at home and abroad since;--yet I often think that I owe one half of\nmy philanthropy to that one accidental impression.\n\nThis is to serve for parents and governors instead of a whole volume\nupon the subject.\n\nI could not give the reader this stroke in my uncle Toby's picture, by\nthe instrument with which I drew the other parts of it,--that taking in\nno more than the mere Hobby-Horsical likeness:--this is a part of his\nmoral character. My father, in this patient endurance of wrongs, which I\nmention, was very different, as the reader must long ago have noted; he\nhad a much more acute and quick sensibility of nature, attended with a\nlittle soreness of temper; tho' this never transported him to any thing\nwhich looked like malignancy:--yet in the little rubs and vexations\nof life, 'twas apt to shew itself in a drollish and witty kind of\npeevishness:--He was, however, frank and generous in his nature;--at all\ntimes open to conviction; and in the little ebullitions of this subacid\nhumour towards others, but particularly towards my uncle Toby, whom he\ntruly loved:--he would feel more pain, ten times told (except in the\naffair of my aunt Dinah, or where an hypothesis was concerned) than what\nhe ever gave.\n\nThe characters of the two brothers, in this view of them, reflected\nlight upon each other, and appeared with great advantage in this affair\nwhich arose about Stevinus.\n\nI need not tell the reader, if he keeps a Hobby-Horse,--that a man's\nHobby-Horse is as tender a part as he has about him; and that\nthese unprovoked strokes at my uncle Toby's could not be unfelt by\nhim.--No:--as I said above, my uncle Toby did feel them, and very\nsensibly too.\n\nPray, Sir, what said he?--How did he behave?--O, Sir!--it was great: For\nas soon as my father had done insulting his Hobby-Horse,--he turned his\nhead without the least emotion, from Dr. Slop, to whom he was addressing\nhis discourse, and looking up into my father's face, with a countenance\nspread over with so much good-nature;--so placid;--so fraternal;--so\ninexpressibly tender towards him:--it penetrated my father to his heart:\nHe rose up hastily from his chair, and seizing hold of both my\nuncle Toby's hands as he spoke:--Brother Toby, said he:--I beg thy\npardon;--forgive, I pray thee, this rash humour which my mother gave\nme.--My dear, dear brother, answered my uncle Toby, rising up by my\nfather's help, say no more about it;--you are heartily welcome, had it\nbeen ten times as much, brother. But 'tis ungenerous, replied my father,\nto hurt any man;--a brother worse;--but to hurt a brother of such gentle\nmanners,--so unprovoking,--and so unresenting;--'tis base:--By Heaven,\n'tis cowardly.--You are heartily welcome, brother, quoth my uncle\nToby,--had it been fifty times as much.--Besides, what have I to do,\nmy dear Toby, cried my father, either with your amusements or your\npleasures, unless it was in my power (which it is not) to increase their\nmeasure?\n\n--Brother Shandy, answered my uncle Toby, looking wistfully in his\nface,--you are much mistaken in this point:--for you do increase my\npleasure very much, in begetting children for the Shandy family at your\ntime of life.--But, by that, Sir, quoth Dr. Slop, Mr. Shandy increases\nhis own.--Not a jot, quoth my father.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XXXVIII.\n\nMy brother does it, quoth my uncle Toby, out of principle.--In a family\nway, I suppose, quoth Dr. Slop.--Pshaw!--said my father,--'tis not worth\ntalking of.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XXXIX.\n\nAt the end of the last chapter, my father and my uncle Toby were left\nboth standing, like Brutus and Cassius, at the close of the scene,\nmaking up their accounts.\n\nAs my father spoke the three last words,--he sat down;--my uncle Toby\nexactly followed his example, only, that before he took his chair, he\nrung the bell, to order Corporal Trim, who was in waiting, to step\nhome for Stevinus:--my uncle Toby's house being no farther off than the\nopposite side of the way.\n\nSome men would have dropped the subject of Stevinus;--but my uncle Toby\nhad no resentment in his heart, and he went on with the subject, to shew\nmy father that he had none.\n\nYour sudden appearance, Dr. Slop, quoth my uncle, resuming the\ndiscourse, instantly brought Stevinus into my head. (My father, you\nmay be sure, did not offer to lay any more wagers upon Stevinus's\nhead.)--Because, continued my uncle Toby, the celebrated sailing\nchariot, which belonged to Prince Maurice, and was of such wonderful\ncontrivance and velocity, as to carry half a dozen people thirty German\nmiles, in I don't know how few minutes,--was invented by Stevinus, that\ngreat mathematician and engineer.\n\nYou might have spared your servant the trouble, quoth Dr. Slop (as the\nfellow is lame) of going for Stevinus's account of it, because in my\nreturn from Leyden thro' the Hague, I walked as far as Schevling, which\nis two long miles, on purpose to take a view of it.\n\nThat's nothing, replied my uncle Toby, to what the learned Peireskius\ndid, who walked a matter of five hundred miles, reckoning from Paris to\nSchevling, and from Schevling to Paris back again, in order to see it,\nand nothing else.\n\nSome men cannot bear to be out-gone.\n\nThe more fool Peireskius, replied Dr. Slop. But mark, 'twas out of no\ncontempt of Peireskius at all;--but that Peireskius's indefatigable\nlabour in trudging so far on foot, out of love for the sciences, reduced\nthe exploit of Dr. Slop, in that affair, to nothing:--the more fool\nPeireskius, said he again.--Why so?--replied my father, taking his\nbrother's part, not only to make reparation as fast as he could for the\ninsult he had given him, which sat still upon my father's mind;--but\npartly, that my father began really to interest himself in the\ndiscourse.--Why so?--said he. Why is Peireskius, or any man else, to be\nabused for an appetite for that, or any other morsel of sound knowledge:\nFor notwithstanding I know nothing of the chariot in question, continued\nhe, the inventor of it must have had a very mechanical head; and tho'\nI cannot guess upon what principles of philosophy he has atchieved\nit;--yet certainly his machine has been constructed upon solid ones,\nbe they what they will, or it could not have answered at the rate my\nbrother mentions.\n\nIt answered, replied my uncle Toby, as well, if not better; for, as\nPeireskius elegantly expresses it, speaking of the velocity of its\nmotion, Tam citus erat, quam erat ventus; which, unless I have forgot my\nLatin, is, that it was as swift as the wind itself.\n\nBut pray, Dr. Slop, quoth my father, interrupting my uncle (tho' not\nwithout begging pardon for it at the same time) upon what principles was\nthis self-same chariot set a-going?--Upon very pretty principles to\nbe sure, replied Dr. Slop:--And I have often wondered, continued he,\nevading the question, why none of our gentry, who live upon large\nplains like this of ours,--(especially they whose wives are not past\nchild-bearing) attempt nothing of this kind; for it would not only\nbe infinitely expeditious upon sudden calls, to which the sex is\nsubject,--if the wind only served,--but would be excellent good\nhusbandry to make use of the winds, which cost nothing, and which eat\nnothing, rather than horses, which (the devil take 'em) both cost and\neat a great deal.\n\nFor that very reason, replied my father, 'Because they cost nothing, and\nbecause they eat nothing,'--the scheme is bad;--it is the consumption of\nour products, as well as the manufactures of them, which gives bread to\nthe hungry, circulates trade,--brings in money, and supports the value\nof our lands;--and tho', I own, if I was a Prince, I would\ngenerously recompense the scientifick head which brought forth such\ncontrivances;--yet I would as peremptorily suppress the use of them.\n\nMy father here had got into his element,--and was going on as\nprosperously with his dissertation upon trade, as my uncle Toby had\nbefore, upon his of fortification;--but to the loss of much sound\nknowledge, the destinies in the morning had decreed that no dissertation\nof any kind should be spun by my father that day,--for as he opened his\nmouth to begin the next sentence,\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XL.\n\nIn popped Corporal Trim with Stevinus:--But 'twas too late,--all the\ndiscourse had been exhausted without him, and was running into a new\nchannel.\n\n--You may take the book home again, Trim, said my uncle Toby, nodding to\nhim.\n\nBut prithee, Corporal, quoth my father, drolling,--look first into it,\nand see if thou canst spy aught of a sailing chariot in it.\n\nCorporal Trim, by being in the service, had learned to obey,--and not to\nremonstrate,--so taking the book to a side-table, and running over\nthe leaves; An' please your Honour, said Trim, I can see no such\nthing;--however, continued the Corporal, drolling a little in his turn,\nI'll make sure work of it, an' please your Honour;--so taking hold of\nthe two covers of the book, one in each hand, and letting the leaves\nfall down as he bent the covers back, he gave the book a good sound\nshake.\n\nThere is something falling out, however, said Trim, an' please your\nHonour;--but it is not a chariot, or any thing like one:--Prithee,\nCorporal, said my father, smiling, what is it then?--I think, answered\nTrim, stooping to take it up,--'tis more like a sermon,--for it begins\nwith a text of scripture, and the chapter and verse;--and then goes on,\nnot as a chariot, but like a sermon directly.\n\nThe company smiled.\n\nI cannot conceive how it is possible, quoth my uncle Toby, for such a\nthing as a sermon to have got into my Stevinus.\n\nI think 'tis a sermon, replied Trim:--but if it please your Honours,\nas it is a fair hand, I will read you a page;--for Trim, you must know,\nloved to hear himself read almost as well as talk.\n\nI have ever a strong propensity, said my father, to look into things\nwhich cross my way, by such strange fatalities as these;--and as we\nhave nothing better to do, at least till Obadiah gets back, I shall be\nobliged to you, brother, if Dr. Slop has no objection to it, to order\nthe Corporal to give us a page or two of it,--if he is as able to do it,\nas he seems willing. An' please your honour, quoth Trim, I officiated\ntwo whole campaigns, in Flanders, as clerk to the chaplain of the\nregiment.--He can read it, quoth my uncle Toby, as well as I can.--Trim,\nI assure you, was the best scholar in my company, and should have had\nthe next halberd, but for the poor fellow's misfortune. Corporal Trim\nlaid his hand upon his heart, and made an humble bow to his master; then\nlaying down his hat upon the floor, and taking up the sermon in his\nleft hand, in order to have his right at liberty,--he advanced, nothing\ndoubting, into the middle of the room, where he could best see, and be\nbest seen by his audience.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XLI.\n\n--If you have any objection,--said my father, addressing himself to Dr.\nSlop. Not in the least, replied Dr. Slop;--for it does not appear on\nwhich side of the question it is wrote,--it may be a composition of\na divine of our church, as well as yours,--so that we run equal\nrisques.--'Tis wrote upon neither side, quoth Trim, for 'tis only upon\nConscience, an' please your Honours.\n\nTrim's reason put his audience into good humour,--all but Dr. Slop, who\nturning his head about towards Trim, looked a little angry.\n\nBegin, Trim,--and read distinctly, quoth my father.--I will, an'\nplease your Honour, replied the Corporal, making a bow, and bespeaking\nattention with a slight movement of his right hand.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XLII.\n\n--But before the Corporal begins, I must first give you a description\nof his attitude;--otherwise he will naturally stand represented, by your\nimagination, in an uneasy posture,--stiff,--perpendicular,--dividing\nthe weight of his body equally upon both legs;--his eye fixed, as if on\nduty;--his look determined,--clenching the sermon in his left hand, like\nhis firelock.--In a word, you would be apt to paint Trim, as if he was\nstanding in his platoon ready for action,--His attitude was as unlike\nall this as you can conceive.\n\nHe stood before them with his body swayed, and bent forwards just so\nfar, as to make an angle of 85 degrees and a half upon the plain of the\nhorizon;--which sound orators, to whom I address this, know very well to\nbe the true persuasive angle of incidence;--in any other angle you may\ntalk and preach;--'tis certain;--and it is done every day;--but with\nwhat effect,--I leave the world to judge!\n\nThe necessity of this precise angle of 85 degrees and a half to a\nmathematical exactness,--does it not shew us, by the way, how the arts\nand sciences mutually befriend each other?\n\nHow the duce Corporal Trim, who knew not so much as an acute angle from\nan obtuse one, came to hit it so exactly;--or whether it was chance or\nnature, or good sense or imitation, &c. shall be commented upon in that\npart of the cyclopaedia of arts and sciences, where the instrumental\nparts of the eloquence of the senate, the pulpit, and the bar, the\ncoffee-house, the bed-chamber, and fire-side, fall under consideration.\n\nHe stood,--for I repeat it, to take the picture of him in at one view,\nwith his body swayed, and somewhat bent forwards,--his right leg from\nunder him, sustaining seven-eighths of his whole weight,--the foot of\nhis left leg, the defect of which was no disadvantage to his attitude,\nadvanced a little,--not laterally, nor forwards, but in a line betwixt\nthem;--his knee bent, but that not violently,--but so as to fall within\nthe limits of the line of beauty;--and I add, of the line of science\ntoo;--for consider, it had one eighth part of his body to bear up;--so\nthat in this case the position of the leg is determined,--because the\nfoot could be no farther advanced, or the knee more bent, than what\nwould allow him, mechanically to receive an eighth part of his whole\nweight under it, and to carry it too.\n\n>This I recommend to painters;--need I add,--to orators!--I think not;\nfor unless they practise it,--they must fall upon their noses.\n\nSo much for Corporal Trim's body and legs.--He held the sermon loosely,\nnot carelessly, in his left hand, raised something above his stomach,\nand detached a little from his breast;--his right arm falling\nnegligently by his side, as nature and the laws of gravity ordered\nit,--but with the palm of it open and turned towards his audience, ready\nto aid the sentiment in case it stood in need.\n\nCorporal Trim's eyes and the muscles of his face were in full harmony\nwith the other parts of him;--he looked frank,--unconstrained,--\nsomething assured,--but not bordering upon assurance.\n\nLet not the critic ask how Corporal Trim could come by all this.--I've\ntold him it should be explained;--but so he stood before my father, my\nuncle Toby, and Dr. Slop,--so swayed his body, so contrasted his limbs,\nand with such an oratorical sweep throughout the whole figure,--a\nstatuary might have modelled from it;--nay, I doubt whether the oldest\nFellow of a College,--or the Hebrew Professor himself, could have much\nmended it.\n\nTrim made a bow, and read as follows:\n\nThe Sermon.\n\nHebrews xiii. 18.\n\n--For we trust we have a good Conscience.\n\n'Trust!--Trust we have a good conscience!'\n\n(Certainly, Trim, quoth my father, interrupting him, you give that\nsentence a very improper accent; for you curl up your nose, man, and\nread it with such a sneering tone, as if the Parson was going to abuse\nthe Apostle.\n\nHe is, an' please your Honour, replied Trim. Pugh! said my father,\nsmiling.\n\nSir, quoth Dr. Slop, Trim is certainly in the right; for the writer (who\nI perceive is a Protestant) by the snappish manner in which he takes up\nthe apostle, is certainly going to abuse him;--if this treatment of him\nhas not done it already. But from whence, replied my father, have you\nconcluded so soon, Dr. Slop, that the writer is of our church?--for\naught I can see yet,--he may be of any church.--Because, answered Dr.\nSlop, if he was of ours,--he durst no more take such a licence,--than\na bear by his beard:--If, in our communion, Sir, a man was to insult an\napostle,--a saint,--or even the paring of a saint's nail,--he would have\nhis eyes scratched out.--What, by the saint? quoth my uncle Toby. No,\nreplied Dr. Slop, he would have an old house over his head. Pray is\nthe Inquisition an ancient building, answered my uncle Toby, or is it\na modern one?--I know nothing of architecture, replied Dr. Slop.--An'\nplease your Honours, quoth Trim, the Inquisition is the vilest--Prithee\nspare thy description, Trim, I hate the very name of it, said my\nfather.--No matter for that, answered Dr. Slop,--it has its uses; for\ntho' I'm no great advocate for it, yet, in such a case as this, he would\nsoon be taught better manners; and I can tell him, if he went on at that\nrate, would be flung into the Inquisition for his pains. God help him\nthen, quoth my uncle Toby. Amen, added Trim; for Heaven above knows,\nI have a poor brother who has been fourteen years a captive in it.--I\nnever heard one word of it before, said my uncle Toby, hastily:--How\ncame he there, Trim?--O, Sir, the story will make your heart bleed,--as\nit has made mine a thousand times;--but it is too long to be told\nnow;--your Honour shall hear it from first to last some day when I am\nworking beside you in our fortifications;--but the short of the story\nis this;--That my brother Tom went over a servant to Lisbon,--and then\nmarried a Jew's widow, who kept a small shop, and sold sausages, which\nsomehow or other, was the cause of his being taken in the middle of the\nnight out of his bed, where he was lying with his wife and two small\nchildren, and carried directly to the Inquisition, where, God help him,\ncontinued Trim, fetching a sigh from the bottom of his heart,--the poor\nhonest lad lies confined at this hour; he was as honest a soul, added\nTrim, (pulling out his handkerchief) as ever blood warmed.--\n\n--The tears trickled down Trim's cheeks faster than he could well wipe\nthem away.--A dead silence in the room ensued for some minutes.--Certain\nproof of pity!\n\nCome Trim, quoth my father, after he saw the poor fellow's grief had\ngot a little vent,--read on,--and put this melancholy story out of thy\nhead:--I grieve that I interrupted thee; but prithee begin the sermon\nagain;--for if the first sentence in it is matter of abuse, as thou\nsayest, I have a great desire to know what kind of provocation the\napostle has given.\n\nCorporal Trim wiped his face, and returned his handkerchief into his\npocket, and, making a bow as he did it,--he began again.)\n\nThe Sermon.\n\nHebrews xiii. 18.\n\n--For we trust we have a good Conscience.--\n\n'Trust! trust we have a good conscience! Surely if there is any thing in\nthis life which a man may depend upon, and to the knowledge of which he\nis capable of arriving upon the most indisputable evidence, it must be\nthis very thing,--whether he has a good conscience or no.'\n\n(I am positive I am right, quoth Dr. Slop.)\n\n'If a man thinks at all, he cannot well be a stranger to the true state\nof this account:--he must be privy to his own thoughts and desires;--he\nmust remember his past pursuits, and know certainly the true springs and\nmotives, which, in general, have governed the actions of his life.'\n\n(I defy him, without an assistant, quoth Dr. Slop.)\n\n'In other matters we may be deceived by false appearances; and, as the\nwise man complains, hardly do we guess aright at the things that are\nupon the earth, and with labour do we find the things that are before\nus. But here the mind has all the evidence and facts within herself;--is\nconscious of the web she has wove;--knows its texture and fineness, and\nthe exact share which every passion has had in working upon the several\ndesigns which virtue or vice has planned before her.'\n\n(The language is good, and I declare Trim reads very well, quoth my\nfather.)\n\n'Now,--as conscience is nothing else but the knowledge which the mind\nhas within herself of this; and the judgment, either of approbation or\ncensure, which it unavoidably makes upon the successive actions of\nour lives; 'tis plain you will say, from the very terms of the\nproposition,--whenever this inward testimony goes against a man, and he\nstands self-accused, that he must necessarily be a guilty man.--And, on\nthe contrary, when the report is favourable on his side, and his heart\ncondemns him not:--that it is not a matter of trust, as the apostle\nintimates, but a matter of certainty and fact, that the conscience is\ngood, and that the man must be good also.'\n\n(Then the apostle is altogether in the wrong, I suppose, quoth Dr. Slop,\nand the Protestant divine is in the right. Sir, have patience, replied\nmy father, for I think it will presently appear that St. Paul and the\nProtestant divine are both of an opinion.--As nearly so, quoth Dr. Slop,\nas east is to west;--but this, continued he, lifting both hands, comes\nfrom the liberty of the press.\n\nIt is no more at the worst, replied my uncle Toby, than the liberty of\nthe pulpit; for it does not appear that the sermon is printed, or ever\nlikely to be.\n\nGo on, Trim, quoth my father.)\n\n'At first sight this may seem to be a true state of the case: and I make\nno doubt but the knowledge of right and wrong is so truly impressed\nupon the mind of man,--that did no such thing ever happen, as that the\nconscience of a man, by long habits of sin, might (as the scripture\nassures it may) insensibly become hard;--and, like some tender parts of\nhis body, by much stress and continual hard usage, lose by degrees that\nnice sense and perception with which God and nature endowed it:--Did\nthis never happen;--or was it certain that self-love could never hang\nthe least bias upon the judgment;--or that the little interests below\ncould rise up and perplex the faculties of our upper regions, and\nencompass them about with clouds and thick darkness:--Could no such\nthing as favour and affection enter this sacred Court--Did Wit disdain\nto take a bribe in it;--or was ashamed to shew its face as an advocate\nfor an unwarrantable enjoyment: Or, lastly, were we assured that\nInterest stood always unconcerned whilst the cause was hearing--and that\nPassion never got into the judgment-seat, and pronounced sentence in the\nstead of Reason, which is supposed always to preside and determine upon\nthe case:--Was this truly so, as the objection must suppose;--no doubt\nthen the religious and moral state of a man would be exactly what he\nhimself esteemed it:--and the guilt or innocence of every man's life\ncould be known, in general, by no better measure, than the degrees of\nhis own approbation and censure.\n\n'I own, in one case, whenever a man's conscience does accuse him (as it\nseldom errs on that side) that he is guilty;--and unless in melancholy\nand hypocondriac cases, we may safely pronounce upon it, that there is\nalways sufficient grounds for the accusation.\n\n'But the converse of the proposition will not hold true;--namely, that\nwhenever there is guilt, the conscience must accuse; and if it does not,\nthat a man is therefore innocent.--This is not fact--So that the common\nconsolation which some good christian or other is hourly administering\nto himself,--that he thanks God his mind does not misgive him; and that,\nconsequently, he has a good conscience, because he hath a quiet one,--is\nfallacious;--and as current as the inference is, and as infallible as\nthe rule appears at first sight, yet when you look nearer to it, and try\nthe truth of this rule upon plain facts,--you see it liable to so much\nerror from a false application;--the principle upon which it goes so\noften perverted;--the whole force of it lost, and sometimes so vilely\ncast away, that it is painful to produce the common examples from human\nlife, which confirm the account.\n\n'A man shall be vicious and utterly debauched in his\nprinciples;--exceptionable in his conduct to the world; shall live\nshameless, in the open commission of a sin which no reason or pretence\ncan justify,--a sin by which, contrary to all the workings of humanity,\nhe shall ruin for ever the deluded partner of his guilt;--rob her of her\nbest dowry; and not only cover her own head with dishonour;--but involve\na whole virtuous family in shame and sorrow for her sake. Surely, you\nwill think conscience must lead such a man a troublesome life; he can\nhave no rest night and day from its reproaches.\n\n'Alas! Conscience had something else to do all this time, than break\nin upon him; as Elijah reproached the god Baal,--this domestic god was\neither talking, or pursuing, or was in a journey, or peradventure he\nslept and could not be awoke.\n\n'Perhaps He was gone out in company with Honour to fight a duel: to\npay off some debt at play;--or dirty annuity, the bargain of his lust;\nPerhaps Conscience all this time was engaged at home, talking aloud\nagainst petty larceny, and executing vengeance upon some such puny\ncrimes as his fortune and rank of life secured him against all\ntemptation of committing; so that he lives as merrily;'--(If he was of\nour church, tho', quoth Dr. Slop, he could not)--'sleeps as soundly in\nhis bed;--and at last meets death unconcernedly;--perhaps much more so,\nthan a much better man.'\n\n(All this is impossible with us, quoth Dr. Slop, turning to my\nfather,--the case could not happen in our church.--It happens in ours,\nhowever, replied my father, but too often.--I own, quoth Dr. Slop,\n(struck a little with my father's frank acknowledgment)--that a man\nin the Romish church may live as badly;--but then he cannot easily\ndie so.--'Tis little matter, replied my father, with an air of\nindifference,--how a rascal dies.--I mean, answered Dr. Slop, he would\nbe denied the benefits of the last sacraments.--Pray how many have you\nin all, said my uncle Toby,--for I always forget?--Seven, answered\nDr. Slop.--Humph!--said my uncle Toby; tho' not accented as a note of\nacquiescence,--but as an interjection of that particular species of\nsurprize, when a man in looking into a drawer, finds more of a thing\nthan he expected.--Humph! replied my uncle Toby. Dr. Slop, who had an\near, understood my uncle Toby as well as if he had wrote a whole volume\nagainst the seven sacraments.--Humph! replied Dr. Slop, (stating my\nuncle Toby's argument over again to him)--Why, Sir, are there not seven\ncardinal virtues?--Seven mortal sins?--Seven golden candlesticks?--Seven\nheavens?--'Tis more than I know, replied my uncle Toby.--Are there\nnot seven wonders of the world?--Seven days of the creation?--Seven\nplanets?--Seven plagues?--That there are, quoth my father with a most\naffected gravity. But prithee, continued he, go on with the rest of thy\ncharacters, Trim.)\n\n'Another is sordid, unmerciful,' (here Trim waved his right hand) 'a\nstrait-hearted, selfish wretch, incapable either of private friendship\nor public spirit. Take notice how he passes by the widow and orphan in\ntheir distress, and sees all the miseries incident to human life without\na sigh or a prayer.' (An' please your honours, cried Trim, I think this\na viler man than the other.)\n\n'Shall not conscience rise up and sting him on such occasions?--No;\nthank God there is no occasion, I pay every man his own;--I have no\nfornication to answer to my conscience;--no faithless vows or promises\nto make up;--I have debauched no man's wife or child; thank God, I am\nnot as other men, adulterers, unjust, or even as this libertine, who\nstands before me.\n\n'A third is crafty and designing in his nature. View his whole\nlife;--'tis nothing but a cunning contexture of dark arts and\nunequitable subterfuges, basely to defeat the true intent of\nall laws,--plain dealing and the safe enjoyment of our several\nproperties.--You will see such a one working out a frame of little\ndesigns upon the ignorance and perplexities of the poor and needy\nman;--shall raise a fortune upon the inexperience of a youth, or the\nunsuspecting temper of his friend, who would have trusted him with his\nlife.\n\n'When old age comes on, and repentance calls him to look back upon this\nblack account, and state it over again with his conscience--Conscience\nlooks into the Statutes at Large;--finds no express law broken by what\nhe has done;--perceives no penalty or forfeiture of goods and chattels\nincurred;--sees no scourge waving over his head, or prison opening his\ngates upon him:--What is there to affright his conscience?--Conscience\nhas got safely entrenched behind the Letter of the Law; sits there\ninvulnerable, fortified with Cases and Reports so strongly on all\nsides;--that it is not preaching can dispossess it of its hold.'\n\n(Here Corporal Trim and my uncle Toby exchanged looks with each\nother.--Aye, Aye, Trim! quoth my uncle Toby, shaking his head,--these\nare but sorry fortifications, Trim.--O! very poor work, answered Trim,\nto what your Honour and I make of it.--The character of this last man,\nsaid Dr. Slop, interrupting Trim, is more detestable than all the rest;\nand seems to have been taken from some pettifogging Lawyer amongst\nyou:--Amongst us, a man's conscience could not possibly continue so long\nblinded,--three times in a year, at least, he must go to confession.\nWill that restore it to sight? quoth my uncle Toby,--Go on, Trim, quoth\nmy father, or Obadiah will have got back before thou has got to the\nend of thy sermon.--'Tis a very short one, replied Trim.--I wish it was\nlonger, quoth my uncle Toby, for I like it hugely.--Trim went on.)\n\n'A fourth man shall want even this refuge;--shall break through all\ntheir ceremony of slow chicane;--scorns the doubtful workings of\nsecret plots and cautious trains to bring about his purpose:--See\nthe bare-faced villain, how he cheats, lies, perjures, robs,\nmurders!--Horrid!--But indeed much better was not to be expected, in\nthe present case--the poor man was in the dark!--his priest had got the\nkeeping of his conscience;--and all he would let him know of it, was,\nThat he must believe in the Pope;--go to Mass;--cross himself;--tell his\nbeads;--be a good Catholic, and that this, in all conscience, was enough\nto carry him to heaven. What;--if he perjures?--Why;--he had a mental\nreservation in it.--But if he is so wicked and abandoned a wretch as you\nrepresent him;--if he robs,--if he stabs, will not conscience, on every\nsuch act, receive a wound itself?--Aye,--but the man has carried it to\nconfession;--the wound digests there, and will do well enough, and in a\nshort time be quite healed up by absolution. O Popery! what hast thou to\nanswer for!--when not content with the too many natural and fatal ways,\nthro' which the heart of man is every day thus treacherous to itself\nabove all things;--thou hast wilfully set open the wide gate of deceit\nbefore the face of this unwary traveller, too apt, God knows, to go\nastray of himself, and confidently speak peace to himself, when there is\nno peace.\n\n'Of this the common instances which I have drawn out of life, are too\nnotorious to require much evidence. If any man doubts the reality\nof them, or thinks it impossible for a man to be such a bubble to\nhimself,--I must refer him a moment to his own reflections, and will\nthen venture to trust my appeal with his own heart.\n\n'Let him consider in how different a degree of detestation, numbers of\nwicked actions stand there, tho' equally bad and vicious in their own\nnatures;--he will soon find, that such of them as strong inclination\nand custom have prompted him to commit, are generally dressed out and\npainted with all the false beauties which a soft and a flattering hand\ncan give them;--and that the others, to which he feels no propensity,\nappear, at once, naked and deformed, surrounded with all the true\ncircumstances of folly and dishonour.\n\n'When David surprized Saul sleeping in the cave, and cut off the skirt\nof his robe--we read his heart smote him for what he had done:--But in\nthe matter of Uriah, where a faithful and gallant servant, whom he\nought to have loved and honoured, fell to make way for his lust,--where\nconscience had so much greater reason to take the alarm, his heart smote\nhim not. A whole year had almost passed from first commission of that\ncrime, to the time Nathan was sent to reprove him; and we read not once\nof the least sorrow or compunction of heart which he testified, during\nall that time, for what he had done.\n\n'Thus conscience, this once able monitor,--placed on high as a judge\nwithin us, and intended by our maker as a just and equitable one\ntoo,--by an unhappy train of causes and impediments, takes often\nsuch imperfect cognizance of what passes,--does its office so\nnegligently,--sometimes so corruptly,--that it is not to be trusted\nalone; and therefore we find there is a necessity, an absolute\nnecessity, of joining another principle with it, to aid, if not govern,\nits determinations.\n\n'So that if you would form a just judgment of what is of infinite\nimportance to you not to be misled in,--namely, in what degree of real\nmerit you stand either as an honest man, an useful citizen, a faithful\nsubject to your king, or a good servant to your God,--call in religion\nand morality.--Look, What is written in the law of God?--How readest\nthou?--Consult calm reason and the unchangeable obligations of justice\nand truth;--what say they?\n\n'Let Conscience determine the matter upon these reports;--and then\nif thy heart condemns thee not, which is the case the apostle\nsupposes,--the rule will be infallible;'--(Here Dr. Slop fell\nasleep)--'thou wilt have confidence towards God;--that is, have just\ngrounds to believe the judgment thou hast past upon thyself, is the\njudgment of God; and nothing else but an anticipation of that righteous\nsentence which will be pronounced upon thee hereafter by that Being, to\nwhom thou art finally to give an account of thy actions.\n\n'Blessed is the man, indeed, then, as the author of the book of\nEcclesiasticus expresses it, who is not pricked with the multitude of\nhis sins: Blessed is the man whose heart hath not condemned him; whether\nhe be rich, or whether he be poor, if he have a good heart (a heart\nthus guided and informed) he shall at all times rejoice in a chearful\ncountenance; his mind shall tell him more than seven watch-men that sit\nabove upon a tower on high.'--(A tower has no strength, quoth my uncle\nToby, unless 'tis flank'd.)--'in the darkest doubts it shall conduct him\nsafer than a thousand casuists, and give the state he lives in, a better\nsecurity for his behaviour than all the causes and restrictions put\ntogether, which law-makers are forced to multiply:--Forced, I say, as\nthings stand; human laws not being a matter of original choice, but of\npure necessity, brought in to fence against the mischievous effects of\nthose consciences which are no law unto themselves; well intending, by\nthe many provisions made,--that in all such corrupt and misguided\ncases, where principles and the checks of conscience will not make\nus upright,--to supply their force, and, by the terrors of gaols and\nhalters, oblige us to it.'\n\n(I see plainly, said my father, that this sermon has been composed to be\npreached at the Temple,--or at some Assize.--I like the reasoning,--and\nam sorry that Dr. Slop has fallen asleep before the time of his\nconviction:--for it is now clear, that the Parson, as I thought at\nfirst, never insulted St. Paul in the least;--nor has there been,\nbrother, the least difference between them.--A great matter, if they\nhad differed, replied my uncle Toby,--the best friends in the world may\ndiffer sometimes.--True,--brother Toby quoth my father, shaking hands\nwith him,--we'll fill our pipes, brother, and then Trim shall go on.\n\nWell,--what dost thou think of it? said my father, speaking to Corporal\nTrim, as he reached his tobacco-box.\n\nI think, answered the Corporal, that the seven watch-men upon the tower,\nwho, I suppose, are all centinels there,--are more, an' please your\nHonour, than were necessary;--and, to go on at that rate, would harrass\na regiment all to pieces, which a commanding officer, who loves his\nmen, will never do, if he can help it, because two centinels, added\nthe Corporal, are as good as twenty.--I have been a commanding officer\nmyself in the Corps de Garde a hundred times, continued Trim, rising\nan inch higher in his figure, as he spoke,--and all the time I had\nthe honour to serve his Majesty King William, in relieving the most\nconsiderable posts, I never left more than two in my life.--Very right,\nTrim, quoth my uncle Toby,--but you do not consider, Trim, that the\ntowers, in Solomon's days, were not such things as our bastions,\nflanked and defended by other works;--this, Trim, was an invention since\nSolomon's death; nor had they horn-works, or ravelins before the curtin,\nin his time;--or such a fosse as we make with a cuvette in the middle\nof it, and with covered ways and counterscarps pallisadoed along it, to\nguard against a Coup de main:--So that the seven men upon the tower were\na party, I dare say, from the Corps de Garde, set there, not only to\nlook out, but to defend it.--They could be no more, an' please your\nHonour, than a Corporal's Guard.--My father smiled inwardly, but not\noutwardly--the subject being rather too serious, considering what had\nhappened, to make a jest of.--So putting his pipe into his mouth, which\nhe had just lighted,--he contented himself with ordering Trim to read\non. He read on as follows:\n\n'To have the fear of God before our eyes, and, in our mutual dealings\nwith each other, to govern our actions by the eternal measures of\nright and wrong:--The first of these will comprehend the duties of\nreligion;--the second, those of morality, which are so inseparably\nconnected together, that you cannot divide these two tables, even\nin imagination, (tho' the attempt is often made in practice) without\nbreaking and mutually destroying them both.\n\nI said the attempt is often made; and so it is;--there being nothing\nmore common than to see a man who has no sense at all of religion, and\nindeed has so much honesty as to pretend to none, who would take it as\nthe bitterest affront, should you but hint at a suspicion of his moral\ncharacter,--or imagine he was not conscientiously just and scrupulous to\nthe uttermost mite.\n\n'When there is some appearance that it is so,--tho' one is unwilling\neven to suspect the appearance of so amiable a virtue as moral honesty,\nyet were we to look into the grounds of it, in the present case, I am\npersuaded we should find little reason to envy such a one the honour of\nhis motive.\n\n'Let him declaim as pompously as he chooses upon the subject, it will\nbe found to rest upon no better foundation than either his interest, his\npride, his ease, or some such little and changeable passion as will give\nus but small dependence upon his actions in matters of great distress.\n\n'I will illustrate this by an example.\n\n'I know the banker I deal with, or the physician I usually call\nin,'--(There is no need, cried Dr. Slop, (waking) to call in any\nphysician in this case)--'to be neither of them men of much religion: I\nhear them make a jest of it every day, and treat all its sanctions with\nso much scorn, as to put the matter past doubt. Well;--notwithstanding\nthis, I put my fortune into the hands of the one:--and what is dearer\nstill to me, I trust my life to the honest skill of the other.\n\n'Now let me examine what is my reason for this great confidence. Why, in\nthe first place, I believe there is no probability that either of them\nwill employ the power I put into their hands to my disadvantage;--I\nconsider that honesty serves the purposes of this life:--I know their\nsuccess in the world depends upon the fairness of their characters.--In\na word, I'm persuaded that they cannot hurt me without hurting\nthemselves more.\n\n'But put it otherwise, namely, that interest lay, for once, on the other\nside; that a case should happen, wherein the one, without stain to\nhis reputation, could secrete my fortune, and leave me naked in the\nworld;--or that the other could send me out of it, and enjoy an estate\nby my death, without dishonour to himself or his art:--In this case,\nwhat hold have I of either of them?--Religion, the strongest of all\nmotives, is out of the question;--Interest, the next most powerful\nmotive in the world, is strongly against me:--What have I left to\ncast into the opposite scale to balance this temptation?--Alas! I have\nnothing,--nothing but what is lighter than a bubble--I must lie at the\nmercy of Honour, or some such capricious principle--Strait security for\ntwo of the most valuable blessings!--my property and myself.\n\n'As, therefore, we can have no dependence upon morality without\nreligion;--so, on the other hand, there is nothing better to be expected\nfrom religion without morality; nevertheless, 'tis no prodigy to see a\nman whose real moral character stands very low, who yet entertains the\nhighest notion of himself in the light of a religious man.\n\n'He shall not only be covetous, revengeful, implacable,--but even\nwanting in points of common honesty; yet inasmuch as he talks aloud\nagainst the infidelity of the age,--is zealous for some points of\nreligion,--goes twice a day to church,--attends the sacraments,--and\namuses himself with a few instrumental parts of religion,--shall cheat\nhis conscience into a judgment, that, for this, he is a religious man,\nand has discharged truly his duty to God: And you will find that such a\nman, through force of this delusion, generally looks down with spiritual\npride upon every other man who has less affectation of piety,--though,\nperhaps, ten times more real honesty than himself.\n\n'This likewise is a sore evil under the sun; and I believe, there is no\none mistaken principle, which, for its time, has wrought more serious\nmischiefs.--For a general proof of this,--examine the history of the\nRomish church;'--(Well what can you make of that? cried Dr. Slop)--'see\nwhat scenes of cruelty, murder, rapine, bloodshed,'--(They may thank\ntheir own obstinacy, cried Dr. Slop)--have all been sanctified by a\nreligion not strictly governed by morality.\n\n'In how many kingdoms of the world'--(Here Trim kept waving his\nright-hand from the sermon to the extent of his arm, returning it\nbackwards and forwards to the conclusion of the paragraph.)\n\n'In how many kingdoms of the world has the crusading sword of this\nmisguided saint-errant, spared neither age or merit, or sex, or\ncondition?--and, as he fought under the banners of a religion which\nset him loose from justice and humanity, he shewed none; mercilessly\ntrampled upon both,--heard neither the cries of the unfortunate, nor\npitied their distresses.'\n\n(I have been in many a battle, an' please your Honour, quoth Trim,\nsighing, but never in so melancholy a one as this,--I would not have\ndrawn a tricker in it against these poor souls,--to have been made a\ngeneral officer.--Why? what do you understand of the affair? said Dr.\nSlop, looking towards Trim, with something more of contempt than the\nCorporal's honest heart deserved.--What do you know, friend, about this\nbattle you talk of?--I know, replied Trim, that I never refused quarter\nin my life to any man who cried out for it;--but to a woman or a child,\ncontinued Trim, before I would level my musket at them, I would loose\nmy life a thousand times.--Here's a crown for thee, Trim, to drink with\nObadiah to-night, quoth my uncle Toby, and I'll give Obadiah another\ntoo.--God bless your Honour, replied Trim,--I had rather these poor\nwomen and children had it.--thou art an honest fellow, quoth my uncle\nToby.--My father nodded his head, as much as to say--and so he is.--\n\nBut prithee, Trim, said my father, make an end,--for I see thou hast but\na leaf or two left.\n\nCorporal Trim read on.)\n\n'If the testimony of past centuries in this matter is not\nsufficient,--consider at this instant, how the votaries of that religion\nare every day thinking to do service and honour to God, by actions which\nare a dishonour and scandal to themselves.\n\n'To be convinced of this, go with me for a moment into the prisons of\nthe Inquisition.'--(God help my poor brother Tom.)--'Behold Religion,\nwith Mercy and Justice chained down under her feet,--there sitting\nghastly upon a black tribunal, propped up with racks and instruments of\ntorment. Hark!--hark! what a piteous groan!'--(Here Trim's face turned\nas pale as ashes.)--'See the melancholy wretch who uttered it'--(Here\nthe tears began to trickle down)--'just brought forth to undergo the\nanguish of a mock trial, and endure the utmost pains that a studied\nsystem of cruelty has been able to invent.'--(D..n them all, quoth\nTrim, his colour returning into his face as red as blood.)--'Behold this\nhelpless victim delivered up to his tormentors,--his body so wasted with\nsorrow and confinement.'--(Oh! 'tis my brother, cried poor Trim in a\nmost passionate exclamation, dropping the sermon upon the ground, and\nclapping his hands together--I fear 'tis poor Tom. My father's and my\nuncle Toby's heart yearned with sympathy for the poor fellow's distress;\neven Slop himself acknowledged pity for him.--Why, Trim, said my father,\nthis is not a history,--'tis a sermon thou art reading; prithee begin\nthe sentence again.)--'Behold this helpless victim delivered up to his\ntormentors,--his body so wasted with sorrow and confinement, you will\nsee every nerve and muscle as it suffers.\n\n'Observe the last movement of that horrid engine!'--(I would rather face\na cannon, quoth Trim, stamping.)--'See what convulsions it has thrown\nhim into!--Consider the nature of the posture in which he how lies\nstretched,--what exquisite tortures he endures by it!'--(I hope 'tis not\nin Portugal.)--''Tis all nature can bear! Good God! see how it keeps his\nweary soul hanging upon his trembling lips!' (I would not read another\nline of it, quoth Trim for all this world;--I fear, an' please your\nHonours, all this is in Portugal, where my poor brother Tom is. I\ntell thee, Trim, again, quoth my father, 'tis not an historical\naccount,--'tis a description.--'Tis only a description, honest man,\nquoth Slop, there's not a word of truth in it.--That's another\nstory, replied my father.--However, as Trim reads it with so much\nconcern,--'tis cruelty to force him to go on with it.--Give me hold of\nthe sermon, Trim,--I'll finish it for thee, and thou may'st go. I must\nstay and hear it too, replied Trim, if your Honour will allow me;--tho'\nI would not read it myself for a Colonel's pay.--Poor Trim! quoth my\nuncle Toby. My father went on.)\n\n'--Consider the nature of the posture in which he now lies\nstretched,--what exquisite torture he endures by it!--'Tis all nature\ncan bear! Good God! See how it keeps his weary soul hanging upon\nhis trembling lips,--willing to take its leave,--but not suffered to\ndepart!--Behold the unhappy wretch led back to his cell!'--(Then, thank\nGod, however, quoth Trim, they have not killed him.)--'See him dragged\nout of it again to meet the flames, and the insults in his last agonies,\nwhich this principle,--this principle, that there can be religion\nwithout mercy, has prepared for him.'--(Then, thank God,--he is dead,\nquoth Trim,--he is out of his pain,--and they have done their worst at\nhim.--O Sirs!--Hold your peace, Trim, said my father, going on with the\nsermon, lest Trim should incense Dr. Slop,--we shall never have done at\nthis rate.)\n\n'The surest way to try the merit of any disputed notion is, to trace\ndown the consequences such a notion has produced, and compare them with\nthe spirit of Christianity;--'tis the short and decisive rule which our\nSaviour hath left us, for these and such like cases, and it is worth a\nthousand arguments--By their fruits ye shall know them.\n\n'I will add no farther to the length of this sermon, than by two or\nthree short and independent rules deducible from it.\n\n'First, Whenever a man talks loudly against religion, always suspect\nthat it is not his reason, but his passions, which have got the\nbetter of his Creed. A bad life and a good belief are disagreeable and\ntroublesome neighbours, and where they separate, depend upon it, 'tis\nfor no other cause but quietness sake.\n\n'Secondly, When a man, thus represented, tells you in any particular\ninstance,--That such a thing goes against his conscience,--always\nbelieve he means exactly the same thing, as when he tells you such\na thing goes against his stomach;--a present want of appetite being\ngenerally the true cause of both.\n\n'In a word,--trust that man in nothing, who has not a Conscience in\nevery thing.\n\n'And, in your own case, remember this plain distinction, a mistake in\nwhich has ruined thousands,--that your conscience is not a law;--No,\nGod and reason made the law, and have placed conscience within you to\ndetermine;--not, like an Asiatic Cadi, according to the ebbs and flows\nof his own passions,--but like a British judge in this land of liberty\nand good sense, who makes no new law, but faithfully declares that law\nwhich he knows already written.'\n\nFinis.\n\nThou hast read the sermon extremely well, Trim, quoth my father.--If he\nhad spared his comments, replied Dr. Slop,--he would have read it much\nbetter. I should have read it ten times better, Sir, answered Trim, but\nthat my heart was so full.--That was the very reason, Trim, replied my\nfather, which has made thee read the sermon as well as thou hast done;\nand if the clergy of our church, continued my father, addressing himself\nto Dr. Slop, would take part in what they deliver as deeply as this poor\nfellow has done,--as their compositions are fine;--(I deny it, quoth\nDr. Slop)--I maintain it,--that the eloquence of our pulpits, with such\nsubjects to enflame it, would be a model for the whole world:--But alas!\ncontinued my father, and I own it, Sir, with sorrow, that, like French\npoliticians in this respect, what they gain in the cabinet they lose in\nthe field.--'Twere a pity, quoth my uncle, that this should be lost. I\nlike the sermon well, replied my father,--'tis dramatick,--and there is\nsomething in that way of writing, when skilfully managed, which catches\nthe attention.--We preach much in that way with us, said Dr. Slop.--I\nknow that very well, said my father,--but in a tone and manner which\ndisgusted Dr. Slop, full as much as his assent, simply, could have\npleased him.--But in this, added Dr. Slop, a little piqued,--our sermons\nhave greatly the advantage, that we never introduce any character\ninto them below a patriarch or a patriarch's wife, or a martyr or a\nsaint.--There are some very bad characters in this, however, said my\nfather, and I do not think the sermon a jot the worse for 'em.--But\npray, quoth my uncle Toby,--who's can this be?--How could it get into my\nStevinus? A man must be as great a conjurer as Stevinus, said my\nfather, to resolve the second question:--The first, I think, is not\nso difficult;--for unless my judgment greatly deceives me,--I know the\nauthor, for 'tis wrote, certainly, by the parson of the parish.\n\nThe similitude of the stile and manner of it, with those my father\nconstantly had heard preached in his parish-church, was the ground of\nhis conjecture,--proving it as strongly, as an argument a priori could\nprove such a thing to a philosophic mind, That it was Yorick's and no\none's else:--It was proved to be so, a posteriori, the day after, when\nYorick sent a servant to my uncle Toby's house to enquire after it.\n\nIt seems that Yorick, who was inquisitive after all kinds of knowledge,\nhad borrowed Stevinus of my uncle Toby, and had carelesly popped his\nsermon, as soon as he had made it, into the middle of Stevinus; and\nby an act of forgetfulness, to which he was ever subject, he had sent\nStevinus home, and his sermon to keep him company.\n\nIll-fated sermon! Thou wast lost, after this recovery of thee, a second\ntime, dropped thru' an unsuspected fissure in thy master's pocket, down\ninto a treacherous and a tattered lining,--trod deep into the dirt by\nthe left hind-foot of his Rosinante inhumanly stepping upon thee as\nthou falledst;--buried ten days in the mire,--raised up out of it by\na beggar,--sold for a halfpenny to a parish-clerk,--transferred to\nhis parson,--lost for ever to thy own, the remainder of his days,--nor\nrestored to his restless Manes till this very moment, that I tell the\nworld the story.\n\nCan the reader believe, that this sermon of Yorick's was preached at an\nassize, in the cathedral of York, before a thousand witnesses, ready to\ngive oath of it, by a certain prebendary of that church, and actually\nprinted by him when he had done,--and within so short a space as two\nyears and three months after Yorick's death?--Yorick indeed, was never\nbetter served in his life;--but it was a little hard to maltreat him\nafter, and plunder him after he was laid in his grave.\n\nHowever, as the gentleman who did it was in perfect charity with\nYorick,--and, in conscious justice, printed but a few copies to give\naway;--and that I am told he could moreover have made as good a one\nhimself, had he thought fit,--I declare I would not have published this\nanecdote to the world;--nor do I publish it with an intent to hurt his\ncharacter and advancement in the church;--I leave that to others;--but I\nfind myself impelled by two reasons, which I cannot withstand.\n\nThe first is, That in doing justice, I may give rest to Yorick's\nghost;--which--as the country-people, and some others believe,--still\nwalks.\n\nThe second reason is, That, by laying open this story to the world,\nI gain an opportunity of informing it,--That in case the character of\nparson Yorick, and this sample of his sermons, is liked,--there are now\nin the possession of the Shandy family, as many as will make a handsome\nvolume, at the world's service,--and much good may they do it.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XLIII.\n\nObadiah gained the two crowns without dispute;--for he came in jingling,\nwith all the instruments in the green baize bag we spoke of, flung\nacross his body, just as Corporal Trim went out of the room.\n\nIt is now proper, I think, quoth Dr. Slop, (clearing up his looks) as\nwe are in a condition to be of some service to Mrs. Shandy, to send up\nstairs to know how she goes on.\n\nI have ordered, answered my father, the old midwife to come down to us\nupon the least difficulty;--for you must know, Dr. Slop, continued my\nfather, with a perplexed kind of a smile upon his countenance, that by\nexpress treaty, solemnly ratified between me and my wife, you are no\nmore than an auxiliary in this affair,--and not so much as that,--unless\nthe lean old mother of a midwife above stairs cannot do without\nyou.--Women have their particular fancies, and in points of this nature,\ncontinued my father, where they bear the whole burden, and suffer so\nmuch acute pain for the advantage of our families, and the good of\nthe species,--they claim a right of deciding, en Souveraines, in whose\nhands, and in what fashion, they choose to undergo it.\n\nThey are in the right of it,--quoth my uncle Toby. But Sir, replied Dr.\nSlop, not taking notice of my uncle Toby's opinion, but turning to my\nfather,--they had better govern in other points;--and a father of a\nfamily, who wishes its perpetuity, in my opinion, had better exchange\nthis prerogative with them, and give up some other rights in lieu of\nit.--I know not, quoth my father, answering a letter too testily, to be\nquite dispassionate in what he said,--I know not, quoth he, what we have\nleft to give up, in lieu of who shall bring our children into the world,\nunless that,--of who shall beget them.--One would almost give up\nany thing, replied Dr. Slop.--I beg your pardon,--answered my uncle\nToby.--Sir, replied Dr. Slop, it would astonish you to know what\nimprovements we have made of late years in all branches of obstetrical\nknowledge, but particularly in that one single point of the safe and\nexpeditious extraction of the foetus,--which has received such lights,\nthat, for my part (holding up his hand) I declare I wonder how the world\nhas--I wish, quoth my uncle Toby, you had seen what prodigious armies we\nhad in Flanders.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XLIV.\n\nI have dropped the curtain over this scene for a minute,--to remind you\nof one thing,--and to inform you of another.\n\nWhat I have to inform you, comes, I own, a little out of its due\ncourse;--for it should have been told a hundred and fifty pages ago,\nbut that I foresaw then 'twould come in pat hereafter, and be of more\nadvantage here than elsewhere.--Writers had need look before them, to\nkeep up the spirit and connection of what they have in hand.\n\nWhen these two things are done,--the curtain shall be drawn up again,\nand my uncle Toby, my father, and Dr. Slop, shall go on with their\ndiscourse, without any more interruption.\n\nFirst, then, the matter which I have to remind you of, is this;--that\nfrom the specimens of singularity in my father's notions in the point of\nChristian-names, and that other previous point thereto,--you was led, I\nthink, into an opinion,--(and I am sure I said as much) that my father\nwas a gentleman altogether as odd and whimsical in fifty other opinions.\nIn truth, there was not a stage in the life of man, from the very first\nact of his begetting,--down to the lean and slippered pantaloon in\nhis second childishness, but he had some favourite notion to himself,\nspringing out of it, as sceptical, and as far out of the high-way of\nthinking, as these two which have been explained.\n\n--Mr. Shandy, my father, Sir, would see nothing in the light in which\nothers placed it;--he placed things in his own light;--he would weigh\nnothing in common scales;--no, he was too refined a researcher to lie\nopen to so gross an imposition.--To come at the exact weight of things\nin the scientific steel-yard, the fulcrum, he would say, should be\nalmost invisible, to avoid all friction from popular tenets;--without\nthis the minutiae of philosophy, which would always turn the balance,\nwill have no weight at all. Knowledge, like matter, he would affirm,\nwas divisible in infinitum;--that the grains and scruples were as much a\npart of it, as the gravitation of the whole world.--In a word, he\nwould say, error was error,--no matter where it fell,--whether in a\nfraction,--or a pound,--'twas alike fatal to truth, and she was kept\ndown at the bottom of her well, as inevitably by a mistake in the dust\nof a butterfly's wing,--as in the disk of the sun, the moon, and all the\nstars of heaven put together.\n\nHe would often lament that it was for want of considering this properly,\nand of applying it skilfully to civil matters, as well as to speculative\ntruths, that so many things in this world were out of joint;--that the\npolitical arch was giving way;--and that the very foundations of our\nexcellent constitution in church and state, were so sapped as estimators\nhad reported.\n\nYou cry out, he would say, we are a ruined, undone people. Why? he would\nask, making use of the sorites or syllogism of Zeno and Chrysippus,\nwithout knowing it belonged to them.--Why? why are we a ruined\npeople?--Because we are corrupted.--Whence is it, dear Sir, that we\nare corrupted?--Because we are needy;--our poverty, and not our wills,\nconsent.--And wherefore, he would add, are we needy?--From the neglect,\nhe would answer, of our pence and our halfpence:--Our bank notes, Sir,\nour guineas,--nay our shillings take care of themselves.\n\n'Tis the same, he would say, throughout the whole circle of the\nsciences;--the great, the established points of them, are not to\nbe broke in upon.--The laws of nature will defend themselves;--but\nerror--(he would add, looking earnestly at my mother)--error, Sir,\ncreeps in thro' the minute holes and small crevices which human nature\nleaves unguarded.\n\nThis turn of thinking in my father, is what I had to remind you of:--The\npoint you are to be informed of, and which I have reserved for this\nplace, is as follows.\n\nAmongst the many and excellent reasons, with which my father had urged\nmy mother to accept of Dr. Slop's assistance preferably to that of the\nold woman,--there was one of a very singular nature; which, when he had\ndone arguing the matter with her as a Christian, and came to argue it\nover again with her as a philosopher, he had put his whole strength to,\ndepending indeed upon it as his sheet-anchor.--It failed him, tho' from\nno defect in the argument itself; but that, do what he could, he was\nnot able for his soul to make her comprehend the drift of it.--Cursed\nluck!--said he to himself, one afternoon, as he walked out of the room,\nafter he had been stating it for an hour and a half to her, to no\nmanner of purpose;--cursed luck! said he, biting his lip as he shut the\ndoor,--for a man to be master of one of the finest chains of reasoning\nin nature,--and have a wife at the same time with such a head-piece,\nthat he cannot hang up a single inference within side of it, to save his\nsoul from destruction.\n\nThis argument, though it was entirely lost upon my mother,--had more\nweight with him, than all his other arguments joined together:--I will\ntherefore endeavour to do it justice,--and set it forth with all the\nperspicuity I am master of.\n\nMy father set out upon the strength of these two following axioms:\n\nFirst, That an ounce of a man's own wit, was worth a ton of other\npeople's; and,\n\nSecondly, (Which by the bye, was the ground-work of the first\naxiom,--tho' it comes last) That every man's wit must come from every\nman's own soul,--and no other body's.\n\nNow, as it was plain to my father, that all souls were by nature\nequal,--and that the great difference between the most acute and the\nmost obtuse understanding--was from no original sharpness or bluntness\nof one thinking substance above or below another,--but arose merely from\nthe lucky or unlucky organization of the body, in that part where the\nsoul principally took up her residence,--he had made it the subject of\nhis enquiry to find out the identical place.\n\nNow, from the best accounts he had been able to get of this matter, he\nwas satisfied it could not be where Des Cartes had fixed it, upon the\ntop of the pineal gland of the brain; which, as he philosophized, formed\na cushion for her about the size of a marrow pea; tho' to speak the\ntruth, as so many nerves did terminate all in that one place,--'twas\nno bad conjecture;--and my father had certainly fallen with that great\nphilosopher plumb into the centre of the mistake, had it not been for\nmy uncle Toby, who rescued him out of it, by a story he told him of a\nWalloon officer at the battle of Landen, who had one part of his brain\nshot away by a musket-ball,--and another part of it taken out after by\na French surgeon; and after all, recovered, and did his duty very well\nwithout it.\n\nIf death, said my father, reasoning with himself, is nothing but the\nseparation of the soul from the body;--and if it is true that people can\nwalk about and do their business without brains,--then certes the soul\ndoes not inhabit there. Q.E.D.\n\nAs for that certain, very thin, subtle and very fragrant juice which\nCoglionissimo Borri, the great Milaneze physician affirms, in a letter\nto Bartholine, to have discovered in the cellulae of the occipital parts\nof the cerebellum, and which he likewise affirms to be the principal\nseat of the reasonable soul, (for, you must know, in these latter and\nmore enlightened ages, there are two souls in every man living,--the\none, according to the great Metheglingius, being called the Animus, the\nother, the Anima;)--as for the opinion, I say of Borri,--my father\ncould never subscribe to it by any means; the very idea of so noble, so\nrefined, so immaterial, and so exalted a being as the Anima, or even the\nAnimus, taking up her residence, and sitting dabbling, like a tad-pole\nall day long, both summer and winter, in a puddle,--or in a liquid\nof any kind, how thick or thin soever, he would say, shocked his\nimagination; he would scarce give the doctrine a hearing.\n\nWhat, therefore, seemed the least liable to objections of any, was that\nthe chief sensorium, or head-quarters of the soul, and to which place\nall intelligences were referred, and from whence all her mandates were\nissued,--was in, or near, the cerebellum,--or rather somewhere about the\nmedulla oblongata, wherein it was generally agreed by Dutch anatomists,\nthat all the minute nerves from all the organs of the seven senses\nconcentered, like streets and winding alleys, into a square.\n\nSo far there was nothing singular in my father's opinion,--he had\nthe best of philosophers, of all ages and climates, to go along with\nhim.--But here he took a road of his own, setting up another Shandean\nhypothesis upon these corner-stones they had laid for him;--and which\nsaid hypothesis equally stood its ground; whether the subtilty and\nfineness of the soul depended upon the temperature and clearness of\nthe said liquor, or of the finer net-work and texture in the cerebellum\nitself; which opinion he favoured.\n\nHe maintained, that next to the due care to be taken in the act of\npropagation of each individual, which required all the thought in the\nworld, as it laid the foundation of this incomprehensible contexture,\nin which wit, memory, fancy, eloquence, and what is usually meant by\nthe name of good natural parts, do consist;--that next to this and his\nChristian-name, which were the two original and most efficacious causes\nof all;--that the third cause, or rather what logicians call the Causa\nsina qua non, and without which all that was done was of no manner of\nsignificance,--was the preservation of this delicate and fine-spun\nweb, from the havock which was generally made in it by the violent\ncompression and crush which the head was made to undergo, by the\nnonsensical method of bringing us into the world by that foremost.\n\n--This requires explanation.\n\nMy father, who dipped into all kinds of books, upon looking into\nLithopaedus Senonesis de Portu difficili, (The author is here twice\nmistaken; for Lithopaedus should be wrote thus, Lithopaedii Senonensis\nIcon. The second mistake is, that this Lithopaedus is not an author,\nbut a drawing of a petrified child. The account of this, published by\nAthosius 1580, may be seen at the end of Cordaeus's works in Spachius.\nMr. Tristram Shandy has been led into this error, either from seeing\nLithopaedus's name of late in a catalogue of learned writers in Dr...,\nor by mistaking Lithopaedus for Trinecavellius,--from the too great\nsimilitude of the names.) published by Adrianus Smelvgot, had found out,\nthat the lax and pliable state of a child's head in parturition, the\nbones of the cranium having no sutures at that time, was such,--that by\nforce of the woman's efforts, which, in strong labour-pains, was\nequal, upon an average, to the weight of 470 pounds avoirdupois acting\nperpendicularly upon it;--it so happened, that in 49 instances out of\n50, the said head was compressed and moulded into the shape of an oblong\nconical piece of dough, such as a pastry-cook generally rolls up in\norder to make a pye of.--Good God! cried my father, what havock and\ndestruction must this make in the infinitely fine and tender texture of\nthe cerebellum!--Or if there is such a juice as Borri pretends--is it\nnot enough to make the clearest liquid in the world both seculent and\nmothery?\n\nBut how great was his apprehension, when he farther understood, that\nthis force acting upon the very vertex of the head, not only injured\nthe brain itself, or cerebrum,--but that it necessarily squeezed and\npropelled the cerebrum towards the cerebellum, which was the immediate\nseat of the understanding!--Angels and ministers of grace defend us!\ncried my father,--can any soul withstand this shock?--No wonder the\nintellectual web is so rent and tattered as we see it; and that so\nmany of our best heads are no better than a puzzled skein of silk,--all\nperplexity,--all confusion within-side.\n\nBut when my father read on, and was let into the secret, that when a\nchild was turned topsy-turvy, which was easy for an operator to do, and\nwas extracted by the feet;--that instead of the cerebrum being propelled\ntowards the cerebellum, the cerebellum, on the contrary, was propelled\nsimply towards the cerebrum, where it could do no manner of hurt:--By\nheavens! cried he, the world is in conspiracy to drive out what little\nwit God has given us,--and the professors of the obstetric art are\nlisted into the same conspiracy.--What is it to me which end of my son\ncomes foremost into the world, provided all goes right after, and his\ncerebellum escapes uncrushed?\n\nIt is the nature of an hypothesis, when once a man has conceived it,\nthat it assimilates every thing to itself, as proper nourishment; and,\nfrom the first moment of your begetting it, it generally grows the\nstronger by every thing you see, hear, read, or understand. This is of\ngreat use.\n\nWhen my father was gone with this about a month, there was scarce a\nphaenomenon of stupidity or of genius, which he could not readily solve\nby it;--it accounted for the eldest son being the greatest blockhead in\nthe family.--Poor devil, he would say,--he made way for the capacity of\nhis younger brothers.--It unriddled the observations of drivellers and\nmonstrous heads,--shewing a priori, it could not be otherwise,--unless...\nI don't know what. It wonderfully explained and accounted for the\nacumen of the Asiatic genius, and that sprightlier turn, and a more\npenetrating intuition of minds, in warmer climates; not from the\nloose and common-place solution of a clearer sky, and a more perpetual\nsunshine, &c.--which for aught he knew, might as well rarefy and dilute\nthe faculties of the soul into nothing, by one extreme,--as they are\ncondensed in colder climates by the other;--but he traced the affair up\nto its spring-head;--shewed that, in warmer climates, nature had laid\na lighter tax upon the fairest parts of the creation;--their pleasures\nmore;--the necessity of their pains less, insomuch that the pressure and\nresistance upon the vertex was so slight, that the whole organization\nof the cerebellum was preserved;--nay, he did not believe, in natural\nbirths, that so much as a single thread of the net-work was broke or\ndisplaced,--so that the soul might just act as she liked.\n\nWhen my father had got so far,--what a blaze of light did the accounts\nof the Caesarian section, and of the towering geniuses who had come safe\ninto the world by it, cast upon this hypothesis? Here you see, he would\nsay, there was no injury done to the sensorium;--no pressure of the\nhead against the pelvis;--no propulsion of the cerebrum towards the\ncerebellum, either by the os pubis on this side, or os coxygis on\nthat;--and pray, what were the happy consequences? Why, Sir, your Julius\nCaesar, who gave the operation a name;--and your Hermes Trismegistus,\nwho was born so before ever the operation had a name;--your Scipio\nAfricanus; your Manlius Torquatus; our Edward the Sixth,--who, had he\nlived, would have done the same honour to the hypothesis:--These, and\nmany more who figured high in the annals of fame,--all came side-way,\nSir, into the world.\n\nThe incision of the abdomen and uterus ran for six weeks together in\nmy father's head;--he had read, and was satisfied, that wounds in the\nepigastrium, and those in the matrix, were not mortal;--so that the\nbelly of the mother might be opened extremely well to give a passage to\nthe child.--He mentioned the thing one afternoon to my mother,--merely\nas a matter of fact; but seeing her turn as pale as ashes at the very\nmention of it, as much as the operation flattered his hopes,--he\nthought it as well to say no more of it,--contenting himself with\nadmiring,--what he thought was to no purpose to propose.\n\nThis was my father Mr. Shandy's hypothesis; concerning which I have only\nto add, that my brother Bobby did as great honour to it (whatever he did\nto the family) as any one of the great heroes we spoke of: For happening\nnot only to be christened, as I told you, but to be born too, when my\nfather was at Epsom,--being moreover my mother's first child,--coming\ninto the world with his head foremost,--and turning out afterwards a lad\nof wonderful slow parts,--my father spelt all these together into his\nopinion: and as he had failed at one end,--he was determined to try the\nother.\n\nThis was not to be expected from one of the sisterhood, who are not\neasily to be put out of their way,--and was therefore one of my father's\ngreat reasons in favour of a man of science, whom he could better deal\nwith.\n\nOf all men in the world, Dr. Slop was the fittest for my father's\npurpose;--for though this new-invented forceps was the armour he\nhad proved, and what he maintained to be the safest instrument of\ndeliverance, yet, it seems, he had scattered a word or two in his book,\nin favour of the very thing which ran in my father's fancy;--tho' not\nwith a view to the soul's good in extracting by the feet, as was my\nfather's system,--but for reasons merely obstetrical.\n\nThis will account for the coalition betwixt my father and Dr. Slop,\nin the ensuing discourse, which went a little hard against my uncle\nToby.--In what manner a plain man, with nothing but common sense, could\nbear up against two such allies in science,--is hard to conceive.--You\nmay conjecture upon it, if you please,--and whilst your imagination is\nin motion, you may encourage it to go on, and discover by what causes\nand effects in nature it could come to pass, that my uncle Toby got his\nmodesty by the wound he received upon his groin.--You may raise a system\nto account for the loss of my nose by marriage-articles,--and shew\nthe world how it could happen, that I should have the misfortune to be\ncalled Tristram, in opposition to my father's hypothesis, and the wish\nof the whole family, Godfathers and Godmothers not excepted.--These,\nwith fifty other points left yet unravelled, you may endeavour to solve\nif you have time;--but I tell you beforehand it will be in vain, for\nnot the sage Alquise, the magician in Don Belianis of Greece, nor the\nno less famous Urganda, the sorceress his wife, (were they alive) could\npretend to come within a league of the truth.\n\nThe reader will be content to wait for a full explanation of these\nmatters till the next year,--when a series of things will be laid open\nwhich he little expects.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XLV.\n\n--'I wish, Dr. Slop,' quoth my uncle Toby, (repeating his wish for Dr.\nSlop a second time, and with a degree of more zeal and earnestness in\nhis manner of wishing, than he had wished at first (Vide.))--'I wish,\nDr. Slop,' quoth my uncle Toby, 'you had seen what prodigious armies we\nhad in Flanders.'\n\nMy uncle Toby's wish did Dr. Slop a disservice which his heart never\nintended any man,--Sir, it confounded him--and thereby putting his ideas\nfirst into confusion, and then to flight, he could not rally them again\nfor the soul of him.\n\nIn all disputes,--male or female,--whether for honour, for profit,\nor for love,--it makes no difference in the case;--nothing is more\ndangerous, Madam, than a wish coming sideways in this unexpected manner\nupon a man: the safest way in general to take off the force of the wish,\nis for the party wish'd at, instantly to get upon his legs--and wish the\nwisher something in return, of pretty near the same value,--so balancing\nthe account upon the spot, you stand as you were--nay sometimes gain the\nadvantage of the attack by it.\n\nThis will be fully illustrated to the world in my chapter of wishes.--\n\nDr. Slop did not understand the nature of this defence;--he was puzzled\nwith it, and it put an entire stop to the dispute for four minutes and a\nhalf;--five had been fatal to it:--my father saw the danger--the dispute\nwas one of the most interesting disputes in the world, 'Whether the\nchild of his prayers and endeavours should be born without a head or\nwith one:'--he waited to the last moment, to allow Dr. Slop, in whose\nbehalf the wish was made, his right of returning it; but perceiving, I\nsay, that he was confounded, and continued looking with that perplexed\nvacuity of eye which puzzled souls generally stare with--first in my\nuncle Toby's face--then in his--then up--then down--then east--east and\nby east, and so on,--coasting it along by the plinth of the wainscot\ntill he had got to the opposite point of the compass,--and that he had\nactually begun to count the brass nails upon the arm of his chair,--my\nfather thought there was no time to be lost with my uncle Toby, so took\nup the discourse as follows.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XLVI.\n\n'--What prodigious armies you had in Flanders!'--\n\nBrother Toby, replied my father, taking his wig from off his head\nwith his right hand, and with his left pulling out a striped India\nhandkerchief from his right coat pocket, in order to rub his head, as he\nargued the point with my uncle Toby.--\n\n--Now, in this I think my father was much to blame; and I will give you\nmy reasons for it.\n\nMatters of no more seeming consequence in themselves than, 'Whether my\nfather should have taken off his wig with his right hand or with his\nleft,'--have divided the greatest kingdoms, and made the crowns of the\nmonarchs who governed them, to totter upon their heads.--But need I tell\nyou, Sir, that the circumstances with which every thing in this world\nis begirt, give every thing in this world its size and shape!--and by\ntightening it, or relaxing it, this way or that, make the thing to be,\nwhat it is--great--little--good--bad--indifferent or not indifferent,\njust as the case happens?\n\nAs my father's India handkerchief was in his right coat pocket, he\nshould by no means have suffered his right hand to have got engaged: on\nthe contrary, instead of taking off his wig with it, as he did, he ought\nto have committed that entirely to the left; and then, when the natural\nexigency my father was under of rubbing his head, called out for his\nhandkerchief, he would have had nothing in the world to have done,\nbut to have put his right hand into his right coat pocket and taken\nit out;--which he might have done without any violence, or the least\nungraceful twist in any one tendon or muscle of his whole body.\n\nIn this case, (unless, indeed, my father had been resolved to make a\nfool of himself by holding the wig stiff in his left hand--or by making\nsome nonsensical angle or other at his elbow-joint, or armpit)--his\nwhole attitude had been easy--natural--unforced: Reynolds himself, as\ngreat and gracefully as he paints, might have painted him as he sat.\n\nNow as my father managed this matter,--consider what a devil of a figure\nmy father made of himself.\n\nIn the latter end of Queen Anne's reign, and in the beginning of the\nreign of King George the first--'Coat pockets were cut very low down\nin the skirt.'--I need say no more--the father of mischief, had he been\nhammering at it a month, could not have contrived a worse fashion for\none in my father's situation.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XLVII.\n\nIt was not an easy matter in any king's reign (unless you were as lean\na subject as myself) to have forced your hand diagonally, quite\nacross your whole body, so as to gain the bottom of your opposite coat\npocket.--In the year one thousand seven hundred and eighteen, when\nthis happened, it was extremely difficult; so that when my uncle Toby\ndiscovered the transverse zig-zaggery of my father's approaches towards\nit, it instantly brought into his mind those he had done duty in, before\nthe gate of St. Nicolas;--the idea of which drew off his attention so\nintirely from the subject in debate, that he had got his right hand\nto the bell to ring up Trim to go and fetch his map of Namur, and his\ncompasses and sector along with it, to measure the returning angles of\nthe traverses of that attack,--but particularly of that one, where he\nreceived his wound upon his groin.\n\nMy father knit his brows, and as he knit them, all the blood in his body\nseemed to rush up into his face--my uncle Toby dismounted immediately.\n\n--I did not apprehend your uncle Toby was o'horseback.--\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XLVIII.\n\nA man's body and his mind, with the utmost reverence to both I speak it,\nare exactly like a jerkin, and a jerkin's lining;--rumple the one,--you\nrumple the other. There is one certain exception however in this case,\nand that is, when you are so fortunate a fellow, as to have had your\njerkin made of gum-taffeta, and the body-lining to it of a sarcenet, or\nthin persian.\n\nZeno, Cleanthes, Diogenes Babylonius, Dionysius, Heracleotes, Antipater,\nPanaetius, and Possidonius amongst the Greeks;--Cato and Varro and\nSeneca amongst the Romans;--Pantenus and Clemens Alexandrinus and\nMontaigne amongst the Christians; and a score and a half of good,\nhonest, unthinking Shandean people as ever lived, whose names I can't\nrecollect,--all pretended that their jerkins were made after this\nfashion,--you might have rumpled and crumpled, and doubled and creased,\nand fretted and fridged the outside of them all to pieces;--in short,\nyou might have played the very devil with them, and at the same time,\nnot one of the insides of them would have been one button the worse, for\nall you had done to them.\n\nI believe in my conscience that mine is made up somewhat after this\nsort:--for never poor jerkin has been tickled off at such a rate as it\nhas been these last nine months together,--and yet I declare, the lining\nto it,--as far as I am a judge of the matter,--is not a three-penny\npiece the worse;--pell-mell, helter-skelter, ding-dong, cut and thrust,\nback stroke and fore stroke, side way and long-way, have they\nbeen trimming it for me:--had there been the least gumminess in my\nlining,--by heaven! it had all of it long ago been frayed and fretted to\na thread.\n\n--You Messrs. the Monthly Reviewers!--how could you cut and slash my\njerkin as you did?--how did you know but you would cut my lining too?\n\nHeartily and from my soul, to the protection of that Being who will\ninjure none of us, do I recommend you and your affairs,--so God bless\nyou;--only next month, if any one of you should gnash his teeth, and\nstorm and rage at me, as some of you did last May (in which I remember\nthe weather was very hot)--don't be exasperated, if I pass it by again\nwith good temper,--(being determined as long as I live or write) which in\nmy case means the same thing) never to give the honest gentleman a worse\nword or a worse wish than my uncle Toby gave the fly which buzz'd about\nhis nose all dinner-time,--'Go,--go, poor devil,' quoth he,--'get thee\ngone,--why should I hurt thee! This world is surely wide enough to hold\nboth thee and me.'\n\n\n\nChapter 1.XLIX.\n\nAny man, Madam, reasoning upwards, and observing the prodigious\nsuffusion of blood in my father's countenance,--by means of which (as\nall the blood in his body seemed to rush into his face, as I told you)\nhe must have reddened, pictorically and scientifically speaking,\nsix whole tints and a half, if not a full octave above his natural\ncolour:--any man, Madam, but my uncle Toby, who had observed this,\ntogether with the violent knitting of my father's brows, and the\nextravagant contortion of his body during the whole affair,--would have\nconcluded my father in a rage; and taking that for granted,--had he\nbeen a lover of such kind of concord as arises from two such instruments\nbeing put in exact tune,--he would instantly have skrew'd up his, to\nthe same pitch;--and then the devil and all had broke loose--the\nwhole piece, Madam, must have been played off like the sixth of Avison\nScarlatti--con furia,--like mad.--Grant me patience!--What has con\nfuria,--con strepito,--or any other hurly burly whatever to do with\nharmony?\n\nAny man, I say, Madam, but my uncle Toby, the benignity of whose heart\ninterpreted every motion of the body in the kindest sense the motion\nwould admit of, would have concluded my father angry, and blamed\nhim too. My uncle Toby blamed nothing but the taylor who cut the\npocket-hole;--so sitting still till my father had got his handkerchief\nout of it, and looking all the time up in his face with inexpressible\ngood-will--my father, at length, went on as follows.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.L.\n\n'What prodigious armies you had in Flanders!'\n\n--Brother Toby, quoth my father, I do believe thee to be as honest a\nman, and with as good and as upright a heart as ever God created;--nor\nis it thy fault, if all the children which have been, may, can, shall,\nwill, or ought to be begotten, come with their heads foremost into\nthe world:--but believe me, dear Toby, the accidents which unavoidably\nway-lay them, not only in the article of our begetting 'em--though\nthese, in my opinion, are well worth considering,--but the dangers and\ndifficulties our children are beset with, after they are got forth into\nthe world, are enow--little need is there to expose them to unnecessary\nones in their passage to it.--Are these dangers, quoth my uncle Toby,\nlaying his hand upon my father's knee, and looking up seriously in his\nface for an answer,--are these dangers greater now o'days, brother,\nthan in times past? Brother Toby, answered my father, if a child was but\nfairly begot, and born alive, and healthy, and the mother did well after\nit,--our forefathers never looked farther.--My uncle Toby instantly\nwithdrew his hand from off my father's knee, reclined his body gently\nback in his chair, raised his head till he could just see the cornice of\nthe room, and then directing the buccinatory muscles along his cheeks,\nand the orbicular muscles around his lips to do their duty--he whistled\nLillabullero.\n\n\n\nChapter 1.LI.\n\nWhilst my uncle Toby was whistling Lillabullero to my father,--Dr. Slop\nwas stamping, and cursing and damning at Obadiah at a most dreadful\nrate,--it would have done your heart good, and cured you, Sir, for\never of the vile sin of swearing, to have heard him, I am determined\ntherefore to relate the whole affair to you.\n\nWhen Dr. Slop's maid delivered the green baize bag with her master's\ninstruments in it, to Obadiah, she very sensibly exhorted him to put his\nhead and one arm through the strings, and ride with it slung across his\nbody: so undoing the bow-knot, to lengthen the strings for him, without\nany more ado, she helped him on with it. However, as this, in some\nmeasure, unguarded the mouth of the bag, lest any thing should bolt out\nin galloping back, at the speed Obadiah threatened, they consulted to\ntake it off again: and in the great care and caution of their hearts,\nthey had taken the two strings and tied them close (pursing up the mouth\nof the bag first) with half a dozen hard knots, each of which Obadiah,\nto make all safe, had twitched and drawn together with all the strength\nof his body.\n\nThis answered all that Obadiah and the maid intended; but was no remedy\nagainst some evils which neither he or she foresaw. The instruments, it\nseems, as tight as the bag was tied above, had so much room to play in\nit, towards the bottom (the shape of the bag being conical) that Obadiah\ncould not make a trot of it, but with such a terrible jingle, what with\nthe tire tete, forceps, and squirt, as would have been enough, had Hymen\nbeen taking a jaunt that way, to have frightened him out of the country;\nbut when Obadiah accelerated his motion, and from a plain trot assayed\nto prick his coach-horse into a full gallop--by Heaven! Sir, the jingle\nwas incredible.\n\nAs Obadiah had a wife and three children--the turpitude of fornication,\nand the many other political ill consequences of this jingling, never\nonce entered his brain,--he had however his objection, which came home\nto himself, and weighed with him, as it has oft-times done with the\ngreatest patriots.--'The poor fellow, Sir, was not able to hear himself\nwhistle.'\n\n\n\nChapter 1.LII.\n\nAs Obadiah loved wind-music preferably to all the instrumental music he\ncarried with him,--he very considerately set his imagination to work,\nto contrive and to invent by what means he should put himself in a\ncondition of enjoying it.\n\nIn all distresses (except musical) where small cords are wanted, nothing\nis so apt to enter a man's head as his hat-band:--the philosophy of this\nis so near the surface--I scorn to enter into it.\n\nAs Obadiah's was a mixed case--mark, Sirs,--I say, a mixed case; for it\nwas obstetrical,--scrip-tical, squirtical, papistical--and as far as\nthe coach-horse was concerned in it,--caballistical--and only partly\nmusical;--Obadiah made no scruple of availing himself of the first\nexpedient which offered; so taking hold of the bag and instruments, and\ngriping them hard together with one hand, and with the finger and thumb\nof the other putting the end of the hat-band betwixt his teeth, and then\nslipping his hand down to the middle of it,--he tied and cross-tied them\nall fast together from one end to the other (as you would cord a trunk)\nwith such a multiplicity of round-abouts and intricate cross turns, with\na hard knot at every intersection or point where the strings met,--that\nDr. Slop must have had three fifths of Job's patience at least to have\nunloosed them.--I think in my conscience, that had Nature been in one of\nher nimble moods, and in humour for such a contest--and she and Dr. Slop\nboth fairly started together--there is no man living which had seen the\nbag with all that Obadiah had done to it,--and known likewise the great\nspeed the Goddess can make when she thinks proper, who would have had\nthe least doubt remaining in his mind--which of the two would have\ncarried off the prize. My mother, Madam, had been delivered sooner than\nthe green bag infallibly--at least by twenty knots.--Sport of small\naccidents, Tristram Shandy! that thou art, and ever will be! had that\ntrial been for thee, and it was fifty to one but it had,--thy affairs\nhad not been so depress'd--(at least by the depression of thy nose) as\nthey have been; nor had the fortunes of thy house and the occasions of\nmaking them, which have so often presented themselves in the course\nof thy life, to thee, been so often, so vexatiously, so tamely, so\nirrecoverably abandoned--as thou hast been forced to leave them;--but\n'tis over,--all but the account of 'em, which cannot be given to the\ncurious till I am got out into the world.\n\nEnd of the first volume.\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY, GENT.--VOLUME THE SECOND\n\n\n     Multitudinis imperitae non formido judicia, meis tamen,\n     rogo, parcant opusculis--in quibus fuit propositi semper, a\n     jocis ad seria, in seriis vicissim ad jocos transire.\n\n     Joan. Saresberiensis,\n     Episcopus Lugdun.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.I.\n\nGreat wits jump: for the moment Dr. Slop cast his eyes upon his bag\n(which he had not done till the dispute with my uncle Toby about\nmid-wifery put him in mind of it)--the very same thought occurred.--'Tis\nGod's mercy, quoth he (to himself) that Mrs. Shandy has had so bad a\ntime of it,--else she might have been brought to bed seven times told,\nbefore one half of these knots could have got untied.--But here you must\ndistinguish--the thought floated only in Dr. Slop's mind, without sail\nor ballast to it, as a simple proposition; millions of which, as your\nworship knows, are every day swimming quietly in the middle of the\nthin juice of a man's understanding, without being carried backwards or\nforwards, till some little gusts of passion or interest drive them to\none side.\n\nA sudden trampling in the room above, near my mother's bed, did\nthe proposition the very service I am speaking of. By all that's\nunfortunate, quoth Dr. Slop, unless I make haste, the thing will\nactually befall me as it is.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.II.\n\nIn the case of knots,--by which, in the first place, I would not be\nunderstood to mean slip-knots--because in the course of my life and\nopinions--my opinions concerning them will come in more properly when I\nmention the catastrophe of my great uncle Mr. Hammond Shandy,--a\nlittle man,--but of high fancy:--he rushed into the duke of Monmouth's\naffair:--nor, secondly, in this place, do I mean that particular species\nof knots called bow-knots;--there is so little address, or skill, or\npatience required in the unloosing them, that they are below my giving\nany opinion at all about them.--But by the knots I am speaking of, may\nit please your reverences to believe, that I mean good, honest, devilish\ntight, hard knots, made bona fide, as Obadiah made his;--in which there\nis no quibbling provision made by the duplication and return of the\ntwo ends of the strings thro' the annulus or noose made by the second\nimplication of them--to get them slipp'd and undone by.--I hope you\napprehend me.\n\nIn the case of these knots then, and of the several obstructions, which,\nmay it please your reverences, such knots cast in our way in getting\nthrough life--every hasty man can whip out his pen-knife and cut through\nthem.--'Tis wrong. Believe me, Sirs, the most virtuous way, and which\nboth reason and conscience dictate--is to take our teeth or our fingers\nto them.--Dr. Slop had lost his teeth--his favourite instrument, by\nextracting in a wrong direction, or by some misapplication of it,\nunfortunately slipping, he had formerly, in a hard labour, knock'd\nout three of the best of them with the handle of it:--he tried his\nfingers--alas; the nails of his fingers and thumbs were cut close.--The\nduce take it! I can make nothing of it either way, cried Dr. Slop.--The\ntrampling over head near my mother's bed-side increased.--Pox take the\nfellow! I shall never get the knots untied as long as I live.--My mother\ngave a groan.--Lend me your penknife--I must e'en cut the knots at\nlast--pugh!--psha!--Lord! I have cut my thumb quite across to the very\nbone--curse the fellow--if there was not another man-midwife within\nfifty miles--I am undone for this bout--I wish the scoundrel hang'd--I\nwish he was shot--I wish all the devils in hell had him for a\nblockhead--!\n\nMy father had a great respect for Obadiah, and could not bear to hear\nhim disposed of in such a manner--he had moreover some little respect\nfor himself--and could as ill bear with the indignity offered to himself\nin it.\n\nHad Dr. Slop cut any part about him, but his thumb--my father had pass'd\nit by--his prudence had triumphed: as it was, he was determined to have\nhis revenge.\n\nSmall curses, Dr. Slop, upon great occasions, quoth my father (condoling\nwith him first upon the accident) are but so much waste of our strength\nand soul's health to no manner of purpose.--I own it, replied Dr.\nSlop.--They are like sparrow-shot, quoth my uncle Toby (suspending his\nwhistling) fired against a bastion.--They serve, continued my father,\nto stir the humours--but carry off none of their acrimony:--for my own\npart, I seldom swear or curse at all--I hold it bad--but if I fall into\nit by surprize, I generally retain so much presence of mind (right,\nquoth my uncle Toby) as to make it answer my purpose--that is, I swear\non till I find myself easy. A wife and a just man however would always\nendeavour to proportion the vent given to these humours, not only to the\ndegree of them stirring within himself--but to the size and ill intent\nof the offence upon which they are to fall.--'Injuries come only from\nthe heart,'--quoth my uncle Toby. For this reason, continued my father,\nwith the most Cervantick gravity, I have the greatest veneration in the\nworld for that gentleman, who, in distrust of his own discretion in\nthis point, sat down and composed (that is at his leisure) fit forms\nof swearing suitable to all cases, from the lowest to the highest\nprovocation which could possibly happen to him--which forms being well\nconsidered by him, and such moreover as he could stand to, he kept them\never by him on the chimney-piece, within his reach, ready for use.--I\nnever apprehended, replied Dr. Slop, that such a thing was ever thought\nof--much less executed. I beg your pardon, answered my father; I was\nreading, though not using, one of them to my brother Toby this\nmorning, whilst he pour'd out the tea--'tis here upon the shelf over\nmy head;--but if I remember right, 'tis too violent for a cut of the\nthumb.--Not at all, quoth Dr. Slop--the devil take the fellow.--Then,\nanswered my father, 'Tis much at your service, Dr. Slop--on condition\nyou will read it aloud;--so rising up and reaching down a form of\nexcommunication of the church of Rome, a copy of which, my father (who\nwas curious in his collections) had procured out of the leger-book\nof the church of Rochester, writ by Ernulphus the bishop--with a\nmost affected seriousness of look and voice, which might have cajoled\nErnulphus himself--he put it into Dr. Slop's hands.--Dr. Slop wrapt his\nthumb up in the corner of his handkerchief, and with a wry face, though\nwithout any suspicion, read aloud, as follows--my uncle Toby whistling\nLillabullero as loud as he could all the time.\n\n(As the geniuneness of the consultation of the Sorbonne upon the\nquestion of baptism, was doubted by some, and denied by others--'twas\nthought proper to print the original of this excommunication; for the\ncopy of which Mr. Shandy returns thanks to the chapter clerk of the dean\nand chapter of Rochester.)\n\n\n\nChapter 2.III.\n\n  Textus de Ecclesia Roffensi, per Ernulfum Episcopum.\n\n  Excommunicatio.\n\n  Ex auctoritate Dei omnipotentis, Patris, et Filij, et Spiritus Sancti, et\n  sanctorum canonum, sanctaeque et entemeratae Virginis Dei genetricis\n  Mariae,--\n\n  --Atque omnium coelestium virtutum, angelorum, archangelorum, thronorum,\n  dominationum, potestatuum, cherubin ac seraphin, & sanctorum patriarchum,\n  prophetarum, & omnium apolstolorum & evangelistarum, & sanctorum\n  innocentum, qui in conspectu Agni soli digni inventi sunt canticum cantare\n  novum, et sanctorum martyrum et sanctorum confessorum, et sanctarum\n  virginum, atque omnium simul sanctorum et electorum Dei,--Excommunicamus,\n  et\n  vel\n  os s vel\n  os\n  anathematizamus hunc furem, vel hunc\n  Os\n  malefactorem, N.N. et a liminibus sanctae Dei ecclesiae sequestramus, et\n  aeternis\n  vel i n\n  suppliciis excruciandus, mancipetur, cum Dathan et Abiram, et cum his qui\n  dixerunt Domino Deo, Recede a nobis, scientiam viarum tuarum nolumus:  et\n  ficut aqua ignis extinguatur lu-  vel eorum\n  cerna ejus in secula seculorum nisi resque-  n n\n  rit, et ad satisfactionem venerit.  Amen.\n  os\n  Maledicat illum Deus Pater qui homi-  os\n  nem creavit.  Maledicat illum Dei Filius qui pro homine passus est.\n  Maledicat\n  os\n  illum Spiritus Sanctus qui in baptismo ef-\n  os\n  fusus est.  Maledicat illum sancta crux, quam Christus pro nostra salute\n  hostem triumphans ascendit.\n  os\n  Maledicat illum sancta Dei genetrix et\n  os\n  perpetua Virgo Maria.  Maledicat illum sanctus Michael, animarum susceptor\n  sa-\n  os\n  crarum.  Maledicant illum omnes angeli et archangeli, principatus et\n  potestates, omnisque militia coelestis.\n  os\n  Maledicat illum patriarcharum et prophetarum laudabilis numerus.  Maledicat\n  os\n  illum sanctus Johannes Praecursor et Baptista Christi, et sanctus Petrus,\n  et sanctus Paulus, atque sanctus Andreas, omnesque Christi apostoli, simul\n  et caeteri discipuli, quatuor quoque evangelistae, qui sua praedicatione\n  mundum universum converte-\n  os\n  runt.  Maledicat illum cuneus martyrum et confessorum mirificus, qui Deo\n  bonis operibus placitus inventus est.\n  os\n  Maledicant illum sacrarum virginum chori, quae mundi vana causa honoris\n  Christi respuenda contempserunt.  Male-  os\n  dicant illum omnes sancti qui ab initio mundi usque in finem seculi Deo\n  dilecti inveniuntur.\n  os\n  Maledicant illum coeli et terra, et omnia sancta in eis manentia.\n  i n  n\n  Maledictus sit ubicunque, fuerit, sive in domo, sive in agro, sive in via,\n  sive in semita, sive in silva, sive in aqua, sive in ecclesia.\n  i  n\n  Maledictus sit vivendo, moriendo,---\n  manducando, bibendo, esuriendo, sitiendo, jejunando, dormitando, dormiendo,\n  vigilando, ambulando, stando, sedendo, jacendo, operando, quiescendo,\n  mingendo, cacando, flebotomando.\n  i  n\n  Maledictus sit in totis viribus corporis.\n  i  n\n  Maledictus sit intus et exterius.\n  i  n  i\n  Maledictus sit in capillis; maledictus\n  n   i  n\n  sit in cerebro.  Maledictus sit in vertice, in temporibus, in fronte, in\n  auriculis, in superciliis, in oculis, in genis, in maxillis, in naribus, in\n  dentibus, mordacibus, in labris sive molibus, in labiis, in guttere, in\n  humeris, in harnis, in brachiis, in manubus, in digitis, in pectore, in\n  corde, et in omnibus interioribus stomacho tenus, in renibus, in\n  inguinibus, in femore, in genitalibus, in coxis, in genubus, in cruribus,\n  in pedibus, et in unguibus.\n\n  Maledictus sit in totis compagibus membrorum, a vertice capitis, usque ad\n  plantam pedis--non sit in eo sanitas.\n\n  Maledicat illum Christus Filius Dei vivi toto suae majestatis imperio--\n  --et insurgat adversus illum coelum cum omnibus virtutibus quae in eo\n  moventur ad damnandum eum, nisi penituerit et ad satisfactionem venerit.\n  Amen.  Fiat, fiat.  Amen.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.IV.\n\n'By the authority of God Almighty, the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,\nand of the holy canons, and of the undefiled Virgin Mary, mother and\npatroness of our Saviour.' I think there is no necessity, quoth Dr.\nSlop, dropping the paper down to his knee, and addressing himself to my\nfather--as you have read it over, Sir, so lately, to read it aloud--and\nas Captain Shandy seems to have no great inclination to hear it--I\nmay as well read it to myself. That's contrary to treaty, replied my\nfather:--besides, there is something so whimsical, especially in the\nlatter part of it, I should grieve to lose the pleasure of a second\nreading. Dr. Slop did not altogether like it,--but my uncle Toby\noffering at that instant to give over whistling, and read it himself to\nthem;--Dr. Slop thought he might as well read it under the cover of my\nuncle Toby's whistling--as suffer my uncle Toby to read it alone;--so\nraising up the paper to his face, and holding it quite parallel to it,\nin order to hide his chagrin--he read it aloud as follows--my uncle Toby\nwhistling Lillabullero, though not quite so loud as before.\n\n'By the authority of God Almighty, the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, and\nof the undefiled Virgin Mary, mother and patroness of our Saviour, and\nof all the celestial virtues, angels, archangels, thrones, dominions,\npowers, cherubins and seraphins, and of all the holy patriarchs,\nprophets, and of all the apostles and evangelists, and of the holy\ninnocents, who in the sight of the Holy Lamb, are found worthy to sing\nthe new song of the holy martyrs and holy confessors, and of the holy\nvirgins, and of all the saints together, with the holy and elect\nof God,--May he' (Obadiah) 'be damn'd' (for tying these knots)--'We\nexcommunicate, and anathematize him, and from the thresholds of the\nholy church of God Almighty we sequester him, that he may be tormented,\ndisposed, and delivered over with Dathan and Abiram, and with those who\nsay unto the Lord God, Depart from us, we desire none of thy ways. And\nas fire is quenched with water, so let the light of him be put out for\nevermore, unless it shall repent him' (Obadiah, of the knots which he\nhas tied) 'and make satisfaction' (for them) 'Amen.\n\n'May the Father who created man, curse him.--May the Son who suffered\nfor us curse him.--May the Holy Ghost, who was given to us in baptism,\ncurse him' (Obadiah)--'May the holy cross which Christ, for our\nsalvation triumphing over his enemies, ascended, curse him.\n\n'May the holy and eternal Virgin Mary, mother of God, curse him.--May\nSt. Michael, the advocate of holy souls, curse him.--May all the angels\nand archangels, principalities and powers, and all the heavenly armies,\ncurse him.' (Our armies swore terribly in Flanders, cried my uncle\nToby,--but nothing to this.--For my own part I could not have a heart to\ncurse my dog so.)\n\n'May St. John, the Praecursor, and St. John the Baptist, and St. Peter\nand St. Paul, and St. Andrew, and all other Christ's apostles, together\ncurse him. And may the rest of his disciples and four evangelists, who\nby their preaching converted the universal world, and may the holy and\nwonderful company of martyrs and confessors who by their holy works are\nfound pleasing to God Almighty, curse him' (Obadiah.)\n\n'May the holy choir of the holy virgins, who for the honour of Christ\nhave despised the things of the world, damn him--May all the saints,\nwho from the beginning of the world to everlasting ages are found to be\nbeloved of God, damn him--May the heavens and earth, and all the holy\nthings remaining therein, damn him,' (Obadiah) 'or her,' (or whoever\nelse had a hand in tying these knots.)\n\n'May he (Obadiah) be damn'd wherever he be--whether in the house or the\nstables, the garden or the field, or the highway, or in the path, or\nin the wood, or in the water, or in the church.--May he be cursed in\nliving, in dying.' (Here my uncle Toby, taking the advantage of a minim\nin the second bar of his tune, kept whistling one continued note to the\nend of the sentence.--Dr. Slop, with his division of curses moving under\nhim, like a running bass all the way.) 'May he be cursed in eating and\ndrinking, in being hungry, in being thirsty, in fasting, in sleeping, in\nslumbering, in walking, in standing, in sitting, in lying, in working,\nin resting, in pissing, in shitting, and in blood-letting!\n\n'May he' (Obadiah) 'be cursed in all the faculties of his body!\n\n'May he be cursed inwardly and outwardly!--May he be cursed in the hair\nof his head!--May he be cursed in his brains, and in his vertex,' (that\nis a sad curse, quoth my father) 'in his temples, in his forehead, in\nhis ears, in his eye-brows, in his cheeks, in his jaw-bones, in his\nnostrils, in his fore-teeth and grinders, in his lips, in his throat, in\nhis shoulders, in his wrists, in his arms, in his hands, in his fingers!\n\n'May he be damn'd in his mouth, in his breast, in his heart and\npurtenance, down to the very stomach!\n\n'May he be cursed in his reins, and in his groin,' (God in heaven\nforbid! quoth my uncle Toby) 'in his thighs, in his genitals,' (my\nfather shook his head) 'and in his hips, and in his knees, his legs, and\nfeet, and toe-nails!\n\n'May he be cursed in all the joints and articulations of the members,\nfrom the top of his head to the sole of his foot! May there be no\nsoundness in him!\n\n'May the son of the living God, with all the glory of his\nMajesty'--(Here my uncle Toby, throwing back his head, gave a monstrous,\nlong, loud Whew--w--w--something betwixt the interjectional whistle of\nHay-day! and the word itself.)--\n\n--By the golden beard of Jupiter--and of Juno (if her majesty wore one)\nand by the beards of the rest of your heathen worships, which by the bye\nwas no small number, since what with the beards of your celestial gods,\nand gods aerial and aquatick--to say nothing of the beards of town-gods\nand country-gods, or of the celestial goddesses your wives, or of the\ninfernal goddesses your whores and concubines (that is in case they wore\nthem)--all which beards, as Varro tells me, upon his word and honour,\nwhen mustered up together, made no less than thirty thousand effective\nbeards upon the Pagan establishment;--every beard of which claimed the\nrights and privileges of being stroken and sworn by--by all these beards\ntogether then--I vow and protest, that of the two bad cassocks I am\nworth in the world, I would have given the better of them, as freely as\never Cid Hamet offered his--to have stood by, and heard my uncle Toby's\naccompanyment.\n\n--'curse him!'--continued Dr. Slop,--'and may heaven, with all the\npowers which move therein, rise up against him, curse and damn him'\n(Obadiah) 'unless he repent and make satisfaction! Amen. So be it,--so\nbe it. Amen.'\n\nI declare, quoth my uncle Toby, my heart would not let me curse the\ndevil himself with so much bitterness.--He is the father of curses,\nreplied Dr. Slop.--So am not I, replied my uncle.--But he is cursed, and\ndamn'd already, to all eternity, replied Dr. Slop.\n\nI am sorry for it, quoth my uncle Toby.\n\nDr. Slop drew up his mouth, and was just beginning to return my uncle\nToby the compliment of his Whu--u--u--or interjectional whistle--when\nthe door hastily opening in the next chapter but one--put an end to the\naffair.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.V.\n\nNow don't let us give ourselves a parcel of airs, and pretend that the\noaths we make free with in this land of liberty of ours are our own; and\nbecause we have the spirit to swear them,--imagine that we have had the\nwit to invent them too.\n\nI'll undertake this moment to prove it to any man in the world, except\nto a connoisseur:--though I declare I object only to a connoisseur in\nswearing,--as I would do to a connoisseur in painting, &c. &c. the whole\nset of 'em are so hung round and befetish'd with the bobs and trinkets\nof criticism,--or to drop my metaphor, which by the bye is a pity--for\nI have fetch'd it as far as from the coast of Guiney;--their heads,\nSir, are stuck so full of rules and compasses, and have that eternal\npropensity to apply them upon all occasions, that a work of genius had\nbetter go to the devil at once, than stand to be prick'd and tortured to\ndeath by 'em.\n\n--And how did Garrick speak the soliloquy last night?--Oh, against all\nrule, my lord,--most ungrammatically! betwixt the substantive and the\nadjective, which should agree together in number, case, and gender, he\nmade a breach thus,--stopping, as if the point wanted settling;--and\nbetwixt the nominative case, which your lordship knows should govern the\nverb, he suspended his voice in the epilogue a dozen times three\nseconds and three fifths by a stop watch, my lord, each time.--Admirable\ngrammarian!--But in suspending his voice--was the sense suspended\nlikewise? Did no expression of attitude or countenance fill up the\nchasm?--Was the eye silent? Did you narrowly look?--I look'd only at the\nstop-watch, my lord.--Excellent observer!\n\nAnd what of this new book the whole world makes such a rout about?--Oh!\n'tis out of all plumb, my lord,--quite an irregular thing!--not one of\nthe angles at the four corners was a right angle.--I had my rule and\ncompasses, &c. my lord, in my pocket.--Excellent critick!\n\n--And for the epick poem your lordship bid me look at--upon taking the\nlength, breadth, height, and depth of it, and trying them at home\nupon an exact scale of Bossu's--'tis out, my lord, in every one of its\ndimensions.--Admirable connoisseur!\n\n--And did you step in, to take a look at the grand picture in your way\nback?--'Tis a melancholy daub! my lord; not one principle of the pyramid\nin any one group!--and what a price!--for there is nothing of the\ncolouring of Titian--the expression of Rubens--the grace of Raphael--the\npurity of Dominichino--the corregiescity of Corregio--the learning of\nPoussin--the airs of Guido--the taste of the Carrachis--or the grand\ncontour of Angelo.--Grant me patience, just Heaven!--Of all the cants\nwhich are canted in this canting world--though the cant of hypocrites\nmay be the worst--the cant of criticism is the most tormenting!\n\nI would go fifty miles on foot, for I have not a horse worth riding on,\nto kiss the hand of that man whose generous heart will give up the reins\nof his imagination into his author's hands--be pleased he knows not why,\nand cares not wherefore.\n\nGreat Apollo! if thou art in a giving humour--give me--I ask no more,\nbut one stroke of native humour, with a single spark of thy own fire\nalong with it--and send Mercury, with the rules and compasses, if he can\nbe spared, with my compliments to--no matter.\n\nNow to any one else I will undertake to prove, that all the oaths and\nimprecations which we have been puffing off upon the world for these\ntwo hundred and fifty years last past as originals--except St. Paul's\nthumb--God's flesh and God's fish, which were oaths monarchical, and,\nconsidering who made them, not much amiss; and as kings oaths, 'tis not\nmuch matter whether they were fish or flesh;--else I say, there is not\nan oath, or at least a curse amongst them, which has not been copied\nover and over again out of Ernulphus a thousand times: but, like all\nother copies, how infinitely short of the force and spirit of the\noriginal!--it is thought to be no bad oath--and by itself passes very\nwell--'G-d damn you.'--Set it beside Ernulphus's--'God almighty the\nFather damn you--God the Son damn you--God the Holy Ghost damn you'--you\nsee 'tis nothing.--There is an orientality in his, we cannot rise up\nto: besides, he is more copious in his invention--possess'd more of the\nexcellencies of a swearer--had such a thorough knowledge of the human\nframe, its membranes, nerves, ligaments, knittings of the joints, and\narticulations,--that when Ernulphus cursed--no part escaped him.--'Tis\ntrue there is something of a hardness in his manner--and, as in Michael\nAngelo, a want of grace--but then there is such a greatness of gusto!\n\nMy father, who generally look'd upon every thing in a light very\ndifferent from all mankind, would, after all, never allow this to be an\noriginal.--He considered rather Ernulphus's anathema, as an institute\nof swearing, in which, as he suspected, upon the decline of swearing in\nsome milder pontificate, Ernulphus, by order of the succeeding pope,\nhad with great learning and diligence collected together all the laws of\nit;--for the same reason that Justinian, in the decline of the empire,\nhad ordered his chancellor Tribonian to collect the Roman or civil\nlaws all together into one code or digest--lest, through the rust of\ntime--and the fatality of all things committed to oral tradition--they\nshould be lost to the world for ever.\n\nFor this reason my father would oft-times affirm, there was not an oath\nfrom the great and tremendous oath of William the conqueror (By the\nsplendour of God) down to the lowest oath of a scavenger (Damn your\neyes) which was not to be found in Ernulphus.--In short, he would add--I\ndefy a man to swear out of it.\n\nThe hypothesis is, like most of my father's, singular and ingenious\ntoo;--nor have I any objection to it, but that it overturns my own.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.VI.\n\n--Bless my soul!--my poor mistress is ready to faint--and her pains are\ngone--and the drops are done--and the bottle of julap is broke--and the\nnurse has cut her arm--(and I, my thumb, cried Dr. Slop,) and the\nchild is where it was, continued Susannah,--and the midwife has fallen\nbackwards upon the edge of the fender, and bruised her hip as black as\nyour hat.--I'll look at it, quoth Dr Slop.--There is no need of that,\nreplied Susannah,--you had better look at my mistress--but the midwife\nwould gladly first give you an account how things are, so desires you\nwould go up stairs and speak to her this moment.\n\nHuman nature is the same in all professions.\n\nThe midwife had just before been put over Dr. Slop's head--He had not\ndigested it.--No, replied Dr. Slop, 'twould be full as proper if\nthe midwife came down to me.--I like subordination, quoth my uncle\nToby,--and but for it, after the reduction of Lisle, I know not what\nmight have become of the garrison of Ghent, in the mutiny for bread,\nin the year Ten.--Nor, replied Dr. Slop, (parodying my uncle Toby's\nhobby-horsical reflection; though full as hobby-horsical himself)--do\nI know, Captain Shandy, what might have become of the garrison above\nstairs, in the mutiny and confusion I find all things are in at present,\nbut for the subordination of fingers and thumbs to...--the application\nof which, Sir, under this accident of mine, comes in so a propos, that\nwithout it, the cut upon my thumb might have been felt by the Shandy\nfamily, as long as the Shandy family had a name.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.VII.\n\nLet us go back to the...--in the last chapter.\n\nIt is a singular stroke of eloquence (at least it was so, when eloquence\nflourished at Athens and Rome, and would be so now, did orators wear\nmantles) not to mention the name of a thing, when you had the thing\nabout you in petto, ready to produce, pop, in the place you want it. A\nscar, an axe, a sword, a pink'd doublet, a rusty helmet, a pound and a\nhalf of pot-ashes in an urn, or a three-halfpenny pickle pot--but above\nall, a tender infant royally accoutred.--Tho' if it was too young, and\nthe oration as long as Tully's second Philippick--it must certainly have\nbeshit the orator's mantle.--And then again, if too old,--it must have\nbeen unwieldly and incommodious to his action--so as to make him lose\nby his child almost as much as he could gain by it.--Otherwise, when a\nstate orator has hit the precise age to a minute--hid his Bambino in his\nmantle so cunningly that no mortal could smell it--and produced it so\ncritically, that no soul could say, it came in by head and shoulders--Oh\nSirs! it has done wonders--It has open'd the sluices, and turn'd the\nbrains, and shook the principles, and unhinged the politicks of half a\nnation.\n\nThese feats however are not to be done, except in those states and\ntimes, I say, where orators wore mantles--and pretty large ones too,\nmy brethren, with some twenty or five-and-twenty yards of good purple,\nsuperfine, marketable cloth in them--with large flowing folds and\ndoubles, and in a great style of design.--All which plainly shews, may\nit please your worships, that the decay of eloquence, and the little\ngood service it does at present, both within and without doors, is\nowing to nothing else in the world, but short coats, and the disuse of\ntrunk-hose.--We can conceal nothing under ours, Madam, worth shewing.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.VIII.\n\nDr. Slop was within an ace of being an exception to all this\nargumentation: for happening to have his green baize bag upon his knees,\nwhen he began to parody my uncle Toby--'twas as good as the best mantle\nin the world to him: for which purpose, when he foresaw the sentence\nwould end in his new-invented forceps, he thrust his hand into the bag\nin order to have them ready to clap in, when your reverences took so\nmuch notice of the..., which had he managed--my uncle Toby had certainly\nbeen overthrown: the sentence and the argument in that case jumping\nclosely in one point, so like the two lines which form the salient angle\nof a ravelin,--Dr. Slop would never have given them up;--and my uncle\nToby would as soon have thought of flying, as taking them by force: but\nDr. Slop fumbled so vilely in pulling them out, it took off the whole\neffect, and what was a ten times worse evil (for they seldom come alone\nin this life) in pulling out his forceps, his forceps unfortunately drew\nout the squirt along with it.\n\nWhen a proposition can be taken in two senses--'tis a law in\ndisputation, That the respondent may reply to which of the two he\npleases, or finds most convenient for him.--This threw the advantage of\nthe argument quite on my uncle Toby's side.--'Good God!' cried my uncle\nToby, 'are children brought into the world with a squirt?'\n\n\n\nChapter 2.IX.\n\n--Upon my honour, Sir, you have tore every bit of skin quite off the\nback of both my hands with your forceps, cried my uncle Toby--and you\nhave crush'd all my knuckles into the bargain with them to a jelly. 'Tis\nyour own fault, said Dr. Slop--you should have clinch'd your two fists\ntogether into the form of a child's head as I told you, and sat firm.--I\ndid so, answered my uncle Toby.--Then the points of my forceps have not\nbeen sufficiently arm'd, or the rivet wants closing--or else the cut on\nmy thumb has made me a little aukward--or possibly--'Tis well, quoth my\nfather, interrupting the detail of possibilities--that the experiment\nwas not first made upon my child's head-piece.--It would not have been a\ncherry-stone the worse, answered Dr. Slop.--I maintain it, said my uncle\nToby, it would have broke the cerebellum (unless indeed the skull\nhad been as hard as a granado) and turn'd it all into a perfect\nposset.--Pshaw! replied Dr. Slop, a child's head is naturally as soft\nas the pap of an apple;--the sutures give way--and besides, I could\nhave extracted by the feet after.--Not you, said she.--I rather wish you\nwould begin that way, quoth my father.\n\nPray do, added my uncle Toby.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.X.\n\n--And pray, good woman, after all, will you take upon you to say, it\nmay not be the child's hip, as well as the child's head?--'Tis most\ncertainly the head, replied the midwife. Because, continued Dr. Slop\n(turning to my father) as positive as these old ladies generally\nare--'tis a point very difficult to know--and yet of the greatest\nconsequence to be known;--because, Sir, if the hip is mistaken for the\nhead--there is a possibility (if it is a boy) that the forceps....\n\n--What the possibility was, Dr. Slop whispered very low to my father,\nand then to my uncle Toby.--There is no such danger, continued he, with\nthe head.--No, in truth quoth my father--but when your possibility has\ntaken place at the hip--you may as well take off the head too.\n\n--It is morally impossible the reader should understand this--'tis\nenough Dr. Slop understood it;--so taking the green baize bag in his\nhand, with the help of Obadiah's pumps, he tripp'd pretty nimbly, for\na man of his size, across the room to the door--and from the door was\nshewn the way, by the good old midwife, to my mother's apartments.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XI.\n\nIt is two hours, and ten minutes--and no more--cried my father, looking\nat his watch, since Dr. Slop and Obadiah arrived--and I know not how it\nhappens, Brother Toby--but to my imagination it seems almost an age.\n\n--Here--pray, Sir, take hold of my cap--nay, take the bell along with\nit, and my pantoufles too.\n\nNow, Sir, they are all at your service; and I freely make you a present\nof 'em, on condition you give me all your attention to this chapter.\n\nThough my father said, 'he knew not how it happen'd,'--yet he knew\nvery well how it happen'd;--and at the instant he spoke it, was\npre-determined in his mind to give my uncle Toby a clear account of the\nmatter by a metaphysical dissertation upon the subject of duration and\nits simple modes, in order to shew my uncle Toby by what mechanism and\nmensurations in the brain it came to pass, that the rapid succession of\ntheir ideas, and the eternal scampering of the discourse from one thing\nto another, since Dr. Slop had come into the room, had lengthened out\nso short a period to so inconceivable an extent.--'I know not how it\nhappens--cried my father,--but it seems an age.'\n\n--'Tis owing entirely, quoth my uncle Toby, to the succession of our\nideas.\n\nMy father, who had an itch, in common with all philosophers, of\nreasoning upon every thing which happened, and accounting for it\ntoo--proposed infinite pleasure to himself in this, of the succession of\nideas, and had not the least apprehension of having it snatch'd out of\nhis hands by my uncle Toby, who (honest man!) generally took every thing\nas it happened;--and who, of all things in the world, troubled his brain\nthe least with abstruse thinking;--the ideas of time and space--or how\nwe came by those ideas--or of what stuff they were made--or whether they\nwere born with us--or we picked them up afterwards as we went along--or\nwhether we did it in frocks--or not till we had got into breeches--with\na thousand other inquiries and disputes about Infinity Prescience,\nLiberty, Necessity, and so forth, upon whose desperate and unconquerable\ntheories so many fine heads have been turned and cracked--never did my\nuncle Toby's the least injury at all; my father knew it--and was no less\nsurprized than he was disappointed, with my uncle's fortuitous solution.\n\nDo you understand the theory of that affair? replied my father.\n\nNot I, quoth my uncle.\n\n--But you have some ideas, said my father, of what you talk about?\n\nNo more than my horse, replied my uncle Toby.\n\nGracious heaven! cried my father, looking upwards, and clasping his\ntwo hands together--there is a worth in thy honest ignorance, brother\nToby--'twere almost a pity to exchange it for a knowledge.--But I'll\ntell thee.--\n\nTo understand what time is aright, without which we never can comprehend\ninfinity, insomuch as one is a portion of the other--we ought seriously\nto sit down and consider what idea it is we have of duration, so as\nto give a satisfactory account how we came by it.--What is that to any\nbody? quoth my uncle Toby. (Vide Locke.) For if you will turn your eyes\ninwards upon your mind, continued my father, and observe attentively,\nyou will perceive, brother, that whilst you and I are talking together,\nand thinking, and smoking our pipes, or whilst we receive successively\nideas in our minds, we know that we do exist, and so we estimate the\nexistence, or the continuation of the existence of ourselves, or any\nthing else, commensurate to the succession of any ideas in our minds,\nthe duration of ourselves, or any such other thing co-existing with our\nthinking--and so according to that preconceived--You puzzle me to death,\ncried my uncle Toby.\n\n--'Tis owing to this, replied my father, that in our computations of\ntime, we are so used to minutes, hours, weeks, and months--and of clocks\n(I wish there was not a clock in the kingdom) to measure out their\nseveral portions to us, and to those who belong to us--that 'twill be\nwell, if in time to come, the succession of our ideas be of any use or\nservice to us at all.\n\nNow, whether we observe it or no, continued my father, in every sound\nman's head, there is a regular succession of ideas of one sort or other,\nwhich follow each other in train just like--A train of artillery? said\nmy uncle Toby--A train of a fiddle-stick!--quoth my father--which follow\nand succeed one another in our minds at certain distances, just like\nthe images in the inside of a lanthorn turned round by the heat of\na candle.--I declare, quoth my uncle Toby, mine are more like a\nsmoke-jack,--Then, brother Toby, I have nothing more to say to you upon\nthat subject, said my father.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XII.\n\n--What a conjuncture was here lost!--My father in one of his best\nexplanatory moods--in eager pursuit of a metaphysical point into\nthe very regions, where clouds and thick darkness would soon have\nencompassed it about;--my uncle Toby in one of the finest dispositions\nfor it in the world;--his head like a smoke-jack;--the funnel unswept,\nand the ideas whirling round and round about in it, all obfuscated and\ndarkened over with fuliginous matter!--By the tomb-stone of Lucian--if\nit is in being--if not, why then by his ashes! by the ashes of my dear\nRabelais, and dearer Cervantes!--my father and my uncle Toby's discourse\nupon Time and Eternity--was a discourse devoutly to be wished for! and\nthe petulancy of my father's humour, in putting a stop to it as he did,\nwas a robbery of the Ontologic Treasury of such a jewel, as no coalition\nof great occasions and great men are ever likely to restore to it again.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XIII.\n\nTho' my father persisted in not going on with the discourse--yet he\ncould not get my uncle Toby's smoke-jack out of his head--piqued as\nhe was at first with it;--there was something in the comparison at the\nbottom, which hit his fancy; for which purpose, resting his elbow upon\nthe table, and reclining the right side of his head upon the palm of his\nhand--but looking first stedfastly in the fire--he began to commune with\nhimself, and philosophize about it: but his spirits being wore out with\nthe fatigues of investigating new tracts, and the constant exertion of\nhis faculties upon that variety of subjects which had taken their turn\nin the discourse--the idea of the smoke jack soon turned all his ideas\nupside down--so that he fell asleep almost before he knew what he was\nabout.\n\nAs for my uncle Toby, his smoke-jack had not made a dozen revolutions,\nbefore he fell asleep also.--Peace be with them both!--Dr. Slop is\nengaged with the midwife and my mother above stairs.--Trim is busy\nin turning an old pair of jack-boots into a couple of mortars, to be\nemployed in the siege of Messina next summer--and is this instant boring\nthe touch-holes with the point of a hot poker.--All my heroes are off my\nhands;--'tis the first time I have had a moment to spare--and I'll make\nuse of it, and write my preface.\n\n\nThe Author's Preface\n\nNo, I'll not say a word about it--here it is;--in publishing it--I have\nappealed to the world--and to the world I leave it;--it must speak for\nitself.\n\nAll I know of the matter is--when I sat down, my intent was to write\na good book; and as far as the tenuity of my understanding would hold\nout--a wise, aye, and a discreet--taking care only, as I went along, to\nput into it all the wit and the judgment (be it more or less) which the\ngreat Author and Bestower of them had thought fit originally to give\nme--so that, as your worships see--'tis just as God pleases.\n\nNow, Agalastes (speaking dispraisingly) sayeth, That there may be some\nwit in it, for aught he knows--but no judgment at all. And Triptolemus\nand Phutatorius agreeing thereto, ask, How is it possible there should?\nfor that wit and judgment in this world never go together; inasmuch as\nthey are two operations differing from each other as wide as east from\nwest--So, says Locke--so are farting and hickuping, say I. But in answer\nto this, Didius the great church lawyer, in his code de fartendi et\nillustrandi fallaciis, doth maintain and make fully appear, That\nan illustration is no argument--nor do I maintain the wiping of a\nlooking-glass clean to be a syllogism;--but you all, may it please your\nworships, see the better for it--so that the main good these things do\nis only to clarify the understanding, previous to the application of the\nargument itself, in order to free it from any little motes, or specks\nof opacular matter, which, if left swimming therein, might hinder a\nconception and spoil all.\n\nNow, my dear anti-Shandeans, and thrice able criticks, and\nfellow-labourers (for to you I write this Preface)--and to you, most\nsubtle statesmen and discreet doctors (do--pull off your beards)\nrenowned for gravity and wisdom;--Monopolus, my politician--Didius, my\ncounsel; Kysarcius, my friend;--Phutatorius, my guide;--Gastripheres,\nthe preserver of my life; Somnolentius, the balm and repose of it--not\nforgetting all others, as well sleeping as waking, ecclesiastical as\ncivil, whom for brevity, but out of no resentment to you, I lump all\ntogether.--Believe me, right worthy,\n\nMy most zealous wish and fervent prayer in your behalf, and in my own\ntoo, in case the thing is not done already for us--is, that the great\ngifts and endowments both of wit and judgment, with every thing which\nusually goes along with them--such as memory, fancy, genius, eloquence,\nquick parts, and what not, may this precious moment, without stint or\nmeasure, let or hindrance, be poured down warm as each of us could bear\nit--scum and sediment and all (for I would not have a drop lost) into\nthe several receptacles, cells, cellules, domiciles, dormitories,\nrefectories, and spare places of our brains--in such sort, that they\nmight continue to be injected and tunn'd into, according to the true\nintent and meaning of my wish, until every vessel of them, both great\nand small, be so replenish'd, saturated, and filled up therewith, that\nno more, would it save a man's life, could possibly be got either in or\nout.\n\nBless us!--what noble work we should make!--how should I tickle it\noff!--and what spirits should I find myself in, to be writing away for\nsuch readers!--and you--just heaven!--with what raptures would you sit\nand read--but oh!--'tis too much--I am sick--I faint away deliciously at\nthe thoughts of it--'tis more than nature can bear!--lay hold of\nme--I am giddy--I am stone blind--I'm dying--I am gone.--Help! Help!\nHelp!--But hold--I grow something better again, for I am beginning to\nforesee, when this is over, that as we shall all of us continue to\nbe great wits--we should never agree amongst ourselves, one day to an\nend:--there would be so much satire and sarcasm--scoffing and flouting,\nwith raillying and reparteeing of it--thrusting and parrying in one\ncorner or another--there would be nothing but mischief among us--Chaste\nstars! what biting and scratching, and what a racket and a clatter\nwe should make, what with breaking of heads, rapping of knuckles, and\nhitting of sore places--there would be no such thing as living for us.\n\nBut then again, as we should all of us be men of great judgment, we\nshould make up matters as fast as ever they went wrong; and though\nwe should abominate each other ten times worse than so many devils or\ndevilesses, we should nevertheless, my dear creatures, be all courtesy\nand kindness, milk and honey--'twould be a second land of promise--a\nparadise upon earth, if there was such a thing to be had--so that upon\nthe whole we should have done well enough.\n\nAll I fret and fume at, and what most distresses my invention at\npresent, is how to bring the point itself to bear; for as your worships\nwell know, that of these heavenly emanations of wit and judgment, which\nI have so bountifully wished both for your worships and myself--there\nis but a certain quantum stored up for us all, for the use and behoof of\nthe whole race of mankind; and such small modicums of 'em are only sent\nforth into this wide world, circulating here and there in one bye corner\nor another--and in such narrow streams, and at such prodigious intervals\nfrom each other, that one would wonder how it holds out, or could be\nsufficient for the wants and emergencies of so many great estates, and\npopulous empires.\n\nIndeed there is one thing to be considered, that in Nova Zembla, North\nLapland, and in all those cold and dreary tracks of the globe, which lie\nmore directly under the arctick and antartick circles, where the whole\nprovince of a man's concernments lies for near nine months together\nwithin the narrow compass of his cave--where the spirits are compressed\nalmost to nothing--and where the passions of a man, with every thing\nwhich belongs to them, are as frigid as the zone itself--there the least\nquantity of judgment imaginable does the business--and of wit--there is\na total and an absolute saving--for as not one spark is wanted--so not\none spark is given. Angels and ministers of grace defend us! what a\ndismal thing would it have been to have governed a kingdom, to have\nfought a battle, or made a treaty, or run a match, or wrote a book, or\ngot a child, or held a provincial chapter there, with so plentiful a\nlack of wit and judgment about us! For mercy's sake, let us think\nno more about it, but travel on as fast as we can southwards into\nNorway--crossing over Swedeland, if you please, through the small\ntriangular province of Angermania to the lake of Bothmia; coasting along\nit through east and west Bothnia, down to Carelia, and so on, through\nall those states and provinces which border upon the far side of the\nGulf of Finland, and the north-east of the Baltick, up to Petersbourg,\nand just stepping into Ingria;--then stretching over directly from\nthence through the north parts of the Russian empire--leaving Siberia\na little upon the left hand, till we got into the very heart of Russian\nand Asiatick Tartary.\n\nNow through this long tour which I have led you, you observe the good\npeople are better off by far, than in the polar countries which we have\njust left:--for if you hold your hand over your eyes, and look very\nattentively, you may perceive some small glimmerings (as it were) of\nwit, with a comfortable provision of good plain houshold judgment,\nwhich, taking the quality and quantity of it together, they make a very\ngood shift with--and had they more of either the one or the other,\nit would destroy the proper balance betwixt them, and I am satisfied\nmoreover they would want occasions to put them to use.\n\nNow, Sir, if I conduct you home again into this warmer and more\nluxuriant island, where you perceive the spring-tide of our blood and\nhumours runs high--where we have more ambition, and pride, and envy,\nand lechery, and other whoreson passions upon our hands to govern and\nsubject to reason--the height of our wit, and the depth of our judgment,\nyou see, are exactly proportioned to the length and breadth of our\nnecessities--and accordingly we have them sent down amongst us in such a\nflowing kind of decent and creditable plenty, that no one thinks he has\nany cause to complain.\n\nIt must however be confessed on this head, that, as our air blows hot\nand cold--wet and dry, ten times in a day, we have them in no regular\nand settled way;--so that sometimes for near half a century together,\nthere shall be very little wit or judgment either to be seen or heard of\namongst us:--the small channels of them shall seem quite dried up--then\nall of a sudden the sluices shall break out, and take a fit of running\nagain like fury--you would think they would never stop:--and then it is,\nthat in writing, and fighting, and twenty other gallant things, we drive\nall the world before us.\n\nIt is by these observations, and a wary reasoning by analogy in\nthat kind of argumentative process, which Suidas calls dialectick\ninduction--that I draw and set up this position as most true and\nveritable;\n\nThat of these two luminaries so much of their irradiations are suffered\nfrom time to time to shine down upon us, as he, whose infinite wisdom\nwhich dispenses every thing in exact weight and measure, knows will just\nserve to light us on our way in this night of our obscurity; so that\nyour reverences and worships now find out, nor is it a moment longer in\nmy power to conceal it from you, That the fervent wish in your behalf\nwith which I set out, was no more than the first insinuating How d'ye of\na caressing prefacer, stifling his reader, as a lover sometimes does a\ncoy mistress, into silence. For alas! could this effusion of light have\nbeen as easily procured, as the exordium wished it--I tremble to think\nhow many thousands for it, of benighted travellers (in the learned\nsciences at least) must have groped and blundered on in the dark,\nall the nights of their lives--running their heads against posts,\nand knocking out their brains without ever getting to their journies\nend;--some falling with their noses perpendicularly into sinks--others\nhorizontally with their tails into kennels. Here one half of a learned\nprofession tilting full but against the other half of it, and then\ntumbling and rolling one over the other in the dirt like hogs.--Here\nthe brethren of another profession, who should have run in opposition to\neach other, flying on the contrary like a flock of wild geese, all in\na row the same way.--What confusion!--what mistakes!--fiddlers and\npainters judging by their eyes and ears--admirable!--trusting to\nthe passions excited--in an air sung, or a story painted to the\nheart--instead of measuring them by a quadrant.\n\nIn the fore-ground of this picture, a statesman turning the political\nwheel, like a brute, the wrong way round--against the stream of\ncorruption--by Heaven!--instead of with it.\n\nIn this corner, a son of the divine Esculapius, writing a book against\npredestination; perhaps worse--feeling his patient's pulse, instead of\nhis apothecary's--a brother of the Faculty in the back-ground upon his\nknees in tears--drawing the curtains of a mangled victim to beg his\nforgiveness;--offering a fee--instead of taking one.\n\nIn that spacious Hall, a coalition of the gown, from all the bars of\nit, driving a damn'd, dirty, vexatious cause before them, with all\ntheir might and main, the wrong way!--kicking it out of the great doors,\ninstead of, in--and with such fury in their looks, and such a degree\nof inveteracy in their manner of kicking it, as if the laws had been\noriginally made for the peace and preservation of mankind:--perhaps a\nmore enormous mistake committed by them still--a litigated point fairly\nhung up;--for instance, Whether John o'Nokes his nose could stand in Tom\no'Stiles his face, without a trespass, or not--rashly determined by\nthem in five-and-twenty minutes, which, with the cautious pros and\ncons required in so intricate a proceeding, might have taken up as many\nmonths--and if carried on upon a military plan, as your honours know an\nAction should be, with all the stratagems practicable therein,--such as\nfeints,--forced marches,--surprizes--ambuscades--mask-batteries, and a\nthousand other strokes of generalship, which consist in catching at\nall advantages on both sides--might reasonably have lasted them as many\nyears, finding food and raiment all that term for a centumvirate of the\nprofession.\n\nAs for the Clergy--No--if I say a word against them, I'll be shot.--I\nhave no desire; and besides, if I had--I durst not for my soul touch\nupon the subject--with such weak nerves and spirits, and in the\ncondition I am in at present, 'twould be as much as my life was worth,\nto deject and contrist myself with so bad and melancholy an account--and\ntherefore 'tis safer to draw a curtain across, and hasten from it, as\nfast as I can, to the main and principal point I have undertaken to\nclear up--and that is, How it comes to pass, that your men of least wit\nare reported to be men of most judgment.--But mark--I say, reported\nto be--for it is no more, my dear Sirs, than a report, and which, like\ntwenty others taken up every day upon trust, I maintain to be a vile and\na malicious report into the bargain.\n\nThis by the help of the observation already premised, and I hope already\nweighed and perpended by your reverences and worships, I shall forthwith\nmake appear.\n\nI hate set dissertations--and above all things in the world, 'tis one of\nthe silliest things in one of them, to darken your hypothesis by placing\na number of tall, opake words, one before another, in a right line,\nbetwixt your own and your reader's conception--when in all likelihood,\nif you had looked about, you might have seen something standing, or\nhanging up, which would have cleared the point at once--'for what\nhindrance, hurt, or harm doth the laudable desire of knowledge bring to\nany man, if even from a sot, a pot, a fool, a stool, a winter-mittain,\na truckle for a pully, the lid of a goldsmith's crucible, an oil bottle,\nan old slipper, or a cane chair?'--I am this moment sitting upon one.\nWill you give me leave to illustrate this affair of wit and judgment, by\nthe two knobs on the top of the back of it?--they are fastened on, you\nsee, with two pegs stuck slightly into two gimlet-holes, and will place\nwhat I have to say in so clear a light, as to let you see through the\ndrift and meaning of my whole preface, as plainly as if every point and\nparticle of it was made up of sun-beams.\n\nI enter now directly upon the point.\n\n--Here stands wit--and there stands judgment, close beside it, just like\nthe two knobs I'm speaking of, upon the back of this self-same chair on\nwhich I am sitting.\n\n--You see, they are the highest and most ornamental parts of its\nframe--as wit and judgment are of ours--and like them too, indubitably\nboth made and fitted to go together, in order, as we say in all such\ncases of duplicated embellishments--to answer one another.\n\nNow for the sake of an experiment, and for the clearer illustrating this\nmatter--let us for a moment take off one of these two curious ornaments\n(I care not which) from the point or pinnacle of the chair it now stands\non--nay, don't laugh at it,--but did you ever see, in the whole course\nof your lives, such a ridiculous business as this has made of it?--Why,\n'tis as miserable a sight as a sow with one ear; and there is just as\nmuch sense and symmetry in the one as in the other:--do--pray, get off\nyour seats only to take a view of it,--Now would any man who valued his\ncharacter a straw, have turned a piece of work out of his hand in such a\ncondition?--nay, lay your hands upon your hearts, and answer this plain\nquestion, Whether this one single knob, which now stands here like a\nblockhead by itself, can serve any purpose upon earth, but to put one\nin mind of the want of the other?--and let me farther ask, in case the\nchair was your own, if you would not in your consciences think, rather\nthan be as it is, that it would be ten times better without any knob at\nall?\n\nNow these two knobs--or top ornaments of the mind of man, which crown\nthe whole entablature--being, as I said, wit and judgment, which of all\nothers, as I have proved it, are the most needful--the most priz'd--the\nmost calamitous to be without, and consequently the hardest to come\nat--for all these reasons put together, there is not a mortal among us,\nso destitute of a love of good fame or feeding--or so ignorant of what\nwill do him good therein--who does not wish and stedfastly resolve in\nhis own mind, to be, or to be thought at least, master of the one or the\nother, and indeed of both of them, if the thing seems any way feasible,\nor likely to be brought to pass.\n\nNow your graver gentry having little or no kind of chance in aiming at\nthe one--unless they laid hold of the other,--pray what do you think\nwould become of them?--Why, Sirs, in spite of all their gravities,\nthey must e'en have been contented to have gone with their insides\nnaked--this was not to be borne, but by an effort of philosophy not to\nbe supposed in the case we are upon--so that no one could well have been\nangry with them, had they been satisfied with what little they could\nhave snatched up and secreted under their cloaks and great perriwigs,\nhad they not raised a hue and cry at the same time against the lawful\nowners.\n\nI need not tell your worships, that this was done with so much cunning\nand artifice--that the great Locke, who was seldom outwitted by false\nsounds--was nevertheless bubbled here. The cry, it seems, was so deep\nand solemn a one, and what with the help of great wigs, grave faces, and\nother implements of deceit, was rendered so general a one against the\npoor wits in this matter, that the philosopher himself was deceived by\nit--it was his glory to free the world from the lumber of a thousand\nvulgar errors;--but this was not of the number; so that instead of\nsitting down coolly, as such a philosopher should have done, to have\nexamined the matter of fact before he philosophised upon it--on the\ncontrary he took the fact for granted, and so joined in with the cry,\nand halloo'd it as boisterously as the rest.\n\nThis has been made the Magna Charta of stupidity ever since--but your\nreverences plainly see, it has been obtained in such a manner, that the\ntitle to it is not worth a groat:--which by-the-bye is one of the many\nand vile impositions which gravity and grave folks have to answer for\nhereafter.\n\nAs for great wigs, upon which I may be thought to have spoken my mind\ntoo freely--I beg leave to qualify whatever has been unguardedly said to\ntheir dispraise or prejudice, by one general declaration--That I have\nno abhorrence whatever, nor do I detest and abjure either great wigs or\nlong beards, any farther than when I see they are bespoke and let grow\non purpose to carry on this self-same imposture--for any purpose--peace\nbe with them!--> mark only--I write not for them.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XIV.\n\nEvery day for at least ten years together did my father resolve to have\nit mended--'tis not mended yet;--no family but ours would have borne\nwith it an hour--and what is most astonishing, there was not a subject\nin the world upon which my father was so eloquent, as upon that of\ndoor-hinges.--And yet at the same time, he was certainly one of the\ngreatest bubbles to them, I think, that history can produce: his\nrhetorick and conduct were at perpetual handy-cuffs.--Never did the\nparlour-door open--but his philosophy or his principles fell a victim to\nit;--three drops of oil with a feather, and a smart stroke of a hammer,\nhad saved his honour for ever.\n\n--Inconsistent soul that man is!--languishing under wounds, which he\nhas the power to heal!--his whole life a contradiction to his\nknowledge!--his reason, that precious gift of God to him--(instead of\npouring in oil) serving but to sharpen his sensibilities--to multiply\nhis pains, and render him more melancholy and uneasy under them!--Poor\nunhappy creature, that he should do so!--Are not the necessary causes of\nmisery in this life enow, but he must add voluntary ones to his stock of\nsorrow;--struggle against evils which cannot be avoided, and submit to\nothers, which a tenth part of the trouble they create him would remove\nfrom his heart for ever?\n\nBy all that is good and virtuous, if there are three drops of oil to\nbe got, and a hammer to be found within ten miles of Shandy Hall--the\nparlour door hinge shall be mended this reign.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XV.\n\nWhen Corporal Trim had brought his two mortars to bear, he was delighted\nwith his handy-work above measure; and knowing what a pleasure it would\nbe to his master to see them, he was not able to resist the desire he\nhad of carrying them directly into his parlour.\n\nNow next to the moral lesson I had in view in mentioning the affair of\nhinges, I had a speculative consideration arising out of it, and it is\nthis.\n\nHad the parlour door opened and turn'd upon its hinges, as a door should\ndo--\n\nOr for example, as cleverly as our government has been turning upon\nits hinges--(that is, in case things have all along gone well with your\nworship,--otherwise I give up my simile)--in this case, I say, there had\nbeen no danger either to master or man, in corporal Trim's peeping in:\nthe moment he had beheld my father and my uncle Toby fast asleep--the\nrespectfulness of his carriage was such, he would have retired as silent\nas death, and left them both in their arm-chairs, dreaming as happy\nas he had found them: but the thing was, morally speaking, so very\nimpracticable, that for the many years in which this hinge was suffered\nto be out of order, and amongst the hourly grievances my father\nsubmitted to upon its account--this was one; that he never folded his\narms to take his nap after dinner, but the thoughts of being unavoidably\nawakened by the first person who should open the door, was always\nuppermost in his imagination, and so incessantly stepp'd in betwixt him\nand the first balmy presage of his repose, as to rob him, as he often\ndeclared, of the whole sweets of it.\n\n'When things move upon bad hinges, an' please your lordships, how can it\nbe otherwise?'\n\nPray what's the matter? Who is there? cried my father, waking, the\nmoment the door began to creak.--I wish the smith would give a peep at\nthat confounded hinge.--'Tis nothing, an please your honour, said Trim,\nbut two mortars I am bringing in.--They shan't make a clatter with them\nhere, cried my father hastily.--If Dr. Slop has any drugs to pound, let\nhim do it in the kitchen.--May it please your honour, cried Trim, they\nare two mortar-pieces for a siege next summer, which I have been making\nout of a pair of jack-boots, which Obadiah told me your honour had left\noff wearing.--By Heaven! cried my father, springing out of his chair,\nas he swore--I have not one appointment belonging to me, which I set\nso much store by as I do by these jack-boots--they were our great\ngrandfather's brother Toby--they were hereditary. Then I fear, quoth my\nuncle Toby, Trim has cut off the entail.--I have only cut off the tops,\nan' please your honour, cried Trim--I hate perpetuities as much as any\nman alive, cried my father--but these jack-boots, continued he (smiling,\nthough very angry at the same time) have been in the family, brother,\never since the civil wars;--Sir Roger Shandy wore them at the battle\nof Marston-Moor.--I declare I would not have taken ten pounds for\nthem.--I'll pay you the money, brother Shandy, quoth my uncle Toby,\nlooking at the two mortars with infinite pleasure, and putting his hand\ninto his breeches pocket as he viewed them--I'll pay you the ten pounds\nthis moment with all my heart and soul.--\n\nBrother Toby, replied my father, altering his tone, you care not what\nmoney you dissipate and throw away, provided, continued he, 'tis but\nupon a Siege.--Have I not one hundred and twenty pounds a year, besides\nmy half pay? cried my uncle Toby.--What is that--replied my father\nhastily--to ten pounds for a pair of jack-boots?--twelve guineas for\nyour pontoons?--half as much for your Dutch draw-bridge?--to say nothing\nof the train of little brass artillery you bespoke last week, with\ntwenty other preparations for the siege of Messina: believe me, dear\nbrother Toby, continued my father, taking him kindly by the hand--these\nmilitary operations of yours are above your strength;--you mean well\nbrother--but they carry you into greater expences than you were first\naware of;--and take my word, dear Toby, they will in the end quite ruin\nyour fortune, and make a beggar of you.--What signifies it if they do,\nbrother, replied my uncle Toby, so long as we know 'tis for the good of\nthe nation?--\n\nMy father could not help smiling for his soul--his anger at the worst\nwas never more than a spark;--and the zeal and simplicity of Trim--and\nthe generous (though hobby-horsical) gallantry of my uncle Toby, brought\nhim into perfect good humour with them in an instant.\n\nGenerous souls!--God prosper you both, and your mortar-pieces too! quoth\nmy father to himself.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XVI.\n\nAll is quiet and hush, cried my father, at least above stairs--I hear\nnot one foot stirring.--Prithee Trim, who's in the kitchen? There is no\none soul in the kitchen, answered Trim, making a low bow as he spoke,\nexcept Dr. Slop.--Confusion! cried my father (getting upon his legs a\nsecond time)--not one single thing has gone right this day! had I faith\nin astrology, brother, (which, by the bye, my father had) I would have\nsworn some retrograde planet was hanging over this unfortunate house of\nmine, and turning every individual thing in it out of its place.--Why,\nI thought Dr. Slop had been above stairs with my wife, and so said\nyou.--What can the fellow be puzzling about in the kitchen!--He is busy,\nan' please your honour, replied Trim, in making a bridge.--'Tis very\nobliging in him, quoth my uncle Toby:--pray, give my humble service to\nDr. Slop, Trim, and tell him I thank him heartily.\n\nYou must know, my uncle Toby mistook the bridge--as widely as my father\nmistook the mortars:--but to understand how my uncle Toby could mistake\nthe bridge--I fear I must give you an exact account of the road which\nled to it;--or to drop my metaphor (for there is nothing more dishonest\nin an historian than the use of one)--in order to conceive the\nprobability of this error in my uncle Toby aright, I must give you some\naccount of an adventure of Trim's, though much against my will, I say\nmuch against my will, only because the story, in one sense, is certainly\nout of its place here; for by right it should come in, either amongst\nthe anecdotes of my uncle Toby's amours with widow Wadman, in which\ncorporal Trim was no mean actor--or else in the middle of his and my\nuncle Toby's campaigns on the bowling-green--for it will do very well in\neither place;--but then if I reserve it for either of those parts of my\nstory--I ruin the story I'm upon;--and if I tell it here--I anticipate\nmatters, and ruin it there.\n\n--What would your worship have me to do in this case?\n\n--Tell it, Mr. Shandy, by all means.--You are a fool, Tristram, if you\ndo.\n\nO ye powers! (for powers ye are, and great ones too)--which enable\nmortal man to tell a story worth the hearing--that kindly shew him,\nwhere he is to begin it--and where he is to end it--what he is to put\ninto it--and what he is to leave out--how much of it he is to cast into\na shade--and whereabouts he is to throw his light!--Ye, who preside over\nthis vast empire of biographical freebooters, and see how many scrapes\nand plunges your subjects hourly fall into;--will you do one thing?\n\nI beg and beseech you (in case you will do nothing better for us) that\nwherever in any part of your dominions it so falls out, that three\nseveral roads meet in one point, as they have done just here--that at\nleast you set up a guide-post in the centre of them, in mere charity, to\ndirect an uncertain devil which of the three he is to take.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XVII.\n\nTho' the shock my uncle Toby received the year after the demolition of\nDunkirk, in his affair with widow Wadman, had fixed him in a resolution\nnever more to think of the sex--or of aught which belonged to it;--yet\ncorporal Trim had made no such bargain with himself. Indeed in my\nuncle Toby's case there was a strange and unaccountable concurrence of\ncircumstances, which insensibly drew him in, to lay siege to that fair\nand strong citadel.--In Trim's case there was a concurrence of nothing\nin the world, but of him and Bridget in the kitchen;--though in truth,\nthe love and veneration he bore his master was such, and so fond was he\nof imitating him in all he did, that had my uncle Toby employed his\ntime and genius in tagging of points--I am persuaded the honest corporal\nwould have laid down his arms, and followed his example with pleasure.\nWhen therefore my uncle Toby sat down before the mistress--corporal Trim\nincontinently took ground before the maid.\n\nNow, my dear friend Garrick, whom I have so much cause to esteem\nand honour--(why, or wherefore, 'tis no matter)--can it escape your\npenetration--I defy it--that so many play-wrights, and opificers of\nchit-chat have ever since been working upon Trim's and my uncle Toby's\npattern.--I care not what Aristotle, or Pacuvius, or Bossu, or\nRicaboni say--(though I never read one of them)--there is not a greater\ndifference between a single-horse chair and madam Pompadour's vis-a-vis;\nthan betwixt a single amour, and an amour thus nobly doubled, and going\nupon all four, prancing throughout a grand drama--Sir, a simple, single,\nsilly affair of that kind--is quite lost in five acts--but that is\nneither here nor there.\n\nAfter a series of attacks and repulses in a course of nine months on my\nuncle Toby's quarter, a most minute account of every particular of which\nshall be given in its proper place, my uncle Toby, honest man! found\nit necessary to draw off his forces and raise the siege somewhat\nindignantly.\n\nCorporal Trim, as I said, had made no such bargain either with\nhimself--or with any one else--the fidelity however of his heart not\nsuffering him to go into a house which his master had forsaken with\ndisgust--he contented himself with turning his part of the siege into a\nblockade;--that is, he kept others off;--for though he never after went\nto the house, yet he never met Bridget in the village, but he\nwould either nod or wink, or smile, or look kindly at her--or (as\ncircumstances directed) he would shake her by the hand--or ask her\nlovingly how she did--or would give her a ribbon--and now-and-then,\nthough never but when it could be done with decorum, would give Bridget\na...--\n\nPrecisely in this situation, did these things stand for five years; that\nis from the demolition of Dunkirk in the year 13, to the latter end of\nmy uncle Toby's campaign in the year 18, which was about six or seven\nweeks before the time I'm speaking of.--When Trim, as his custom was,\nafter he had put my uncle Toby to bed, going down one moon-shiny night\nto see that every thing was right at his fortifications--in the lane\nseparated from the bowling-green with flowering shrubs and holly--he\nespied his Bridget.\n\nAs the corporal thought there was nothing in the world so well worth\nshewing as the glorious works which he and my uncle Toby had made, Trim\ncourteously and gallantly took her by the hand, and led her in: this was\nnot done so privately, but that the foul-mouth'd trumpet of Fame carried\nit from ear to ear, till at length it reach'd my father's, with this\nuntoward circumstance along with it, that my uncle Toby's curious\ndraw-bridge, constructed and painted after the Dutch fashion, and\nwhich went quite across the ditch--was broke down, and somehow or other\ncrushed all to pieces that very night.\n\nMy father, as you have observed, had no great esteem for my uncle Toby's\nhobby-horse; he thought it the most ridiculous horse that ever gentleman\nmounted; and indeed unless my uncle Toby vexed him about it, could never\nthink of it once, without smiling at it--so that it could never get lame\nor happen any mischance, but it tickled my father's imagination beyond\nmeasure; but this being an accident much more to his humour than any\none which had yet befall'n it, it proved an inexhaustible fund of\nentertainment to him--Well--but dear Toby! my father would say, do tell\nme seriously how this affair of the bridge happened.--How can you teaze\nme so much about it? my uncle Toby would reply--I have told it you\ntwenty times, word for word as Trim told it me.--Prithee, how was it\nthen, corporal? my father would cry, turning to Trim.--It was a mere\nmisfortune, an' please your honour;--I was shewing Mrs. Bridget\nour fortifications, and in going too near the edge of the fosse, I\nunfortunately slipp'd in--Very well, Trim! my father would cry--(smiling\nmysteriously, and giving a nod--but without interrupting him)--and being\nlink'd fast, an' please your honour, arm in arm with Mrs. Bridget, I\ndragg'd her after me, by means of which she fell backwards soss against\nthe bridge--and Trim's foot (my uncle Toby would cry, taking the story\nout of his mouth) getting into the cuvette, he tumbled full against the\nbridge too.--It was a thousand to one, my uncle Toby would add, that\nthe poor fellow did not break his leg.--Ay truly, my father would say--a\nlimb is soon broke, brother Toby, in such encounters.--And so, an'\nplease your honour, the bridge, which your honour knows was a very\nslight one, was broke down betwixt us, and splintered all to pieces.\n\nAt other times, but especially when my uncle Toby was so unfortunate\nas to say a syllable about cannons, bombs, or petards--my father would\nexhaust all the stores of his eloquence (which indeed were very great)\nin a panegyric upon the Battering-Rams of the ancients--the Vinea which\nAlexander made use of at the siege of Troy.--He would tell my uncle Toby\nof the Catapultae of the Syrians, which threw such monstrous stones\nso many hundred feet, and shook the strongest bulwarks from their very\nfoundation:--he would go on and describe the wonderful mechanism of\nthe Ballista which Marcellinus makes so much rout about!--the terrible\neffects of the Pyraboli, which cast fire;--the danger of the Terebra and\nScorpio, which cast javelins.--But what are these, would he say, to the\ndestructive machinery of corporal Trim?--Believe me, brother Toby, no\nbridge, or bastion, or sally-port, that ever was constructed in this\nworld, can hold out against such artillery.\n\nMy uncle Toby would never attempt any defence against the force of this\nridicule, but that of redoubling the vehemence of smoaking his pipe; in\ndoing which, he raised so dense a vapour one night after supper, that\nit set my father, who was a little phthisical, into a suffocating fit of\nviolent coughing: my uncle Toby leap'd up without feeling the pain upon\nhis groin--and, with infinite pity, stood beside his brother's chair,\ntapping his back with one hand, and holding his head with the other, and\nfrom time to time wiping his eyes with a clean cambrick handkerchief,\nwhich he pulled out of his pocket.--The affectionate and endearing\nmanner in which my uncle Toby did these little offices--cut my father\nthro' his reins, for the pain he had just been giving him.--May my\nbrains be knock'd out with a battering-ram or a catapulta, I care not\nwhich, quoth my father to himself--if ever I insult this worthy soul\nmore!\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XVIII.\n\nThe draw-bridge being held irreparable, Trim was ordered directly to\nset about another--but not upon the same model: for cardinal Alberoni's\nintrigues at that time being discovered, and my uncle Toby rightly\nforeseeing that a flame would inevitably break out betwixt Spain and\nthe Empire, and that the operations of the ensuing campaign must in all\nlikelihood be either in Naples or Sicily--he determined upon an\nItalian bridge--(my uncle Toby, by-the-bye, was not far out of his\nconjectures)--but my father, who was infinitely the better politician,\nand took the lead as far of my uncle Toby in the cabinet, as my uncle\nToby took it of him in the field--convinced him, that if the king of\nSpain and the Emperor went together by the ears, England and France and\nHolland must, by force of their pre-engagements, all enter the lists\ntoo;--and if so, he would say, the combatants, brother Toby, as sure\nas we are alive, will fall to it again, pell-mell, upon the old\nprize-fighting stage of Flanders;--then what will you do with your\nItalian bridge?\n\n--We will go on with it then upon the old model, cried my uncle Toby.\n\nWhen corporal Trim had about half finished it in that style--my uncle\nToby found out a capital defect in it, which he had never thoroughly\nconsidered before. It turned, it seems, upon hinges at both ends of\nit, opening in the middle, one half of which turning to one side of the\nfosse, and the other to the other; the advantage of which was this,\nthat by dividing the weight of the bridge into two equal portions, it\nimpowered my uncle Toby to raise it up or let it down with the end of\nhis crutch, and with one hand, which, as his garrison was weak, was\nas much as he could well spare--but the disadvantages of such a\nconstruction were insurmountable;--for by this means, he would say, I\nleave one half of my bridge in my enemy's possession--and pray of what\nuse is the other?\n\nThe natural remedy for this was, no doubt, to have his bridge fast only\nat one end with hinges, so that the whole might be lifted up together,\nand stand bolt upright--but that was rejected for the reason given\nabove.\n\nFor a whole week after he was determined in his mind to have one of\nthat particular construction which is made to draw back horizontally,\nto hinder a passage; and to thrust forwards again to gain a passage--of\nwhich sorts your worship might have seen three famous ones at Spires\nbefore its destruction--and one now at Brisac, if I mistake not;--but my\nfather advising my uncle Toby, with great earnestness, to have nothing\nmore to do with thrusting bridges--and my uncle foreseeing moreover\nthat it would but perpetuate the memory of the Corporal's misfortune--he\nchanged his mind for that of the marquis d'Hopital's invention, which\nthe younger Bernouilli has so well and learnedly described, as your\nworships may see--Act. Erud. Lips. an. 1695--to these a lead weight is\nan eternal balance, and keeps watch as well as a couple of centinels,\ninasmuch as the construction of them was a curve line approximating to a\ncycloid--if not a cycloid itself.\n\nMy uncle Toby understood the nature of a parabola as well as any man\nin England--but was not quite such a master of the cycloid;--he talked\nhowever about it every day--the bridge went not forwards.--We'll ask\nsomebody about it, cried my uncle Toby to Trim.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XIX.\n\nWhen Trim came in and told my father, that Dr. Slop was in the kitchen,\nand busy in making a bridge--my uncle Toby--the affair of the jack-boots\nhaving just then raised a train of military ideas in his brain--took it\ninstantly for granted that Dr. Slop was making a model of the marquis\nd'Hopital's bridge.--'tis very obliging in him, quoth my uncle\nToby;--pray give my humble service to Dr. Slop, Trim, and tell him I\nthank him heartily.\n\nHad my uncle Toby's head been a Savoyard's box, and my father peeping\nin all the time at one end of it--it could not have given him a more\ndistinct conception of the operations of my uncle Toby's imagination,\nthan what he had; so, notwithstanding the catapulta and battering-ram,\nand his bitter imprecation about them, he was just beginning to\ntriumph--\n\nWhen Trim's answer, in an instant, tore the laurel from his brows, and\ntwisted it to pieces.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XX.\n\n--This unfortunate draw-bridge of yours, quoth my father--God bless your\nhonour, cried Trim, 'tis a bridge for master's nose.--In bringing him\ninto the world with his vile instruments, he has crushed his nose,\nSusannah says, as flat as a pancake to his face, and he is making a\nfalse bridge with a piece of cotton and a thin piece of whalebone out of\nSusannah's stays, to raise it up.\n\n--Lead me, brother Toby, cried my father, to my room this instant.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XXI.\n\nFrom the first moment I sat down to write my life for the amusement of\nthe world, and my opinions for its instruction, has a cloud insensibly\nbeen gathering over my father.--A tide of little evils and distresses\nhas been setting in against him.--Not one thing, as he observed himself,\nhas gone right: and now is the storm thicken'd and going to break, and\npour down full upon his head.\n\nI enter upon this part of my story in the most pensive and melancholy\nframe of mind that ever sympathetic breast was touched with.--My nerves\nrelax as I tell it.--Every line I write, I feel an abatement of the\nquickness of my pulse, and of that careless alacrity with it, which\nevery day of my life prompts me to say and write a thousand things I\nshould not--And this moment that I last dipp'd my pen into my ink, I\ncould not help taking notice what a cautious air of sad composure and\nsolemnity there appear'd in my manner of doing it.--Lord! how different\nfrom the rash jerks and hair-brain'd squirts thou art wont, Tristram,\nto transact it with in other humours--dropping thy pen--spurting thy ink\nabout thy table and thy books--as if thy pen and thy ink, thy books and\nfurniture cost thee nothing!\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XXII.\n\n--I won't go about to argue the point with you--'tis so--and I am\npersuaded of it, madam, as much as can be, 'That both man and woman\nbear pain or sorrow (and, for aught I know, pleasure too) best in a\nhorizontal position.'\n\nThe moment my father got up into his chamber, he threw himself prostrate\nacross his bed in the wildest disorder imaginable, but at the same time\nin the most lamentable attitude of a man borne down with sorrows, that\never the eye of pity dropp'd a tear for.--The palm of his right hand, as\nhe fell upon the bed, receiving his forehead, and covering the greatest\npart of both his eyes, gently sunk down with his head (his elbow giving\nway backwards) till his nose touch'd the quilt;--his left arm hung\ninsensible over the side of the bed, his knuckles reclining upon the\nhandle of the chamber-pot, which peep'd out beyond the valance--his\nright leg (his left being drawn up towards his body) hung half over the\nside of the bed, the edge of it pressing upon his shin bone--He felt\nit not. A fix'd, inflexible sorrow took possession of every line of his\nface.--He sigh'd once--heaved his breast often--but uttered not a word.\n\nAn old set-stitch'd chair, valanced and fringed around with party\ncoloured worsted bobs, stood at the bed's head, opposite to the side\nwhere my father's head reclined.--My uncle Toby sat him down in it.\n\nBefore an affliction is digested--consolation ever comes too soon;--and\nafter it is digested--it comes too late: so that you see, madam,\nthere is but a mark between these two, as fine almost as a hair, for a\ncomforter to take aim at:--my uncle Toby was always either on this side,\nor on that of it, and would often say, he believed in his heart he could\nas soon hit the longitude; for this reason, when he sat down in the\nchair, he drew the curtain a little forwards, and having a tear at\nevery one's service--he pull'd out a cambrick handkerchief--gave a low\nsigh--but held his peace.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XXIII.\n\n--'All is not gain that is got into the purse.'--So that notwithstanding\nmy father had the happiness of reading the oddest books in the universe,\nand had moreover, in himself, the oddest way of thinking that ever\nman in it was bless'd with, yet it had this drawback upon him after\nall--that it laid him open to some of the oddest and most whimsical\ndistresses; of which this particular one, which he sunk under at\npresent, is as strong an example as can be given.\n\nNo doubt, the breaking down of the bridge of a child's nose, by the edge\nof a pair of forceps--however scientifically applied--would vex any\nman in the world, who was at so much pains in begetting a child, as\nmy father was--yet it will not account for the extravagance of his\naffliction, nor will it justify the un-christian manner he abandoned and\nsurrendered himself up to.\n\nTo explain this, I must leave him upon the bed for half an hour--and my\nuncle Toby in his old fringed chair sitting beside him.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XXIV.\n\n--I think it a very unreasonable demand--cried my great-grandfather,\ntwisting up the paper, and throwing it upon the table.--By this account,\nmadam, you have but two thousand pounds fortune, and not a shilling\nmore--and you insist upon having three hundred pounds a year jointure\nfor it.--\n\n--'Because,' replied my great-grandmother, 'you have little or no nose,\nSir.'--\n\nNow before I venture to make use of the word Nose a second time--to\navoid all confusion in what will be said upon it, in this interesting\npart of my story, it may not be amiss to explain my own meaning,\nand define, with all possible exactness and precision, what I would\nwillingly be understood to mean by the term: being of opinion, that 'tis\nowing to the negligence and perverseness of writers in despising this\nprecaution, and to nothing else--that all the polemical writings in\ndivinity are not as clear and demonstrative as those upon a Will o' the\nWisp, or any other sound part of philosophy, and natural pursuit; in\norder to which, what have you to do, before you set out, unless you\nintend to go puzzling on to the day of judgment--but to give the world\na good definition, and stand to it, of the main word you have most\noccasion for--changing it, Sir, as you would a guinea, into small\ncoin?--which done--let the father of confusion puzzle you, if he can; or\nput a different idea either into your head, or your reader's head, if he\nknows how.\n\nIn books of strict morality and close reasoning, such as I am engaged\nin--the neglect is inexcusable; and Heaven is witness, how the world\nhas revenged itself upon me for leaving so many openings to equivocal\nstrictures--and for depending so much as I have done, all along, upon\nthe cleanliness of my readers imaginations.\n\n--Here are two senses, cried Eugenius, as we walk'd along, pointing\nwith the fore finger of his right hand to the word Crevice, in the one\nhundred and seventy-eighth page of the first volume of this book of\nbooks,--here are two senses--quoth he.--And here are two roads, replied\nI, turning short upon him--a dirty and a clean one--which shall we\ntake?--The clean, by all means, replied Eugenius. Eugenius, said I,\nstepping before him, and laying my hand upon his breast--to define--is\nto distrust.--Thus I triumph'd over Eugenius; but I triumph'd over him\nas I always do, like a fool.--'Tis my comfort, however, I am not an\nobstinate one: therefore\n\nI define a nose as follows--intreating only beforehand, and beseeching\nmy readers, both male and female, of what age, complexion, and condition\nsoever, for the love of God and their own souls, to guard against the\ntemptations and suggestions of the devil, and suffer him by no art or\nwile to put any other ideas into their minds, than what I put into my\ndefinition--For by the word Nose, throughout all this long chapter of\nnoses, and in every other part of my work, where the word Nose occurs--I\ndeclare, by that word I mean a nose, and nothing more, or less.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XXV.\n\n--'Because,' quoth my great grandmother, repeating the words again--'you\nhave little or no nose, Sir.'--\n\nS'death! cried my great-grandfather, clapping his hand upon his\nnose,--'tis not so small as that comes to;--'tis a full inch longer than\nmy father's.--Now, my great-grandfather's nose was for all the world\nlike unto the noses of all the men, women, and children, whom Pantagruel\nfound dwelling upon the island of Ennasin.--By the way, if you\nwould know the strange way of getting a-kin amongst so flat-nosed a\npeople--you must read the book;--find it out yourself, you never can.--\n\n--'Twas shaped, Sir, like an ace of clubs.\n\n--'Tis a full inch, continued my grandfather, pressing up the ridge of\nhis nose with his finger and thumb; and repeating his assertion--'tis a\nfull inch longer, madam, than my father's--You must mean your uncle's,\nreplied my great-grandmother.\n\n--My great-grandfather was convinced.--He untwisted the paper, and\nsigned the article.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XXVI.\n\n--What an unconscionable jointure, my dear, do we pay out of this small\nestate of ours, quoth my grandmother to my grandfather.\n\nMy father, replied my grandfather, had no more nose, my dear, saving the\nmark, than there is upon the back of my hand.\n\n--Now, you must know, that my great-grandmother outlived my grandfather\ntwelve years; so that my father had the jointure to pay, a hundred and\nfifty pounds half-yearly--(on Michaelmas and Lady-day,)--during all that\ntime.\n\nNo man discharged pecuniary obligations with a better grace than my\nfather.--And as far as a hundred pounds went, he would fling it upon the\ntable, guinea by guinea, with that spirited jerk of an honest welcome,\nwhich generous souls, and generous souls only, are able to fling down\nmoney: but as soon as ever he enter'd upon the odd fifty--he generally\ngave a loud Hem! rubb'd the side of his nose leisurely with the flat\npart of his fore finger--inserted his hand cautiously betwixt his head\nand the cawl of his wig--look'd at both sides of every guinea as he\nparted with it--and seldom could get to the end of the fifty pounds,\nwithout pulling out his handkerchief, and wiping his temples.\n\nDefend me, gracious Heaven! from those persecuting spirits who make no\nallowances for these workings within us.--Never--O never may I lay down\nin their tents, who cannot relax the engine, and feel pity for the\nforce of education, and the prevalence of opinions long derived from\nancestors!\n\nFor three generations at least this tenet in favour of long noses had\ngradually been taking root in our family.--Tradition was all along on\nits side, and Interest was every half-year stepping in to strengthen it;\nso that the whimsicality of my father's brain was far from having\nthe whole honour of this, as it had of almost all his other strange\nnotions.--For in a great measure he might be said to have suck'd this in\nwith his mother's milk. He did his part however.--If education planted\nthe mistake (in case it was one) my father watered it, and ripened it to\nperfection.\n\nHe would often declare, in speaking his thoughts upon the subject, that\nhe did not conceive how the greatest family in England could stand\nit out against an uninterrupted succession of six or seven short\nnoses.--And for the contrary reason, he would generally add, That it\nmust be one of the greatest problems in civil life, where the same\nnumber of long and jolly noses, following one another in a direct\nline, did not raise and hoist it up into the best vacancies in the\nkingdom.--He would often boast that the Shandy family rank'd very\nhigh in king Harry the VIIIth's time, but owed its rise to no state\nengine--he would say--but to that only;--but that, like other families,\nhe would add--it had felt the turn of the wheel, and had never recovered\nthe blow of my great-grandfather's nose.--It was an ace of clubs indeed,\nhe would cry, shaking his head--and as vile a one for an unfortunate\nfamily as ever turn'd up trumps.\n\n--Fair and softly, gentle reader!--where is thy fancy carrying thee!--If\nthere is truth in man, by my great-grandfather's nose, I mean the\nexternal organ of smelling, or that part of man which stands\nprominent in his face--and which painters say, in good jolly noses\nand well-proportioned faces, should comprehend a full third--that is,\nmeasured downwards from the setting on of the hair.\n\n--What a life of it has an author, at this pass!\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XXVII.\n\nIt is a singular blessing, that nature has form'd the mind of man with\nthe same happy backwardness and renitency against conviction, which is\nobserved in old dogs--'of not learning new tricks.'\n\nWhat a shuttlecock of a fellow would the greatest philosopher that ever\nexisted be whisk'd into at once, did he read such books, and observe\nsuch facts, and think such thoughts, as would eternally be making him\nchange sides!\n\nNow, my father, as I told you last year, detested all this--He pick'd\nup an opinion, Sir, as a man in a state of nature picks up an apple.--It\nbecomes his own--and if he is a man of spirit, he would lose his life\nrather than give it up.\n\nI am aware that Didius, the great civilian, will contest this point;\nand cry out against me, Whence comes this man's right to this apple? ex\nconfesso, he will say--things were in a state of nature--The apple, is\nas much Frank's apple as John's. Pray, Mr. Shandy, what patent has he\nto shew for it? and how did it begin to be his? was it, when he set his\nheart upon it? or when he gathered it? or when he chew'd it? or when he\nroasted it? or when he peel'd, or when he brought it home? or when he\ndigested?--or when he--?--For 'tis plain, Sir, if the first picking up\nof the apple, made it not his--that no subsequent act could.\n\nBrother Didius, Tribonius will answer--(now Tribonius the civilian and\nchurch lawyer's beard being three inches and a half and three eighths\nlonger than Didius his beard--I'm glad he takes up the cudgels for me,\nso I give myself no farther trouble about the answer.)--Brother Didius,\nTribonius will say, it is a decreed case, as you may find it in the\nfragments of Gregorius and Hermogines's codes, and in all the codes from\nJustinian's down to the codes of Louis and Des Eaux--That the sweat of a\nman's brows, and the exsudations of a man's brains, are as much a man's\nown property as the breeches upon his backside;--which said exsudations,\n&c. being dropp'd upon the said apple by the labour of finding it,\nand picking it up; and being moreover indissolubly wasted, and as\nindissolubly annex'd, by the picker up, to the thing pick'd up, carried\nhome, roasted, peel'd, eaten, digested, and so on;--'tis evident that\nthe gatherer of the apple, in so doing, has mix'd up something which\nwas his own, with the apple which was not his own, by which means he has\nacquired a property;--or, in other words, the apple is John's apple.\n\nBy the same learned chain of reasoning my father stood up for all his\nopinions; he had spared no pains in picking them up, and the more they\nlay out of the common way, the better still was his title.--No mortal\nclaimed them; they had cost him moreover as much labour in cooking and\ndigesting as in the case above, so that they might well and truly be\nsaid to be of his own goods and chattels.--Accordingly he held fast by\n'em, both by teeth and claws--would fly to whatever he could lay his\nhands on--and, in a word, would intrench and fortify them round with\nas many circumvallations and breast-works, as my uncle Toby would a\ncitadel.\n\nThere was one plaguy rub in the way of this--the scarcity of materials\nto make any thing of a defence with, in case of a smart attack; inasmuch\nas few men of great genius had exercised their parts in writing books\nupon the subject of great noses: by the trotting of my lean horse, the\nthing is incredible! and I am quite lost in my understanding, when I am\nconsidering what a treasure of precious time and talents together has\nbeen wasted upon worse subjects--and how many millions of books in all\nlanguages and in all possible types and bindings, have been fabricated\nupon points not half so much tending to the unity and peace-making of\nthe world. What was to be had, however, he set the greater store by;\nand though my father would oft-times sport with my uncle Toby's\nlibrary--which, by-the-bye, was ridiculous enough--yet at the very same\ntime he did it, he collected every book and treatise which had been\nsystematically wrote upon noses, with as much care as my honest uncle\nToby had done those upon military architecture.--'Tis true, a much less\ntable would have held them--but that was not thy transgression, my dear\nuncle.--\n\nHere--but why here--rather than in any other part of my story--I am not\nable to tell:--but here it is--my heart stops me to pay to thee, my dear\nuncle Toby, once for all, the tribute I owe thy goodness.--Here let\nme thrust my chair aside, and kneel down upon the ground, whilst I am\npouring forth the warmest sentiment of love for thee, and veneration for\nthe excellency of thy character, that ever virtue and nature kindled\nin a nephew's bosom.--Peace and comfort rest for evermore upon\nthy head!--Thou enviedst no man's comforts--insultedst no man's\nopinions--Thou blackenedst no man's character--devouredst no man's\nbread: gently, with faithful Trim behind thee, didst thou amble\nround the little circle of thy pleasures, jostling no creature in thy\nway:--for each one's sorrows, thou hadst a tear,--for each man's need,\nthou hadst a shilling.\n\nWhilst I am worth one, to pay a weeder--thy path from thy door to thy\nbowling-green shall never be grown up.--Whilst there is a rood and a\nhalf of land in the Shandy family, thy fortifications, my dear uncle\nToby, shall never be demolish'd.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XXVIII.\n\nMy father's collection was not great, but to make amends, it was\ncurious; and consequently he was some time in making it; he had the\ngreat good fortune hewever, to set off well, in getting Bruscambille's\nprologue upon long noses, almost for nothing--for he gave no more for\nBruscambille than three half-crowns; owing indeed to the strong fancy\nwhich the stall-man saw my father had for the book the moment he\nlaid his hands upon it.--There are not three Bruscambilles in\nChristendom--said the stall-man, except what are chain'd up in the\nlibraries of the curious. My father flung down the money as quick as\nlightning--took Bruscambille into his bosom--hied home from Piccadilly\nto Coleman-street with it, as he would have hied home with a treasure,\nwithout taking his hand once off from Bruscambille all the way.\n\nTo those who do not yet know of which gender Bruscambille is--inasmuch\nas a prologue upon long noses might easily be done by either--'twill be\nno objection against the simile--to say, That when my father got home,\nhe solaced himself with Bruscambille after the manner in which, 'tis ten\nto one, your worship solaced yourself with your first mistress--that is,\nfrom morning even unto night: which, by-the-bye, how delightful soever\nit may prove to the inamorato--is of little or no entertainment at\nall to by-standers.--Take notice, I go no farther with the simile--my\nfather's eye was greater than his appetite--his zeal greater than his\nknowledge--he cool'd--his affections became divided--he got hold\nof Prignitz--purchased Scroderus, Andrea Paraeus, Bouchet's Evening\nConferences, and above all, the great and learned Hafen Slawkenbergius;\nof which, as I shall have much to say by-and-bye--I will say nothing\nnow.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XXIX.\n\nOf all the tracts my father was at the pains to procure and study in\nsupport of his hypothesis, there was not any one wherein he felt a more\ncruel disappointment at first, than in the celebrated dialogue between\nPamphagus and Cocles, written by the chaste pen of the great and\nvenerable Erasmus, upon the various uses and seasonable applications of\nlong noses.--Now don't let Satan, my dear girl, in this chapter, take\nadvantage of any one spot of rising ground to get astride of your\nimagination, if you can any ways help it; or if he is so nimble as to\nslip on--let me beg of you, like an unback'd filly, to frisk it, to\nsquirt it, to jump it, to rear it, to bound it--and to kick it, with\nlong kicks and short kicks, till like Tickletoby's mare, you break a\nstrap or a crupper, and throw his worship into the dirt.--You need not\nkill him.--\n\n--And pray who was Tickletoby's mare?--'tis just as discreditable and\nunscholar-like a question, Sir, as to have asked what year (ab. urb.\ncon.) the second Punic war broke out.--Who was Tickletoby's mare!--Read,\nread, read, read, my unlearned reader! read--or by the knowledge of the\ngreat saint Paraleipomenon--I tell you before-hand, you had better throw\ndown the book at once; for without much reading, by which your reverence\nknows I mean much knowledge, you will no more be able to penetrate the\nmoral of the next marbled page (motley emblem of my work!) than the\nworld with all its sagacity has been able to unravel the many opinions,\ntransactions, and truths which still lie mystically hid under the dark\nveil of the black one.\n\n\n\n(two marble plates)\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XXX.\n\n'Nihil me paenitet hujus nasi,' quoth Pamphagus;--that is--'My nose has\nbeen the making of me.'--'Nec est cur poeniteat,' replies Cocles; that\nis, 'How the duce should such a nose fail?'\n\nThe doctrine, you see, was laid down by Erasmus, as my father wished\nit, with the utmost plainness; but my father's disappointment was,\nin finding nothing more from so able a pen, but the bare fact\nitself; without any of that speculative subtilty or ambidexterity of\nargumentation upon it, which Heaven had bestow'd upon man on purpose to\ninvestigate truth, and fight for her on all sides.--My father pish'd and\npugh'd at first most terribly--'tis worth something to have a good name.\nAs the dialogue was of Erasmus, my father soon came to himself, and read\nit over and over again with great application, studying every word and\nevery syllable of it thro' and thro' in its most strict and literal\ninterpretation--he could still make nothing of it, that way. Mayhap\nthere is more meant, than is said in it, quoth my father.--Learned men,\nbrother Toby, don't write dialogues upon long noses for nothing.--I'll\nstudy the mystick and the allegorick sense--here is some room to turn a\nman's self in, brother.\n\nMy father read on.--\n\nNow I find it needful to inform your reverences and worships, that\nbesides the many nautical uses of long noses enumerated by Erasmus,\nthe dialogist affirmeth that a long nose is not without its domestic\nconveniences also; for that in a case of distress--and for want of a\npair of bellows, it will do excellently well, ad ixcitandum focum (to\nstir up the fire.)\n\nNature had been prodigal in her gifts to my father beyond measure, and\nhad sown the seeds of verbal criticism as deep within him, as she\nhad done the seeds of all other knowledge--so that he had got out his\npenknife, and was trying experiments upon the sentence, to see if he\ncould not scratch some better sense into it.--I've got within a\nsingle letter, brother Toby, cried my father, of Erasmus his mystic\nmeaning.--You are near enough, brother, replied my uncle, in all\nconscience.--Pshaw! cried my father, scratching on--I might as well\nbe seven miles off.--I've done it--said my father, snapping his\nfingers--See, my dear brother Toby, how I have mended the sense.--But\nyou have marr'd a word, replied my uncle Toby.--My father put on his\nspectacles--bit his lip--and tore out the leaf in a passion.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XXXI.\n\nO Slawkenbergius! thou faithful analyzer of my Disgrazias--thou sad\nforeteller of so many of the whips and short turns which on one stage or\nother of my life have come slap upon me from the shortness of my nose,\nand no other cause, that I am conscious of.--Tell me, Slawkenbergius!\nwhat secret impulse was it? what intonation of voice? whence came it?\nhow did it sound in thy ears?--art thou sure thou heard'st it?--which\nfirst cried out to thee--go--go, Slawkenbergius! dedicate the labours of\nthy life--neglect thy pastimes--call forth all the powers and faculties\nof thy nature--macerate thyself in the service of mankind, and write a\ngrand Folio for them, upon the subject of their noses.\n\nHow the communication was conveyed into Slawkenbergius's sensorium--so\nthat Slawkenbergius should know whose finger touch'd the key--and whose\nhand it was that blew the bellows--as Hafen Slawkenbergius has been dead\nand laid in his grave above fourscore and ten years--we can only raise\nconjectures.\n\nSlawkenbergius was play'd upon, for aught I know, like one of\nWhitefield's disciples--that is, with such a distinct intelligence, Sir,\nof which of the two masters it was that had been practising upon his\ninstrument--as to make all reasoning upon it needless.\n\n--For in the account which Hafen Slawkenbergius gives the world of his\nmotives and occasions for writing, and spending so many years of his\nlife upon this one work--towards the end of his prolegomena, which\nby-the-bye should have come first--but the bookbinder has most\ninjudiciously placed it betwixt the analytical contents of the book, and\nthe book itself--he informs his reader, that ever since he had arrived\nat the age of discernment, and was able to sit down cooly, and consider\nwithin himself the true state and condition of man, and distinguish the\nmain end and design of his being;--or--to shorten my translation, for\nSlawkenbergius's book is in Latin, and not a little prolix in this\npassage--ever since I understood, quoth Slawkenbergius, any thing--or\nrather what was what--and could perceive that the point of long noses\nhad been too loosely handled by all who had gone before;--have I\nSlawkenbergius, felt a strong impulse, with a mighty and unresistible\ncall within me, to gird up myself to this undertaking.\n\nAnd to do justice to Slawkenbergius, he has entered the list with a\nstronger lance, and taken a much larger career in it than any one\nman who had ever entered it before him--and indeed, in many respects,\ndeserves to be en-nich'd as a prototype for all writers, of voluminous\nworks at least, to model their books by--for he has taken in, Sir, the\nwhole subject--examined every part of it dialectically--then brought\nit into full day; dilucidating it with all the light which either the\ncollision of his own natural parts could strike--or the profoundest\nknowledge of the sciences had impowered him to cast upon it--collating,\ncollecting, and compiling--begging, borrowing, and stealing, as he went\nalong, all that had been wrote or wrangled thereupon in the schools and\nporticos of the learned: so that Slawkenbergius his book may properly be\nconsidered, not only as a model--but as a thorough-stitched Digest and\nregular institute of noses, comprehending in it all that is or can be\nneedful to be known about them.\n\nFor this cause it is that I forbear to speak of so many (otherwise)\nvaluable books and treatises of my father's collecting, wrote either,\nplump upon noses--or collaterally touching them;--such for instance\nas Prignitz, now lying upon the table before me, who with infinite\nlearning, and from the most candid and scholar-like examination of above\nfour thousand different skulls, in upwards of twenty charnel-houses in\nSilesia, which he had rummaged--has informed us, that the mensuration\nand configuration of the osseous or bony parts of human noses, in any\ngiven tract of country, except Crim Tartary, where they are all crush'd\ndown by the thumb, so that no judgment can be formed upon them--are\nmuch nearer alike, than the world imagines;--the difference amongst them\nbeing, he says, a mere trifle, not worth taking notice of;--but that the\nsize and jollity of every individual nose, and by which one nose ranks\nabove another, and bears a higher price, is owing to the cartilaginous\nand muscular parts of it, into whose ducts and sinuses the blood and\nanimal spirits being impell'd and driven by the warmth and force of the\nimagination, which is but a step from it (bating the case of idiots,\nwhom Prignitz, who had lived many years in Turky, supposes under the\nmore immediate tutelage of Heaven)--it so happens, and ever must, says\nPrignitz, that the excellency of the nose is in a direct arithmetical\nproportion to the excellency of the wearer's fancy.\n\nIt is for the same reason, that is, because 'tis all comprehended in\nSlawkenbergius, that I say nothing likewise of Scroderus (Andrea)\nwho, all the world knows, set himself to oppugn Prignitz with great\nviolence--proving it in his own way, first logically, and then by a\nseries of stubborn facts, 'That so far was Prignitz from the truth, in\naffirming that the fancy begat the nose, that on the contrary--the nose\nbegat the fancy.'\n\n--The learned suspected Scroderus of an indecent sophism in this--and\nPrignitz cried out aloud in the dispute, that Scroderus had shifted the\nidea upon him--but Scroderus went on, maintaining his thesis.\n\nMy father was just balancing within himself, which of the two sides he\nshould take in this affair; when Ambrose Paraeus decided it in a moment,\nand by overthrowing the systems, both of Prignitz and Scroderus, drove\nmy father out of both sides of the controversy at once.\n\nBe witness--\n\nI don't acquaint the learned reader--in saying it, I mention it only to\nshew the learned, I know the fact myself--\n\nThat this Ambrose Paraeus was chief surgeon and nose-mender to Francis\nthe ninth of France, and in high credit with him and the two preceding,\nor succeeding kings (I know not which)--and that, except in the slip he\nmade in his story of Taliacotius's noses, and his manner of setting them\non--he was esteemed by the whole college of physicians at that time, as\nmore knowing in matters of noses, than any one who had ever taken them\nin hand.\n\nNow Ambrose Paraeus convinced my father, that the true and efficient\ncause of what had engaged so much the attention of the world, and\nupon which Prignitz and Scroderus had wasted so much learning and fine\nparts--was neither this nor that--but that the length and goodness of\nthe nose was owing simply to the softness and flaccidity in the nurse's\nbreast--as the flatness and shortness of puisne noses was to the\nfirmness and elastic repulsion of the same organ of nutrition in the\nhale and lively--which, tho' happy for the woman, was the undoing of the\nchild, inasmuch as his nose was so snubb'd, so rebuff'd, so rebated,\nand so refrigerated thereby, as never to arrive ad mensuram suam\nlegitimam;--but that in case of the flaccidity and softness of the nurse\nor mother's breast--by sinking into it, quoth Paraeus, as into so\nmuch butter, the nose was comforted, nourish'd, plump'd up, refresh'd,\nrefocillated, and set a growing for ever.\n\nI have but two things to observe of Paraeus; first, That he proves\nand explains all this with the utmost chastity and decorum of\nexpression:--for which may his soul for ever rest in peace!\n\nAnd, secondly, that besides the systems of Prignitz and Scroderus, which\nAmbrose Paraeus his hypothesis effectually overthrew--it overthrew at\nthe same time the system of peace and harmony of our family; and for\nthree days together, not only embroiled matters between my father and\nmy mother, but turn'd likewise the whole house and every thing in it,\nexcept my uncle Toby, quite upside down.\n\nSuch a ridiculous tale of a dispute between a man and his wife,\nnever surely in any age or country got vent through the key-hole of a\nstreet-door.\n\nMy mother, you must know--but I have fifty things more necessary to let\nyou know first--I have a hundred difficulties which I have promised to\nclear up, and a thousand distresses and domestick misadventures crowding\nin upon me thick and threefold, one upon the neck of another. A cow\nbroke in (tomorrow morning) to my uncle Toby's fortifications, and eat\nup two rations and a half of dried grass, tearing up the sods with it,\nwhich faced his horn-work and covered way.--Trim insists upon\nbeing tried by a court-martial--the cow to be shot--Slop to be\ncrucifix'd--myself to be tristram'd and at my very baptism made a martyr\nof;--poor unhappy devils that we all are!--I want swaddling--but there\nis no time to be lost in exclamations--I have left my father lying\nacross his bed, and my uncle Toby in his old fringed chair, sitting\nbeside him, and promised I would go back to them in half an hour; and\nfive-and-thirty minutes are laps'd already.--Of all the perplexities a\nmortal author was ever seen in--this certainly is the greatest, for I\nhave Hafen Slawkenbergius's folio, Sir, to finish--a dialogue between\nmy father and my uncle Toby, upon the solution of Prignitz, Scroderus,\nAmbrose Paraeus, Panocrates, and Grangousier to relate--a tale out of\nSlawkenbergius to translate, and all this in five minutes less than\nno time at all;--such a head!--would to Heaven my enemies only saw the\ninside of it!\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XXXII.\n\nThere was not any one scene more entertaining in our family--and to do\nit justice in this point;--and I here put off my cap and lay it upon the\ntable close beside my ink-horn, on purpose to make my declaration to the\nworld concerning this one article the more solemn--that I believe in my\nsoul (unless my love and partiality to my understanding blinds me) the\nhand of the supreme Maker and first Designer of all things never made\nor put a family together (in that period at least of it which I have\nsat down to write the story of)--where the characters of it were cast or\ncontrasted with so dramatick a felicity as ours was, for this end; or in\nwhich the capacities of affording such exquisite scenes, and the powers\nof shifting them perpetually from morning to night, were lodged and\nintrusted with so unlimited a confidence, as in the Shandy Family.\n\nNot any one of these was more diverting, I say, in this whimsical\ntheatre of ours--than what frequently arose out of this self-same\nchapter of long noses--especially when my father's imagination was\nheated with the enquiry, and nothing would serve him but to heat my\nuncle Toby's too.\n\nMy uncle Toby would give my father all possible fair play in this\nattempt; and with infinite patience would sit smoking his pipe for\nwhole hours together, whilst my father was practising upon his head,\nand trying every accessible avenue to drive Prignitz and Scroderus's\nsolutions into it.\n\nWhether they were above my uncle Toby's reason--or contrary to it--or\nthat his brain was like damp timber, and no spark could possibly take\nhold--or that it was so full of saps, mines, blinds, curtins, and such\nmilitary disqualifications to his seeing clearly into Prignitz and\nScroderus's doctrines--I say not--let schoolmen--scullions, anatomists,\nand engineers, fight for it among themselves--\n\n'Twas some misfortune, I make no doubt, in this affair, that my father\nhad every word of it to translate for the benefit of my uncle Toby,\nand render out of Slawkenbergius's Latin, of which, as he was no great\nmaster, his translation was not always of the purest--and generally\nleast so where 'twas most wanted.--This naturally open'd a door to a\nsecond misfortune;--that in the warmer paroxysms of his zeal to open\nmy uncle Toby's eyes--my father's ideas ran on as much faster than the\ntranslation, as the translation outmoved my uncle Toby's--neither the\none or the other added much to the perspicuity of my father's lecture.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XXXIII.\n\nThe gift of ratiocination and making syllogisms--I mean in man--for in\nsuperior classes of being, such as angels and spirits--'tis all done,\nmay it please your worships, as they tell me, by Intuition;--and beings\ninferior, as your worships all know--syllogize by their noses: though\nthere is an island swimming in the sea (though not altogether at its\nease) whose inhabitants, if my intelligence deceives me not, are\nso wonderfully gifted, as to syllogize after the same fashion, and\noft-times to make very well out too:--but that's neither here nor\nthere--\n\nThe gift of doing it as it should be, amongst us, or--the great and\nprincipal act of ratiocination in man, as logicians tell us, is the\nfinding out the agreement or disagreement of two ideas one with another,\nby the intervention of a third (called the medius terminus); just as a\nman, as Locke well observes, by a yard, finds two mens nine-pin-alleys\nto be of the same length, which could not be brought together, to\nmeasure their equality, by juxta-position.\n\nHad the same great reasoner looked on, as my father illustrated his\nsystems of noses, and observed my uncle Toby's deportment--what great\nattention he gave to every word--and as oft as he took his pipe from\nhis mouth, with what wonderful seriousness he contemplated the length of\nit--surveying it transversely as he held it betwixt his finger and\nhis thumb--then fore-right--then this way, and then that, in all its\npossible directions and fore-shortenings--he would have concluded my\nuncle Toby had got hold of the medius terminus, and was syllogizing and\nmeasuring with it the truth of each hypothesis of long noses, in order,\nas my father laid them before him. This, by-the-bye, was more than my\nfather wanted--his aim in all the pains he was at in these philosophick\nlectures--was to enable my uncle Toby not to discuss--but comprehend--to\nhold the grains and scruples of learning--not to weigh them.--My uncle\nToby, as you will read in the next chapter, did neither the one or the\nother.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XXXIV.\n\n'Tis a pity, cried my father one winter's night, after a three hours\npainful translation of Slawkenbergius--'tis a pity, cried my father,\nputting my mother's threadpaper into the book for a mark, as he\nspoke--that truth, brother Toby, should shut herself up in such\nimpregnable fastnesses, and be so obstinate as not to surrender herself\nsometimes up upon the closest siege.--\n\nNow it happened then, as indeed it had often done before, that my uncle\nToby's fancy, during the time of my father's explanation of Prignitz to\nhim--having nothing to stay it there, had taken a short flight to the\nbowling-green;--his body might as well have taken a turn there too--so\nthat with all the semblance of a deep school-man intent upon the medius\nterminus--my uncle Toby was in fact as ignorant of the whole lecture,\nand all its pros and cons, as if my father had been translating Hafen\nSlawkenbergius from the Latin tongue into the Cherokee. But the word\nsiege, like a talismanic power, in my father's metaphor, wafting back\nmy uncle Toby's fancy, quick as a note could follow the touch--he open'd\nhis ears--and my father observing that he took his pipe out of his\nmouth, and shuffled his chair nearer the table, as with a desire to\nprofit--my father with great pleasure began his sentence again--changing\nonly the plan, and dropping the metaphor of the siege of it, to keep\nclear of some dangers my father apprehended from it.\n\n'Tis a pity, said my father, that truth can only be on one side, brother\nToby--considering what ingenuity these learned men have all shewn in\ntheir solutions of noses.--Can noses be dissolved? replied my uncle\nToby.\n\n--My father thrust back his chair--rose up--put on his hat--took four\nlong strides to the door--jerked it open--thrust his head half way\nout--shut the door again--took no notice of the bad hinge--returned\nto the table--pluck'd my mother's thread-paper out of Slawkenbergius's\nbook--went hastily to his bureau--walked slowly back--twisted my\nmother's thread-paper about his thumb--unbutton'd his waistcoat--threw\nmy mother's thread-paper into the fire--bit her sattin pin-cushion in\ntwo, fill'd his mouth with bran--confounded it;--but mark!--the oath of\nconfusion was levell'd at my uncle Toby's brain--which was e'en confused\nenough already--the curse came charged only with the bran--the bran, may\nit please your honours, was no more than powder to the ball.\n\n'Twas well my father's passions lasted not long; for so long as they\ndid last, they led him a busy life on't; and it is one of the most\nunaccountable problems that ever I met with in my observations of human\nnature, that nothing should prove my father's mettle so much, or make\nhis passions go off so like gun-powder, as the unexpected strokes\nhis science met with from the quaint simplicity of my uncle Toby's\nquestions.--Had ten dozen of hornets stung him behind in so many\ndifferent places all at one time--he could not have exerted more\nmechanical functions in fewer seconds--or started half so much, as with\none single quaere of three words unseasonably popping in full upon him\nin his hobby-horsical career.\n\n'Twas all one to my uncle Toby--he smoked his pipe on with unvaried\ncomposure--his heart never intended offence to his brother--and as his\nhead could seldom find out where the sting of it lay--he always gave\nmy father the credit of cooling by himself.--He was five minutes and\nthirty-five seconds about it in the present case.\n\nBy all that's good! said my father, swearing, as he came to himself, and\ntaking the oath out of Ernulphus's digest of curses--(though to do my\nfather justice it was a fault (as he told Dr. Slop in the affair of\nErnulphus) which he as seldom committed as any man upon earth)--By all\nthat's good and great! brother Toby, said my father, if it was not for\nthe aids of philosophy, which befriend one so much as they do--you would\nput a man beside all temper.--Why, by the solutions of noses, of which\nI was telling you, I meant, as you might have known, had you favoured me\nwith one grain of attention, the various accounts which learned men of\ndifferent kinds of knowledge have given the world of the causes of short\nand long noses.--There is no cause but one, replied my uncle Toby--why\none man's nose is longer than another's, but because that God pleases to\nhave it so.--That is Grangousier's solution, said my father.--'Tis\nhe, continued my uncle Toby, looking up, and not regarding my father's\ninterruption, who makes us all, and frames and puts us together in\nsuch forms and proportions, and for such ends, as is agreeable to\nhis infinite wisdom,.--'Tis a pious account, cried my father, but not\nphilosophical--there is more religion in it than sound science. 'Twas no\ninconsistent part of my uncle Toby's character--that he feared God, and\nreverenced religion.--So the moment my father finished his remark--my\nuncle Toby fell a whistling Lillabullero with more zeal (though more out\nof tune) than usual.--\n\nWhat is become of my wife's thread-paper?\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XXXV.\n\nNo matter--as an appendage to seamstressy, the thread-paper might be\nof some consequence to my mother--of none to my father, as a mark in\nSlawkenbergius. Slawkenbergius in every page of him was a rich treasure\nof inexhaustible knowledge to my father--he could not open him amiss;\nand he would often say in closing the book, that if all the arts and\nsciences in the world, with the books which treated of them, were\nlost--should the wisdom and policies of governments, he would say,\nthrough disuse, ever happen to be forgot, and all that statesmen had\nwrote or caused to be written, upon the strong or the weak sides of\ncourts and kingdoms, should they be forgot also--and Slawkenbergius only\nleft--there would be enough in him in all conscience, he would say,\nto set the world a-going again. A treasure therefore was he indeed!\nan institute of all that was necessary to be known of noses, and every\nthing else--at matin, noon, and vespers was Hafen Slawkenbergius his\nrecreation and delight: 'twas for ever in his hands--you would have\nsworn, Sir, it had been a canon's prayer-book--so worn, so glazed, so\ncontrited and attrited was it with fingers and with thumbs in all its\nparts, from one end even unto the other.\n\nI am not such a bigot to Slawkenbergius as my father;--there is a fund\nin him, no doubt: but in my opinion, the best, I don't say the most\nprofitable, but the most amusing part of Hafen Slawkenbergius, is his\ntales--and, considering he was a German, many of them told not without\nfancy:--these take up his second book, containing nearly one half of\nhis folio, and are comprehended in ten decads, each decad containing ten\ntales--Philosophy is not built upon tales; and therefore 'twas certainly\nwrong in Slawkenbergius to send them into the world by that name!--there\nare a few of them in his eighth, ninth, and tenth decads, which I own\nseem rather playful and sportive, than speculative--but in general they\nare to be looked upon by the learned as a detail of so many independent\nfacts, all of them turning round somehow or other upon the main hinges\nof his subject, and added to his work as so many illustrations upon the\ndoctrines of noses.\n\nAs we have leisure enough upon our hands--if you give me leave, madam,\nI'll tell you the ninth tale of his tenth decad.\n\n\n\nSlawkenbergii Fabella (As Hafen Slawkenbergius de Nasis is extremely\nscarce, it may not be unacceptable to the learned reader to see the\nspecimen of a few pages of his original; I will make no reflection\nupon it, but that his story-telling Latin is much more concise than his\nphilosophic--and, I think, has more of Latinity in it.)\n\nVespera quadam frigidula, posteriori in parte mensis Augusti,\nperegrinus, mulo fusco colore incidens, mantica a tergo, paucis\nindusiis, binis calceis, braccisque sericis coccineis repleta,\nArgentoratum ingressus est.\n\nMiliti eum percontanti, quum portus intraret dixit, se apud Nasorum\npromontorium fuisse, Francofurtum proficisci, et Argentoratum, transitu\nad fines Sarmatiae mensis intervallo, reversurum.\n\nMiles peregrini in faciem suspexit--Di boni, nova forma nasi!\n\nAt multum mihi profuit, inquit peregrinus, carpum amento extrahens, e\nquo pependit acinaces: Loculo manum inseruit; et magna cum urbanitate,\npilei parte anteriore tacta manu sinistra, ut extendit dextram, militi\nflorinum dedit et processit.\n\nDolet mihi, ait miles, tympanistam nanum et valgum alloquens, virum adeo\nurbanum vaginam perdidisse: itinerari haud poterit nuda acinaci; neque\nvaginam toto Argentorato, habilem inveniet.--Nullam unquam habui,\nrespondit peregrinus respiciens--seque comiter inclinans--hoc more\ngesto, nudam acinacem elevans, mulo lento progrediente, ut nasum tueri\npossim.\n\nNon immerito, benigne peregrine, respondit miles.\n\nNihili aestimo, ait ille tympanista, e pergamena factitius est.\n\nProut christianus sum, inquit miles, nasus ille, ni sexties major fit,\nmeo esset conformis.\n\nCrepitare audivi ait tympanista.\n\nMehercule! sanguinem emisit, respondit miles.\n\nMiseret me, inquit tympanista, qui non ambo tetigimus!\n\nEodem temporis puncto, quo haec res argumentata fuit inter militem\net tympanistam, disceptabatur ibidem tubicine et uxore sua qui tunc\naccesserunt, et peregrino praetereunte, restiterunt.\n\nQuantus nasus! aeque longus est, ait tubicina, ac tuba.\n\nEt ex eodem metallo, ait tubicen, velut sternutamento audias.\n\nTantum abest, respondit illa, quod fistulam dulcedine vincit.\n\nAeneus est, ait tubicen.\n\nNequaquam, respondit uxor.\n\nRursum affirmo, ait tubicen, quod aeneus est.\n\nRem penitus explorabo; prius, enim digito tangam, ait uxor, quam\ndormivero,\n\nMulus peregrini gradu lento progressus est, ut unumquodque verbum\ncontroversiae, non tantum inter militem et tympanistam, verum etiam\ninter tubicinem et uxorum ejus, audiret.\n\nNequaquam, ait ille, in muli collum fraena demittens, et manibus\nambabus in pectus positis, (mulo lente progrediente) nequaquam, ait\nille respiciens, non necesse est ut res isthaec dilucidata foret. Minime\ngentium! meus nasus nunquam tangetur, dum spiritus hos reget artus--Ad\nquid agendum? air uxor burgomagistri.\n\nPeregrinus illi non respondit. Votum faciebat tunc temporis sancto\nNicolao; quo facto, sinum dextrum inserens, e qua negligenter pependit\nacinaces, lento gradu processit per plateam Argentorati latam quae ad\ndiversorium templo ex adversum ducit.\n\nPeregrinus mulo descendens stabulo includi, et manticam inferri jussit:\nqua aperta et coccineis sericis femoralibus extractis cum argento\nlaciniato (Greek), his sese induit, statimque, acinaci in manu, ad forum\ndeambulavit.\n\nQuod ubi peregrinus esset ingressus, uxorem tubicinis obviam euntem\naspicit; illico cursum flectit, metuens ne nasus suus exploraretur,\natque ad diversorium regressus est--exuit se vestibus; braccas coccineas\nsericas manticae imposuit mulumque educi jussit.\n\nFrancofurtum proficiscor, ait ille, et Argentoratum quatuor abhinc\nhebdomadis revertar.\n\nBene curasti hoc jumentam? (ait) muli faciem manu demulcens--me,\nmanticamque meam, plus sexcentis mille passibus portavit.\n\nLonga via est! respondet hospes, nisi plurimum esset negoti.--Enimvero,\nait peregrinus, a Nasorum promontorio redii, et nasum speciosissimum,\negregiosissimumque quem unquam quisquam sortitus est, acquisivi?\n\nDum peregrinus hanc miram rationem de seipso reddit, hospes et uxor\nejus, oculis intentis, peregrini nasum contemplantur--Per sanctos\nsanctasque omnes, ait hospitis uxor, nasis duodecim maximis in toto\nArgentorato major est!--estne, ait illa mariti in aurem insusurrans,\nnonne est nasus praegrandis?\n\nDolus inest, anime mi, ait hospes--nasus est falsus.\n\nVerus est, respondit uxor--\n\nEx abiete factus est, ait ille, terebinthinum olet--\n\nCarbunculus inest, ait uxor.\n\nMortuus est nasus, respondit hospes.\n\nVivus est ait illa,--et si ipsa vivam tangam.\n\nVotum feci sancto Nicolao, ait peregrinus, nasum meum intactum fore\nusque ad--Quodnam tempus? illico respondit illa.\n\nMinimo tangetur, inquit ille (manibus in pectus compositis) usque ad\nillam horam--Quam horam? ait illa--Nullam, respondit peregrinus, donec\npervenio ad--Quem locum,--obsecro? ait illa--Peregrinus nil respondens\nmulo conscenso discessit.\n\n\n\nSlawkenbergius's Tale\n\nIt was one cool refreshing evening, at the close of a very sultry day,\nin the latter end of the month of August, when a stranger, mounted upon\na dark mule, with a small cloak-bag behind him, containing a few shirts,\na pair of shoes, and a crimson-sattin pair of breeches, entered the town\nof Strasburg.\n\nHe told the centinel, who questioned him as he entered the gates, that\nhe had been at the Promontory of Noses--was going on to Frankfort--and\nshould be back again at Strasburg that day month, in his way to the\nborders of Crim Tartary.\n\nThe centinel looked up into the stranger's face--he never saw such a\nNose in his life!\n\n--I have made a very good venture of it, quoth the stranger--so slipping\nhis wrist out of the loop of a black ribbon, to which a short scymetar\nwas hung, he put his hand into his pocket, and with great courtesy\ntouching the fore part of his cap with his left hand, as he extended his\nright--he put a florin into the centinel's hand, and passed on.\n\nIt grieves, me, said the centinel, speaking to a little dwarfish\nbandy-legg'd drummer, that so courteous a soul should have lost his\nscabbard--he cannot travel without one to his scymetar, and will not\nbe able to get a scabbard to fit it in all Strasburg.--I never had one,\nreplied the stranger, looking back to the centinel, and putting his hand\nup to his cap as he spoke--I carry it, continued he, thus--holding up\nhis naked scymetar, his mule moving on slowly all the time--on purpose\nto defend my nose.\n\nIt is well worth it, gentle stranger, replied the centinel.\n\n--'Tis not worth a single stiver, said the bandy-legg'd drummer--'tis a\nnose of parchment.\n\nAs I am a true catholic--except that it is six times as big--'tis a\nnose, said the centinel, like my own.\n\n--I heard it crackle, said the drummer.\n\nBy dunder, said the centinel, I saw it bleed.\n\nWhat a pity, cried the bandy-legg'd drummer, we did not both touch it!\n\nAt the very time that this dispute was maintaining by the centinel\nand the drummer--was the same point debating betwixt a trumpeter and a\ntrumpeter's wife, who were just then coming up, and had stopped to see\nthe stranger pass by.\n\nBenedicity!--What a nose! 'tis as long, said the trumpeter's wife, as a\ntrumpet.\n\nAnd of the same metal said the trumpeter, as you hear by its sneezing.\n\n'Tis as soft as a flute, said she.\n\n--'Tis brass, said the trumpeter.\n\n--'Tis a pudding's end, said his wife.\n\nI tell thee again, said the trumpeter, 'tis a brazen nose,\n\nI'll know the bottom of it, said the trumpeter's wife, for I will touch\nit with my finger before I sleep.\n\nThe stranger's mule moved on at so slow a rate, that he heard every\nword of the dispute, not only betwixt the centinel and the drummer, but\nbetwixt the trumpeter and trumpeter's wife.\n\nNo! said he, dropping his reins upon his mule's neck, and laying both\nhis hands upon his breast, the one over the other in a saint-like\nposition (his mule going on easily all the time) No! said he, looking\nup--I am not such a debtor to the world--slandered and disappointed as\nI have been--as to give it that conviction--no! said he, my nose shall\nnever be touched whilst Heaven gives me strength--To do what? said a\nburgomaster's wife.\n\nThe stranger took no notice of the burgomaster's wife--he was making\na vow to Saint Nicolas; which done, having uncrossed his arms with the\nsame solemnity with which he crossed them, he took up the reins of his\nbridle with his left-hand, and putting his right hand into his bosom,\nwith the scymetar hanging loosely to the wrist of it, he rode on, as\nslowly as one foot of the mule could follow another, thro' the principal\nstreets of Strasburg, till chance brought him to the great inn in the\nmarket-place over-against the church.\n\nThe moment the stranger alighted, he ordered his mule to be led into the\nstable, and his cloak-bag to be brought in; then opening, and taking out\nof it his crimson-sattin breeches, with a silver-fringed--(appendage to\nthem, which I dare not translate)--he put his breeches, with his fringed\ncod-piece on, and forth-with, with his short scymetar in his hand,\nwalked out to the grand parade.\n\nThe stranger had just taken three turns upon the parade, when he\nperceived the trumpeter's wife at the opposite side of it--so turning\nshort, in pain lest his nose should be attempted, he instantly went back\nto his inn--undressed himself, packed up his crimson-sattin breeches,\n&c. in his cloak-bag, and called for his mule.\n\nI am going forwards, said the stranger, for Frankfort--and shall be back\nat Strasburg this day month.\n\nI hope, continued the stranger, stroking down the face of his mule with\nhis left hand as he was going to mount it, that you have been kind\nto this faithful slave of mine--it has carried me and my cloak-bag,\ncontinued he, tapping the mule's back, above six hundred leagues.\n\n--'Tis a long journey, Sir, replied the master of the inn--unless a man\nhas great business.--Tut! tut! said the stranger, I have been at the\npromontory of Noses; and have got me one of the goodliest, thank Heaven,\nthat ever fell to a single man's lot.\n\nWhilst the stranger was giving this odd account of himself, the master\nof the inn and his wife kept both their eyes fixed full upon the\nstranger's nose--By saint Radagunda, said the inn-keeper's wife to\nherself, there is more of it than in any dozen of the largest noses put\ntogether in all Strasburg! is it not, said she, whispering her husband\nin his ear, is it not a noble nose?\n\n'Tis an imposture, my dear, said the master of the inn--'tis a false\nnose.\n\n'Tis a true nose, said his wife.\n\n'Tis made of fir-tree, said he, I smell the turpentine.--\n\nThere's a pimple on it, said she.\n\n'Tis a dead nose, replied the inn-keeper.\n\n'Tis a live nose, and if I am alive myself, said the inn-keeper's, wife,\nI will touch it.\n\nI have made a vow to saint Nicolas this day, said the stranger, that my\nnose shall not be touched till--Here the stranger suspending his voice,\nlooked up.--Till when? said she hastily.\n\nIt never shall be touched, said he, clasping his hands and bringing them\nclose to his breast, till that hour--What hour? cried the inn keeper's\nwife.--Never!--never! said the stranger, never till I am got--For\nHeaven's sake, into what place? said she--The stranger rode away without\nsaying a word.\n\nThe stranger had not got half a league on his way towards Frankfort\nbefore all the city of Strasburg was in an uproar about his nose. The\nCompline bells were just ringing to call the Strasburgers to their\ndevotions, and shut up the duties of the day in prayer:--no soul in all\nStrasburg heard 'em--the city was like a swarm of bees--men, women, and\nchildren, (the Compline bells tinkling all the time) flying here and\nthere--in at one door, out at another--this way and that way--long ways\nand cross ways--up one street, down another street--in at this alley,\nout of that--did you see it? did you see it? did you see it? O! did you\nsee it?--who saw it? who did see it? for mercy's sake, who saw it?\n\nAlack o'day! I was at vespers!--I was washing, I was starching, I was\nscouring, I was quilting--God help me! I never saw it--I never touch'd\nit!--would I had been a centinel, a bandy-legg'd drummer, a trumpeter,\na trumpeter's wife, was the general cry and lamentation in every street\nand corner of Strasburg.\n\nWhilst all this confusion and disorder triumphed throughout the great\ncity of Strasburg, was the courteous stranger going on as gently upon\nhis mule in his way to Frankfort, as if he had no concern at all in the\naffair--talking all the way he rode in broken sentences, sometimes to\nhis mule--sometimes to himself--sometimes to his Julia.\n\nO Julia, my lovely Julia!--nay I cannot stop to let thee bite that\nthistle--that ever the suspected tongue of a rival should have robbed me\nof enjoyment when I was upon the point of tasting it.--\n\n--Pugh!--'tis nothing but a thistle--never mind it--thou shalt have a\nbetter supper at night.\n\n--Banish'd from my country--my friends--from thee.--\n\nPoor devil, thou'rt sadly tired with thy journey!--come--get on a little\nfaster--there's nothing in my cloak-bag but two shirts--a crimson-sattin\npair of breeches, and a fringed--Dear Julia!\n\n--But why to Frankfort?--is it that there is a hand unfelt, which\nsecretly is conducting me through these meanders and unsuspected tracts?\n\n--Stumbling! by saint Nicolas! every step--why at this rate we shall be\nall night in getting in--\n\n--To happiness--or am I to be the sport of fortune and slander--destined\nto be driven forth unconvicted--unheard--untouch'd--if so, why did I\nnot stay at Strasburg, where justice--but I had sworn! Come, thou\nshalt drink--to St. Nicolas--O Julia!--What dost thou prick up thy ears\nat?--'tis nothing but a man, &c.\n\nThe stranger rode on communing in this manner with his mule and\nJulia--till he arrived at his inn, where, as soon as he arrived, he\nalighted--saw his mule, as he had promised it, taken good care of--took\noff his cloak-bag, with his crimson-sattin breeches, &c. in it--called\nfor an omelet to his supper, went to his bed about twelve o'clock, and\nin five minutes fell fast asleep.\n\nIt was about the same hour when the tumult in Strasburg being abated for\nthat night,--the Strasburgers had all got quietly into their beds--but\nnot like the stranger, for the rest either of their minds or bodies;\nqueen Mab, like an elf as she was, had taken the stranger's nose, and\nwithout reduction of its bulk, had that night been at the pains of\nslitting and dividing it into as many noses of different cuts and\nfashions, as there were heads in Strasburg to hold them. The abbess of\nQuedlingberg, who with the four great dignitaries of her chapter, the\nprioress, the deaness, the sub-chantress, and senior canonness, had\nthat week come to Strasburg to consult the university upon a case of\nconscience relating to their placket-holes--was ill all the night.\n\nThe courteous stranger's nose had got perched upon the top of the pineal\ngland of her brain, and made such rousing work in the fancies of the\nfour great dignitaries of her chapter, they could not get a wink of\nsleep the whole night thro' for it--there was no keeping a limb still\namongst them--in short, they got up like so many ghosts.\n\nThe penitentiaries of the third order of saint Francis--the nuns\nof mount Calvary--the Praemonstratenses--the Clunienses (Hafen\nSlawkenbergius means the Benedictine nuns of Cluny, founded in the\nyear 940, by Odo, abbe de Cluny.)--the Carthusians, and all the severer\norders of nuns, who lay that night in blankets or hair-cloth, were still\nin a worse condition than the abbess of Quedlingberg--by tumbling and\ntossing, and tossing and tumbling from one side of their beds to the\nother the whole night long--the several sisterhoods had scratch'd and\nmaul'd themselves all to death--they got out of their beds almost flay'd\nalive--every body thought saint Antony had visited them for probation\nwith his fire--they had never once, in short, shut their eyes the whole\nnight long from vespers to matins.\n\nThe nuns of saint Ursula acted the wisest--they never attempted to go to\nbed at all.\n\nThe dean of Strasburg, the prebendaries, the capitulars and domiciliars\n(capitularly assembled in the morning to consider the case of butter'd\nbuns) all wished they had followed the nuns of saint Ursula's example.--\n\nIn the hurry and confusion every thing had been in the night before, the\nbakers had all forgot to lay their leaven--there were no butter'd\nbuns to be had for breakfast in all Strasburg--the whole close of the\ncathedral was in one eternal commotion--such a cause of restlessness\nand disquietude, and such a zealous inquiry into that cause of the\nrestlessness, had never happened in Strasburg, since Martin Luther, with\nhis doctrines, had turned the city upside down.\n\nIf the stranger's nose took this liberty of thrusting himself thus into\nthe dishes (Mr. Shandy's compliments to orators--is very sensible that\nSlawkenbergius has here changed his metaphor--which he is very guilty\nof:--that as a translator, Mr. Shandy has all along done what he could\nto make him stick to it--but that here 'twas impossible.) of religious\norders, &c. what a carnival did his nose make of it, in those of the\nlaity!--'tis more than my pen, worn to the stump as it is, has power to\ndescribe; tho', I acknowledge, (cries Slawkenbergius with more gaiety of\nthought than I could have expected from him) that there is many a good\nsimile now subsisting in the world which might give my countrymen some\nidea of it; but at the close of such a folio as this, wrote for their\nsakes, and in which I have spent the greatest part of my life--tho' I\nown to them the simile is in being, yet would it not be unreasonable in\nthem to expect I should have either time or inclination to search for\nit? Let it suffice to say, that the riot and disorder it occasioned\nin the Strasburgers fantasies was so general--such an overpowering\nmastership had it got of all the faculties of the Strasburgers minds--so\nmany strange things, with equal confidence on all sides, and with equal\neloquence in all places, were spoken and sworn to concerning it, that\nturned the whole stream of all discourse and wonder towards it--every\nsoul, good and bad--rich and poor--learned and unlearned--doctor and\nstudent--mistress and maid--gentle and simple--nun's flesh and woman's\nflesh, in Strasburg spent their time in hearing tidings about it--every\neye in Strasburg languished to see it--every finger--every thumb in\nStrasburg burned to touch it.\n\nNow what might add, if any thing may be thought necessary to add, to\nso vehement a desire--was this, that the centinel, the bandy-legg'd\ndrummer, the trumpeter, the trumpeter's wife, the burgomaster's widow,\nthe master of the inn, and the master of the inn's wife, how widely\nsoever they all differed every one from another in their testimonies\nand description of the stranger's nose--they all agreed together in two\npoints--namely, that he was gone to Frankfort, and would not return to\nStrasburg till that day month; and secondly, whether his nose was true\nor false, that the stranger himself was one of the most perfect paragons\nof beauty--the finest-made man--the most genteel!--the most generous of\nhis purse--the most courteous in his carriage, that had ever entered the\ngates of Strasburg--that as he rode, with scymetar slung loosely to his\nwrist, thro' the streets--and walked with his crimson-sattin breeches\nacross the parade--'twas with so sweet an air of careless modesty, and\nso manly withal--as would have put the heart in jeopardy (had his nose\nnot stood in his way) of every virgin who had cast her eyes upon him.\n\nI call not upon that heart which is a stranger to the throbs\nand yearnings of curiosity, so excited, to justify the abbess of\nQuedlingberg, the prioress, the deaness, and sub-chantress, for sending\nat noon-day for the trumpeter's wife: she went through the streets of\nStrasburg with her husband's trumpet in her hand,--the best apparatus\nthe straitness of the time would allow her, for the illustration of her\ntheory--she staid no longer than three days.\n\nThe centinel and bandy-legg'd drummer!--nothing on this side of old\nAthens could equal them! they read their lectures under the city-gates\nto comers and goers, with all the pomp of a Chrysippus and a Crantor in\ntheir porticos.\n\nThe master of the inn, with his ostler on his left-hand, read his also\nin the same stile--under the portico or gateway of his stable-yard--his\nwife, hers more privately in a back room: all flocked to their lectures;\nnot promiscuously--but to this or that, as is ever the way, as faith and\ncredulity marshal'd them--in a word, each Strasburger came crouding for\nintelligence--and every Strasburger had the intelligence he wanted.\n\n'Tis worth remarking, for the benefit of all demonstrators in natural\nphilosophy, &c. that as soon as the trumpeter's wife had finished the\nabbess of Quedlingberg's private lecture, and had begun to read\nin public, which she did upon a stool in the middle of the great\nparade,--she incommoded the other demonstrators mainly, by gaining\nincontinently the most fashionable part of the city of Strasburg for her\nauditory--But when a demonstrator in philosophy (cries Slawkenbergius)\nhas a trumpet for an apparatus, pray what rival in science can pretend\nto be heard besides him?\n\nWhilst the unlearned, thro' these conduits of intelligence, were all\nbusied in getting down to the bottom of the well, where Truth keeps her\nlittle court--were the learned in their way as busy in pumping her up\nthro' the conduits of dialect induction--they concerned themselves not\nwith facts--they reasoned--\n\nNot one profession had thrown more light upon this subject than the\nFaculty--had not all their disputes about it run into the affair of Wens\nand oedematous swellings, they could not keep clear of them for their\nbloods and souls--the stranger's nose had nothing to do either with wens\nor oedematous swellings.\n\nIt was demonstrated however very satisfactorily, that such a ponderous\nmass of heterogenous matter could not be congested and conglomerated\nto the nose, whilst the infant was in Utera, without destroying the\nstatical balance of the foetus, and throwing it plump upon its head nine\nmonths before the time.--\n\n--The opponents granted the theory--they denied the consequences.\n\nAnd if a suitable provision of veins, arteries, &c. said they, was\nnot laid in, for the due nourishment of such a nose, in the very first\nstamina and rudiments of its formation, before it came into the world\n(bating the case of Wens) it could not regularly grow and be sustained\nafterwards.\n\nThis was all answered by a dissertation upon nutriment, and the effect\nwhich nutriment had in extending the vessels, and in the increase and\nprolongation of the muscular parts to the greatest growth and expansion\nimaginable--In the triumph of which theory, they went so far as to\naffirm, that there was no cause in nature, why a nose might not grow to\nthe size of the man himself.\n\nThe respondents satisfied the world this event could never happen to\nthem so long as a man had but one stomach and one pair of lungs--For the\nstomach, said they, being the only organ destined for the reception\nof food, and turning it into chyle--and the lungs the only engine\nof sanguification--it could possibly work off no more, than what the\nappetite brought it: or admitting the possibility of a man's overloading\nhis stomach, nature had set bounds however to his lungs--the engine was\nof a determined size and strength, and could elaborate but a certain\nquantity in a given time--that is, it could produce just as much blood\nas was sufficient for one single man, and no more; so that, if there was\nas much nose as man--they proved a mortification must necessarily ensue;\nand forasmuch as there could not be a support for both, that the nose\nmust either fall off from the man, or the man inevitably fall off from\nhis nose.\n\nNature accommodates herself to these emergencies, cried the\nopponents--else what do you say to the case of a whole stomach--a\nwhole pair of lungs, and but half a man, when both his legs have been\nunfortunately shot off?\n\nHe dies of a plethora, said they--or must spit blood, and in a fortnight\nor three weeks go off in a consumption.--\n\n--It happens otherwise--replied the opponents.--\n\nIt ought not, said they.\n\nThe more curious and intimate inquirers after nature and her doings,\nthough they went hand in hand a good way together, yet they all divided\nabout the nose at last, almost as much as the Faculty itself\n\nThey amicably laid it down, that there was a just and geometrical\narrangement and proportion of the several parts of the human frame to\nits several destinations, offices, and functions, which could not\nbe transgressed but within certain limits--that nature, though she\nsported--she sported within a certain circle;--and they could not agree\nabout the diameter of it.\n\nThe logicians stuck much closer to the point before them than any of the\nclasses of the literati;--they began and ended with the word Nose; and\nhad it not been for a petitio principii, which one of the ablest of\nthem ran his head against in the beginning of the combat, the whole\ncontroversy had been settled at once.\n\nA nose, argued the logician, cannot bleed without blood--and not only\nblood--but blood circulating in it to supply the phaenomenon with a\nsuccession of drops--(a stream being but a quicker succession of drops,\nthat is included, said he.)--Now death, continued the logician, being\nnothing but the stagnation of the blood--\n\nI deny the definition--Death is the separation of the soul from the\nbody, said his antagonist--Then we don't agree about our weapons,\nsaid the logician--Then there is an end of the dispute, replied the\nantagonist.\n\nThe civilians were still more concise: what they offered being more in\nthe nature of a decree--than a dispute.\n\nSuch a monstrous nose, said they, had it been a true nose, could not\npossibly have been suffered in civil society--and if false--to impose\nupon society with such false signs and tokens, was a still greater\nviolation of its rights, and must have had still less mercy shewn it.\n\nThe only objection to this was, that if it proved any thing, it proved\nthe stranger's nose was neither true nor false.\n\nThis left room for the controversy to go on. It was maintained by the\nadvocates of the ecclesiastic court, that there was nothing to inhibit a\ndecree, since the stranger ex mero motu had confessed he had been at the\nPromontory of Noses, and had got one of the goodliest, &c. &c.--To this\nit was answered, it was impossible there should be such a place as\nthe Promontory of Noses, and the learned be ignorant where it lay. The\ncommissary of the bishop of Strasburg undertook the advocates, explained\nthis matter in a treatise upon proverbial phrases, shewing them, that\nthe Promontory of Noses was a mere allegorick expression, importing no\nmore than that nature had given him a long nose: in proof of which,\nwith great learning, he cited the underwritten authorities, (Nonnulli\nex nostratibus eadem loquendi formula utun. Quinimo & Logistae &\nCanonistae--Vid. Parce Barne Jas in d. L. Provincial. Constitut. de\nconjec. vid. Vol. Lib. 4. Titul. I. n. 7 qua etiam in re conspir. Om de\nPromontorio Nas. Tichmak. ff. d. tit. 3. fol. 189. passim. Vid. Glos. de\ncontrahend. empt. &c. necnon J. Scrudr. in cap. para refut. per totum.\nCum his cons. Rever. J. Tubal, Sentent. & Prov. cap. 9. ff. 11, 12.\nobiter. V. & Librum, cui Tit. de Terris & Phras. Belg. ad finem, cum\ncomment. N. Bardy Belg. Vid. Scrip. Argentotarens. de Antiq. Ecc. in\nEpisc Archiv. fid coll. per Von Jacobum Koinshoven Folio Argent. 1583.\npraecip. ad finem. Quibus add. Rebuff in L. obvenire de Signif. Nom. ff.\nfol. & de jure Gent. & Civil. de protib. aliena feud. per federa, test.\nJoha. Luxius in prolegom. quem velim videas, de Analy. Cap. 1, 2,\n3. Vid. Idea.) which had decided the point incontestably, had it not\nappeared that a dispute about some franchises of dean and chapter-lands\nhad been determined by it nineteen years before.\n\nIt happened--I must say unluckily for Truth, because they were giving\nher a lift another way in so doing; that the two universities of\nStrasburg--the Lutheran, founded in the year 1538 by Jacobus Surmis,\ncounsellor of the senate,--and the Popish, founded by Leopold, arch-duke\nof Austria, were, during all this time, employing the whole depth\nof their knowledge (except just what the affair of the abbess of\nQuedlingberg's placket-holes required)--in determining the point of\nMartin Luther's damnation.\n\nThe Popish doctors had undertaken to demonstrate a priori, that from the\nnecessary influence of the planets on the twenty-second day of October\n1483--when the moon was in the twelfth house, Jupiter, Mars, and Venus\nin the third, the Sun, Saturn, and Mercury, all got together in the\nfourth--that he must in course, and unavoidably, be a damn'd man--and\nthat his doctrines, by a direct corollary, must be damn'd doctrines too.\n\nBy inspection into his horoscope, where five planets were in coition all\nat once with Scorpio (Haec mira, satisque horrenda. Planetarum coitio\nsub Scorpio Asterismo in nona coeli statione, quam Arabes religioni\ndeputabant efficit Martinum Lutherum sacrilegum hereticum, Christianae\nreligionis hostem acerrimum atque prophanum, ex horoscopi directione\nad Martis coitum, religiosissimus obiit, ejus Anima scelestissima ad\ninfernos navigavit--ab Alecto, Tisiphone & Megara flagellis igneis\ncruciata perenniter.--Lucas Gaurieus in Tractatu astrologico de\npraeteritis multorum hominum accidentibus per genituras examinatis.) (in\nreading this my father would always shake his head) in the ninth house,\nwith the Arabians allotted to religion--it appeared that Martin Luther\ndid not care one stiver about the matter--and that from the horoscope\ndirected to the conjunction of Mars--they made it plain likewise he must\ndie cursing and blaspheming--with the blast of which his soul (being\nsteep'd in guilt) sailed before the wind, in the lake of hell-fire.\n\nThe little objection of the Lutheran doctors to this, was, that it must\ncertainly be the soul of another man, born Oct. 22, 83. which was forced\nto sail down before the wind in that manner--inasmuch as it appeared\nfrom the register of Islaben in the county of Mansfelt, that Luther was\nnot born in the year 1483, but in 84; and not on the 22d day of October,\nbut on the 10th of November, the eve of Martinmas day, from whence he\nhad the name of Martin.\n\n(--I must break off my translation for a moment; for if I did not, I\nknow I should no more be able to shut my eyes in bed, than the abbess of\nQuedlingberg--It is to tell the reader; that my father never read this\npassage of Slawkenbergius to my uncle Toby, but with triumph--not over\nmy uncle Toby, for he never opposed him in it--but over the whole world.\n\n--Now you see, brother Toby, he would say, looking up, 'that christian\nnames are not such indifferent things;'--had Luther here been called\nby any other name but Martin, he would have been damn'd to all\neternity--Not that I look upon Martin, he would add, as a good name--far\nfrom it--'tis something better than a neutral, and but a little--yet\nlittle as it is you see it was of some service to him.\n\nMy father knew the weakness of this prop to his hypothesis, as well as\nthe best logician could shew him--yet so strange is the weakness of man\nat the same time, as it fell in his way, he could not for his life but\nmake use of it; and it was certainly for this reason, that though there\nare many stories in Hafen Slawkenbergius's Decades full as entertaining\nas this I am translating, yet there is not one amongst them which\nmy father read over with half the delight--it flattered two of his\nstrangest hypotheses together--his Names and his Noses.--I will be bold\nto say, he might have read all the books in the Alexandrian Library,\nhad not fate taken other care of them, and not have met with a book or\npassage in one, which hit two such nails as these upon the head at one\nstroke.)\n\nThe two universities of Strasburg were hard tugging at this affair of\nLuther's navigation. The Protestant doctors had demonstrated, that\nhe had not sailed right before the wind, as the Popish doctors had\npretended; and as every one knew there was no sailing full in the teeth\nof it--they were going to settle, in case he had sailed, how many points\nhe was off; whether Martin had doubled the cape, or had fallen upon a\nlee-shore; and no doubt, as it was an enquiry of much edification, at\nleast to those who understood this sort of Navigation, they had gone on\nwith it in spite of the size of the stranger's nose, had not the size of\nthe stranger's nose drawn off the attention of the world from what they\nwere about--it was their business to follow.\n\nThe abbess of Quedlingberg and her four dignitaries was no stop; for the\nenormity of the stranger's nose running full as much in their fancies\nas their case of conscience--the affair of their placket-holes\nkept cold--in a word, the printers were ordered to distribute their\ntypes--all controversies dropp'd.\n\n'Twas a square cap with a silver tassel upon the crown of it--to\na nut-shell--to have guessed on which side of the nose the two\nuniversities would split.\n\n'Tis above reason, cried the doctors on one side.\n\n'Tis below reason, cried the others.\n\n'Tis faith, cried one.\n\n'Tis a fiddle-stick, said the other.\n\n'Tis possible, cried the one.\n\n'Tis impossible, said the other.\n\nGod's power is infinite, cried the Nosarians, he can do any thing.\n\nHe can do nothing, replied the Anti-nosarians, which implies\ncontradictions.\n\nHe can make matter think, said the Nosarians.\n\nAs certainly as you can make a velvet cap out of a sow's ear, replied\nthe Anti-nosarians.\n\nHe cannot make two and two five, replied the Popish doctors.--'Tis\nfalse, said their other opponents.--\n\nInfinite power is infinite power, said the doctors who maintained the\nreality of the nose.--It extends only to all possible things, replied\nthe Lutherans.\n\nBy God in heaven, cried the Popish doctors, he can make a nose, if he\nthinks fit, as big as the steeple of Strasburg.\n\nNow the steeple of Strasburg being the biggest and the tallest\nchurch-steeple to be seen in the whole world, the Anti-nosarians denied\nthat a nose of 575 geometrical feet in length could be worn, at least\nby a middle-siz'd man--The Popish doctors swore it could--The Lutheran\ndoctors said No;--it could not.\n\nThis at once started a new dispute, which they pursued a great way,\nupon the extent and limitation of the moral and natural attributes of\nGod--That controversy led them naturally into Thomas Aquinas, and Thomas\nAquinas to the devil.\n\nThe stranger's nose was no more heard of in the dispute--it just served\nas a frigate to launch them into the gulph of school-divinity--and then\nthey all sailed before the wind.\n\nHeat is in proportion to the want of true knowledge.\n\nThe controversy about the attributes, &c. instead of cooling, on the\ncontrary had inflamed the Strasburgers imaginations to a most inordinate\ndegree--The less they understood of the matter the greater was their\nwonder about it--they were left in all the distresses of desire\nunsatisfied--saw their doctors, the Parchmentarians, the Brassarians,\nthe Turpentarians, on one side--the Popish doctors on the other, like\nPantagruel and his companions in quest of the oracle of the bottle, all\nembarked out of sight.\n\n--The poor Strasburgers left upon the beach!\n\n--What was to be done?--No delay--the uproar increased--every one in\ndisorder--the city gates set open.--\n\nUnfortunate Strasbergers! was there in the store-house of nature--was\nthere in the lumber-rooms of learning--was there in the great arsenal\nof chance, one single engine left undrawn forth to torture your\ncuriosities, and stretch your desires, which was not pointed by the\nhand of Fate to play upon your hearts?--I dip not my pen into my ink to\nexcuse the surrender of yourselves--'tis to write your panegyrick. Shew\nme a city so macerated with expectation--who neither eat, or drank,\nor slept, or prayed, or hearkened to the calls either of religion or\nnature, for seven-and-twenty days together, who could have held out one\nday longer.\n\nOn the twenty-eighth the courteous stranger had promised to return to\nStrasburg.\n\nSeven thousand coaches (Slawkenbergius must certainly have made some\nmistake in his numeral characters) 7000 coaches--15000 single-horse\nchairs--20000 waggons, crowded as full as they could all hold with\nsenators, counsellors, syndicks--beguines, widows, wives, virgins,\ncanons, concubines, all in their coaches--The abbess of Quedlingberg,\nwith the prioress, the deaness and sub-chantress, leading the procession\nin one coach, and the dean of Strasburg, with the four great dignitaries\nof his chapter, on her left-hand--the rest following higglety-pigglety\nas they could; some on horseback--some on foot--some led--some\ndriven--some down the Rhine--some this way--some that--all set out at\nsun-rise to meet the courteous stranger on the road.\n\nHaste we now towards the catastrophe of my tale--I say Catastrophe\n(cries Slawkenbergius) inasmuch as a tale, with parts rightly disposed,\nnot only rejoiceth (gaudet) in the Catastrophe and Peripeitia of a\nDrama, but rejoiceth moreover in all the essential and integrant parts\nof it--it has its Protasis, Epitasis, Catastasis, its Catastrophe or\nPeripeitia growing one out of the other in it, in the order Aristotle\nfirst planted them--without which a tale had better never be told at\nall, says Slawkenbergius, but be kept to a man's self.\n\nIn all my ten tales, in all my ten decades, have I Slawkenbergius tied\ndown every tale of them as tightly to this rule, as I have done this of\nthe stranger and his nose.\n\n--From his first parley with the centinel, to his leaving the city of\nStrasburg, after pulling off his crimson-sattin pair of breeches, is\nthe Protasis or first entrance--where the characters of the Personae\nDramatis are just touched in, and the subject slightly begun.\n\nThe Epitasis, wherein the action is more fully entered upon and\nheightened, till it arrives at its state or height called the\nCatastasis, and which usually takes up the 2d and 3d act, is included\nwithin that busy period of my tale, betwixt the first night's uproar\nabout the nose, to the conclusion of the trumpeter's wife's lectures\nupon it in the middle of the grand parade: and from the first embarking\nof the learned in the dispute--to the doctors finally sailing away, and\nleaving the Strasburgers upon the beach in distress, is the Catastasis\nor the ripening of the incidents and passions for their bursting forth\nin the fifth act.\n\nThis commences with the setting out of the Strasburgers in the Frankfort\nroad, and terminates in unwinding the labyrinth and bringing the hero\nout of a state of agitation (as Aristotle calls it) to a state of rest\nand quietness.\n\nThis, says Hafen Slawkenbergius, constitutes the Catastrophe or\nPeripeitia of my tale--and that is the part of it I am going to relate.\n\nWe left the stranger behind the curtain asleep--he enters now upon the\nstage.\n\n--What dost thou prick up thy ears at?--'tis nothing but a man upon a\nhorse--was the last word the stranger uttered to his mule. It was not\nproper then to tell the reader, that the mule took his master's word for\nit; and without any more ifs or ands, let the traveller and his horse\npass by.\n\nThe traveller was hastening with all diligence to get to Strasburg that\nnight. What a fool am I, said the traveller to himself, when he had\nrode about a league farther, to think of getting into Strasburg this\nnight.--Strasburg!--the great Strasburg!--Strasburg, the capital of\nall Alsatia! Strasburg, an imperial city! Strasburg, a sovereign state!\nStrasburg, garrisoned with five thousand of the best troops in all the\nworld!--Alas! if I was at the gates of Strasburg this moment, I could\nnot gain admittance into it for a ducat--nay a ducat and half--'tis too\nmuch--better go back to the last inn I have passed--than lie I know\nnot where--or give I know not what. The traveller, as he made these\nreflections in his mind, turned his horse's head about, and three\nminutes after the stranger had been conducted into his chamber, he\narrived at the same inn.\n\n--We have bacon in the house, said the host, and bread--and till eleven\no'clock this night had three eggs in it--but a stranger, who arrived an\nhour ago, has had them dressed into an omelet, and we have nothing.--\n\nAlas! said the traveller, harassed as I am, I want nothing but a bed.--I\nhave one as soft as is in Alsatia, said the host.\n\n--The stranger, continued he, should have slept in it, for 'tis my best\nbed, but upon the score of his nose.--He has got a defluxion, said the\ntraveller.--Not that I know, cried the host.--But 'tis a camp-bed, and\nJacinta, said he, looking towards the maid, imagined there was not\nroom in it to turn his nose in.--Why so? cried the traveller, starting\nback.--It is so long a nose, replied the host.--The traveller fixed\nhis eyes upon Jacinta, then upon the ground--kneeled upon his right\nknee--had just got his hand laid upon his breast--Trifle not with my\nanxiety, said he rising up again.--'Tis no trifle, said Jacinta, 'tis\nthe most glorious nose!--The traveller fell upon his knee again--laid\nhis hand upon his breast--then, said he, looking up to heaven, thou hast\nconducted me to the end of my pilgrimage--'Tis Diego.\n\nThe traveller was the brother of the Julia, so often invoked that night\nby the stranger as he rode from Strasburg upon his mule; and was\ncome, on her part, in quest of him. He had accompanied his sister from\nValadolid across the Pyrenean mountains through France, and had many an\nentangled skein to wind off in pursuit of him through the many meanders\nand abrupt turnings of a lover's thorny tracks.\n\n--Julia had sunk under it--and had not been able to go a step farther\nthan to Lyons, where, with the many disquietudes of a tender heart,\nwhich all talk of--but few feel--she sicken'd, but had just strength to\nwrite a letter to Diego; and having conjured her brother never to see\nher face till he had found him out, and put the letter into his hands,\nJulia took to her bed.\n\nFernandez (for that was her brother's name)--tho' the camp-bed was as\nsoft as any one in Alsace, yet he could not shut his eyes in it.--As\nsoon as it was day he rose, and hearing Diego was risen too, he entered\nhis chamber, and discharged his sister's commission.\n\nThe letter was as follows:\n\n'Seig. Diego,\n\n'Whether my suspicions of your nose were justly excited or not--'tis\nnot now to inquire--it is enough I have not had firmness to put them to\nfarther tryal.\n\n'How could I know so little of myself, when I sent my Duenna to forbid\nyour coming more under my lattice? or how could I know so little of you,\nDiego, as to imagine you would not have staid one day in Valadolid to\nhave given ease to my doubts?--Was I to be abandoned, Diego, because\nI was deceived? or was it kind to take me at my word, whether my\nsuspicions were just or no, and leave me, as you did, a prey to much\nuncertainty and sorrow?\n\n'In what manner Julia has resented this--my brother, when he puts this\nletter into your hands, will tell you; He will tell you in how few\nmoments she repented of the rash message she had sent you--in what\nfrantic haste she flew to her lattice, and how many days and nights\ntogether she leaned immoveably upon her elbow, looking through it\ntowards the way which Diego was wont to come.\n\n'He will tell you, when she heard of your departure--how her spirits\ndeserted her--how her heart sicken'd--how piteously she mourned--how low\nshe hung her head. O Diego! how many weary steps has my brother's pity\nled me by the hand languishing to trace out yours; how far has desire\ncarried me beyond strength--and how oft have I fainted by the way, and\nsunk into his arms, with only power to cry out--O my Diego!\n\n'If the gentleness of your carriage has not belied your heart, you will\nfly to me, almost as fast as you fled from me--haste as you will--you\nwill arrive but to see me expire.--'Tis a bitter draught, Diego, but oh!\n'tis embittered still more by dying un...--'\n\nShe could proceed no farther.\n\nSlawkenbergius supposes the word intended was unconvinced, but her\nstrength would not enable her to finish her letter.\n\nThe heart of the courteous Diego over-flowed as he read the letter--he\nordered his mule forthwith and Fernandez's horse to be saddled; and as\nno vent in prose is equal to that of poetry in such conflicts--chance,\nwhich as often directs us to remedies as to diseases, having thrown\na piece of charcoal into the window--Diego availed himself of it, and\nwhilst the hostler was getting ready his mule, he eased his mind against\nthe wall as follows.\n\n\nOde.\n\n     Harsh and untuneful are the notes of love,\n     Unless my Julia strikes the key,\n     Her hand alone can touch the part,\n     Whose dulcet movement charms the heart,\n     And governs all the man with sympathetick sway.\n\n2d.\n\n\nO Julia!\n\nThe lines were very natural--for they were nothing at all to the\npurpose, says Slawkenbergius, and 'tis a pity there were no more\nof them; but whether it was that Seig. Diego was slow in composing\nverses--or the hostler quick in saddling mules--is not averred; certain\nit was, that Diego's mule and Fernandez's horse were ready at the door\nof the inn, before Diego was ready for his second stanza; so without\nstaying to finish his ode, they both mounted, sallied forth, passed the\nRhine, traversed Alsace, shaped their course towards Lyons, and before\nthe Strasburgers and the abbess of Quedlingberg had set out on their\ncavalcade, had Fernandez, Diego, and his Julia, crossed the Pyrenean\nmountains, and got safe to Valadolid.\n\n'Tis needless to inform the geographical reader, that when Diego was\nin Spain, it was not possible to meet the courteous stranger in the\nFrankfort road; it is enough to say, that of all restless desires,\ncuriosity being the strongest--the Strasburgers felt the full force of\nit; and that for three days and nights they were tossed to and fro in\nthe Frankfort road, with the tempestuous fury of this passion, before\nthey could submit to return home.--When alas! an event was prepared for\nthem, of all other, the most grievous that could befal a free people.\n\nAs this revolution of the Strasburgers affairs is often spoken of, and\nlittle understood, I will, in ten words, says Slawkenbergius, give the\nworld an explanation of it, and with it put an end to my tale.\n\nEvery body knows of the grand system of Universal Monarchy, wrote by\norder of Mons. Colbert, and put in manuscript into the hands of Lewis\nthe fourteenth, in the year 1664.\n\n'Tis as well known, that one branch out of many of that system, was the\ngetting possession of Strasburg, to favour an entrance at all times\ninto Suabia, in order to disturb the quiet of Germany--and that in\nconsequence of this plan, Strasburg unhappily fell at length into their\nhands.\n\nIt is the lot of a few to trace out the true springs of this and such\nlike revolutions--The vulgar look too high for them--Statesmen look too\nlow--Truth (for once) lies in the middle.\n\nWhat a fatal thing is the popular pride of a free city! cries one\nhistorian--The Strasburgers deemed it a diminution of their freedom to\nreceive an imperial garrison--so fell a prey to a French one.\n\nThe fate, says another, of the Strasburgers, may be a warning to\nall free people to save their money.--They anticipated their\nrevenues--brought themselves under taxes, exhausted their strength, and\nin the end became so weak a people, they had not strength to keep their\ngates shut, and so the French pushed them open.\n\nAlas! alas! cries Slawkenbergius, 'twas not the French,--'twas Curiosity\npushed them open--The French indeed, who are ever upon the catch, when\nthey saw the Strasburgers, men, women and children, all marched out to\nfollow the stranger's nose--each man followed his own, and marched in.\n\nTrade and manufactures have decayed and gradually grown down ever\nsince--but not from any cause which commercial heads have assigned; for\nit is owing to this only, that Noses have ever so run in their heads,\nthat the Strasburgers could not follow their business.\n\nAlas! alas! cries Slawkenbergius, making an exclamation--it is not the\nfirst--and I fear will not be the last fortress that has been either\nwon--or lost by Noses.\n\nThe End of Slawkenbergius's Tale.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XXXVI.\n\nWith all this learning upon Noses running perpetually in my father's\nfancy--with so many family prejudices--and ten decades of such tales\nrunning on for ever along with them--how was it possible with such\nexquisite--was it a true nose?--That a man with such exquisite feelings\nas my father had, could bear the shock at all below stairs--or indeed\nabove stairs, in any other posture, but the very posture I have\ndescribed?\n\n--Throw yourself down upon the bed, a dozen times--taking care only to\nplace a looking-glass first in a chair on one side of it, before you do\nit--But was the stranger's nose a true nose, or was it a false one?\n\nTo tell that before-hand, madam, would be to do injury to one of the\nbest tales in the Christian-world; and that is the tenth of the tenth\ndecade, which immediately follows this.\n\nThis tale, cried Slawkenbergius, somewhat exultingly, has been reserved\nby me for the concluding tale of my whole work; knowing right well,\nthat when I shall have told it, and my reader shall have read it\nthro'--'twould be even high time for both of us to shut up the book;\ninasmuch, continues Slawkenbergius, as I know of no tale which could\npossibly ever go down after it.\n\n'Tis a tale indeed!\n\nThis sets out with the first interview in the inn at Lyons, when\nFernandez left the courteous stranger and his sister Julia alone in her\nchamber, and is over-written.\n\n\nThe Intricacies of Diego and Julia.\n\nHeavens! thou art a strange creature, Slawkenbergius! what a whimsical\nview of the involutions of the heart of woman hast thou opened! how this\ncan ever be translated, and yet if this specimen of Slawkenbergius's\ntales, and the exquisitiveness of his moral, should please the\nworld--translated shall a couple of volumes be.--Else, how this can ever\nbe translated into good English, I have no sort of conception--There\nseems in some passages to want a sixth sense to do it rightly.--What can\nhe mean by the lambent pupilability of slow, low, dry chat, five notes\nbelow the natural tone--which you know, madam, is little more than a\nwhisper? The moment I pronounced the words, I could perceive an attempt\ntowards a vibration in the strings, about the region of the heart.--The\nbrain made no acknowledgment.--There's often no good understanding\nbetwixt 'em--I felt as if I understood it.--I had no ideas.--The\nmovement could not be without cause.--I'm lost. I can make nothing of\nit--unless, may it please your worships, the voice, in that case being\nlittle more than a whisper, unavoidably forces the eyes to approach not\nonly within six inches of each other--but to look into the pupils--is\nnot that dangerous?--But it can't be avoided--for to look up to the\ncieling, in that case the two chins unavoidably meet--and to look down\ninto each other's lap, the foreheads come to immediate contact, which\nat once puts an end to the conference--I mean to the sentimental part of\nit.--What is left, madam, is not worth stooping for.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XXXVII.\n\nMy father lay stretched across the bed as still as if the hand of death\nhad pushed him down, for a full hour and a half before he began to play\nupon the floor with the toe of that foot which hung over the bed-side;\nmy uncle Toby's heart was a pound lighter for it.--In a few moments,\nhis left-hand, the knuckles of which had all the time reclined upon the\nhandle of the chamber-pot, came to its feeling--he thrust it a little\nmore within the valance--drew up his hand, when he had done, into his\nbosom--gave a hem! My good uncle Toby, with infinite pleasure, answered\nit; and full gladly would have ingrafted a sentence of consolation upon\nthe opening it afforded: but having no talents, as I said, that way, and\nfearing moreover that he might set out with something which might make\na bad matter worse, he contented himself with resting his chin placidly\nupon the cross of his crutch.\n\nNow whether the compression shortened my uncle Toby's face into a more\npleasurable oval--or that the philanthropy of his heart, in seeing\nhis brother beginning to emerge out of the sea of his afflictions,\nhad braced up his muscles--so that the compression upon his chin only\ndoubled the benignity which was there before, is not hard to decide.--My\nfather, in turning his eyes, was struck with such a gleam of sun-shine\nin his face, as melted down the sullenness of his grief in a moment.\n\nHe broke silence as follows:\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XXXVIII.\n\nDid ever man, brother Toby, cried my father, raising himself upon his\nelbow, and turning himself round to the opposite side of the bed,\nwhere my uncle Toby was sitting in his old fringed chair, with his chin\nresting upon his crutch--did ever a poor unfortunate man, brother Toby,\ncried my father, receive so many lashes?--The most I ever saw given,\nquoth my uncle Toby (ringing the bell at the bed's head for Trim) was to\na grenadier, I think in Mackay's regiment.\n\n--Had my uncle Toby shot a bullet through my father's heart, he could\nnot have fallen down with his nose upon the quilt more suddenly.\n\nBless me! said my uncle Toby.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XXXIX.\n\nWas it Mackay's regiment, quoth my uncle Toby, where the poor grenadier\nwas so unmercifully whipp'd at Bruges about the ducats?--O Christ! he\nwas innocent! cried Trim, with a deep sigh.--And he was whipp'd, may it\nplease your honour, almost to death's door.--They had better have shot\nhim outright, as he begg'd, and he had gone directly to heaven, for\nhe was as innocent as your honour.--I thank thee, Trim, quoth my uncle\nToby.--I never think of his, continued Trim, and my poor brother Tom's\nmisfortunes, for we were all three school-fellows, but I cry like a\ncoward.--Tears are no proof of cowardice, Trim.--I drop them oft-times\nmyself, cried my uncle Toby.--I know your honour does, replied Trim,\nand so am not ashamed of it myself.--But to think, may it please your\nhonour, continued Trim, a tear stealing into the corner of his eye as\nhe spoke--to think of two virtuous lads with hearts as warm in their\nbodies, and as honest as God could make them--the children of honest\npeople, going forth with gallant spirits to seek their fortunes in the\nworld--and fall into such evils!--poor Tom! to be tortured upon a rack\nfor nothing--but marrying a Jew's widow who sold sausages--honest Dick\nJohnson's soul to be scourged out of his body, for the ducats\nanother man put into his knapsack!--O!--these are misfortunes, cried\nTrim,--pulling out his handkerchief--these are misfortunes, may it\nplease your honour, worth lying down and crying over.\n\n--My father could not help blushing.\n\n'Twould be a pity, Trim, quoth my uncle Toby, thou shouldst ever feel\nsorrow of thy own--thou feelest it so tenderly for others.--Alack-o-day,\nreplied the corporal, brightening up his face--your honour knows I have\nneither wife or child--I can have no sorrows in this world.--My father\ncould not help smiling.--As few as any man, Trim, replied my uncle Toby;\nnor can I see how a fellow of thy light heart can suffer, but from the\ndistress of poverty in thy old age--when thou art passed all services,\nTrim--and hast outlived thy friends.--An' please your honour, never\nfear, replied Trim, chearily.--But I would have thee never fear, Trim,\nreplied my uncle Toby, and therefore, continued my uncle Toby, throwing\ndown his crutch, and getting up upon his legs as he uttered the word\ntherefore--in recompence, Trim, of thy long fidelity to me, and that\ngoodness of thy heart I have had such proofs of--whilst thy master is\nworth a shilling--thou shalt never ask elsewhere, Trim, for a penny.\nTrim attempted to thank my uncle Toby--but had not power--tears trickled\ndown his cheeks faster than he could wipe them off--He laid his hands\nupon his breast--made a bow to the ground, and shut the door.\n\n--I have left Trim my bowling-green, cried my uncle Toby--My father\nsmiled.--I have left him moreover a pension, continued my uncle\nToby.--My father looked grave.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XL.\n\nIs this a fit time, said my father to himself, to talk of Pensions and\nGrenadiers?\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XLI.\n\nWhen my uncle Toby first mentioned the grenadier, my father, I said,\nfell down with his nose flat to the quilt, and as suddenly as if my\nuncle Toby had shot him; but it was not added that every other limb\nand member of my father instantly relapsed with his nose into the same\nprecise attitude in which he lay first described; so that when corporal\nTrim left the room, and my father found himself disposed to rise off\nthe bed--he had all the little preparatory movements to run over again,\nbefore he could do it. Attitudes are nothing, madam--'tis the transition\nfrom one attitude to another--like the preparation and resolution of the\ndiscord into harmony, which is all in all.\n\nFor which reason my father played the same jig over again with his toe\nupon the floor--pushed the chamber-pot still a little farther within\nthe valance--gave a hem--raised himself up upon his elbow--and was just\nbeginning to address himself to my uncle Toby--when recollecting the\nunsuccessfulness of his first effort in that attitude--he got upon his\nlegs, and in making the third turn across the room, he stopped short\nbefore my uncle Toby; and laying the three first fingers of his\nright-hand in the palm of his left, and stooping a little, he addressed\nhimself to my uncle Toby as follows:\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XLII.\n\nWhen I reflect, brother Toby, upon Man; and take a view of that dark\nside of him which represents his life as open to so many causes of\ntrouble--when I consider, brother Toby, how oft we eat the bread\nof affliction, and that we are born to it, as to the portion of our\ninheritance--I was born to nothing, quoth my uncle Toby, interrupting my\nfather--but my commission. Zooks! said my father, did not my uncle leave\nyou a hundred and twenty pounds a year?--What could I have done without\nit? replied my uncle Toby--That's another concern, said my father\ntestily--But I say Toby, when one runs over the catalogue of all the\ncross-reckonings and sorrowful Items with which the heart of man is\novercharged, 'tis wonderful by what hidden resources the mind is enabled\nto stand out, and bear itself up, as it does, against the impositions\nlaid upon our nature.--'Tis by the assistance of Almighty God, cried\nmy uncle Toby, looking up, and pressing the palms of his hands close\ntogether--'tis not from our own strength, brother Shandy--a centinel\nin a wooden centry-box might as well pretend to stand it out against a\ndetachment of fifty men.--We are upheld by the grace and the assistance\nof the best of Beings.\n\n--That is cutting the knot, said my father, instead of untying it,--But\ngive me leave to lead you, brother Toby, a little deeper into the\nmystery.\n\nWith all my heart, replied my uncle Toby.\n\nMy father instantly exchanged the attitude he was in, for that in which\nSocrates is so finely painted by Raffael in his school of Athens; which\nyour connoisseurship knows is so exquisitely imagined, that even the\nparticular manner of the reasoning of Socrates is expressed by it--for\nhe holds the fore-finger of his left-hand between the fore-finger and\nthe thumb of his right, and seems as if he was saying to the libertine\nhe is reclaiming--'You grant me this--and this: and this, and this, I\ndon't ask of you--they follow of themselves in course.'\n\nSo stood my father, holding fast his fore-finger betwixt his finger and\nhis thumb, and reasoning with my uncle Toby as he sat in his old\nfringed chair, valanced around with party-coloured worsted bobs--O\nGarrick!--what a rich scene of this would thy exquisite powers make!\nand how gladly would I write such another to avail myself of thy\nimmortality, and secure my own behind it.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XLIII.\n\nThough man is of all others the most curious vehicle, said my father,\nyet at the same time 'tis of so slight a frame, and so totteringly put\ntogether, that the sudden jerks and hard jostlings it unavoidably meets\nwith in this rugged journey, would overset and tear it to pieces a dozen\ntimes a day--was it not, brother Toby, that there is a secret\nspring within us.--Which spring, said my uncle Toby, I take to be\nReligion.--Will that set my child's nose on? cried my father, letting\ngo his finger, and striking one hand against the other.--It makes every\nthing straight for us, answered my uncle Toby.--Figuratively speaking,\ndear Toby, it may, for aught I know, said my father; but the spring I\nam speaking of, is that great and elastic power within us of\ncounterbalancing evil, which, like a secret spring in a well-ordered\nmachine, though it can't prevent the shock--at least it imposes upon our\nsense of it.\n\nNow, my dear brother, said my father, replacing his fore-finger, as\nhe was coming closer to the point--had my child arrived safe into the\nworld, unmartyr'd in that precious part of him--fanciful and extravagant\nas I may appear to the world in my opinion of christian names, and of\nthat magic bias which good or bad names irresistibly impress upon\nour characters and conducts--Heaven is witness! that in the warmest\ntransports of my wishes for the prosperity of my child, I never once\nwished to crown his head with more glory and honour than what George or\nEdward would have spread around it.\n\nBut alas! continued my father, as the greatest evil has befallen him--I\nmust counteract and undo it with the greatest good.\n\nHe shall be christened Trismegistus, brother.\n\nI wish it may answer--replied my uncle Toby, rising up.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XLIV.\n\nWhat a chapter of chances, said my father, turning himself about upon\nthe first landing, as he and my uncle Toby were going down stairs, what\na long chapter of chances do the events of this world lay open to us!\nTake pen and ink in hand, brother Toby, and calculate it fairly--I know\nno more of calculation than this balluster, said my uncle Toby (striking\nshort of it with his crutch, and hitting my father a desperate blow\nsouse upon his shin-bone)--'Twas a hundred to one-cried my uncle Toby--I\nthought, quoth my father, (rubbing his shin) you had known nothing of\ncalculations, brother Toby. A mere chance, said my uncle Toby.--Then it\nadds one to the chapter--replied my father.\n\nThe double success of my father's repartees tickled off the pain of his\nshin at once--it was well it so fell out--(chance! again)--or the world\nto this day had never known the subject of my father's calculation--to\nguess it--there was no chance--What a lucky chapter of chances has this\nturned out! for it has saved me the trouble of writing one express, and\nin truth I have enough already upon my hands without it.--Have not I\npromised the world a chapter of knots? two chapters upon the right\nand the wrong end of a woman? a chapter upon whiskers? a chapter upon\nwishes?--a chapter of noses?--No, I have done that--a chapter upon my\nuncle Toby's modesty? to say nothing of a chapter upon chapters, which I\nwill finish before I sleep--by my great grandfather's whiskers, I shall\nnever get half of 'em through this year.\n\nTake pen and ink in hand, and calculate it fairly, brother Toby, said my\nfather, and it will turn out a million to one, that of all the parts of\nthe body, the edge of the forceps should have the ill luck just to fall\nupon and break down that one part, which should break down the fortunes\nof our house with it.\n\nIt might have been worse, replied my uncle Toby.--I don't comprehend,\nsaid my father.--Suppose the hip had presented, replied my uncle Toby,\nas Dr. Slop foreboded.\n\nMy father reflected half a minute--looked down--touched the middle of\nhis forehead slightly with his finger--\n\n--True, said he.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XLV.\n\nIs it not a shame to make two chapters of what passed in going down one\npair of stairs? for we are got no farther yet than to the first landing,\nand there are fifteen more steps down to the bottom; and for aught I\nknow, as my father and my uncle Toby are in a talking humour, there may\nbe as many chapters as steps:--let that be as it will, Sir, I can no\nmore help it than my destiny:--A sudden impulse comes across me--drop\nthe curtain, Shandy--I drop it--Strike a line here across the paper,\nTristram--I strike it--and hey for a new chapter.\n\nThe deuce of any other rule have I to govern myself by in this\naffair--and if I had one--as I do all things out of all rule--I would\ntwist it and tear it to pieces, and throw it into the fire when I had\ndone--Am I warm? I am, and the cause demands it--a pretty story! is a\nman to follow rules--or rules to follow him?\n\nNow this, you must know, being my chapter upon chapters, which I\npromised to write before I went to sleep, I thought it meet to ease my\nconscience entirely before I laid down, by telling the world all I knew\nabout the matter at once: Is not this ten times better than to set out\ndogmatically with a sententious parade of wisdom, and telling the world\na story of a roasted horse--that chapters relieve the mind--that they\nassist--or impose upon the imagination--and that in a work of this\ndramatic cast they are as necessary as the shifting of scenes--with\nfifty other cold conceits, enough to extinguish the fire which roasted\nhim?--O! but to understand this, which is a puff at the fire of Diana's\ntemple--you must read Longinus--read away--if you are not a jot\nthe wiser by reading him the first time over--never fear--read him\nagain--Avicenna and Licetus read Aristotle's metaphysicks forty times\nthrough a-piece, and never understood a single word.--But mark the\nconsequence--Avicenna turned out a desperate writer at all kinds of\nwriting--for he wrote books de omni scribili; and for Licetus (Fortunio)\nthough all the world knows he was born a foetus, (Ce Foetus n'etoit pas\nplus grand que la paume de la main; mais son pere l'ayant examine en\nqualite de Medecin, & ayant trouve que c'etoit quelque chose de plus\nqu'un Embryon, le fit transporter tout vivant a Rapallo, ou il le fit\nvoir a Jerome Bardi & a d'autres Medecins du lieu. On trouva qu'il ne\nlui manquoit rien d'essentiel a la vie; & son pere pour faire voir un\nessai de son experience, entreprit d'achever l'ouvrage de la Nature, &\nde travailler a la formation de l'Enfant avec le meme artifice que celui\ndont on se sert pour faire ecclorre les Poulets en Egypte. Il instruisit\nune Nourisse de tout ce qu'elle avoit a faire, & ayant fait mettre son\nfils dans un pour proprement accommode, il reussit a l'elever & a lui\nfaire prendre ses accroissemens necessaires, par l'uniformite d'une\nchaleur etrangere mesuree exactement sur les degres d'un Thermometre, ou\nd'un autre instrument equivalent. (Vide Mich. Giustinian, ne gli Scritt.\nLiguri a 223. 488.) On auroit toujours ete tres satisfait de l'industrie\nd'un pere si experimente dans l'Art de la Generation, quand il n'auroit\npu prolonger la vie a son fils que pour Puelques mois, ou pour peu\nd'annees. Mais quand on se represente que l'Enfant a vecu pres de\nquatre-vingts ans, & qu'il a compose quatre-vingts Ouvrages differents\ntous fruits d'une longue lecture--il faut convenir que tout ce qui est\nincroyable n'est pas toujours faux, & que la Vraisemblance n'est pas\ntoujours du cote la Verite. Il n'avoit que dix neuf ans lorsqu'il\ncomposa Gonopsychanthropologia de Origine Animae humanae. (Les\nEnfans celebres, revus & corriges par M. de la Monnoye de l'Academie\nFrancoise.)) of no more than five inches and a half in length, yet he\ngrew to that astonishing height in literature, as to write a book with\na title as long as himself--the learned know I mean his\nGonopsychanthropologia, upon the origin of the human soul.\n\nSo much for my chapter upon chapters, which I hold to be the best\nchapter in my whole work; and take my word, whoever reads it, is full as\nwell employed, as in picking straws.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XLVI.\n\nWe shall bring all things to rights, said my father, setting his foot\nupon the first step from the landing.--This Trismegistus, continued\nmy father, drawing his leg back and turning to my uncle Toby--was the\ngreatest (Toby) of all earthly beings--he was the greatest king--the\ngreatest lawgiver--the greatest philosopher--and the greatest\npriest--and engineer--said my uncle Toby.\n\n--In course, said my father.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XLVII.\n\n--And how does your mistress? cried my father, taking the same step over\nagain from the landing, and calling to Susannah, whom he saw passing\nby the foot of the stairs with a huge pin-cushion in her hand--how does\nyour mistress? As well, said Susannah, tripping by, but without looking\nup, as can be expected.--What a fool am I! said my father, drawing his\nleg back again--let things be as they will, brother Toby, 'tis ever the\nprecise answer--And how is the child, pray?--No answer. And where is\nDr. Slop? added my father, raising his voice aloud, and looking over the\nballusters--Susannah was out of hearing.\n\nOf all the riddles of a married life, said my father, crossing the\nlanding in order to set his back against the wall, whilst he propounded\nit to my uncle Toby--of all the puzzling riddles, said he, in a marriage\nstate,--of which you may trust me, brother Toby, there are more asses\nloads than all Job's stock of asses could have carried--there is not one\nthat has more intricacies in it than this--that from the very moment\nthe mistress of the house is brought to bed, every female in it, from my\nlady's gentlewoman down to the cinder-wench, becomes an inch taller for\nit; and give themselves more airs upon that single inch, than all their\nother inches put together.\n\nI think rather, replied my uncle Toby, that 'tis we who sink an inch\nlower.--If I meet but a woman with child--I do it.--'Tis a heavy tax\nupon that half of our fellow-creatures, brother Shandy, said my\nuncle Toby--'Tis a piteous burden upon 'em, continued he, shaking his\nhead--Yes, yes, 'tis a painful thing--said my father, shaking his head\ntoo--but certainly since shaking of heads came into fashion, never did\ntwo heads shake together, in concert, from two such different springs.\n\nGod bless / Deuce take 'em all--said my uncle Toby and my father, each\nto himself.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XVLIII.\n\nHolla!--you, chairman!--here's sixpence--do step into that bookseller's\nshop, and call me a day-tall critick. I am very willing to give any one\nof 'em a crown to help me with his tackling, to get my father and my\nuncle Toby off the stairs, and to put them to bed.\n\n--'Tis even high time; for except a short nap, which they both got\nwhilst Trim was boring the jack-boots--and which, by-the-bye, did my\nfather no sort of good, upon the score of the bad hinge--they have not\nelse shut their eyes, since nine hours before the time that doctor Slop\nwas led into the back parlour in that dirty pickle by Obadiah.\n\nWas every day of my life to be as busy a day as this--and to take\nup--Truce.\n\nI will not finish that sentence till I have made an observation upon the\nstrange state of affairs between the reader and myself, just as things\nstand at present--an observation never applicable before to any one\nbiographical writer since the creation of the world, but to myself--and\nI believe, will never hold good to any other, until its final\ndestruction--and therefore, for the very novelty of it alone, it must be\nworth your worships attending to.\n\nI am this month one whole year older than I was this time twelve-month;\nand having got, as you perceive, almost into the middle of my third\nvolume (According to the preceding Editions.)--and no farther than to\nmy first day's life--'tis demonstrative that I have three hundred and\nsixty-four days more life to write just now, than when I first set out;\nso that instead of advancing, as a common writer, in my work with what I\nhave been doing at it--on the contrary, I am just thrown so many volumes\nback--was every day of my life to be as busy a day as this--And why\nnot?--and the transactions and opinions of it to take up as much\ndescription--And for what reason should they be cut short? as at this\nrate I should just live 364 times faster than I should write--It must\nfollow, an' please your worships, that the more I write, the more I\nshall have to write--and consequently, the more your worships read, the\nmore your worships will have to read.\n\nWill this be good for your worships eyes?\n\nIt will do well for mine; and, was it not that my Opinions will be\nthe death of me, I perceive I shall lead a fine life of it out of this\nself-same life of mine; or, in other words, shall lead a couple of fine\nlives together.\n\nAs for the proposal of twelve volumes a year, or a volume a month, it\nno way alters my prospect--write as I will, and rush as I may into\nthe middle of things, as Horace advises--I shall never overtake myself\nwhipp'd and driven to the last pinch; at the worst I shall have one\nday the start of my pen--and one day is enough for two volumes--and two\nvolumes will be enough for one year.--\n\nHeaven prosper the manufacturers of paper under this propitious reign,\nwhich is now opened to us--as I trust its providence will prosper every\nthing else in it that is taken in hand.\n\nAs for the propagation of Geese--I give myself no concern--Nature is\nall-bountiful--I shall never want tools to work with.\n\n--So then, friend! you have got my father and my uncle Toby off the\nstairs, and seen them to bed?--And how did you manage it?--You dropp'd a\ncurtain at the stair-foot--I thought you had no other way for it--Here's\na crown for your trouble.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.XLIX.\n\n--Then reach me my breeches off the chair, said my father to\nSusannah.--There is not a moment's time to dress you, Sir, cried\nSusannah--the child is as black in the face as my--As your what? said\nmy father, for like all orators, he was a dear searcher into\ncomparisons.--Bless, me, Sir, said Susannah, the child's in a fit.--And\nwhere's Mr. Yorick?--Never where he should be, said Susannah, but his\ncurate's in the dressing-room, with the child upon his arm, waiting\nfor the name--and my mistress bid me run as fast as I could to know, as\ncaptain Shandy is the godfather, whether it should not be called after\nhim.\n\nWere one sure, said my father to himself, scratching his eye-brow, that\nthe child was expiring, one might as well compliment my brother Toby as\nnot--and it would be a pity, in such a case, to throw away so great a\nname as Trismegistus upon him--but he may recover.\n\nNo, no,--said my father to Susannah, I'll get up--There is no time,\ncried Susannah, the child's as black as my shoe. Trismegistus, said my\nfather--But stay--thou art a leaky vessel, Susannah, added my father;\ncanst thou carry Trismegistus in thy head, the length of the gallery\nwithout scattering?--Can I? cried Susannah, shutting the door in a\nhuff.--If she can, I'll be shot, said my father, bouncing out of bed in\nthe dark, and groping for his breeches.\n\nSusannah ran with all speed along the gallery.\n\nMy father made all possible speed to find his breeches.\n\nSusannah got the start, and kept it--'Tis Tris--something, cried\nSusannah--There is no christian-name in the world, said the curate,\nbeginning with Tris--but Tristram. Then 'tis Tristram-gistus, quoth\nSusannah.\n\n--There is no gistus to it, noodle!--'tis my own name, replied the\ncurate, dipping his hand, as he spoke, into the bason--Tristram! said\nhe, &c. &c. &c. &c.--so Tristram was I called, and Tristram shall I be\nto the day of my death.\n\nMy father followed Susannah, with his night-gown across his arm, with\nnothing more than his breeches on, fastened through haste with but a\nsingle button, and that button through haste thrust only half into the\nbutton-hole.\n\n--She has not forgot the name, cried my father, half opening the\ndoor?--No, no, said the curate, with a tone of intelligence.--And the\nchild is better, cried Susannah.--And how does your mistress? As well,\nsaid Susannah, as can be expected.--Pish! said my father, the button\nof his breeches slipping out of the button-hole--So that whether the\ninterjection was levelled at Susannah, or the button-hole--whether Pish\nwas an interjection of contempt or an interjection of modesty, is a\ndoubt, and must be a doubt till I shall have time to write the three\nfollowing favourite chapters, that is, my chapter of chamber-maids, my\nchapter of pishes, and my chapter of button-holes.\n\nAll the light I am able to give the reader at present is this, that\nthe moment my father cried Pish! he whisk'd himself about--and with his\nbreeches held up by one hand, and his night-gown thrown across the arm\nof the other, he turned along the gallery to bed, something slower than\nhe came.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.L.\n\nI wish I could write a chapter upon sleep.\n\nA fitter occasion could never have presented itself, than what this\nmoment offers, when all the curtains of the family are drawn--the\ncandles put out--and no creature's eyes are open but a single one, for\nthe other has been shut these twenty years, of my mother's nurse.\n\nIt is a fine subject.\n\nAnd yet, as fine as it is, I would undertake to write a dozen chapters\nupon button-holes, both quicker and with more fame, than a single\nchapter upon this.\n\nButton-holes! there is something lively in the very idea of 'em--and\ntrust me, when I get amongst 'em--You gentry with great beards--look as\ngrave as you will--I'll make merry work with my button-holes--I shall\nhave 'em all to myself--'tis a maiden subject--I shall run foul of no\nman's wisdom or fine sayings in it.\n\nBut for sleep--I know I shall make nothing of it before I begin--I am no\ndab at your fine sayings in the first place--and in the next, I cannot\nfor my soul set a grave face upon a bad matter, and tell the world--'tis\nthe refuge of the unfortunate--the enfranchisement of the prisoner--the\ndowny lap of the hopeless, the weary, and the broken-hearted; nor could\nI set out with a lye in my mouth, by affirming, that of all the soft and\ndelicious functions of our nature, by which the great Author of it, in\nhis bounty, has been pleased to recompence the sufferings wherewith his\njustice and his good pleasure has wearied us--that this is the chiefest\n(I know pleasures worth ten of it); or what a happiness it is to man,\nwhen the anxieties and passions of the day are over, and he lies\ndown upon his back, that his soul shall be so seated within him, that\nwhichever way she turns her eyes, the heavens shall look calm and sweet\nabove her--no desire--or fear--or doubt that troubles the air, nor any\ndifficulty past, present, or to come, that the imagination may not pass\nover without offence, in that sweet secession.\n\n'God's blessing,' said Sancho Panca, 'be upon the man who first invented\nthis self-same thing called sleep--it covers a man all over like a\ncloak.' Now there is more to me in this, and it speaks warmer to my\nheart and affections, than all the dissertations squeez'd out of the\nheads of the learned together upon the subject.\n\n--Not that I altogether disapprove of what Montaigne advances upon\nit--'tis admirable in its way--(I quote by memory.)\n\nThe world enjoys other pleasures, says he, as they do that of sleep,\nwithout tasting or feeling it as it slips and passes by.--We should\nstudy and ruminate upon it, in order to render proper thanks to him\nwho grants it to us.--For this end I cause myself to be disturbed in my\nsleep, that I may the better and more sensibly relish it.--And yet I\nsee few, says he again, who live with less sleep, when need requires; my\nbody is capable of a firm, but not of a violent and sudden agitation--I\nevade of late all violent exercises--I am never weary with walking--but\nfrom my youth, I never looked to ride upon pavements. I love to lie\nhard and alone, and even without my wife--This last word may stagger the\nfaith of the world--but remember, 'La Vraisemblance' (as Bayle says in\nthe affair of Liceti) 'n'est pas toujours du Cote de la Verite.' And so\nmuch for sleep.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.LI.\n\nIf my wife will but venture him--brother Toby, Trismegistus shall\nbe dress'd and brought down to us, whilst you and I are getting our\nbreakfasts together.--\n\n--Go, tell Susannah, Obadiah, to step here.\n\nShe is run up stairs, answered Obadiah, this very instant, sobbing and\ncrying, and wringing her hands as if her heart would break.\n\nWe shall have a rare month of it, said my father, turning his head from\nObadiah, and looking wistfully in my uncle Toby's face for some time--we\nshall have a devilish month of it, brother Toby, said my father,\nsetting his arms a'kimbo, and shaking his head; fire, water, women,\nwind--brother Toby!--'Tis some misfortune, quoth my uncle Toby.--That\nit is, cried my father--to have so many jarring elements breaking loose,\nand riding triumph in every corner of a gentleman's house--Little\nboots it to the peace of a family, brother Toby, that you and I possess\nourselves, and sit here silent and unmoved--whilst such a storm is\nwhistling over our heads.--\n\nAnd what's the matter, Susannah? They have called the child\nTristram--and my mistress is just got out of an hysterick fit\nabout it--No!--'tis not my fault, said Susannah--I told him it was\nTristram-gistus.\n\n--Make tea for yourself, brother Toby, said my father, taking down his\nhat--but how different from the sallies and agitations of voice and\nmembers which a common reader would imagine!\n\n--For he spake in the sweetest modulation--and took down his hat with\nthe genteelest movement of limbs, that ever affliction harmonized and\nattuned together.\n\n--Go to the bowling-green for corporal Trim, said my uncle Toby,\nspeaking to Obadiah, as soon as my father left the room.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.LII.\n\nWhen the misfortune of my Nose fell so heavily upon my father's\nhead;--the reader remembers that he walked instantly up stairs, and cast\nhimself down upon his bed; and from hence, unless he has a great insight\ninto human nature, he will be apt to expect a rotation of the same\nascending and descending movements from him, upon this misfortune of my\nName;--no.\n\nThe different weight, dear Sir--nay even the different package of two\nvexations of the same weight--makes a very wide difference in our manner\nof bearing and getting through with them.--It is not half an hour ago,\nwhen (in the great hurry and precipitation of a poor devil's writing\nfor daily bread) I threw a fair sheet, which I had just finished, and\ncarefully wrote out, slap into the fire, instead of the foul one.\n\nInstantly I snatch'd off my wig, and threw it perpendicularly, with all\nimaginable violence, up to the top of the room--indeed I caught it as it\nfell--but there was an end of the matter; nor do I think any think else\nin Nature would have given such immediate ease: She, dear Goddess, by an\ninstantaneous impulse, in all provoking cases, determines us to a sally\nof this or that member--or else she thrusts us into this or that place,\nor posture of body, we know not why--But mark, madam, we live amongst\nriddles and mysteries--the most obvious things, which come in our way,\nhave dark sides, which the quickest sight cannot penetrate into; and\neven the clearest and most exalted understandings amongst us find\nourselves puzzled and at a loss in almost every cranny of nature's\nworks: so that this, like a thousand other things, falls out for us in\na way, which tho' we cannot reason upon it--yet we find the good of it,\nmay it please your reverences and your worships--and that's enough for\nus.\n\nNow, my father could not lie down with this affliction for his life--nor\ncould he carry it up stairs like the other--he walked composedly out\nwith it to the fish-pond.\n\nHad my father leaned his head upon his hand, and reasoned an hour which\nway to have gone--reason, with all her force, could not have directed\nhim to any think like it: there is something, Sir, in fish-ponds--but\nwhat it is, I leave to system-builders and fish-pond-diggers betwixt\n'em to find out--but there is something, under the first disorderly\ntransport of the humours, so unaccountably becalming in an orderly and a\nsober walk towards one of them, that I have often wondered that neither\nPythagoras, nor Plato, nor Solon, nor Lycurgus, nor Mahomet, nor any one\nof your noted lawgivers, ever gave order about them.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.LIII.\n\nYour honour, said Trim, shutting the parlour-door before he began to\nspeak, has heard, I imagine, of this unlucky accident--O yes, Trim, said\nmy uncle Toby, and it gives me great concern.--I am heartily concerned\ntoo, but I hope your honour, replied Trim, will do me the justice\nto believe, that it was not in the least owing to me.--To\nthee--Trim?--cried my uncle Toby, looking kindly in his face--'twas\nSusannah's and the curate's folly betwixt them.--What business could\nthey have together, an' please your honour, in the garden?--In the\ngallery thou meanest, replied my uncle Toby.\n\nTrim found he was upon a wrong scent, and stopped short with a low\nbow--Two misfortunes, quoth the corporal to himself, are twice as many\nat least as are needful to be talked over at one time;--the mischief the\ncow has done in breaking into the fortifications, may be told his honour\nhereafter.--Trim's casuistry and address, under the cover of his low\nbow, prevented all suspicion in my uncle Toby, so he went on with what\nhe had to say to Trim as follows:\n\n--For my own part, Trim, though I can see little or no difference\nbetwixt my nephew's being called Tristram or Trismegistus--yet as the\nthing sits so near my brother's heart, Trim--I would freely have given\na hundred pounds rather than it should have happened.--A hundred pounds,\nan' please your honour! replied Trim,--I would not give a cherry-stone\nto boot.--Nor would I, Trim, upon my own account, quoth my uncle\nToby--but my brother, whom there is no arguing with in this\ncase--maintains that a great deal more depends, Trim, upon\nchristian-names, than what ignorant people imagine--for he says there\nnever was a great or heroic action performed since the world began by\none called Tristram--nay, he will have it, Trim, that a man can\nneither be learned, or wise, or brave.--'Tis all fancy, an' please your\nhonour--I fought just as well, replied the corporal, when the regiment\ncalled me Trim, as when they called me James Butler.--And for my own\npart, said my uncle Toby, though I should blush to boast of myself,\nTrim--yet had my name been Alexander, I could have done no more at Namur\nthan my duty.--Bless your honour! cried Trim, advancing three steps as\nhe spoke, does a man think of his christian-name when he goes upon the\nattack?--Or when he stands in the trench, Trim? cried my uncle Toby,\nlooking firm.--Or when he enters a breach? said Trim, pushing in between\ntwo chairs.--Or forces the lines? cried my uncle, rising up, and pushing\nhis crutch like a pike.--Or facing a platoon? cried Trim, presenting his\nstick like a firelock.--Or when he marches up the glacis? cried my uncle\nToby, looking warm and setting his foot upon his stool.--\n\n\n\nChapter 2.LIV.\n\nMy father was returned from his walk to the fish-pond--and opened the\nparlour-door in the very height of the attack, just as my uncle Toby was\nmarching up the glacis--Trim recovered his arms--never was my uncle Toby\ncaught in riding at such a desperate rate in his life! Alas! my uncle\nToby! had not a weightier matter called forth all the ready eloquence\nof my father--how hadst thou then and thy poor Hobby-Horse too been\ninsulted!\n\nMy father hung up his hat with the same air he took it down; and after\ngiving a slight look at the disorder of the room, he took hold of one\nof the chairs which had formed the corporal's breach, and placing\nit over-against my uncle Toby, he sat down in it, and as soon as\nthe tea-things were taken away, and the door shut, he broke out in a\nlamentation as follows:\n\n\n\nMy Father's Lamentation.\n\nIt is in vain longer, said my father, addressing himself as much\nto Ernulphus's curse, which was laid upon the corner of the\nchimney-piece--as to my uncle Toby who sat under it--it is in vain\nlonger, said my father, in the most querulous monotony imaginable,\nto struggle as I have done against this most uncomfortable of human\npersuasions--I see it plainly, that either for my own sins, brother\nToby, or the sins and follies of the Shandy family, Heaven has thought\nfit to draw forth the heaviest of its artillery against me; and that the\nprosperity of my child is the point upon which the whole force of it is\ndirected to play.--Such a thing would batter the whole universe about\nour ears, brother Shandy, said my uncle Toby--if it was so-Unhappy\nTristram! child of wrath! child of decrepitude! interruption! mistake!\nand discontent! What one misfortune or disaster in the book of embryotic\nevils, that could unmechanize thy frame, or entangle thy filaments!\nwhich has not fallen upon thy head, or ever thou camest into the\nworld--what evils in thy passage into it!--what evils since!--produced\ninto being, in the decline of thy father's days--when the powers of his\nimagination and of his body were waxing feeble--when radical heat and\nradical moisture, the elements which should have temper'd thine, were\ndrying up; and nothing left to found thy stamina in, but negations--'tis\npitiful--brother Toby, at the best, and called out for all the little\nhelps that care and attention on both sides could give it. But how were\nwe defeated! You know the event, brother Toby--'tis too melancholy a\none to be repeated now--when the few animal spirits I was worth in the\nworld, and with which memory, fancy, and quick parts should have been\nconvey'd--were all dispersed, confused, confounded, scattered, and sent\nto the devil.--\n\nHere then was the time to have put a stop to this persecution against\nhim;--and tried an experiment at least--whether calmness and serenity\nof mind in your sister, with a due attention, brother Toby, to her\nevacuations and repletions--and the rest of her non-naturals, might not,\nin a course of nine months gestation, have set all things to rights.--My\nchild was bereft of these!--What a teazing life did she lead herself,\nand consequently her foetus too, with that nonsensical anxiety of hers\nabout lying-in in town? I thought my sister submitted with the greatest\npatience, replied my uncle Toby--I never heard her utter one fretful\nword about it.--She fumed inwardly, cried my father; and that, let me\ntell you, brother, was ten times worse for the child--and then! what\nbattles did she fight with me, and what perpetual storms about the\nmidwife.--There she gave vent, said my uncle Toby.--Vent! cried my\nfather, looking up.\n\nBut what was all this, my dear Toby, to the injuries done us by my\nchild's coming head foremost into the world, when all I wished, in\nthis general wreck of his frame, was to have saved this little casket\nunbroke, unrifled.--\n\nWith all my precautions, how was my system turned topside-turvy in the\nwomb with my child! his head exposed to the hand of violence, and a\npressure of 470 pounds avoirdupois weight acting so perpendicularly upon\nits apex--that at this hour 'tis ninety per Cent. insurance, that the\nfine net-work of the intellectual web be not rent and torn to a thousand\ntatters.\n\n--Still we could have done.--Fool, coxcomb, puppy--give him but a\nNose--Cripple, Dwarf, Driveller, Goosecap--(shape him as you will) the\ndoor of fortune stands open--O Licetus! Licetus! had I been blest with a\nfoetus five inches long and a half, like thee--Fate might have done her\nworst.\n\nStill, brother Toby, there was one cast of the dye left for our child\nafter all--O Tristram! Tristram! Tristram!\n\nWe will send for Mr. Yorick, said my uncle Toby.\n\n--You may send for whom you will, replied my father.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.LV.\n\nWhat a rate have I gone on at, curvetting and striking it away, two up\nand two down for three volumes (According to the preceding Editions.)\ntogether, without looking once behind, or even on one side of me, to\nsee whom I trod upon!--I'll tread upon no one--quoth I to myself when I\nmounted--I'll take a good rattling gallop; but I'll not hurt the poorest\njack-ass upon the road.--So off I set--up one lane--down another,\nthrough this turnpike--over that, as if the arch-jockey of jockeys had\ngot behind me.\n\nNow ride at this rate with what good intention and resolution you\nmay--'tis a million to one you'll do some one a mischief, if not\nyourself--He's flung--he's off--he's lost his hat--he's down--he'll\nbreak his neck--see!--if he has not galloped full among the scaffolding\nof the undertaking criticks!--he'll knock his brains out against some\nof their posts--he's bounced out!--look--he's now riding like a\nmad-cap full tilt through a whole crowd of painters, fiddlers, poets,\nbiographers, physicians, lawyers, logicians, players, school-men,\nchurchmen, statesmen, soldiers, casuists, connoisseurs, prelates, popes,\nand engineers.--Don't fear, said I--I'll not hurt the poorest jack-ass\nupon the king's highway.--But your horse throws dirt; see you've\nsplash'd a bishop--I hope in God, 'twas only Ernulphus, said I.--But you\nhave squirted full in the faces of Mess. Le Moyne, De Romigny, and De\nMarcilly, doctors of the Sorbonne.--That was last year, replied I.--But\nyou have trod this moment upon a king.--Kings have bad times on't, said\nI, to be trod upon by such people as me.\n\nYou have done it, replied my accuser.\n\nI deny it, quoth I, and so have got off, and here am I standing with my\nbridle in one hand, and with my cap in the other, to tell my story.--And\nwhat in it? You shall hear in the next chapter.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.LVI.\n\nAs Francis the first of France was one winterly night warming himself\nover the embers of a wood fire, and talking with his first minister of\nsundry things for the good of the state (Vide Menagiana, Vol. I.)--It\nwould not be amiss, said the king, stirring up the embers with his\ncane, if this good understanding betwixt ourselves and Switzerland was\na little strengthened.--There is no end, Sire, replied the minister,\nin giving money to these people--they would swallow up the treasury\nof France.--Poo! poo! answered the king--there are more ways, Mons.\nle Premier, of bribing states, besides that of giving money--I'll pay\nSwitzerland the honour of standing godfather for my next child.--Your\nmajesty, said the minister, in so doing, would have all the grammarians\nin Europe upon your back;--Switzerland, as a republic, being a female,\ncan in no construction be godfather.--She may be godmother, replied\nFrancis hastily--so announce my intentions by a courier to-morrow\nmorning.\n\nI am astonished, said Francis the First, (that day fortnight) speaking\nto his minister as he entered the closet, that we have had no answer\nfrom Switzerland.--Sire, I wait upon you this moment, said Mons. le\nPremier, to lay before you my dispatches upon that business.--They take\nit kindly, said the king.--They do, Sire, replied the minister, and\nhave the highest sense of the honour your majesty has done them--but the\nrepublick, as godmother, claims her right, in this case, of naming the\nchild.\n\nIn all reason, quoth the king--she will christen him Francis, or Henry,\nor Lewis, or some name that she knows will be agreeable to us. Your\nmajesty is deceived, replied the minister--I have this hour received a\ndispatch from our resident, with the determination of the republic on\nthat point also.--And what name has the republick fixed upon for the\nDauphin?--Shadrach, Mesech, Abed-nego, replied the minister.--By Saint\nPeter's girdle, I will have nothing to do with the Swiss, cried Francis\nthe First, pulling up his breeches and walking hastily across the floor.\n\nYour majesty, replied the minister calmly, cannot bring yourself off.\n\nWe'll pay them in money--said the king.\n\nSire, there are not sixty thousand crowns in the treasury, answered\nthe minister.--I'll pawn the best jewel in my crown, quoth Francis the\nFirst.\n\nYour honour stands pawn'd already in this matter, answered Monsieur le\nPremier.\n\nThen, Mons. le Premier, said the king, by...we'll go to war with 'em.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.LVII.\n\nAlbeit, gentle reader, I have lusted earnestly, and endeavoured\ncarefully (according to the measure of such a slender skill as God has\nvouchsafed me, and as convenient leisure from other occasions of needful\nprofit and healthful pastime have permitted) that these little books\nwhich I here put into thy hands, might stand instead of many bigger\nbooks--yet have I carried myself towards thee in such fanciful guise of\ncareless disport, that right sore am I ashamed now to intreat thy lenity\nseriously--in beseeching thee to believe it of me, that in the story of\nmy father and his christian-names--I have no thoughts of treading upon\nFrancis the First--nor in the affair of the nose--upon Francis the\nNinth--nor in the character of my uncle Toby--of characterizing the\nmilitiating spirits of my country--the wound upon his groin, is a wound\nto every comparison of that kind--nor by Trim--that I meant the duke of\nOrmond--or that my book is wrote against predestination, or free-will,\nor taxes--If 'tis wrote against any thing,--'tis wrote, an' please your\nworships, against the spleen! in order, by a more frequent and a\nmore convulsive elevation and depression of the diaphragm, and the\nsuccussations of the intercostal and abdominal muscles in laughter, to\ndrive the gall and other bitter juices from the gall-bladder, liver,\nand sweet-bread of his majesty's subjects, with all the inimicitious\npassions which belong to them, down into their duodenums.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.LVIII.\n\n--But can the thing be undone, Yorick? said my father--for in my\nopinion, continued he, it cannot. I am a vile canonist, replied\nYorick--but of all evils, holding suspence to be the most tormenting,\nwe shall at least know the worst of this matter. I hate these great\ndinners--said my father--The size of the dinner is not the point,\nanswered Yorick--we want, Mr. Shandy, to dive into the bottom of this\ndoubt, whether the name can be changed or not--and as the beards of so\nmany commissaries, officials, advocates, proctors, registers, and of the\nmost eminent of our school-divines, and others, are all to meet in the\nmiddle of one table, and Didius has so pressingly invited you--who\nin your distress would miss such an occasion? All that is requisite,\ncontinued Yorick, is to apprize Didius, and let him manage a\nconversation after dinner so as to introduce the subject.--Then my\nbrother Toby, cried my father, clapping his two hands together, shall go\nwith us.\n\n--Let my old tye-wig, quoth my uncle Toby, and my laced regimentals, be\nhung to the fire all night, Trim.\n\n(page numbering skips ten pages)\n\n\n\nChapter 2.LX.\n\n--No doubt, Sir,--there is a whole chapter wanting here--and a chasm of\nten pages made in the book by it--but the book-binder is neither a fool,\nor a knave, or a puppy--nor is the book a jot more imperfect (at least\nupon that score)--but, on the contrary, the book is more perfect and\ncomplete by wanting the chapter, than having it, as I shall demonstrate\nto your reverences in this manner.--I question first, by-the-bye,\nwhether the same experiment might not be made as successfully upon\nsundry other chapters--but there is no end, an' please your reverences,\nin trying experiments upon chapters--we have had enough of it--So\nthere's an end of that matter.\n\nBut before I begin my demonstration, let me only tell you, that the\nchapter which I have torn out, and which otherwise you would all have\nbeen reading just now, instead of this--was the description of my\nfather's, my uncle Toby's, Trim's, and Obadiah's setting out and\njourneying to the visitation at....\n\nWe'll go in the coach, said my father--Prithee, have the arms been\naltered, Obadiah?--It would have made my story much better to have begun\nwith telling you, that at the time my mother's arms were added to the\nShandy's, when the coach was re-painted upon my father's marriage, it\nhad so fallen out that the coach-painter, whether by performing all his\nworks with the left hand, like Turpilius the Roman, or Hans Holbein of\nBasil--or whether 'twas more from the blunder of his head than hand--or\nwhether, lastly, it was from the sinister turn which every thing\nrelating to our family was apt to take--it so fell out, however, to\nour reproach, that instead of the bend-dexter, which since Harry the\nEighth's reign was honestly our due--a bend-sinister, by some of these\nfatalities, had been drawn quite across the field of the Shandy arms.\n'Tis scarce credible that the mind of so wise a man as my father was,\ncould be so much incommoded with so small a matter. The word coach--let\nit be whose it would--or coach-man, or coach-horse, or coach-hire, could\nnever be named in the family, but he constantly complained of carrying\nthis vile mark of illegitimacy upon the door of his own; he never once\nwas able to step into the coach, or out of it, without turning round to\ntake a view of the arms, and making a vow at the same time, that it\nwas the last time he would ever set his foot in it again, till the\nbend-sinister was taken out--but like the affair of the hinge, it was\none of the many things which the Destinies had set down in their books\never to be grumbled at (and in wiser families than ours)--but never to\nbe mended.\n\n--Has the bend-sinister been brush'd out, I say? said my father.--There\nhas been nothing brush'd out, Sir, answered Obadiah, but the lining.\nWe'll go o'horseback, said my father, turning to Yorick--Of all things\nin the world, except politicks, the clergy know the least of heraldry,\nsaid Yorick.--No matter for that, cried my father--I should be sorry\nto appear with a blot in my escutcheon before them.--Never mind the\nbend-sinister, said my uncle Toby, putting on his tye-wig.--No, indeed,\nsaid my father--you may go with my aunt Dinah to a visitation with a\nbend-sinister, if you think fit--My poor uncle Toby blush'd. My father\nwas vexed at himself.--No--my dear brother Toby, said my father,\nchanging his tone--but the damp of the coach-lining about my loins, may\ngive me the sciatica again, as it did December, January, and February\nlast winter--so if you please you shall ride my wife's pad--and as\nyou are to preach, Yorick, you had better make the best of your way\nbefore--and leave me to take care of my brother Toby, and to follow at\nour own rates.\n\nNow the chapter I was obliged to tear out, was the description of this\ncavalcade, in which Corporal Trim and Obadiah, upon two coach-horses\na-breast, led the way as slow as a patrole--whilst my uncle Toby, in\nhis laced regimentals and tye-wig, kept his rank with my father, in deep\nroads and dissertations alternately upon the advantage of learning and\narms, as each could get the start.\n\n--But the painting of this journey, upon reviewing it, appears to be so\nmuch above the stile and manner of any thing else I have been able\nto paint in this book, that it could not have remained in it, without\ndepreciating every other scene; and destroying at the same time that\nnecessary equipoise and balance, (whether of good or bad) betwixt\nchapter and chapter, from whence the just proportions and harmony of\nthe whole work results. For my own part, I am but just set up in the\nbusiness, so know little about it--but, in my opinion, to write a book\nis for all the world like humming a song--be but in tune with yourself,\nmadam, 'tis no matter how high or how low you take it.\n\n--This is the reason, may it please your reverences, that some of the\nlowest and flattest compositions pass off very well--(as Yorick told my\nuncle Toby one night) by siege.--My uncle Toby looked brisk at the sound\nof the word siege, but could make neither head or tail of it.\n\nI'm to preach at court next Sunday, said Homenas--run over my notes--so\nI humm'd over doctor Homenas's notes--the modulation's very well--'twill\ndo, Homenas, if it holds on at this rate--so on I humm'd--and a\ntolerable tune I thought it was; and to this hour, may it please your\nreverences, had never found out how low, how flat, how spiritless and\njejune it was, but that all of a sudden, up started an air in the middle\nof it, so fine, so rich, so heavenly,--it carried my soul up with it\ninto the other world; now had I (as Montaigne complained in a\nparallel accident)--had I found the declivity easy, or the ascent\naccessible--certes I had been outwitted.--Your notes, Homenas, I should\nhave said, are good notes;--but it was so perpendicular a precipice--so\nwholly cut off from the rest of the work, that by the first note I\nhumm'd I found myself flying into the other world, and from thence\ndiscovered the vale from whence I came, so deep, so low, and dismal,\nthat I shall never have the heart to descend into it again.\n\nA dwarf who brings a standard along with him to measure his own\nsize--take my word, is a dwarf in more articles than one.--And so much\nfor tearing out of chapters.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.LXI.\n\n--See if he is not cutting it into slips, and giving them about him to\nlight their pipes!--'Tis abominable, answered Didius; it should not\ngo unnoticed, said doctor Kysarcius--he was of the Kysarcii of the Low\nCountries.\n\nMethinks, said Didius, half rising from his chair, in order to remove a\nbottle and a tall decanter, which stood in a direct line betwixt him and\nYorick--you might have spared this sarcastic stroke, and have hit upon\na more proper place, Mr. Yorick--or at least upon a more proper occasion\nto have shewn your contempt of what we have been about: If the sermon is\nof no better worth than to light pipes with--'twas certainly, Sir, not\ngood enough to be preached before so learned a body; and if 'twas good\nenough to be preached before so learned a body--'twas certainly Sir, too\ngood to light their pipes with afterwards.\n\n--I have got him fast hung up, quoth Didius to himself, upon one of the\ntwo horns of my dilemma--let him get off as he can.\n\nI have undergone such unspeakable torments, in bringing forth this\nsermon, quoth Yorick, upon this occasion--that I declare, Didius, I\nwould suffer martyrdom--and if it was possible my horse with me, a\nthousand times over, before I would sit down and make such another: I\nwas delivered of it at the wrong end of me--it came from my head instead\nof my heart--and it is for the pain it gave me, both in the writing and\npreaching of it, that I revenge myself of it, in this manner--To preach,\nto shew the extent of our reading, or the subtleties of our wit--to\nparade in the eyes of the vulgar with the beggarly accounts of a little\nlearning, tinsel'd over with a few words which glitter, but convey\nlittle light and less warmth--is a dishonest use of the poor single\nhalf hour in a week which is put into our hands--'Tis not preaching the\ngospel--but ourselves--For my own part, continued Yorick, I had rather\ndirect five words point-blank to the heart.--As Yorick pronounced\nthe word point-blank, my uncle Toby rose up to say something upon\nprojectiles--when a single word and no more uttered from the opposite\nside of the table drew every one's ears towards it--a word of all others\nin the dictionary the last in that place to be expected--a word I am\nashamed to write--yet must be written--must be read--illegal--\nuncanonical--guess ten thousand guesses, multiplied into themselves--\nrack--torture your invention for ever, you're where you was--In short,\nI'll tell it in the next chapter.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.LXII.\n\nZounds!--Z...ds! cried Phutatorius, partly to himself--and yet high\nenough to be heard--and what seemed odd, 'twas uttered in a construction\nof look, and in a tone of voice, somewhat between that of a man in\namazement and one in bodily pain.\n\nOne or two who had very nice ears, and could distinguish the expression\nand mixture of the two tones as plainly as a third or a fifth, or any\nother chord in musick--were the most puzzled and perplexed with it--the\nconcord was good in itself--but then 'twas quite out of the key, and\nno way applicable to the subject started;--so that with all their\nknowledge, they could not tell what in the world to make of it.\n\nOthers who knew nothing of musical expression, and merely lent their\nears to the plain import of the word, imagined that Phutatorius, who was\nsomewhat of a cholerick spirit, was just going to snatch the cudgels out\nof Didius's hands, in order to bemaul Yorick to some purpose--and that\nthe desperate monosyllable Z...ds was the exordium to an oration, which,\nas they judged from the sample, presaged but a rough kind of handling of\nhim; so that my uncle Toby's good-nature felt a pang for what Yorick was\nabout to undergo. But seeing Phutatorius stop short, without any attempt\nor desire to go on--a third party began to suppose, that it was no more\nthan an involuntary respiration, casually forming itself into the shape\nof a twelve-penny oath--without the sin or substance of one.\n\nOthers, and especially one or two who sat next him, looked upon it on\nthe contrary as a real and substantial oath, propensly formed against\nYorick, to whom he was known to bear no good liking--which said oath,\nas my father philosophized upon it, actually lay fretting and fuming at\nthat very time in the upper regions of Phutatorius's purtenance; and so\nwas naturally, and according to the due course of things, first squeezed\nout by the sudden influx of blood which was driven into the right\nventricle of Phutatorius's heart, by the stroke of surprize which so\nstrange a theory of preaching had excited.\n\nHow finely we argue upon mistaken facts!\n\nThere was not a soul busied in all these various reasonings upon the\nmonosyllable which Phutatorius uttered--who did not take this for\ngranted, proceeding upon it as from an axiom, namely, that Phutatorius's\nmind was intent upon the subject of debate which was arising between\nDidius and Yorick; and indeed as he looked first towards the one and\nthen towards the other, with the air of a man listening to what was\ngoing forwards--who would not have thought the same? But the truth\nwas, that Phutatorius knew not one word or one syllable of what was\npassing--but his whole thoughts and attention were taken up with a\ntransaction which was going forwards at that very instant within the\nprecincts of his own Galligaskins, and in a part of them, where of\nall others he stood most interested to watch accidents: So that\nnotwithstanding he looked with all the attention in the world, and had\ngradually skrewed up every nerve and muscle in his face, to the utmost\npitch the instrument would bear, in order, as it was thought, to give a\nsharp reply to Yorick, who sat over-against him--yet, I say, was Yorick\nnever once in any one domicile of Phutatorius's brain--but the true\ncause of his exclamation lay at least a yard below.\n\nThis I will endeavour to explain to you with all imaginable decency.\n\nYou must be informed then, that Gastripheres, who had taken a turn into\nthe kitchen a little before dinner, to see how things went on--observing\na wicker-basket of fine chesnuts standing upon the dresser, had ordered\nthat a hundred or two of them might be roasted and sent in, as soon\nas dinner was over--Gastripheres inforcing his orders about them, that\nDidius, but Phutatorius especially, were particularly fond of 'em.\n\nAbout two minutes before the time that my uncle Toby interrupted\nYorick's harangue--Gastripheres's chesnuts were brought in--and as\nPhutatorius's fondness for 'em was uppermost in the waiter's head, he\nlaid them directly before Phutatorius, wrapt up hot in a clean damask\nnapkin.\n\nNow whether it was physically impossible, with half a dozen hands all\nthrust into the napkin at a time--but that some one chesnut, of more\nlife and rotundity than the rest, must be put in motion--it so fell\nout, however, that one was actually sent rolling off the table; and\nas Phutatorius sat straddling under--it fell perpendicularly into that\nparticular aperture of Phutatorius's breeches, for which, to the shame\nand indelicacy of our language be it spoke, there is no chaste word\nthroughout all Johnson's dictionary--let it suffice to say--it was that\nparticular aperture which, in all good societies, the laws of decorum\ndo strictly require, like the temple of Janus (in peace at least) to be\nuniversally shut up.\n\nThe neglect of this punctilio in Phutatorius (which by-the-bye should be\na warning to all mankind) had opened a door to this accident.--\n\nAccident I call it, in compliance to a received mode of speaking--but\nin no opposition to the opinion either of Acrites or Mythogeras in\nthis matter; I know they were both prepossessed and fully persuaded of\nit--and are so to this hour, That there was nothing of accident in the\nwhole event--but that the chesnut's taking that particular course,\nand in a manner of its own accord--and then falling with all its heat\ndirectly into that one particular place, and no other--was a real\njudgment upon Phutatorius for that filthy and obscene treatise de\nConcubinis retinendis, which Phutatorius had published about twenty\nyears ago--and was that identical week going to give the world a second\nedition of.\n\nIt is not my business to dip my pen in this controversy--much\nundoubtedly may be wrote on both sides of the question--all that\nconcerns me as an historian, is to represent the matter of fact, and\nrender it credible to the reader, that the hiatus in Phutatorius's\nbreeches was sufficiently wide to receive the chesnut;--and that the\nchesnut, somehow or other, did fall perpendicularly, and piping hot into\nit, without Phutatorius's perceiving it, or any one else at that time.\n\nThe genial warmth which the chesnut imparted, was not undelectable for\nthe first twenty or five-and-twenty seconds--and did no more than\ngently solicit Phutatorius's attention towards the part:--But the heat\ngradually increasing, and in a few seconds more getting beyond the\npoint of all sober pleasure, and then advancing with all speed into the\nregions of pain, the soul of Phutatorius, together with all his ideas,\nhis thoughts, his attention, his imagination, judgment, resolution,\ndeliberation, ratiocination, memory, fancy, with ten battalions of\nanimal spirits, all tumultuously crowded down, through different defiles\nand circuits, to the place of danger, leaving all his upper regions, as\nyou may imagine, as empty as my purse.\n\nWith the best intelligence which all these messengers could bring him\nback, Phutatorius was not able to dive into the secret of what was going\nforwards below, nor could he make any kind of conjecture, what the devil\nwas the matter with it: However, as he knew not what the true cause\nmight turn out, he deemed it most prudent in the situation he was in at\npresent, to bear it, if possible, like a Stoick; which, with the help\nof some wry faces and compursions of the mouth, he had certainly\naccomplished, had his imagination continued neuter;--but the sallies\nof the imagination are ungovernable in things of this kind--a thought\ninstantly darted into his mind, that tho' the anguish had the sensation\nof glowing heat--it might, notwithstanding that, be a bite as well as a\nburn; and if so, that possibly a Newt or an Asker, or some such detested\nreptile, had crept up, and was fastening his teeth--the horrid idea of\nwhich, with a fresh glow of pain arising that instant from the chesnut,\nseized Phutatorius with a sudden panick, and in the first terrifying\ndisorder of the passion, it threw him, as it has done the best generals\nupon earth, quite off his guard:--the effect of which was this, that\nhe leapt incontinently up, uttering as he rose that interjection of\nsurprise so much descanted upon, with the aposiopestic break after it,\nmarked thus, Z...ds--which, though not strictly canonical, was still\nas little as any man could have said upon the occasion;--and which,\nby-the-bye, whether canonical or not, Phutatorius could no more help\nthan he could the cause of it.\n\nThough this has taken up some time in the narrative, it took up little\nmore time in the transaction, than just to allow time for Phutatorius\nto draw forth the chesnut, and throw it down with violence upon the\nfloor--and for Yorick to rise from his chair, and pick the chesnut up.\n\nIt is curious to observe the triumph of slight incidents over the\nmind:--What incredible weight they have in forming and governing our\nopinions, both of men and things--that trifles, light as air, shall\nwaft a belief into the soul, and plant it so immoveably within it--that\nEuclid's demonstrations, could they be brought to batter it in breach,\nshould not all have power to overthrow it.\n\nYorick, I said, picked up the chesnut which Phutatorius's wrath had\nflung down--the action was trifling--I am ashamed to account for it--he\ndid it, for no reason, but that he thought the chesnut not a jot worse\nfor the adventure--and that he held a good chesnut worth stooping\nfor.--But this incident, trifling as it was, wrought differently in\nPhutatorius's head: He considered this act of Yorick's in getting off\nhis chair and picking up the chesnut, as a plain acknowledgment in him,\nthat the chesnut was originally his--and in course, that it must have\nbeen the owner of the chesnut, and no one else, who could have played\nhim such a prank with it: What greatly confirmed him in this opinion,\nwas this, that the table being parallelogramical and very narrow, it\nafforded a fair opportunity for Yorick, who sat directly over against\nPhutatorius, of slipping the chesnut in--and consequently that he did\nit. The look of something more than suspicion, which Phutatorius cast\nfull upon Yorick as these thoughts arose, too evidently spoke his\nopinion--and as Phutatorius was naturally supposed to know more of the\nmatter than any person besides, his opinion at once became the general\none;--and for a reason very different from any which have been yet\ngiven--in a little time it was put out of all manner of dispute.\n\nWhen great or unexpected events fall out upon the stage of this\nsublunary world--the mind of man, which is an inquisitive kind of a\nsubstance, naturally takes a flight behind the scenes to see what is\nthe cause and first spring of them.--The search was not long in this\ninstance.\n\nIt was well known that Yorick had never a good opinion of the treatise\nwhich Phutatorius had wrote de Concubinis retinendis, as a thing which\nhe feared had done hurt in the world--and 'twas easily found out, that\nthere was a mystical meaning in Yorick's prank--and that his chucking\nthe chesnut hot into Phutatorius's...--..., was a sarcastical fling at\nhis book--the doctrines of which, they said, had enflamed many an honest\nman in the same place.\n\nThis conceit awaken'd Somnolentus--made Agelastes smile--and if you can\nrecollect the precise look and air of a man's face intent in finding\nout a riddle--it threw Gastripheres's into that form--and in short was\nthought by many to be a master-stroke of arch-wit.\n\nThis, as the reader has seen from one end to the other, was as\ngroundless as the dreams of philosophy: Yorick, no doubt, as Shakespeare\nsaid of his ancestor--'was a man of jest,' but it was temper'd with\nsomething which withheld him from that, and many other ungracious\npranks, of which he as undeservedly bore the blame;--but it was his\nmisfortune all his life long to bear the imputation of saying and doing\na thousand things, of which (unless my esteem blinds me) his nature was\nincapable. All I blame him for--or rather, all I blame and alternately\nlike him for, was that singularity of his temper, which would never\nsuffer him to take pains to set a story right with the world, however in\nhis power. In every ill usage of that sort, he acted precisely as in the\naffair of his lean horse--he could have explained it to his honour, but\nhis spirit was above it; and besides, he ever looked upon the inventor,\nthe propagator and believer of an illiberal report alike so injurious\nto him--he could not stoop to tell his story to them--and so trusted to\ntime and truth to do it for him.\n\nThis heroic cast produced him inconveniences in many respects--in the\npresent it was followed by the fixed resentment of Phutatorius, who,\nas Yorick had just made an end of his chesnut, rose up from his chair\na second time, to let him know it--which indeed he did with a smile;\nsaying only--that he would endeavour not to forget the obligation.\n\nBut you must mark and carefully separate and distinguish these two\nthings in your mind.\n\n--The smile was for the company.\n\n--The threat was for Yorick.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.LXIII.\n\n--Can you tell me, quoth Phutatorius, speaking to Gastripheres who\nsat next to him--for one would not apply to a surgeon in so foolish\nan affair--can you tell me, Gastripheres, what is best to take out the\nfire?--Ask Eugenius, said Gastripheres.--That greatly depends, said\nEugenius, pretending ignorance of the adventure, upon the nature of the\npart--If it is a tender part, and a part which can conveniently be wrapt\nup--It is both the one and the other, replied Phutatorius, laying his\nhand as he spoke, with an emphatical nod of his head, upon the part\nin question, and lifting up his right leg at the same time to ease and\nventilate it.--If that is the case, said Eugenius, I would advise you,\nPhutatorius, not to tamper with it by any means; but if you will send to\nthe next printer, and trust your cure to such a simple thing as a soft\nsheet of paper just come off the press--you need do nothing more than\ntwist it round.--The damp paper, quoth Yorick (who sat next to his\nfriend Eugenius) though I know it has a refreshing coolness in it--yet\nI presume is no more than the vehicle--and that the oil and\nlamp-black with which the paper is so strongly impregnated, does the\nbusiness.--Right, said Eugenius, and is, of any outward application I\nwould venture to recommend, the most anodyne and safe.\n\nWas it my case, said Gastripheres, as the main thing is the oil and\nlamp-black, I should spread them thick upon a rag, and clap it on\ndirectly.--That would make a very devil of it, replied Yorick.--And\nbesides, added Eugenius, it would not answer the intention, which is\nthe extreme neatness and elegance of the prescription, which the Faculty\nhold to be half in half;--for consider, if the type is a very small one\n(which it should be) the sanative particles, which come into contact in\nthis form, have the advantage of being spread so infinitely thin, and\nwith such a mathematical equality (fresh paragraphs and large capitals\nexcepted) as no art or management of the spatula can come up to.--It\nfalls out very luckily, replied Phutatorius, that the second edition\nof my treatise de Concubinis retinendis is at this instant in\nthe press.--You may take any leaf of it, said Eugenius--no matter\nwhich.--Provided, quoth Yorick, there is no bawdry in it.--\n\nThey are just now, replied Phutatorius, printing off the ninth\nchapter--which is the last chapter but one in the book.--Pray what\nis the title of that chapter? said Yorick; making a respectful bow to\nPhutatorius as he spoke.--I think, answered Phutatorius, 'tis that de re\nconcubinaria.\n\nFor Heaven's sake keep out of that chapter, quoth Yorick.\n\n--By all means--added Eugenius.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.LXIV.\n\n--Now, quoth Didius, rising up, and laying his right hand with\nhis fingers spread upon his breast--had such a blunder about a\nchristian-name happened before the Reformation--(It happened the day\nbefore yesterday, quoth my uncle Toby to himself)--and when baptism\nwas administer'd in Latin--('Twas all in English, said my uncle)--many\nthings might have coincided with it, and upon the authority of sundry\ndecreed cases, to have pronounced the baptism null, with a power of\ngiving the child a new name--Had a priest, for instance, which was no\nuncommon thing, through ignorance of the Latin tongue, baptized a child\nof Tom-o'Stiles, in nomine patriae & filia & spiritum sanctos--the\nbaptism was held null.--I beg your pardon, replied Kysarcius--in\nthat case, as the mistake was only the terminations, the baptism was\nvalid--and to have rendered it null, the blunder of the priest should\nhave fallen upon the first syllable of each noun--and not, as in your\ncase, upon the last.\n\nMy father delighted in subtleties of this kind, and listen'd with\ninfinite attention.\n\nGastripheres, for example, continued Kysarcius, baptizes a child of\nJohn Stradling's in Gomine gatris, &c. &c. instead of in Nomine patris,\n&c.--Is this a baptism? No--say the ablest canonists; in as much as the\nradix of each word is hereby torn up, and the sense and meaning of them\nremoved and changed quite to another object; for Gomine does not signify\na name, nor gatris a father.--What do they signify? said my uncle\nToby.--Nothing at all--quoth Yorick.--Ergo, such a baptism is null, said\nKysarcius.--\n\nIn course, answered Yorick, in a tone two parts jest and one part\nearnest.--But in the case cited, continued Kysarcius, where patriae is\nput for patris, filia for filii, and so on--as it is a fault only in\nthe declension, and the roots of the words continue untouch'd, the\ninflections of their branches either this way or that, does not in any\nsort hinder the baptism, inasmuch as the same sense continues in the\nwords as before.--But then, said Didius, the intention of the priest's\npronouncing them grammatically must have been proved to have gone along\nwith it.--Right, answered Kysarcius; and of this, brother Didius, we\nhave an instance in a decree of the decretals of Pope Leo the IIId.--But\nmy brother's child, cried my uncle Toby, has nothing to do with the\nPope--'tis the plain child of a Protestant gentleman, christen'd\nTristram against the wills and wishes both of his father and mother, and\nall who are a-kin to it.--\n\nIf the wills and wishes, said Kysarcius, interrupting my uncle Toby, of\nthose only who stand related to Mr. Shandy's child, were to have weight\nin this matter, Mrs. Shandy, of all people, has the least to do in\nit.--My uncle Toby lay'd down his pipe, and my father drew his chair\nstill closer to the table, to hear the conclusion of so strange an\nintroduction.\n\n--It has not only been a question, Captain Shandy, amongst the (Vide\nSwinburn on Testaments, Part 7. para 8.) best lawyers and civilians in\nthis land, continued Kysarcius, 'Whether the mother be of kin to her\nchild,'--but, after much dispassionate enquiry and jactitation of the\narguments on all sides--it has been adjudged for the negative--namely,\n'That the mother is not of kin to her child.' (Vide Brook Abridg. Tit.\nAdministr. N. 47.) My father instantly clapp'd his hand upon my uncle\nToby's mouth, under colour of whispering in his ear;--the truth was, he\nwas alarmed for Lillabullero--and having a great desire to hear more of\nso curious an argument--he begg'd my uncle Toby, for heaven's sake, not\nto disappoint him in it.--My uncle Toby gave a nod--resumed his pipe,\nand contenting himself with whistling Lillabullero inwardly--Kysarcius,\nDidius, and Triptolemus went on with the discourse as follows:\n\nThis determination, continued Kysarcius, how contrary soever it may seem\nto run to the stream of vulgar ideas, yet had reason strongly on its\nside; and has been put out of all manner of dispute from the famous\ncase, known commonly by the name of the Duke of Suffolk's case.--It\nis cited in Brook, said Triptolemus--And taken notice of by Lord Coke,\nadded Didius.--And you may find it in Swinburn on Testaments, said\nKysarcius.\n\nThe case, Mr. Shandy, was this:\n\nIn the reign of Edward the Sixth, Charles duke of Suffolk having issue a\nson by one venter, and a daughter by another venter, made his last will,\nwherein he devised goods to his son, and died; after whose death the son\ndied also--but without will, without wife, and without child--his mother\nand his sister by the father's side (for she was born of the former\nventer) then living. The mother took the administration of her son's\ngoods, according to the statute of the 21st of Harry the Eighth, whereby\nit is enacted, That in case any person die intestate the administration\nof his goods shall be committed to the next of kin.\n\nThe administration being thus (surreptitiously) granted to the\nmother, the sister by the father's side commenced a suit before the\nEcclesiastical Judge, alledging, 1st, That she herself was next of kin;\nand 2dly, That the mother was not of kin at all to the party deceased;\nand therefore prayed the court, that the administration granted to the\nmother might be revoked, and be committed unto her, as next of kin to\nthe deceased, by force of the said statute.\n\nHereupon, as it was a great cause, and much depending upon its\nissue--and many causes of great property likely to be decided in times\nto come, by the precedent to be then made--the most learned, as well in\nthe laws of this realm, as in the civil law, were consulted together,\nwhether the mother was of kin to her son, or no.--Whereunto not only\nthe temporal lawyers--but the church lawyers--the juris-consulti--the\njurisprudentes--the civilians--the advocates--the commissaries--the\njudges of the consistory and prerogative courts of Canterbury and York,\nwith the master of the faculties, were all unanimously of opinion, That\nthe mother was not of (Mater non numeratur inter consanguineos, Bald. in\nult. C. de Verb. signific.) kin to her child.--\n\nAnd what said the duchess of Suffolk to it? said my uncle Toby.\n\nThe unexpectedness of my uncle Toby's question, confounded Kysarcius\nmore than the ablest advocate--He stopp'd a full minute, looking in\nmy uncle Toby's face without replying--and in that single minute\nTriptolemus put by him, and took the lead as follows.\n\n'Tis a ground and principle in the law, said Triptolemus, that things do\nnot ascend, but descend in it; and I make no doubt 'tis for this cause,\nthat however true it is, that the child may be of the blood and seed of\nits parents--that the parents, nevertheless, are not of the blood and\nseed of it; inasmuch as the parents are not begot by the child, but the\nchild by the parents--For so they write, Liberi sunt de sanguine patris\n& matris, sed pater & mater non sunt de sanguine liberorum.\n\n--But this, Triptolemus, cried Didius, proves too much--for from this\nauthority cited it would follow, not only what indeed is granted on\nall sides, that the mother is not of kin to her child--but the father\nlikewise.--It is held, said Triptolemus, the better opinion; because the\nfather, the mother, and the child, though they be three persons, yet\nare they but (una caro (Vide Brook Abridg. tit. Administr. N.47.)) one\nflesh; and consequently no degree of kindred--or any method of acquiring\none in nature.--There you push the argument again too far, cried\nDidius--for there is no prohibition in nature, though there is in the\nLevitical law--but that a man may beget a child upon his grandmother--in\nwhich case, supposing the issue a daughter, she would stand in relation\nboth of--But who ever thought, cried Kysarcius, of laying with his\ngrandmother?--The young gentleman, replied Yorick, whom Selden speaks\nof--who not only thought of it, but justified his intention to his\nfather by the argument drawn from the law of retaliation.--'You\nlaid, Sir, with my mother,' said the lad--'why may not I lay with\nyours?'--'Tis the Argumentum commune, added Yorick.--'Tis as good,\nreplied Eugenius, taking down his hat, as they deserve.\n\nThe company broke up.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.LXV.\n\n--And pray, said my uncle Toby, leaning upon Yorick, as he and my father\nwere helping him leisurely down the stairs--don't be terrified, madam,\nthis stair-case conversation is not so long as the last--And pray,\nYorick, said my uncle Toby, which way is this said affair of Tristram\nat length settled by these learned men? Very satisfactorily, replied\nYorick; no mortal, Sir, has any concern with it--for Mrs. Shandy the\nmother is nothing at all a-kin to him--and as the mother's is the surest\nside--Mr. Shandy, in course is still less than nothing--In short, he is\nnot as much a-kin to him, Sir, as I am.--\n\n--That may well be, said my father, shaking his head.\n\n--Let the learned say what they will, there must certainly, quoth my\nuncle Toby, have been some sort of consanguinity betwixt the duchess of\nSuffolk and her son.\n\nThe vulgar are of the same opinion, quoth Yorick, to this hour.\n\n\n\nChapter 2.LXVI.\n\nThough my father was hugely tickled with the subtleties of these learned\ndiscourses--'twas still but like the anointing of a broken bone--The\nmoment he got home, the weight of his afflictions returned upon him but\nso much the heavier, as is ever the case when the staff we lean on\nslips from under us.--He became pensive--walked frequently forth to\nthe fish-pond--let down one loop of his hat--sigh'd often--forbore to\nsnap--and, as the hasty sparks of temper, which occasion snapping, so\nmuch assist perspiration and digestion, as Hippocrates tells us--he had\ncertainly fallen ill with the extinction of them, had not his thoughts\nbeen critically drawn off, and his health rescued by a fresh train of\ndisquietudes left him, with a legacy of a thousand pounds, by my aunt\nDinah.\n\nMy father had scarce read the letter, when taking the thing by the right\nend, he instantly began to plague and puzzle his head how to lay it out\nmostly to the honour of his family.--A hundred-and-fifty odd projects\ntook possession of his brains by turns--he would do this, and that and\nt'other--He would go to Rome--he would go to law--he would buy stock--he\nwould buy John Hobson's farm--he would new fore front his house, and add\na new wing to make it even--There was a fine water-mill on this side,\nand he would build a wind-mill on the other side of the river in full\nview to answer it--But above all things in the world, he would inclose\nthe great Ox-moor, and send out my brother Bobby immediately upon his\ntravels.\n\nBut as the sum was finite, and consequently could not do every\nthing--and in truth very few of these to any purpose--of all the\nprojects which offered themselves upon this occasion, the two last\nseemed to make the deepest impression; and he would infallibly have\ndetermined upon both at once, but for the small inconvenience hinted at\nabove, which absolutely put him under a necessity of deciding in favour\neither of the one or the other.\n\nThis was not altogether so easy to be done; for though 'tis certain\nmy father had long before set his heart upon this necessary part of my\nbrother's education, and like a prudent man had actually determined to\ncarry it into execution, with the first money that returned from the\nsecond creation of actions in the Missisippi-scheme, in which he was an\nadventurer--yet the Ox-moor, which was a fine, large, whinny, undrained,\nunimproved common, belonging to the Shandy-estate, had almost as old\na claim upon him: he had long and affectionately set his heart upon\nturning it likewise to some account.\n\nBut having never hitherto been pressed with such a conjuncture of\nthings, as made it necessary to settle either the priority or justice of\ntheir claims--like a wise man he had refrained entering into any nice\nor critical examination about them: so that upon the dismission of every\nother project at this crisis--the two old projects, the Ox-moor and\nmy Brother, divided him again; and so equal a match were they for\neach other, as to become the occasion of no small contest in the old\ngentleman's mind--which of the two should be set o'going first.\n\n--People may laugh as they will--but the case was this.\n\nIt had ever been the custom of the family, and by length of time was\nalmost become a matter of common right, that the eldest son of it\nshould have free ingress, egress, and regress into foreign parts before\nmarriage--not only for the sake of bettering his own private parts, by\nthe benefit of exercise and change of so much air--but simply for the\nmere delectation of his fancy, by the feather put into his cap, of\nhaving been abroad--tantum valet, my father would say, quantum sonat.\n\nNow as this was a reasonable, and in course a most christian\nindulgence--to deprive him of it, without why or wherefore--and thereby\nmake an example of him, as the first Shandy unwhirl'd about Europe in a\npost-chaise, and only because he was a heavy lad--would be using him ten\ntimes worse than a Turk.\n\nOn the other hand, the case of the Ox-moor was full as hard.\n\nExclusive of the original purchase-money, which was eight hundred\npounds--it had cost the family eight hundred pounds more in a law-suit\nabout fifteen years before--besides the Lord knows what trouble and\nvexation.\n\nIt had been moreover in possession of the Shandy-family ever since the\nmiddle of the last century; and though it lay full in view before the\nhouse, bounded on one extremity by the water-mill, and on the other\nby the projected wind-mill spoken of above--and for all these reasons\nseemed to have the fairest title of any part of the estate to the care\nand protection of the family--yet by an unaccountable fatality, common\nto men, as well as the ground they tread on--it had all along most\nshamefully been overlook'd; and to speak the truth of it, had suffered\nso much by it, that it would have made any man's heart have bled\n(Obadiah said) who understood the value of the land, to have rode over\nit, and only seen the condition it was in.\n\nHowever, as neither the purchasing this tract of ground--nor indeed the\nplacing of it where it lay, were either of them, properly speaking, of\nmy father's doing--he had never thought himself any way concerned in\nthe affair--till the fifteen years before, when the breaking out of\nthat cursed law-suit mentioned above (and which had arose about its\nboundaries)--which being altogether my father's own act and deed, it\nnaturally awakened every other argument in its favour, and upon summing\nthem all up together, he saw, not merely in interest, but in honour, he\nwas bound to do something for it--and that now or never was the time.\n\nI think there must certainly have been a mixture of ill-luck in it, that\nthe reasons on both sides should happen to be so equally balanced\nby each other; for though my father weigh'd them in all humours\nand conditions--spent many an anxious hour in the most profound and\nabstracted meditation upon what was best to be done--reading books of\nfarming one day--books of travels another--laying aside all passion\nwhatever--viewing the arguments on both sides in all their lights and\ncircumstances--communing every day with my uncle Toby--arguing\nwith Yorick, and talking over the whole affair of the Ox-moor with\nObadiah--yet nothing in all that time appeared so strongly in behalf of\nthe one, which was not either strictly applicable to the other, or at\nleast so far counterbalanced by some consideration of equal weight, as\nto keep the scales even.\n\nFor to be sure, with proper helps, in the hands of some people, tho' the\nOx-moor would undoubtedly have made a different appearance in the world\nfrom what it did, or ever could do in the condition it lay--yet every\ntittle of this was true, with regard to my brother Bobby--let Obadiah\nsay what he would.--\n\nIn point of interest--the contest, I own, at first sight, did not appear\nso undecisive betwixt them; for whenever my father took pen and ink\nin hand, and set about calculating the simple expence of paring and\nburning, and fencing in the Ox-moor, &c. &c.--with the certain profit it\nwould bring him in return--the latter turned out so prodigiously in his\nway of working the account, that you would have sworn the Ox-moor would\nhave carried all before it. For it was plain he should reap a hundred\nlasts of rape, at twenty pounds a last, the very first year--besides an\nexcellent crop of wheat the year following--and the year after that,\nto speak within bounds, a hundred--but in all likelihood, a hundred and\nfifty--if not two hundred quarters of pease and beans--besides potatoes\nwithout end.--But then, to think he was all this while breeding up my\nbrother, like a hog to eat them--knocked all on the head again, and\ngenerally left the old gentleman in such a state of suspense--that, as\nhe often declared to my uncle Toby--he knew no more than his heels what\nto do.\n\nNo body, but he who has felt it, can conceive what a plaguing thing it\nis to have a man's mind torn asunder by two projects of equal strength,\nboth obstinately pulling in a contrary direction at the same time:\nfor to say nothing of the havock, which by a certain consequence is\nunavoidably made by it all over the finer system of the nerves, which\nyou know convey the animal spirits and more subtle juices from the heart\nto the head, and so on--it is not to be told in what a degree such a\nwayward kind of friction works upon the more gross and solid parts,\nwasting the fat and impairing the strength of a man every time as it\ngoes backwards and forwards.\n\nMy father had certainly sunk under this evil, as certainly as he had\ndone under that of my Christian Name--had he not been rescued out of\nit, as he was out of that, by a fresh evil--the misfortune of my brother\nBobby's death.\n\nWhat is the life of man! Is it not to shift from side to side?--from\nsorrow to sorrow?--to button up one cause of vexation--and unbutton\nanother?\n\n\n\nChapter 2.LXVII.\n\nFrom this moment I am to be considered as heir-apparent to the Shandy\nfamily--and it is from this point properly, that the story of my Life\nand my Opinions sets out. With all my hurry and precipitation, I have\nbut been clearing the ground to raise the building--and such a building\ndo I foresee it will turn out, as never was planned, and as never was\nexecuted since Adam. In less than five minutes I shall have thrown\nmy pen into the fire, and the little drop of thick ink which is left\nremaining at the bottom of my ink-horn, after it--I have but half a\nscore things to do in the time--I have a thing to name--a thing to\nlament--a thing to hope--a thing to promise, and a thing to threaten--I\nhave a thing to suppose--a thing to declare--a thing to conceal--a thing\nto choose, and a thing to pray for--This chapter, therefore, I name the\nchapter of Things--and my next chapter to it, that is, the first chapter\nof my next volume, if I live, shall be my chapter upon Whiskers, in\norder to keep up some sort of connection in my works.\n\nThe thing I lament is, that things have crowded in so thick upon me,\nthat I have not been able to get into that part of my work, towards\nwhich I have all the way looked forwards, with so much earnest desire;\nand that is the Campaigns, but especially the amours of my uncle Toby,\nthe events of which are of so singular a nature, and so Cervantick a\ncast, that if I can so manage it, as to convey but the same impressions\nto every other brain, which the occurrences themselves excite in my\nown--I will answer for it the book shall make its way in the world, much\nbetter than its master has done before it.--Oh Tristram! Tristram! can\nthis but be once brought about--the credit, which will attend thee as an\nauthor, shall counterbalance the many evils will have befallen thee as\na man--thou wilt feast upon the one--when thou hast lost all sense and\nremembrance of the other--!\n\nNo wonder I itch so much as I do, to get at these amours--They are the\nchoicest morsel of my whole story! and when I do get at 'em--assure\nyourselves, good folks--(nor do I value whose squeamish stomach\ntakes offence at it) I shall not be at all nice in the choice of my\nwords!--and that's the thing I have to declare.--I shall never get all\nthrough in five minutes, that I fear--and the thing I hope is, that your\nworships and reverences are not offended--if you are, depend upon't I'll\ngive you something, my good gentry, next year to be offended at--that's\nmy dear Jenny's way--but who my Jenny is--and which is the right and\nwhich the wrong end of a woman, is the thing to be concealed--it\nshall be told you in the next chapter but one to my chapter of\nButton-holes--and not one chapter before.\n\nAnd now that you have just got to the end of these (According to the\npreceding Editions.) three volumes--the thing I have to ask is, how you\nfeel your heads? my own akes dismally!--as for your healths, I know,\nthey are much better.--True Shandeism, think what you will against it,\nopens the heart and lungs, and like all those affections which partake\nof its nature, it forces the blood and other vital fluids of the body\nto run freely through its channels, makes the wheel of life run long and\ncheerfully round.\n\nWas I left, like Sancho Panca, to choose my kingdom, it should not be\nmaritime--or a kingdom of blacks to make a penny of;--no, it should be\na kingdom of hearty laughing subjects: And as the bilious and more\nsaturnine passions, by creating disorders in the blood and humours, have\nas bad an influence, I see, upon the body politick as body natural--and\nas nothing but a habit of virtue can fully govern those passions, and\nsubject them to reason--I should add to my prayer--that God would give\nmy subjects grace to be as Wise as they were Merry; and then should I be\nthe happiest monarch, and they are the happiest people under heaven.\n\nAnd so with this moral for the present, may it please your worships and\nyour reverences, I take my leave of you till this time twelve-month,\nwhen, (unless this vile cough kills me in the mean time) I'll have\nanother pluck at your beards, and lay open a story to the world you\nlittle dream of.\n\n\nEnd of the Second Volume.\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY, GENT.--VOLUME THE THIRD\n\n\n     Dixero si quid forte jocosius, hoc mihi juris Cum venia\n     dabis.--Hor.\n\n     --Si quis calumnietur levius esse quam decet theologum, aut\n     mordacius quam deceat Christianum--non Ego, sed Democritus\n     dixit.--Erasmus.\n\n     Si quis Clericus, aut Monachus, verba joculatoria, risum\n     moventia, sciebat, anathema esto.  Second Council of\n     Carthage.\n\n\nTo the Right Honorable John, Lord Viscount Spencer.\n\nMy Lord,\n\nI Humbly beg leave to offer you these two Volumes (Volumes V. and VI. in\nthe first Edition.); they are the best my talents, with such bad health\nas I have, could produce:--had Providence granted me a larger stock of\neither, they had been a much more proper present to your Lordship.\n\nI beg your Lordship will forgive me, if, at the same time I dedicate\nthis work to you, I join Lady Spencer, in the liberty I take of\ninscribing the story of Le Fever to her name; for which I have no other\nmotive, which my heart has informed me of, but that the story is a\nhumane one.\n\nI am, My Lord, Your Lordship's most devoted and most humble Servant,\n\nLaur. Sterne.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.I.\n\nIf it had not been for those two mettlesome tits, and that madcap of\na postillion who drove them from Stilton to Stamford, the thought had\nnever entered my head. He flew like lightning--there was a slope of\nthree miles and a half--we scarce touched the ground--the motion was\nmost rapid--most impetuous--'twas communicated to my brain--my heart\npartook of it--'By the great God of day,' said I, looking towards the\nsun, and thrusting my arm out of the fore-window of the chaise, as I\nmade my vow, 'I will lock up my study-door the moment I get home, and\nthrow the key of it ninety feet below the surface of the earth, into the\ndraw-well at the back of my house.'\n\nThe London waggon confirmed me in my resolution; it hung tottering\nupon the hill, scarce progressive, drag'd--drag'd up by eight heavy\nbeasts--'by main strength!--quoth I, nodding--but your betters draw the\nsame way--and something of every body's!--O rare!'\n\nTell me, ye learned, shall we for ever be adding so much to the bulk--so\nlittle to the stock?\n\nShall we for ever make new books, as apothecaries make new mixtures, by\npouring only out of one vessel into another?\n\nAre we for ever to be twisting, and untwisting the same rope? for ever\nin the same track--for ever at the same pace?\n\nShall we be destined to the days of eternity, on holy-days, as well as\nworking-days, to be shewing the relicks of learning, as monks do the\nrelicks of their saints--without working one--one single miracle with\nthem?\n\nWho made Man, with powers which dart him from earth to heaven in a\nmoment--that great, that most excellent, and most noble creature of the\nworld--the miracle of nature, as Zoroaster in his book (Greek) called\nhim--the Shekinah of the divine presence, as Chrysostom--the image of\nGod, as Moses--the ray of divinity, as Plato--the marvel of marvels,\nas Aristotle--to go sneaking on at this pitiful--pimping--pettifogging\nrate?\n\nI scorn to be as abusive as Horace upon the occasion--but if there is\nno catachresis in the wish, and no sin in it, I wish from my soul, that\nevery imitator in Great Britain, France, and Ireland, had the farcy for\nhis pains; and that there was a good farcical house, large enough to\nhold--aye--and sublimate them, shag rag and bob-tail, male and female,\nall together: and this leads me to the affair of Whiskers--but, by what\nchain of ideas--I leave as a legacy in mort-main to Prudes and Tartufs,\nto enjoy and make the most of.\n\n\n\nUpon Whiskers.\n\nI'm sorry I made it--'twas as inconsiderate a promise as ever entered\na man's head--A chapter upon whiskers! alas! the world will not\nbear it--'tis a delicate world--but I knew not of what mettle it was\nmade--nor had I ever seen the under-written fragment; otherwise, as\nsurely as noses are noses, and whiskers are whiskers still (let the\nworld say what it will to the contrary); so surely would I have steered\nclear of this dangerous chapter.\n\n\n\nThe Fragment.\n\n...--You are half asleep, my good lady, said the old gentleman, taking\nhold of the old lady's hand, and giving it a gentle squeeze, as he\npronounced the word Whiskers--shall we change the subject? By no means,\nreplied the old lady--I like your account of those matters; so throwing\na thin gauze handkerchief over her head, and leaning it back upon the\nchair with her face turned towards him, and advancing her two feet as\nshe reclined herself--I desire, continued she, you will go on.\n\nThe old gentleman went on as follows:--Whiskers! cried the queen\nof Navarre, dropping her knotting ball, as La Fosseuse uttered the\nword--Whiskers, madam, said La Fosseuse, pinning the ball to the queen's\napron, and making a courtesy as she repeated it.\n\nLa Fosseuse's voice was naturally soft and low, yet 'twas an articulate\nvoice: and every letter of the word Whiskers fell distinctly upon the\nqueen of Navarre's ear--Whiskers! cried the queen, laying a greater\nstress upon the word, and as if she had still distrusted her\nears--Whiskers! replied La Fosseuse, repeating the word a third\ntime--There is not a cavalier, madam, of his age in Navarre, continued\nthe maid of honour, pressing the page's interest upon the queen, that\nhas so gallant a pair--Of what? cried Margaret, smiling--Of whiskers,\nsaid La Fosseuse, with infinite modesty.\n\nThe word Whiskers still stood its ground, and continued to be made\nuse of in most of the best companies throughout the little kingdom of\nNavarre, notwithstanding the indiscreet use which La Fosseuse had made\nof it: the truth was, La Fosseuse had pronounced the word, not only\nbefore the queen, but upon sundry other occasions at court, with an\naccent which always implied something of a mystery--And as the court\nof Margaret, as all the world knows, was at that time a mixture of\ngallantry and devotion--and whiskers being as applicable to the one, as\nthe other, the word naturally stood its ground--it gained full as much\nas it lost; that is, the clergy were for it--the laity were against\nit--and for the women,--they were divided.\n\nThe excellency of the figure and mien of the young Sieur De Croix, was\nat that time beginning to draw the attention of the maids of honour\ntowards the terrace before the palace gate, where the guard was mounted.\nThe lady De Baussiere fell deeply in love with him,--La Battarelle did\nthe same--it was the finest weather for it, that ever was remembered\nin Navarre--La Guyol, La Maronette, La Sabatiere, fell in love with the\nSieur De Croix also--La Rebours and La Fosseuse knew better--De Croix\nhad failed in an attempt to recommend himself to La Rebours; and La\nRebours and La Fosseuse were inseparable.\n\nThe queen of Navarre was sitting with her ladies in the painted\nbow-window, facing the gate of the second court, as De Croix passed\nthrough it--He is handsome, said the Lady Baussiere--He has a good mien,\nsaid La Battarelle--He is finely shaped, said La Guyol--I never saw an\nofficer of the horse-guards in my life, said La Maronette, with two such\nlegs--Or who stood so well upon them, said La Sabatiere--But he has no\nwhiskers, cried La Fosseuse--Not a pile, said La Rebours.\n\nThe queen went directly to her oratory, musing all the way, as she\nwalked through the gallery, upon the subject; turning it this way and\nthat way in her fancy--Ave Maria!--what can La-Fosseuse mean? said she,\nkneeling down upon the cushion.\n\nLa Guyol, La Battarelle, La Maronette, La Sabatiere, retired instantly\nto their chambers--Whiskers! said all four of them to themselves, as\nthey bolted their doors on the inside.\n\nThe Lady Carnavallette was counting her beads with both hands,\nunsuspected, under her farthingal--from St. Antony down to St. Ursula\ninclusive, not a saint passed through her fingers without whiskers;\nSt. Francis, St. Dominick, St. Bennet, St. Basil, St. Bridget, had all\nwhiskers.\n\nThe Lady Baussiere had got into a wilderness of conceits, with\nmoralizing too intricately upon La Fosseuse's text--She mounted her\npalfrey, her page followed her--the host passed by--the Lady Baussiere\nrode on.\n\nOne denier, cried the order of mercy--one single denier, in behalf of\na thousand patient captives, whose eyes look towards heaven and you for\ntheir redemption.\n\n--The Lady Baussiere rode on.\n\nPity the unhappy, said a devout, venerable, hoary-headed man, meekly\nholding up a box, begirt with iron, in his withered hands--I beg for the\nunfortunate--good my Lady, 'tis for a prison--for an hospital--'tis for\nan old man--a poor man undone by shipwreck, by suretyship, by fire--I\ncall God and all his angels to witness--'tis to clothe the naked--to\nfeed the hungry--'tis to comfort the sick and the broken-hearted.\n\nThe Lady Baussiere rode on.\n\nA decayed kinsman bowed himself to the ground.\n\n--The Lady Baussiere rode on.\n\nHe ran begging bare-headed on one side of her palfrey, conjuring her by\nthe former bonds of friendship, alliance, consanguinity, &c.--Cousin,\naunt, sister, mother,--for virtue's sake, for your own, for mine, for\nChrist's sake, remember me--pity me.\n\n--The Lady Baussiere rode on.\n\nTake hold of my whiskers, said the Lady Baussiere--The page took hold of\nher palfrey. She dismounted at the end of the terrace.\n\nThere are some trains of certain ideas which leave prints of themselves\nabout our eyes and eye-brows; and there is a consciousness of it,\nsomewhere about the heart, which serves but to make these etchings the\nstronger--we see, spell, and put them together without a dictionary.\n\nHa, ha! he, hee! cried La Guyol and La Sabatiere, looking close at each\nother's prints--Ho, ho! cried La Battarelle and Maronette, doing\nthe same:--Whist! cried one--ft, ft,--said a second--hush, quoth\na third--poo, poo, replied a fourth--gramercy! cried the Lady\nCarnavallette;--'twas she who bewhisker'd St. Bridget.\n\nLa Fosseuse drew her bodkin from the knot of her hair, and having traced\nthe outline of a small whisker, with the blunt end of it, upon one side\nof her upper lip, put in into La Rebours' hand--La Rebours shook her\nhead.\n\nThe Lady Baussiere coughed thrice into the inside of her muff--La Guyol\nsmiled--Fy, said the Lady Baussiere. The queen of Navarre touched her\neye with the tip of her fore-finger--as much as to say, I understand you\nall.\n\n'Twas plain to the whole court the word was ruined: La Fosseuse had\ngiven it a wound, and it was not the better for passing through all\nthese defiles--It made a faint stand, however, for a few months, by the\nexpiration of which, the Sieur De Croix, finding it high time to leave\nNavarre for want of whiskers--the word in course became indecent, and\n(after a few efforts) absolutely unfit for use.\n\nThe best word, in the best language of the best world, must have\nsuffered under such combinations.--The curate of d'Estella wrote a book\nagainst them, setting forth the dangers of accessory ideas, and warning\nthe Navarois against them.\n\nDoes not all the world know, said the curate d'Estella at the conclusion\nof his work, that Noses ran the same fate some centuries ago in\nmost parts of Europe, which Whiskers have now done in the kingdom of\nNavarre?--The evil indeed spread no farther then--but have not beds\nand bolsters, and night-caps and chamber-pots stood upon the brink\nof destruction ever since? Are not trouse, and placket-holes, and\npump-handles--and spigots and faucets, in danger still from the same\nassociation?--Chastity, by nature, the gentlest of all affections--give\nit but its head--'tis like a ramping and a roaring lion.\n\nThe drift of the curate d'Estella's argument was not understood.--They\nran the scent the wrong way.--The world bridled his ass at the\ntail.--And when the extremes of Delicacy, and the beginnings of\nConcupiscence, hold their next provincial chapter together, they may\ndecree that bawdy also.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.II.\n\nWhen my father received the letter which brought him the melancholy\naccount of my brother Bobby's death, he was busy calculating the expence\nof his riding post from Calais to Paris, and so on to Lyons.\n\n'Twas a most inauspicious journey; my father having had every foot of it\nto travel over again, and his calculation to begin afresh, when he had\nalmost got to the end of it, by Obadiah's opening the door to acquaint\nhim the family was out of yeast--and to ask whether he might not\ntake the great coach-horse early in the morning and ride in search\nof some.--With all my heart, Obadiah, said my father (pursuing his\njourney)--take the coach-horse, and welcome.--But he wants a shoe, poor\ncreature! said Obadiah.--Poor creature! said my uncle Toby, vibrating\nthe note back again, like a string in unison. Then ride the Scotch\nhorse, quoth my father hastily.--He cannot bear a saddle upon his back,\nquoth Obadiah, for the whole world.--The devil's in that horse; then\ntake Patriot, cried my father, and shut the door.--Patriot is sold, said\nObadiah. Here's for you! cried my father, making a pause, and looking\nin my uncle Toby's face, as if the thing had not been a matter\nof fact.--Your worship ordered me to sell him last April, said\nObadiah.--Then go on foot for your pains, cried my father--I had much\nrather walk than ride, said Obadiah, shutting the door.\n\nWhat plagues, cried my father, going on with his calculation.--But the\nwaters are out, said Obadiah,--opening the door again.\n\nTill that moment, my father, who had a map of Sanson's, and a book\nof the post-roads before him, had kept his hand upon the head of his\ncompasses, with one foot of them fixed upon Nevers, the last stage he\nhad paid for--purposing to go on from that point with his journey and\ncalculation, as soon as Obadiah quitted the room: but this second attack\nof Obadiah's, in opening the door and laying the whole country under\nwater, was too much.--He let go his compasses--or rather with a mixed\nmotion between accident and anger, he threw them upon the table; and\nthen there was nothing for him to do, but to return back to Calais (like\nmany others) as wise as he had set out.\n\nWhen the letter was brought into the parlour, which contained the news\nof my brother's death, my father had got forwards again upon his\njourney to within a stride of the compasses of the very same stage of\nNevers.--By your leave, Mons. Sanson, cried my father, striking the\npoint of his compasses through Nevers into the table--and nodding to\nmy uncle Toby to see what was in the letter--twice of one night, is too\nmuch for an English gentleman and his son, Mons. Sanson, to be turned\nback from so lousy a town as Nevers--What think'st thou, Toby? added my\nfather in a sprightly tone.--Unless it be a garrison town, said my uncle\nToby--for then--I shall be a fool, said my father, smiling to himself,\nas long as I live.--So giving a second nod--and keeping his compasses\nstill upon Nevers with one hand, and holding his book of the post-roads\nin the other--half calculating and half listening, he leaned forwards\nupon the table with both elbows, as my uncle Toby hummed over the\nletter.\n\n...he's gone! said my uncle Toby--Where--Who? cried my father.--My\nnephew, said my uncle Toby.--What--without leave--without money--without\ngovernor? cried my father in amazement. No:--he is dead, my dear\nbrother, quoth my uncle Toby.--Without being ill? cried my father\nagain.--I dare say not, said my uncle Toby, in a low voice, and fetching\na deep sigh from the bottom of his heart, he has been ill enough, poor\nlad! I'll answer for him--for he is dead.\n\nWhen Agrippina was told of her son's death, Tacitus informs us, that,\nnot being able to moderate the violence of her passions, she abruptly\nbroke off her work--My father stuck his compasses into Nevers, but\nso much the faster.--What contrarieties! his, indeed, was matter of\ncalculation!--Agrippina's must have been quite a different affair; who\nelse could pretend to reason from history?\n\nHow my father went on, in my opinion, deserves a chapter to itself.--\n\n\n\nChapter 3.III.\n\n...--And a chapter it shall have, and a devil of a one too--so look to\nyourselves.\n\n'Tis either Plato, or Plutarch, or Seneca, or Xenophon, or Epictetus,\nor Theophrastus, or Lucian--or some one perhaps of later date--either\nCardan, or Budaeus, or Petrarch, or Stella--or possibly it may be some\ndivine or father of the church, St. Austin, or St. Cyprian, or Barnard,\nwho affirms that it is an irresistible and natural passion to weep for\nthe loss of our friends or children--and Seneca (I'm positive) tells us\nsomewhere, that such griefs evacuate themselves best by that particular\nchannel--And accordingly we find, that David wept for his son\nAbsalom--Adrian for his Antinous--Niobe for her children, and that\nApollodorus and Crito both shed tears for Socrates before his death.\n\nMy father managed his affliction otherwise; and indeed differently from\nmost men either ancient or modern; for he neither wept it away, as the\nHebrews and the Romans--or slept it off, as the Laplanders--or hanged\nit, as the English, or drowned it, as the Germans,--nor did he curse it,\nor damn it, or excommunicate it, or rhyme it, or lillabullero it.--\n\n--He got rid of it, however.\n\nWill your worships give me leave to squeeze in a story between these two\npages?\n\nWhen Tully was bereft of his dear daughter Tullia, at first he laid it\nto his heart,--he listened to the voice of nature, and modulated his\nown unto it.--O my Tullia! my daughter! my child!--still, still,\nstill,--'twas O my Tullia!--my Tullia! Methinks I see my Tullia, I hear\nmy Tullia, I talk with my Tullia.--But as soon as he began to look into\nthe stores of philosophy, and consider how many excellent things might\nbe said upon the occasion--no body upon earth can conceive, says the\ngreat orator, how happy, how joyful it made me.\n\nMy father was as proud of his eloquence as Marcus Tullius Cicero could\nbe for his life, and, for aught I am convinced of to the contrary\nat present, with as much reason: it was indeed his strength--and his\nweakness too.--His strength--for he was by nature eloquent; and his\nweakness--for he was hourly a dupe to it; and, provided an occasion\nin life would but permit him to shew his talents, or say either a\nwise thing, a witty, or a shrewd one--(bating the case of a systematic\nmisfortune)--he had all he wanted.--A blessing which tied up my father's\ntongue, and a misfortune which let it loose with a good grace, were\npretty equal: sometimes, indeed, the misfortune was the better of the\ntwo; for instance, where the pleasure of the harangue was as ten, and\nthe pain of the misfortune but as five--my father gained half in half,\nand consequently was as well again off, as if it had never befallen him.\n\nThis clue will unravel what otherwise would seem very inconsistent in my\nfather's domestic character; and it is this, that, in the provocations\narising from the neglects and blunders of servants, or other mishaps\nunavoidable in a family, his anger, or rather the duration of it,\neternally ran counter to all conjecture.\n\nMy father had a favourite little mare, which he had consigned over to a\nmost beautiful Arabian horse, in order to have a pad out of her for his\nown riding: he was sanguine in all his projects; so talked about his\npad every day with as absolute a security, as if it had been reared,\nbroke,--and bridled and saddled at his door ready for mounting. By\nsome neglect or other in Obadiah, it so fell out, that my father's\nexpectations were answered with nothing better than a mule, and as ugly\na beast of the kind as ever was produced.\n\nMy mother and my uncle Toby expected my father would be the death of\nObadiah--and that there never would be an end of the disaster--See\nhere! you rascal, cried my father, pointing to the mule, what you have\ndone!--It was not me, said Obadiah.--How do I know that? replied my\nfather.\n\nTriumph swam in my father's eyes, at the repartee--the Attic salt\nbrought water into them--and so Obadiah heard no more about it.\n\nNow let us go back to my brother's death.\n\nPhilosophy has a fine saying for every thing.--For Death it has an\nentire set; the misery was, they all at once rushed into my father's\nhead, that 'twas difficult to string them together, so as to make any\nthing of a consistent show out of them.--He took them as they came.\n\n''Tis an inevitable chance--the first statute in Magna Charta--it is an\neverlasting act of parliament, my dear brother,--All must die.\n\n'If my son could not have died, it had been matter of wonder,--not that\nhe is dead.\n\n'Monarchs and princes dance in the same ring with us.\n\n'--To die, is the great debt and tribute due unto nature: tombs and\nmonuments, which should perpetuate our memories, pay it themselves; and\nthe proudest pyramid of them all, which wealth and science have erected,\nhas lost its apex, and stands obtruncated in the traveller's horizon.'\n(My father found he got great ease, and went on)--'Kingdoms and\nprovinces, and towns and cities, have they not their periods? and\nwhen those principles and powers, which at first cemented and put\nthem together, have performed their several evolutions, they fall\nback.'--Brother Shandy, said my uncle Toby, laying down his pipe at the\nword evolutions--Revolutions, I meant, quoth my father,--by heaven!\nI meant revolutions, brother Toby--evolutions is nonsense.--'Tis not\nnonsense--said my uncle Toby.--But is it not nonsense to break the\nthread of such a discourse upon such an occasion? cried my father--do\nnot--dear Toby, continued he, taking him by the hand, do not--do not, I\nbeseech thee, interrupt me at this crisis.--My uncle Toby put his pipe\ninto his mouth.\n\n'Where is Troy and Mycenae, and Thebes and Delos, and Persepolis and\nAgrigentum?'--continued my father, taking up his book of post-roads,\nwhich he had laid down.--'What is become, brother Toby, of Nineveh and\nBabylon, of Cizicum and Mitylenae? The fairest towns that ever the sun\nrose upon, are now no more; the names only are left, and those (for many\nof them are wrong spelt) are falling themselves by piece-meals to decay,\nand in length of time will be forgotten, and involved with every thing\nin a perpetual night: the world itself, brother Toby, must--must come to\nan end.\n\n'Returning out of Asia, when I sailed from Aegina towards Megara,' (when\ncan this have been? thought my uncle Toby,) 'I began to view the country\nround about. Aegina was behind me, Megara was before, Pyraeus on the\nright hand, Corinth on the left.--What flourishing towns now prostrate\nupon the earth! Alas! alas! said I to myself, that man should disturb\nhis soul for the loss of a child, when so much as this lies awfully\nburied in his presence--Remember, said I to myself again--remember thou\nart a man.'--\n\nNow my uncle Toby knew not that this last paragraph was an extract\nof Servius Sulpicius's consolatory letter to Tully.--He had as little\nskill, honest man, in the fragments, as he had in the whole pieces of\nantiquity.--And as my father, whilst he was concerned in the Turkey\ntrade, had been three or four different times in the Levant, in one\nof which he had stayed a whole year and an half at Zant, my uncle Toby\nnaturally concluded, that, in some one of these periods, he had taken a\ntrip across the Archipelago into Asia; and that all this sailing affair\nwith Aegina behind, and Megara before, and Pyraeus on the right hand,\n&c. &c. was nothing more than the true course of my father's voyage and\nreflections.--'Twas certainly in his manner, and many an undertaking\ncritic would have built two stories higher upon worse foundations.--And\npray, brother, quoth my uncle Toby, laying the end of his pipe upon\nmy father's hand in a kindly way of interruption--but waiting till he\nfinished the account--what year of our Lord was this?--'Twas no year\nof our Lord, replied my father.--That's impossible, cried my uncle\nToby.--Simpleton! said my father,--'twas forty years before Christ was\nborn.\n\nMy uncle Toby had but two things for it; either to suppose his brother\nto be the wandering Jew, or that his misfortunes had disordered his\nbrain.--'May the Lord God of heaven and earth protect him and restore\nhim!' said my uncle Toby, praying silently for my father, and with tears\nin his eyes.\n\n--My father placed the tears to a proper account, and went on with his\nharangue with great spirit.\n\n'There is not such great odds, brother Toby, betwixt good and evil,\nas the world imagines'--(this way of setting off, by the bye, was not\nlikely to cure my uncle Toby's suspicions).--'Labour, sorrow, grief,\nsickness, want, and woe, are the sauces of life.'--Much good may do\nthem--said my uncle Toby to himself.--\n\n'My son is dead!--so much the better;--'tis a shame in such a tempest to\nhave but one anchor.\n\n'But he is gone for ever from us!--be it so. He is got from under the\nhands of his barber before he was bald--he is but risen from a feast\nbefore he was surfeited--from a banquet before he had got drunken.\n\n'The Thracians wept when a child was born,'--(and we were very near it,\nquoth my uncle Toby,)--'and feasted and made merry when a man went out\nof the world; and with reason.--Death opens the gate of fame, and shuts\nthe gate of envy after it,--it unlooses the chain of the captive, and\nputs the bondsman's task into another man's hands.\n\n'Shew me the man, who knows what life is, who dreads it, and I'll shew\nthee a prisoner who dreads his liberty.'\n\nIs it not better, my dear brother Toby, (for mark--our appetites are but\ndiseases,)--is it not better not to hunger at all, than to eat?--not to\nthirst, than to take physic to cure it?\n\nIs it not better to be freed from cares and agues, from love and\nmelancholy, and the other hot and cold fits of life, than, like a galled\ntraveller, who comes weary to his inn, to be bound to begin his journey\nafresh?\n\nThere is no terrour, brother Toby, in its looks, but what it borrows\nfrom groans and convulsions--and the blowing of noses and the\nwiping away of tears with the bottoms of curtains, in a dying man's\nroom.--Strip it of these, what is it?--'Tis better in battle than in\nbed, said my uncle Toby.--Take away its hearses, its mutes, and its\nmourning,--its plumes, scutcheons, and other mechanic aids--What\nis it?--Better in battle! continued my father, smiling, for he had\nabsolutely forgot my brother Bobby--'tis terrible no way--for consider,\nbrother Toby,--when we are--death is not;--and when death is--we are\nnot. My uncle Toby laid down his pipe to consider the proposition; my\nfather's eloquence was too rapid to stay for any man--away it went,--and\nhurried my uncle Toby's ideas along with it.--\n\nFor this reason, continued my father, 'tis worthy to recollect,\nhow little alteration, in great men, the approaches of death have\nmade.--Vespasian died in a jest upon his close-stool--Galba with a\nsentence--Septimus Severus in a dispatch--Tiberius in dissimulation, and\nCaesar Augustus in a compliment.--I hope 'twas a sincere one--quoth my\nuncle Toby.\n\n--'Twas to his wife,--said my father.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.IV.\n\n--And lastly--for all the choice anecdotes which history can produce\nof this matter, continued my father,--this, like the gilded dome which\ncovers in the fabric--crowns all.--\n\n'Tis of Cornelius Gallus, the praetor--which, I dare say, brother Toby,\nyou have read.--I dare say I have not, replied my uncle.--He died, said\nmy father as...--And if it was with his wife, said my uncle Toby--there\ncould be no hurt in it.--That's more than I know--replied my father.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.V.\n\nMy mother was going very gingerly in the dark along the passage which\nled to the parlour, as my uncle Toby pronounced the word wife.--'Tis a\nshrill penetrating sound of itself, and Obadiah had helped it by leaving\nthe door a little a-jar, so that my mother heard enough of it to imagine\nherself the subject of the conversation; so laying the edge of her\nfinger across her two lips--holding in her breath, and bending her head\na little downwards, with a twist of her neck--(not towards the door, but\nfrom it, by which means her ear was brought to the chink)--she listened\nwith all her powers:--the listening slave, with the Goddess of Silence\nat his back, could not have given a finer thought for an intaglio.\n\nIn this attitude I am determined to let her stand for five minutes:\ntill I bring up the affairs of the kitchen (as Rapin does those of the\nchurch) to the same period.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.VI.\n\nThough in one sense, our family was certainly a simple machine, as it\nconsisted of a few wheels; yet there was thus much to be said for it,\nthat these wheels were set in motion by so many different springs, and\nacted one upon the other from such a variety of strange principles and\nimpulses--that though it was a simple machine, it had all the honour and\nadvantages of a complex one,--and a number of as odd movements within\nit, as ever were beheld in the inside of a Dutch silk-mill.\n\nAmongst these there was one, I am going to speak of, in which, perhaps,\nit was not altogether so singular, as in many others; and it was\nthis, that whatever motion, debate, harangue, dialogue, project, or\ndissertation, was going forwards in the parlour, there was generally\nanother at the same time, and upon the same subject, running parallel\nalong with it in the kitchen.\n\nNow to bring this about, whenever an extraordinary message, or letter,\nwas delivered in the parlour--or a discourse suspended till a servant\nwent out--or the lines of discontent were observed to hang upon the\nbrows of my father or mother--or, in short, when any thing was supposed\nto be upon the tapis worth knowing or listening to, 'twas the rule to\nleave the door, not absolutely shut, but somewhat a-jar--as it stands\njust now,--which, under covert of the bad hinge, (and that possibly\nmight be one of the many reasons why it was never mended,) it was not\ndifficult to manage; by which means, in all these cases, a passage was\ngenerally left, not indeed as wide as the Dardanelles, but wide enough,\nfor all that, to carry on as much of this windward trade, as was\nsufficient to save my father the trouble of governing his house;--my\nmother at this moment stands profiting by it.--Obadiah did the same\nthing, as soon as he had left the letter upon the table which brought\nthe news of my brother's death, so that before my father had well got\nover his surprise, and entered upon his harangue,--had Trim got upon his\nlegs, to speak his sentiments upon the subject.\n\nA curious observer of nature, had he been worth the inventory of all\nJob's stock--though by the bye, your curious observers are seldom worth\na groat--would have given the half of it, to have heard Corporal Trim\nand my father, two orators so contrasted by nature and education,\nharanguing over the same bier.\n\nMy father--a man of deep reading--prompt memory--with Cato, and Seneca,\nand Epictetus, at his fingers ends.--\n\nThe corporal--with nothing--to remember--of no deeper reading than his\nmuster-roll--or greater names at his fingers end, than the contents of\nit.\n\nThe one proceeding from period to period, by metaphor and allusion, and\nstriking the fancy as he went along (as men of wit and fancy do) with\nthe entertainment and pleasantry of his pictures and images.\n\nThe other, without wit or antithesis, or point, or turn, this way or\nthat; but leaving the images on one side, and the picture on the other,\ngoing straight forwards as nature could lead him, to the heart. O Trim!\nwould to heaven thou had'st a better historian!--would!--thy historian\nhad a better pair of breeches!--O ye critics! will nothing melt you?\n\n\n\nChapter 3.VII.\n\n--My young master in London is dead? said Obadiah.--\n\n--A green sattin night-gown of my mother's, which had been twice\nscoured, was the first idea which Obadiah's exclamation brought\ninto Susannah's head.--Well might Locke write a chapter upon the\nimperfections of words.--Then, quoth Susannah, we must all go into\nmourning.--But note a second time: the word mourning, notwithstanding\nSusannah made use of it herself--failed also of doing its office; it\nexcited not one single idea, tinged either with grey or black,--all was\ngreen.--The green sattin night-gown hung there still.\n\n--O! 'twill be the death of my poor mistress, cried Susannah.--My\nmother's whole wardrobe followed.--What a procession! her red\ndamask,--her orange tawney,--her white and yellow lutestrings,--her\nbrown taffata,--her bone-laced caps, her bed-gowns, and comfortable\nunder-petticoats.--Not a rag was left behind.--'No,--she will never look\nup again,' said Susannah.\n\nWe had a fat, foolish scullion--my father, I think, kept her for her\nsimplicity;--she had been all autumn struggling with a dropsy.--He\nis dead, said Obadiah,--he is certainly dead!--So am not I, said the\nfoolish scullion.\n\n--Here is sad news, Trim, cried Susannah, wiping her eyes as Trim\nstepp'd into the kitchen,--master Bobby is dead and buried--the funeral\nwas an interpolation of Susannah's--we shall have all to go into\nmourning, said Susannah.\n\nI hope not, said Trim.--You hope not! cried Susannah earnestly.--The\nmourning ran not in Trim's head, whatever it did in Susannah's.--I\nhope--said Trim, explaining himself, I hope in God the news is not true.\nI heard the letter read with my own ears, answered Obadiah; and we shall\nhave a terrible piece of work of it in stubbing the ox-moor.--Oh! he's\ndead, said Susannah.--As sure, said the scullion, as I'm alive.\n\nI lament for him from my heart and my soul, said Trim, fetching a\nsigh.--Poor creature!--poor boy!--poor gentleman!\n\n--He was alive last Whitsontide! said the coachman.--Whitsontide! alas!\ncried Trim, extending his right arm, and falling instantly into the same\nattitude in which he read the sermon,--what is Whitsontide, Jonathan\n(for that was the coachman's name), or Shrovetide, or any tide or time\npast, to this? Are we not here now, continued the corporal (striking the\nend of his stick perpendicularly upon the floor, so as to give an idea\nof health and stability)--and are we not--(dropping his hat upon the\nground) gone! in a moment!--'Twas infinitely striking! Susannah burst\ninto a flood of tears.--We are not stocks and stones.--Jonathan,\nObadiah, the cook-maid, all melted.--The foolish fat scullion herself,\nwho was scouring a fish-kettle upon her knees, was rous'd with it.--The\nwhole kitchen crowded about the corporal.\n\nNow, as I perceive plainly, that the preservation of our constitution in\nchurch and state,--and possibly the preservation of the whole world--or\nwhat is the same thing, the distribution and balance of its property and\npower, may in time to come depend greatly upon the right understanding\nof this stroke of the corporal's eloquence--I do demand your\nattention--your worships and reverences, for any ten pages together,\ntake them where you will in any other part of the work, shall sleep for\nit at your ease.\n\nI said, 'we were not stocks and stones'--'tis very well. I should have\nadded, nor are we angels, I wish we were,--but men clothed with bodies,\nand governed by our imaginations;--and what a junketing piece of work\nof it there is, betwixt these and our seven senses, especially some of\nthem, for my own part, I own it, I am ashamed to confess. Let it suffice\nto affirm, that of all the senses, the eye (for I absolutely deny the\ntouch, though most of your Barbati, I know, are for it) has the quickest\ncommerce with the soul,--gives a smarter stroke, and leaves something\nmore inexpressible upon the fancy, than words can either convey--or\nsometimes get rid of.\n\n--I've gone a little about--no matter, 'tis for health--let us only\ncarry it back in our mind to the mortality of Trim's hat--'Are we\nnot here now,--and gone in a moment?'--There was nothing in the\nsentence--'twas one of your self-evident truths we have the advantage of\nhearing every day; and if Trim had not trusted more to his hat than his\nhead--he made nothing at all of it.\n\n--'Are we not here now;' continued the corporal, 'and are we\nnot'--(dropping his hat plumb upon the ground--and pausing, before he\npronounced the word)--'gone! in a moment?' The descent of the hat was as\nif a heavy lump of clay had been kneaded into the crown of it.--Nothing\ncould have expressed the sentiment of mortality, of which it was the\ntype and fore-runner, like it,--his hand seemed to vanish from under\nit,--it fell dead,--the corporal's eye fixed upon it, as upon a\ncorpse,--and Susannah burst into a flood of tears.\n\nNow--Ten thousand, and ten thousand times ten thousand (for matter and\nmotion are infinite) are the ways by which a hat may be dropped upon the\nground, without any effect.--Had he flung it, or thrown it, or cast it,\nor skimmed it, or squirted it, or let it slip or fall in any possible\ndirection under heaven,--or in the best direction that could be given\nto it,--had he dropped it like a goose--like a puppy--like an ass--or in\ndoing it, or even after he had done, had he looked like a fool--like a\nninny--like a nincompoop--it had fail'd, and the effect upon the heart\nhad been lost.\n\nYe who govern this mighty world and its mighty concerns with the engines\nof eloquence,--who heat it, and cool it, and melt it, and mollify\nit,--and then harden it again to your purpose--\n\nYe who wind and turn the passions with this great windlass, and, having\ndone it, lead the owners of them, whither ye think meet.\n\nYe, lastly, who drive--and why not, Ye also who are driven, like turkeys\nto market with a stick and a red clout--meditate--meditate, I beseech\nyou, upon Trim's hat.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.VIII.\n\nStay--I have a small account to settle with the reader before Trim can\ngo on with his harangue.--It shall be done in two minutes.\n\nAmongst many other book-debts, all of which I shall discharge in due\ntime,--I own myself a debtor to the world for two items,--a chapter upon\nchamber-maids and button-holes, which, in the former part of my work,\nI promised and fully intended to pay off this year: but some of your\nworships and reverences telling me, that the two subjects, especially so\nconnected together, might endanger the morals of the world,--I pray the\nchapter upon chamber-maids and button-holes may be forgiven me,--and\nthat they will accept of the last chapter in lieu of it; which is\nnothing, an't please your reverences, but a chapter of chamber-maids,\ngreen gowns, and old hats.\n\nTrim took his hat off the ground,--put it upon his head,--and then went\non with his oration upon death, in manner and form following.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.IX.\n\n--To us, Jonathan, who know not what want or care is--who live here in\nthe service of two of the best of masters--(bating in my own case his\nmajesty King William the Third, whom I had the honour to serve both in\nIreland and Flanders)--I own it, that from Whitsontide to within three\nweeks of Christmas,--'tis not long--'tis like nothing;--but to those,\nJonathan, who know what death is, and what havock and destruction he\ncan make, before a man can well wheel about--'tis like a whole age.--O\nJonathan! 'twould make a good-natured man's heart bleed, to consider,\ncontinued the corporal (standing perpendicularly), how low many a brave\nand upright fellow has been laid since that time!--And trust me, Susy,\nadded the corporal, turning to Susannah, whose eyes were swimming in\nwater,--before that time comes round again,--many a bright eye will be\ndim.--Susannah placed it to the right side of the page--she wept--but\nshe court'sied too.--Are we not, continued Trim, looking still at\nSusannah--are we not like a flower of the field--a tear of pride stole\nin betwixt every two tears of humiliation--else no tongue could\nhave described Susannah's affliction--is not all flesh grass?--Tis\nclay,--'tis dirt.--They all looked directly at the scullion,--the\nscullion had just been scouring a fish-kettle.--It was not fair.--\n\n--What is the finest face that ever man looked at!--I could hear Trim\ntalk so for ever, cried Susannah,--what is it! (Susannah laid her hand\nupon Trim's shoulder)--but corruption?--Susannah took it off.\n\nNow I love you for this--and 'tis this delicious mixture within you\nwhich makes you dear creatures what you are--and he who hates you for\nit--all I can say of the matter is--That he has either a pumpkin for his\nhead--or a pippin for his heart,--and whenever he is dissected 'twill be\nfound so.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.X.\n\nWhether Susannah, by taking her hand too suddenly from off the\ncorporal's shoulder (by the whisking about of her passions)--broke a\nlittle the chain of his reflexions--\n\nOr whether the corporal began to be suspicious, he had got into the\ndoctor's quarters, and was talking more like the chaplain than himself--\n\nOr whether...Or whether--for in all such cases a man of invention and\nparts may with pleasure fill a couple of pages with suppositions--which\nof all these was the cause, let the curious physiologist, or the curious\nany body determine--'tis certain, at least, the corporal went on thus\nwith his harangue.\n\nFor my own part, I declare it, that out of doors, I value not death at\nall:--not this...added the corporal, snapping his fingers,--but with an\nair which no one but the corporal could have given to the sentiment.--In\nbattle, I value death not this...and let him not take me cowardly,\nlike poor Joe Gibbins, in scouring his gun.--What is he? A pull of\na trigger--a push of a bayonet an inch this way or that--makes the\ndifference.--Look along the line--to the right--see! Jack's down!\nwell,--'tis worth a regiment of horse to him.--No--'tis Dick. Then\nJack's no worse.--Never mind which,--we pass on,--in hot pursuit the\nwound itself which brings him is not felt,--the best way is to stand up\nto him,--the man who flies, is in ten times more danger than the man\nwho marches up into his jaws.--I've look'd him, added the corporal, an\nhundred times in the face,--and know what he is.--He's nothing,\nObadiah, at all in the field.--But he's very frightful in a house, quoth\nObadiah.--I never mind it myself, said Jonathan, upon a coach-box.--It\nmust, in my opinion, be most natural in bed, replied Susannah.--And\ncould I escape him by creeping into the worst calf's skin that ever\nwas made into a knapsack, I would do it there--said Trim--but that is\nnature.\n\n--Nature is nature, said Jonathan.--And that is the reason, cried\nSusannah, I so much pity my mistress.--She will never get the better of\nit.--Now I pity the captain the most of any one in the family, answered\nTrim.--Madam will get ease of heart in weeping,--and the Squire in\ntalking about it,--but my poor master will keep it all in silence to\nhimself.--I shall hear him sigh in his bed for a whole month together,\nas he did for lieutenant Le Fever. An' please your honour, do not sigh\nso piteously, I would say to him as I laid besides him. I cannot help\nit, Trim, my master would say,--'tis so melancholy an accident--I cannot\nget it off my heart.--Your honour fears not death yourself.--I hope,\nTrim, I fear nothing, he would say, but the doing a wrong thing.--Well,\nhe would add, whatever betides, I will take care of Le Fever's boy.--And\nwith that, like a quieting draught, his honour would fall asleep.\n\nI like to hear Trim's stories about the captain, said Susannah.--He is\na kindly-hearted gentleman, said Obadiah, as ever lived.--Aye, and\nas brave a one too, said the corporal, as ever stept before a\nplatoon.--There never was a better officer in the king's army,--or\na better man in God's world; for he would march up to the mouth of a\ncannon, though he saw the lighted match at the very touch-hole,--and\nyet, for all that, he has a heart as soft as a child for other\npeople.--He would not hurt a chicken.--I would sooner, quoth Jonathan,\ndrive such a gentleman for seven pounds a year--than some for\neight.--Thank thee, Jonathan! for thy twenty shillings,--as much,\nJonathan, said the corporal, shaking him by the hand, as if thou hadst\nput the money into my own pocket.--I would serve him to the day of my\ndeath out of love. He is a friend and a brother to me,--and could I be\nsure my poor brother Tom was dead,--continued the corporal, taking out\nhis handkerchief,--was I worth ten thousand pounds, I would leave every\nshilling of it to the captain.--Trim could not refrain from tears at\nthis testamentary proof he gave of his affection to his master.--The\nwhole kitchen was affected.--Do tell us the story of the poor\nlieutenant, said Susannah.--With all my heart, answered the corporal.\n\nSusannah, the cook, Jonathan, Obadiah, and corporal Trim, formed a\ncircle about the fire; and as soon as the scullion had shut the kitchen\ndoor,--the corporal begun.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XI.\n\nI am a Turk if I had not as much forgot my mother, as if Nature had\nplaistered me up, and set me down naked upon the banks of the river\nNile, without one.--Your most obedient servant, Madam--I've cost you a\ngreat deal of trouble,--I wish it may answer;--but you have left a crack\nin my back,--and here's a great piece fallen off here before,--and what\nmust I do with this foot?--I shall never reach England with it.\n\nFor my own part, I never wonder at any thing;--and so often has my\njudgment deceived me in my life, that I always suspect it, right or\nwrong,--at least I am seldom hot upon cold subjects. For all this, I\nreverence truth as much as any body; and when it has slipped us, if a\nman will but take me by the hand, and go quietly and search for it,\nas for a thing we have both lost, and can neither of us do\nwell without,--I'll go to the world's end with him:--But I hate\ndisputes,--and therefore (bating religious points, or such as touch\nsociety) I would almost subscribe to any thing which does not choak me\nin the first passage, rather than be drawn into one--But I cannot\nbear suffocation,--and bad smells worst of all.--For which reasons, I\nresolved from the beginning, That if ever the army of martyrs was to be\naugmented,--or a new one raised,--I would have no hand in it, one way or\nt'other.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XII.\n\n--But to return to my mother.\n\nMy uncle Toby's opinion, Madam, 'that there could be no harm in\nCornelius Gallus, the Roman praetor's lying with his wife;'--or rather\nthe last word of that opinion,--(for it was all my mother heard of it)\ncaught hold of her by the weak part of the whole sex:--You shall not\nmistake me,--I mean her curiosity,--she instantly concluded herself the\nsubject of the conversation, and with that prepossession upon her fancy,\nyou will readily conceive every word my father said, was accommodated\neither to herself, or her family concerns.\n\n--Pray, Madam, in what street does the lady live, who would not have\ndone the same?\n\nFrom the strange mode of Cornelius's death, my father had made a\ntransition to that of Socrates, and was giving my uncle Toby an abstract\nof his pleading before his judges;--'twas irresistible:--not the oration\nof Socrates,--but my father's temptation to it.--He had wrote the Life\nof Socrates (This book my father would never consent to publish; 'tis in\nmanuscript, with some other tracts of his, in the family, all, or most\nof which will be printed in due time.) himself the year before he left\noff trade, which, I fear, was the means of hastening him out of it;--so\nthat no one was able to set out with so full a sail, and in so swelling\na tide of heroic loftiness upon the occasion, as my father was. Not\na period in Socrates's oration, which closed with a shorter word than\ntransmigration, or annihilation,--or a worse thought in the middle of it\nthan to be--or not to be,--the entering upon a new and untried state of\nthings,--or, upon a long, a profound and peaceful sleep, without dreams,\nwithout disturbance?--That we and our children were born to die,--but\nneither of us born to be slaves.--No--there I mistake; that was part of\nEleazer's oration, as recorded by Josephus (de Bell. Judaic)--Eleazer\nowns he had it from the philosophers of India; in all likelihood\nAlexander the Great, in his irruption into India, after he had over-run\nPersia, amongst the many things he stole,--stole that sentiment also;\nby which means it was carried, if not all the way by himself (for we\nall know he died at Babylon), at least by some of his maroders, into\nGreece,--from Greece it got to Rome,--from Rome to France,--and from\nFrance to England:--So things come round.--\n\nBy land carriage, I can conceive no other way.--\n\nBy water the sentiment might easily have come down the Ganges into the\nSinus Gangeticus, or Bay of Bengal, and so into the Indian Sea; and\nfollowing the course of trade (the way from India by the Cape of Good\nHope being then unknown), might be carried with other drugs and spices\nup the Red Sea to Joddah, the port of Mekka, or else to Tor or Sues,\ntowns at the bottom of the gulf; and from thence by karrawans to Coptos,\nbut three days journey distant, so down the Nile directly to Alexandria,\nwhere the Sentiment would be landed at the very foot of the great\nstair-case of the Alexandrian library,--and from that store-house it\nwould be fetched.--Bless me! what a trade was driven by the learned in\nthose days!\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XIII.\n\n--Now my father had a way, a little like that of Job's (in case there\never was such a man--if not, there's an end of the matter.--\n\nThough, by the bye, because your learned men find some difficulty in\nfixing the precise aera in which so great a man lived;--whether, for\ninstance, before or after the patriarchs, &c.--to vote, therefore, that\nhe never lived at all, is a little cruel,--'tis not doing as they would\nbe done by,--happen that as it may)--My father, I say, had a way, when\nthings went extremely wrong with him, especially upon the first sally\nof his impatience,--of wondering why he was begot,--wishing himself\ndead;--sometimes worse:--And when the provocation ran high, and grief\ntouched his lips with more than ordinary powers--Sir, you scarce could\nhave distinguished him from Socrates himself.--Every word would breathe\nthe sentiments of a soul disdaining life, and careless about all its\nissues; for which reason, though my mother was a woman of no deep\nreading, yet the abstract of Socrates's oration, which my father was\ngiving my uncle Toby, was not altogether new to her.--She listened to\nit with composed intelligence, and would have done so to the end of the\nchapter, had not my father plunged (which he had no occasion to have\ndone) into that part of the pleading where the great philosopher\nreckons up his connections, his alliances, and children; but renounces\na security to be so won by working upon the passions of his judges.--'I\nhave friends--I have relations,--I have three desolate children,'--says\nSocrates.--\n\n--Then, cried my mother, opening the door,--you have one more, Mr.\nShandy, than I know of.\n\nBy heaven! I have one less,--said my father, getting up and walking out\nof the room.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XIV.\n\n--They are Socrates's children, said my uncle Toby. He has been dead a\nhundred years ago, replied my mother.\n\nMy uncle Toby was no chronologer--so not caring to advance one step but\nupon safe ground, he laid down his pipe deliberately upon the table, and\nrising up, and taking my mother most kindly by the hand, without saying\nanother word, either good or bad, to her, he led her out after my\nfather, that he might finish the ecclaircissement himself.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XV.\n\nHad this volume been a farce, which, unless every one's life and\nopinions are to be looked upon as a farce as well as mine, I see no\nreason to suppose--the last chapter, Sir, had finished the first act of\nit, and then this chapter must have set off thus.\n\nPtr...r...r...ing--twing--twang--prut--trut--'tis a cursed\nbad fiddle.--Do you know whether my fiddle's in tune or\nno?--trut...prut.. .--They should be fifths.--'Tis wickedly\nstrung--tr...a.e.i.o.u.-twang.--The bridge is a mile too high, and the\nsound post absolutely down,--else--trut...prut--hark! tis not so bad\na tone.--Diddle diddle, diddle diddle, diddle diddle, dum. There is\nnothing in playing before good judges,--but there's a man there--no--not\nhim with the bundle under his arm--the grave man in black.--'Sdeath! not\nthe gentleman with the sword on.--Sir, I had rather play a Caprichio\nto Calliope herself, than draw my bow across my fiddle before that\nvery man; and yet I'll stake my Cremona to a Jew's trump, which is the\ngreatest musical odds that ever were laid, that I will this moment stop\nthree hundred and fifty leagues out of tune upon my fiddle, without\npunishing one single nerve that belongs to him--Twaddle diddle, tweddle\ndiddle,--twiddle diddle,--twoddle diddle,--twuddle diddle,--prut\ntrut--krish--krash--krush.--I've undone you, Sir,--but you see he's no\nworse,--and was Apollo to take his fiddle after me, he can make him no\nbetter.\n\nDiddle diddle, diddle diddle, diddle diddle--hum--dum--drum.\n\n--Your worships and your reverences love music--and God has made\nyou all with good ears--and some of you play delightfully\nyourselves--trut-prut,--prut-trut.\n\nO! there is--whom I could sit and hear whole days,--whose talents lie\nin making what he fiddles to be felt,--who inspires me with his joys and\nhopes, and puts the most hidden springs of my heart into motion.--If you\nwould borrow five guineas of me, Sir,--which is generally ten guineas\nmore than I have to spare--or you Messrs. Apothecary and Taylor, want\nyour bills paying,--that's your time.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XVI.\n\nThe first thing which entered my father's head, after affairs were\na little settled in the family, and Susanna had got possession of my\nmother's green sattin night-gown,--was to sit down coolly, after the\nexample of Xenophon, and write a Tristra-paedia, or system of education\nfor me; collecting first for that purpose his own scattered thoughts,\ncounsels, and notions; and binding them together, so as to form an\nInstitute for the government of my childhood and adolescence. I was\nmy father's last stake--he had lost my brother Bobby entirely,--he had\nlost, by his own computation, full three-fourths of me--that is, he had\nbeen unfortunate in his three first great casts for me--my geniture,\nnose, and name,--there was but this one left; and accordingly my father\ngave himself up to it with as much devotion as ever my uncle Toby had\ndone to his doctrine of projectils.--The difference between them was,\nthat my uncle Toby drew his whole knowledge of projectils from Nicholas\nTartaglia--My father spun his, every thread of it, out of his own\nbrain,--or reeled and cross-twisted what all other spinners and\nspinsters had spun before him, that 'twas pretty near the same torture\nto him.\n\nIn about three years, or something more, my father had got advanced\nalmost into the middle of his work.--Like all other writers, he met with\ndisappointments.--He imagined he should be able to bring whatever he had\nto say, into so small a compass, that when it was finished and bound,\nit might be rolled up in my mother's hussive.--Matter grows under our\nhands.--Let no man say,--'Come--I'll write a duodecimo.'\n\nMy father gave himself up to it, however, with the most painful\ndiligence, proceeding step by step in every line, with the same kind of\ncaution and circumspection (though I cannot say upon quite so religious\na principle) as was used by John de la Casse, the lord archbishop of\nBenevento, in compassing his Galatea; in which his Grace of Benevento\nspent near forty years of his life; and when the thing came out, it was\nnot of above half the size or the thickness of a Rider's Almanack.--How\nthe holy man managed the affair, unless he spent the greatest part\nof his time in combing his whiskers, or playing at primero with his\nchaplain,--would pose any mortal not let into the true secret;--and\ntherefore 'tis worth explaining to the world, was it only for the\nencouragement of those few in it, who write not so much to be fed--as to\nbe famous.\n\nI own had John de la Casse, the archbishop of Benevento, for\nwhose memory (notwithstanding his Galatea,) I retain the highest\nveneration,--had he been, Sir, a slender clerk--of dull wit--slow\nparts--costive head, and so forth,--he and his Galatea might have jogged\non together to the age of Methuselah for me,--the phaenomenon had not\nbeen worth a parenthesis.--\n\nBut the reverse of this was the truth: John de la Casse was a genius of\nfine parts and fertile fancy; and yet with all these great advantages of\nnature, which should have pricked him forwards with his Galatea, he lay\nunder an impuissance at the same time of advancing above a line and\na half in the compass of a whole summer's day: this disability in his\nGrace arose from an opinion he was afflicted with,--which opinion was\nthis,--viz. that whenever a Christian was writing a book (not for his\nprivate amusement, but) where his intent and purpose was, bona fide, to\nprint and publish it to the world, his first thoughts were always the\ntemptations of the evil one.--This was the state of ordinary writers:\nbut when a personage of venerable character and high station, either in\nchurch or state, once turned author,--he maintained, that from the very\nmoment he took pen in hand--all the devils in hell broke out of their\nholes to cajole him.--'Twas Term-time with them,--every thought, first\nand last, was captious;--how specious and good soever,--'twas\nall one;--in whatever form or colour it presented itself to the\nimagination,--'twas still a stroke of one or other of 'em levell'd at\nhim, and was to be fenced off.--So that the life of a writer, whatever\nhe might fancy to the contrary, was not so much a state of composition,\nas a state of warfare; and his probation in it, precisely that of any\nother man militant upon earth,--both depending alike, not half so much\nupon the degrees of his wit--as his Resistance.\n\nMy father was hugely pleased with this theory of John de la Casse,\narchbishop of Benevento; and (had it not cramped him a little in his\ncreed) I believe would have given ten of the best acres in the Shandy\nestate, to have been the broacher of it.--How far my father actually\nbelieved in the devil, will be seen, when I come to speak of my father's\nreligious notions, in the progress of this work: 'tis enough to say\nhere, as he could not have the honour of it, in the literal sense of\nthe doctrine--he took up with the allegory of it; and would often say,\nespecially when his pen was a little retrograde, there was as much good\nmeaning, truth, and knowledge, couched under the veil of John de la\nCasse's parabolical representation,--as was to be found in any one\npoetic fiction or mystic record of antiquity.--Prejudice of education,\nhe would say, is the devil,--and the multitudes of them which we suck\nin with our mother's milk--are the devil and all.--We are haunted with\nthem, brother Toby, in all our lucubrations and researches; and was a\nman fool enough to submit tamely to what they obtruded upon him,--what\nwould his book be? Nothing,--he would add, throwing his pen away with\na vengeance,--nothing but a farrago of the clack of nurses, and of the\nnonsense of the old women (of both sexes) throughout the kingdom.\n\nThis is the best account I am determined to give of the slow progress\nmy father made in his Tristra-paedia; at which (as I said) he was three\nyears, and something more, indefatigably at work, and, at last, had\nscarce completed, by this own reckoning, one half of his undertaking:\nthe misfortune was, that I was all that time totally neglected and\nabandoned to my mother; and what was almost as bad, by the very delay,\nthe first part of the work, upon which my father had spent the most\nof his pains, was rendered entirely useless,--every day a page or two\nbecame of no consequence.--\n\n--Certainly it was ordained as a scourge upon the pride of human wisdom,\nThat the wisest of us all should thus outwit ourselves, and eternally\nforego our purposes in the intemperate act of pursuing them.\n\nIn short my father was so long in all his acts of resistance,--or in\nother words,--he advanced so very slow with his work, and I began\nto live and get forwards at such a rate, that if an event had not\nhappened,--which, when we get to it, if it can be told with decency,\nshall not be concealed a moment from the reader--I verily believe, I had\nput by my father, and left him drawing a sundial, for no better purpose\nthan to be buried under ground.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XVII.\n\n--'Twas nothing,--I did not lose two drops of blood by it--'twas not\nworth calling in a surgeon, had he lived next door to us--thousands\nsuffer by choice, what I did by accident.--Doctor Slop made ten times\nmore of it, than there was occasion:--some men rise, by the art of\nhanging great weights upon small wires,--and I am this day (August\nthe 10th, 1761) paying part of the price of this man's reputation.--O\n'twould provoke a stone, to see how things are carried on in this\nworld!--The chamber-maid had left no .......... under the bed:--Cannot\nyou contrive, master, quoth Susannah, lifting up the sash with one\nhand, as she spoke, and helping me up into the window-seat with\nthe other,--cannot you manage, my dear, for a single time,\nto..................?\n\nI was five years old.--Susannah did not consider that nothing was well\nhung in our family,--so slap came the sash down like lightning upon\nus;--Nothing is left,--cried Susannah,--nothing is left--for me, but to\nrun my country.--My uncle Toby's house was a much kinder sanctuary; and\nso Susannah fled to it.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XVIII.\n\nWhen Susannah told the corporal the misadventure of the sash, with\nall the circumstances which attended the murder of me,--(as she called\nit,)--the blood forsook his cheeks,--all accessaries in murder being\nprincipals,--Trim's conscience told him he was as much to blame as\nSusannah,--and if the doctrine had been true, my uncle Toby had as much\nof the bloodshed to answer for to heaven, as either of 'em;--so that\nneither reason or instinct, separate or together, could possibly have\nguided Susannah's steps to so proper an asylum. It is in vain to leave\nthis to the Reader's imagination:--to form any kind of hypothesis that\nwill render these propositions feasible, he must cudgel his brains\nsore,--and to do it without,--he must have such brains as no reader ever\nhad before him.--Why should I put them either to trial or to torture?\n'Tis my own affair: I'll explain it myself.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XIX.\n\n'Tis a pity, Trim, said my uncle Toby, resting with his hand upon the\ncorporal's shoulder, as they both stood surveying their works,--that\nwe have not a couple of field-pieces to mount in the gorge of that new\nredoubt;--'twould secure the lines all along there, and make the attack\non that side quite complete:--get me a couple cast, Trim.\n\nYour honour shall have them, replied Trim, before tomorrow morning.\n\nIt was the joy of Trim's heart, nor was his fertile head ever at a loss\nfor expedients in doing it, to supply my uncle Toby in his campaigns,\nwith whatever his fancy called for; had it been his last crown, he would\nhave sate down and hammered it into a paderero, to have prevented a\nsingle wish in his master. The corporal had already,--what with cutting\noff the ends of my uncle Toby's spouts--hacking and chiseling up\nthe sides of his leaden gutters,--melting down his pewter\nshaving-bason,--and going at last, like Lewis the Fourteenth, on to\nthe top of the church, for spare ends, &c.--he had that very campaign\nbrought no less than eight new battering cannons, besides three\ndemi-culverins, into the field; my uncle Toby's demand for two more\npieces for the redoubt, had set the corporal at work again; and no\nbetter resource offering, he had taken the two leaden weights from the\nnursery window: and as the sash pullies, when the lead was gone, were of\nno kind of use, he had taken them away also, to make a couple of wheels\nfor one of their carriages.\n\nHe had dismantled every sash-window in my uncle Toby's house long\nbefore, in the very same way,--though not always in the same order; for\nsometimes the pullies have been wanted, and not the lead,--so then he\nbegan with the pullies,--and the pullies being picked out, then the lead\nbecame useless,--and so the lead went to pot too.\n\n--A great Moral might be picked handsomely out of this, but I have not\ntime--'tis enough to say, wherever the demolition began, 'twas equally\nfatal to the sash window.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XX.\n\nThe corporal had not taken his measures so badly in this stroke of\nartilleryship, but that he might have kept the matter entirely to\nhimself, and left Susannah to have sustained the whole weight of the\nattack, as she could;--true courage is not content with coming\noff so.--The corporal, whether as general or comptroller of the\ntrain,--'twas no matter,--had done that, without which, as he imagined,\nthe misfortune could never have happened,--at least in Susannah's\nhands;--How would your honours have behaved?--He determined at once,\nnot to take shelter behind Susannah,--but to give it; and with this\nresolution upon his mind, he marched upright into the parlour, to lay\nthe whole manoeuvre before my uncle Toby.\n\nMy uncle Toby had just then been giving Yorick an account of the Battle\nof Steenkirk, and of the strange conduct of count Solmes in ordering the\nfoot to halt, and the horse to march where it could not act; which was\ndirectly contrary to the king's commands, and proved the loss of the\nday.\n\nThere are incidents in some families so pat to the purpose of what\nis going to follow,--they are scarce exceeded by the invention of a\ndramatic writer;--I mean of ancient days.--\n\nTrim, by the help of his fore-finger, laid flat upon the table, and the\nedge of his hand striking across it at right angles, made a shift to\ntell his story so, that priests and virgins might have listened to\nit;--and the story being told,--the dialogue went on as follows.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XXI.\n\n--I would be picquetted to death, cried the corporal, as he concluded\nSusannah's story, before I would suffer the woman to come to any\nharm,--'twas my fault, an' please your honour,--not her's.\n\nCorporal Trim, replied my uncle Toby, putting on his hat which lay upon\nthe table,--if any thing can be said to be a fault, when the service\nabsolutely requires it should be done,--'tis I certainly who deserve the\nblame,--you obeyed your orders.\n\nHad count Solmes, Trim, done the same at the battle of Steenkirk, said\nYorick, drolling a little upon the corporal, who had been run over by\na dragoon in the retreat,--he had saved thee;--Saved! cried Trim,\ninterrupting Yorick, and finishing the sentence for him after his own\nfashion,--he had saved five battalions, an' please your reverence, every\nsoul of them:--there was Cutt's,--continued the corporal, clapping the\nforefinger of his right hand upon the thumb of his left, and counting\nround his hand,--there was Cutt's,--Mackay's,--Angus's,--Graham's,--and\nLeven's, all cut to pieces;--and so had the English life-guards too, had\nit not been for some regiments upon the right, who marched up boldly to\ntheir relief, and received the enemy's fire in their faces, before any\none of their own platoons discharged a musket,--they'll go to heaven\nfor it,--added Trim.--Trim is right, said my uncle Toby, nodding to\nYorick,--he's perfectly right. What signified his marching the horse,\ncontinued the corporal, where the ground was so strait, that the French\nhad such a nation of hedges, and copses, and ditches, and fell'd trees\nlaid this way and that to cover them (as they always have).--Count\nSolmes should have sent us,--we would have fired muzzle to muzzle with\nthem for their lives.--There was nothing to be done for the horse:--he\nhad his foot shot off however for his pains, continued the corporal, the\nvery next campaign at Landen.--Poor Trim got his wound there, quoth\nmy uncle Toby.--'Twas owing, an' please your honour, entirely to count\nSolmes,--had he drubbed them soundly at Steenkirk, they would not have\nfought us at Landen.--Possibly not,--Trim, said my uncle Toby;--though\nif they have the advantage of a wood, or you give them a moment's time\nto intrench themselves, they are a nation which will pop and pop for\never at you.--There is no way but to march coolly up to them,--receive\ntheir fire, and fall in upon them, pell-mell--Ding dong, added\nTrim.--Horse and foot, said my uncle Toby.--Helter Skelter, said\nTrim.--Right and left, cried my uncle Toby.--Blood an' ounds, shouted\nthe corporal;--the battle raged,--Yorick drew his chair a little to one\nside for safety, and after a moment's pause, my uncle Toby sinking his\nvoice a note,--resumed the discourse as follows.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XXII.\n\nKing William, said my uncle Toby, addressing himself to Yorick, was so\nterribly provoked at count Solmes for disobeying his orders, that he\nwould not suffer him to come into his presence for many months after.--I\nfear, answered Yorick, the squire will be as much provoked at the\ncorporal, as the King at the count.--But 'twould be singularly hard\nin this case, continued be, if corporal Trim, who has behaved so\ndiametrically opposite to count Solmes, should have the fate to be\nrewarded with the same disgrace:--too oft in this world, do things take\nthat train.--I would spring a mine, cried my uncle Toby, rising up,--and\nblow up my fortifications, and my house with them, and we would perish\nunder their ruins, ere I would stand by and see it.--Trim directed a\nslight,--but a grateful bow towards his master,--and so the chapter\nends.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XXIII.\n\n--Then, Yorick, replied my uncle Toby, you and I will lead the way\nabreast,--and do you, corporal, follow a few paces behind us.--And\nSusannah, an' please your honour, said Trim, shall be put in the\nrear.--'Twas an excellent disposition,--and in this order, without\neither drums beating, or colours flying, they marched slowly from my\nuncle Toby's house to Shandy-hall.\n\n--I wish, said Trim, as they entered the door,--instead of the sash\nweights, I had cut off the church spout, as I once thought to have\ndone.--You have cut off spouts enow, replied Yorick.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XXIV.\n\nAs many pictures as have been given of my father, how like him soever\nin different airs and attitudes,--not one, or all of them, can ever help\nthe reader to any kind of preconception of how my father would think,\nspeak, or act, upon any untried occasion or occurrence of life.--There\nwas that infinitude of oddities in him, and of chances along with it,\nby which handle he would take a thing,--it baffled, Sir, all\ncalculations.--The truth was, his road lay so very far on one side, from\nthat wherein most men travelled,--that every object before him presented\na face and section of itself to his eye, altogether different from the\nplan and elevation of it seen by the rest of mankind.--In other words,\n'twas a different object, and in course was differently considered:\n\nThis is the true reason, that my dear Jenny and I, as well as all the\nworld besides us, have such eternal squabbles about nothing.--She looks\nat her outside,--I, at her in.... How is it possible we should agree\nabout her value?\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XXV.\n\n'Tis a point settled,--and I mention it for the comfort of Confucius,\n(Mr Shandy is supposed to mean..., Esq; member for...,--and not the\nChinese Legislator.) who is apt to get entangled in telling a plain\nstory--that provided he keeps along the line of his story,--he may go\nbackwards and forwards as he will,--'tis still held to be no digression.\n\nThis being premised, I take the benefit of the act of going backwards\nmyself.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XXVI.\n\nFifty thousand pannier loads of devils--(not of the Archbishop of\nBenevento's--I mean of Rabelais's devils), with their tails chopped off\nby their rumps, could not have made so diabolical a scream of it, as I\ndid--when the accident befel me: it summoned up my mother instantly into\nthe nursery,--so that Susannah had but just time to make her escape down\nthe back stairs, as my mother came up the fore.\n\nNow, though I was old enough to have told the story myself,--and young\nenough, I hope, to have done it without malignity; yet Susannah, in\npassing by the kitchen, for fear of accidents, had left it in short-hand\nwith the cook--the cook had told it with a commentary to Jonathan, and\nJonathan to Obadiah; so that by the time my father had rung the bell\nhalf a dozen times, to know what was the matter above,--was Obadiah\nenabled to give him a particular account of it, just as it had\nhappened.--I thought as much, said my father, tucking up his\nnight-gown;--and so walked up stairs.\n\nOne would imagine from this--(though for my own part I somewhat\nquestion it)--that my father, before that time, had actually wrote that\nremarkable character in the Tristra-paedia, which to me is the most\noriginal and entertaining one in the whole book;--and that is the\nchapter upon sash-windows, with a bitter Philippick at the end of it,\nupon the forgetfulness of chamber-maids.--I have but two reasons for\nthinking otherwise.\n\nFirst, Had the matter been taken into consideration, before the event\nhappened, my father certainly would have nailed up the sash window\nfor good an' all;--which, considering with what difficulty he composed\nbooks,--he might have done with ten times less trouble, than he could\nhave wrote the chapter: this argument I foresee holds good against his\nwriting a chapter, even after the event; but 'tis obviated under the\nsecond reason, which I have the honour to offer to the world in\nsupport of my opinion, that my father did not write the chapter upon\nsash-windows and chamber-pots, at the time supposed,--and it is this.\n\n--That, in order to render the Tristra-paedia complete,--I wrote the\nchapter myself.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XXVII.\n\nMy father put on his spectacles--looked,--took them off,--put them into\nthe case--all in less than a statutable minute; and without opening\nhis lips, turned about and walked precipitately down stairs: my mother\nimagined he had stepped down for lint and basilicon; but seeing him\nreturn with a couple of folios under his arm, and Obadiah following him\nwith a large reading-desk, she took it for granted 'twas an herbal, and\nso drew him a chair to the bedside, that he might consult upon the case\nat his ease.\n\n--If it be but right done,--said my father, turning to the Section--de\nsede vel subjecto circumcisionis,--for he had brought up Spenser de\nLegibus Hebraeorum Ritualibus--and Maimonides, in order to confront and\nexamine us altogether.--\n\n--If it be but right done, quoth he:--only tell us, cried my mother,\ninterrupting him, what herbs?--For that, replied my father, you must\nsend for Dr. Slop.\n\nMy mother went down, and my father went on, reading the section as\nfollows,\n\n...--Very well,--said my father,...--nay, if it has that\nconvenience--and so without stopping a moment to settle it first in his\nmind, whether the Jews had it from the Egyptians, or the Egyptians\nfrom the Jews,--he rose up, and rubbing his forehead two or three times\nacross with the palm of his hand, in the manner we rub out the footsteps\nof care, when evil has trod lighter upon us than we foreboded,--he shut\nthe book, and walked down stairs.--Nay, said he, mentioning the name of\na different great nation upon every step as he set his foot upon it--if\nthe Egyptians,--the Syrians,--the Phoenicians,--the Arabians,--the\nCappadocians,--if the Colchi, and Troglodytes did it--if Solon and\nPythagoras submitted,--what is Tristram?--Who am I, that I should fret\nor fume one moment about the matter?\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XXVIII.\n\nDear Yorick, said my father smiling (for Yorick had broke his rank with\nmy uncle Toby in coming through the narrow entry, and so had stept first\ninto the parlour)--this Tristram of ours, I find, comes very hardly by\nall his religious rites.--Never was the son of Jew, Christian, Turk, or\nInfidel initiated into them in so oblique and slovenly a manner.--But he\nis no worse, I trust, said Yorick.--There has been certainly, continued\nmy father, the deuce and all to do in some part or other of the\necliptic, when this offspring of mine was formed.--That, you are a\nbetter judge of than I, replied Yorick.--Astrologers, quoth my father,\nknow better than us both:--the trine and sextil aspects have jumped\nawry,--or the opposite of their ascendents have not hit it, as they\nshould,--or the lords of the genitures (as they call them) have been at\nbo-peep,--or something has been wrong above, or below with us.\n\n'Tis possible, answered Yorick.--But is the child, cried my uncle\nToby, the worse?--The Troglodytes say not, replied my father. And your\ntheologists, Yorick, tell us--Theologically? said Yorick,--or speaking\nafter the manner of apothecaries? (footnote in Greek Philo.)--statesmen?\n(footnote in Greek)--or washer-women? (footnote in Greek Bochart.)\n\n--I'm not sure, replied my father,--but they tell us, brother Toby,\nhe's the better for it.--Provided, said Yorick, you travel him into\nEgypt.--Of that, answered my father, he will have the advantage, when he\nsees the Pyramids.--\n\nNow every word of this, quoth my uncle Toby, is Arabic to me.--I wish,\nsaid Yorick, 'twas so, to half the world.\n\n--Ilus, (footnote in Greek Sanchuniatho.) continued my father,\ncircumcised his whole army one morning.--Not without a court martial?\ncried my uncle Toby.--Though the learned, continued he, taking no notice\nof my uncle Toby's remark, but turning to Yorick,--are greatly divided\nstill who Ilus was;--some say Saturn;--some the Supreme Being;--others,\nno more than a brigadier general under Pharaoh-neco.--Let him be who\nhe will, said my uncle Toby, I know not by what article of war he could\njustify it.\n\nThe controvertists, answered my father, assign two-and-twenty different\nreasons for it:--others, indeed, who have drawn their pens on the\nopposite side of the question, have shewn the world the futility of the\ngreatest part of them.--But then again, our best polemic divines--I wish\nthere was not a polemic divine, said Yorick, in the kingdom;--one\nounce of practical divinity--is worth a painted ship-load of all their\nreverences have imported these fifty years.--Pray, Mr. Yorick, quoth my\nuncle Toby,--do tell me what a polemic divine is?--The best description,\ncaptain Shandy, I have ever read, is of a couple of 'em, replied Yorick,\nin the account of the battle fought single hands betwixt Gymnast and\ncaptain Tripet; which I have in my pocket.--I beg I may hear it, quoth\nmy uncle Toby earnestly.--You shall, said Yorick.--And as the corporal\nis waiting for me at the door,--and I know the description of a battle\nwill do the poor fellow more good than his supper,--I beg, brother,\nyou'll give him leave to come in.--With all my soul, said my\nfather.--Trim came in, erect and happy as an emperor; and having shut\nthe door, Yorick took a book from his right-hand coat-pocket, and read,\nor pretended to read, as follows.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XXIX.\n\n--'which words being heard by all the soldiers which were there, divers\nof them being inwardly terrified, did shrink back and make room for\nthe assailant: all this did Gymnast very well remark and consider; and\ntherefore, making as if he would have alighted from off his horse, as he\nwas poising himself on the mounting side, he most nimbly (with his short\nsword by this thigh) shifting his feet in the stirrup, and performing\nthe stirrup-leather feat, whereby, after the inclining of his body\ndownwards, he forthwith launched himself aloft into the air, and placed\nboth his feet together upon the saddle, standing upright, with his back\nturned towards his horse's head,--Now, (said he) my case goes forward.\nThen suddenly in the same posture wherein he was, he fetched a gambol\nupon one foot, and turning to the left-hand, failed not to carry his\nbody perfectly round, just into his former position, without missing one\njot.--Ha! said Tripet, I will not do that at this time,--and not without\ncause. Well, said Gymnast, I have failed,--I will undo this leap; then\nwith a marvellous strength and agility, turning towards the right-hand,\nhe fetched another striking gambol as before; which done, he set his\nright hand thumb upon the bow of the saddle, raised himself up, and\nsprung into the air, poising and upholding his whole weight upon the\nmuscle and nerve of the said thumb, and so turned and whirled himself\nabout three times: at the fourth, reversing his body, and overturning it\nupside down, and foreside back, without touching any thing, he brought\nhimself betwixt the horse's two ears, and then giving himself a jerking\nswing, he seated himself upon the crupper--'\n\n(This can't be fighting, said my uncle Toby.--The corporal shook his\nhead at it.--Have patience, said Yorick.)\n\n'Then (Tripet) pass'd his right leg over his saddle, and placed himself\nen croup.--But, said he, 'twere better for me to get into the saddle;\nthen putting the thumbs of both hands upon the crupper before him, and\nthere-upon leaning himself, as upon the only supporters of his body,\nhe incontinently turned heels over head in the air, and strait found\nhimself betwixt the bow of the saddle in a tolerable seat; then\nspringing into the air with a summerset, he turned him about like\na wind-mill, and made above a hundred frisks, turns, and\ndemi-pommadas.'--Good God! cried Trim, losing all patience,--one home\nthrust of a bayonet is worth it all.--I think so too, replied Yorick.--\n\nI am of a contrary opinion, quoth my father.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XXX.\n\n--No,--I think I have advanced nothing, replied my father, making answer\nto a question which Yorick had taken the liberty to put to him,--I have\nadvanced nothing in the Tristra-paedia, but what is as clear as any\none proposition in Euclid.--Reach me, Trim, that book from off the\nscrutoir:--it has oft-times been in my mind, continued my father, to\nhave read it over both to you, Yorick, and to my brother Toby, and\nI think it a little unfriendly in myself, in not having done it long\nago:--shall we have a short chapter or two now,--and a chapter or two\nhereafter, as occasions serve; and so on, till we get through the whole?\nMy uncle Toby and Yorick made the obeisance which was proper; and the\ncorporal, though he was not included in the compliment, laid his hand\nupon his breast, and made his bow at the same time.--The company smiled.\nTrim, quoth my father, has paid the full price for staying out\nthe entertainment.--He did not seem to relish the play, replied\nYorick.--'Twas a Tom-fool-battle, an' please your reverence, of captain\nTripet's and that other officer, making so many summersets, as they\nadvanced;--the French come on capering now and then in that way,--but\nnot quite so much.\n\nMy uncle Toby never felt the consciousness of his existence with more\ncomplacency than what the corporal's, and his own reflections, made him\ndo at that moment;--he lighted his pipe,--Yorick drew his chair closer\nto the table,--Trim snuff'd the candle,--my father stirr'd up the\nfire,--took up the book,--cough'd twice, and begun.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XXXI.\n\nThe first thirty pages, said my father, turning over the leaves,--are a\nlittle dry; and as they are not closely connected with the subject,--for\nthe present we'll pass them by: 'tis a prefatory introduction, continued\nmy father, or an introductory preface (for I am not determined which\nname to give it) upon political or civil government; the foundation of\nwhich being laid in the first conjunction betwixt male and female,\nfor procreation of the species--I was insensibly led into it.--'Twas\nnatural, said Yorick.\n\nThe original of society, continued my father, I'm satisfied is, what\nPolitian tells us, i. e. merely conjugal; and nothing more than the\ngetting together of one man and one woman;--to which, (according to\nHesiod) the philosopher adds a servant:--but supposing in the first\nbeginning there were no men servants born--he lays the foundation of\nit, in a man,--a woman--and a bull.--I believe 'tis an ox, quoth Yorick,\nquoting the passage (Greek)--A bull must have given more trouble than\nhis head was worth.--But there is a better reason still, said my father\n(dipping his pen into his ink); for the ox being the most patient of\nanimals, and the most useful withal in tilling the ground for their\nnourishment,--was the properest instrument, and emblem too, for the new\njoined couple, that the creation could have associated with them.--And\nthere is a stronger reason, added my uncle Toby, than them all for the\nox.--My father had not power to take his pen out of his ink-horn, till\nhe had heard my uncle Toby's reason.--For when the ground was tilled,\nsaid my uncle Toby, and made worth inclosing, then they began to secure\nit by walls and ditches, which was the origin of fortification.--True,\ntrue, dear Toby, cried my father, striking out the bull, and putting the\nox in his place.\n\nMy father gave Trim a nod, to snuff the candle, and resumed his\ndiscourse.\n\n--I enter upon this speculation, said my father carelessly, and half\nshutting the book, as he went on, merely to shew the foundation of\nthe natural relation between a father and his child; the right and\njurisdiction over whom he acquires these several ways--\n\n1st, by marriage.\n\n2d, by adoption.\n\n3d, by legitimation.\n\nAnd 4th, by procreation; all which I consider in their order.\n\nI lay a slight stress upon one of them, replied Yorick--the act,\nespecially where it ends there, in my opinion lays as little obligation\nupon the child, as it conveys power to the father.--You are wrong,--said\nmy father argutely, and for this plain reason....--I own, added my\nfather, that the offspring, upon this account, is not so under the power\nand jurisdiction of the mother.--But the reason, replied Yorick,\nequally holds good for her.--She is under authority herself, said my\nfather:--and besides, continued my father, nodding his head, and laying\nhis finger upon the side of his nose, as he assigned his reason,--she is\nnot the principal agent, Yorick.--In what, quoth my uncle Toby? stopping\nhis pipe.--Though by all means, added my father (not attending to\nmy uncle Toby), 'The son ought to pay her respect,' as you may read,\nYorick, at large in the first book of the Institutes of Justinian,\nat the eleventh title and the tenth section.--I can read it as well,\nreplied Yorick, in the Catechism.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XXXII.\n\nTrim can repeat every word of it by heart, quoth my uncle Toby.--Pugh!\nsaid my father, not caring to be interrupted with Trim's saying his\nCatechism. He can, upon my honour, replied my uncle Toby.--Ask him, Mr.\nYorick, any question you please.--\n\n--The fifth Commandment, Trim,--said Yorick, speaking mildly, and with\na gentle nod, as to a modest Catechumen. The corporal stood silent.--You\ndon't ask him right, said my uncle Toby, raising his voice, and giving\nit rapidly like the word of command:--The fifth--cried my uncle Toby.--I\nmust begin with the first, an' please your honour, said the corporal.--\n\n--Yorick could not forbear smiling.--Your reverence does not consider,\nsaid the corporal, shouldering his stick like a musket, and marching\ninto the middle of the room, to illustrate his position,--that 'tis\nexactly the same thing, as doing one's exercise in the field.--\n\n'Join your right-hand to your firelock,' cried the corporal, giving the\nword of command, and performing the motion.--\n\n'Poise your firelock,' cried the corporal, doing the duty still both of\nadjutant and private man.\n\n'Rest your firelock;'--one motion, an' please your reverence, you see\nleads into another.--If his honour will begin but with the first--\n\nThe First--cried my uncle Toby, setting his hand upon his side--....\n\nThe Second--cried my uncle Toby, waving his tobacco-pipe, as he would\nhave done his sword at the head of a regiment.--The corporal went\nthrough his manual with exactness; and having honoured his father and\nmother, made a low bow, and fell back to the side of the room.\n\nEvery thing in this world, said my father, is big with jest, and has wit\nin it, and instruction too,--if we can but find it out.\n\n--Here is the scaffold work of Instruction, its true point of folly,\nwithout the Building behind it.\n\n--Here is the glass for pedagogues, preceptors, tutors, governors,\ngerund-grinders, and bear-leaders to view themselves in, in their true\ndimensions.--\n\nOh! there is a husk and shell, Yorick, which grows up with learning,\nwhich their unskilfulness knows not how to fling away!\n\n--Sciences May Be Learned by Rote But Wisdom Not.\n\nYorick thought my father inspired.--I will enter into obligations\nthis moment, said my father, to lay out all my aunt Dinah's legacy in\ncharitable uses (of which, by the bye, my father had no high opinion),\nif the corporal has any one determinate idea annexed to any one word\nhe has repeated.--Prithee, Trim, quoth my father, turning round to\nhim,--What dost thou mean, by 'honouring thy father and mother?'\n\nAllowing them, an' please your honour, three halfpence a day out of my\npay, when they grow old.--And didst thou do that, Trim? said Yorick.--He\ndid indeed, replied my uncle Toby.--Then, Trim, said Yorick, springing\nout of his chair, and taking the corporal by the hand, thou art the best\ncommentator upon that part of the Decalogue; and I honour thee more for\nit, corporal Trim, than if thou hadst had a hand in the Talmud itself.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XXXIII.\n\nO blessed health! cried my father, making an exclamation, as he turned\nover the leaves to the next chapter, thou art before all gold and\ntreasure; 'tis thou who enlargest the soul,--and openest all its powers\nto receive instruction and to relish virtue.--He that has thee,\nhas little more to wish for;--and he that is so wretched as to want\nthee,--wants every thing with thee.\n\nI have concentrated all that can be said upon this important head, said\nmy father, into a very little room, therefore we'll read the chapter\nquite through.\n\nMy father read as follows:\n\n'The whole secret of health depending upon the due contention for\nmastery betwixt the radical heat and the radical moisture'--You have\nproved that matter of fact, I suppose, above, said Yorick. Sufficiently,\nreplied my father.\n\nIn saying this, my father shut the book,--not as if he resolved to\nread no more of it, for he kept his fore-finger in the chapter:--nor\npettishly,--for he shut the book slowly; his thumb resting, when he\nhad done it, upon the upper-side of the cover, as his three fingers\nsupported the lower side of it, without the least compressive\nviolence.--\n\nI have demonstrated the truth of that point, quoth my father, nodding to\nYorick, most sufficiently in the preceding chapter.\n\nNow could the man in the moon be told, that a man in the earth had wrote\na chapter, sufficiently demonstrating, That the secret of all health\ndepended upon the due contention for mastery betwixt the radical heat\nand the radical moisture,--and that he had managed the point so well,\nthat there was not one single word wet or dry upon radical heat or\nradical moisture, throughout the whole chapter,--or a single syllable\nin it, pro or con, directly or indirectly, upon the contention betwixt\nthese two powers in any part of the animal oeconomy--\n\n'O thou eternal Maker of all beings!'--he would cry, striking his breast\nwith his right hand (in case he had one)--'Thou whose power and goodness\ncan enlarge the faculties of thy creatures to this infinite degree of\nexcellence and perfection,--What have we Moonites done?'\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XXXIV.\n\nWith two strokes, the one at Hippocrates, the other at Lord Verulam, did\nmy father achieve it.\n\nThe stroke at the prince of physicians, with which he began, was no more\nthan a short insult upon his sorrowful complaint of the Ars longa,--and\nVita brevis.--Life short, cried my father,--and the art of healing\ntedious! And who are we to thank for both the one and the other, but\nthe ignorance of quacks themselves,--and the stage-loads of chymical\nnostrums, and peripatetic lumber, with which, in all ages, they have\nfirst flatter'd the world, and at last deceived it?\n\n--O my lord Verulam! cried my father, turning from Hippocrates, and\nmaking his second stroke at him, as the principal of nostrum-mongers,\nand the fittest to be made an example of to the rest,--What shall I\nsay to thee, my great lord Verulam? What shall I say to thy internal\nspirit,--thy opium, thy salt-petre,--thy greasy unctions,--thy daily\npurges,--thy nightly clysters, and succedaneums?\n\n--My father was never at a loss what to say to any man, upon any\nsubject; and had the least occasion for the exordium of any man\nbreathing: how he dealt with his lordship's opinion,--you shall\nsee;--but when--I know not:--we must first see what his lordship's\nopinion was.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XXXV.\n\n'The two great causes, which conspire with each other to shorten life,\nsays lord Verulam, are first--\n\n'The internal spirit, which like a gentle flame wastes the body down\nto death:--And secondly, the external air, that parches the body up\nto ashes:--which two enemies attacking us on both sides of our bodies\ntogether, at length destroy our organs, and render them unfit to carry\non the functions of life.'\n\nThis being the state of the case, the road to longevity was plain;\nnothing more being required, says his lordship, but to repair the waste\ncommitted by the internal spirit, by making the substance of it more\nthick and dense, by a regular course of opiates on one side, and by\nrefrigerating the heat of it on the other, by three grains and a half of\nsalt-petre every morning before you got up.--\n\nStill this frame of ours was left exposed to the inimical assaults of\nthe air without;--but this was fenced off again by a course of greasy\nunctions, which so fully saturated the pores of the skin, that no\nspicula could enter;--nor could any one get out.--This put a stop to all\nperspiration, sensible and insensible, which being the cause of so\nmany scurvy distempers--a course of clysters was requisite to carry off\nredundant humours,--and render the system complete.\n\nWhat my father had to say to my lord of Verulam's opiates, his\nsalt-petre, and greasy unctions and clysters, you shall read,--but not\nto-day--or to-morrow: time presses upon me,--my reader is impatient--I\nmust get forwards--You shall read the chapter at your leisure (if you\nchuse it), as soon as ever the Tristra-paedia is published.--\n\nSufficeth it, at present to say, my father levelled the hypothesis\nwith the ground, and in doing that, the learned know, he built up and\nestablished his own.--\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XXXVI.\n\nThe whole secret of health, said my father, beginning the sentence\nagain, depending evidently upon the due contention betwixt the radical\nheat and radical moisture within us;--the least imaginable skill had\nbeen sufficient to have maintained it, had not the school-men confounded\nthe task, merely (as Van Helmont, the famous chymist, has proved) by all\nalong mistaking the radical moisture for the tallow and fat of animal\nbodies.\n\nNow the radical moisture is not the tallow or fat of animals, but an\noily and balsamous substance; for the fat and tallow, as also the phlegm\nor watery parts, are cold; whereas the oily and balsamous parts are of a\nlively heat and spirit, which accounts for the observation of Aristotle,\n'Quod omne animal post coitum est triste.'\n\nNow it is certain, that the radical heat lives in the radical moisture,\nbut whether vice versa, is a doubt: however, when the one decays, the\nother decays also; and then is produced, either an unnatural heat, which\ncauses an unnatural dryness--or an unnatural moisture, which causes\ndropsies.--So that if a child, as he grows up, can but be taught\nto avoid running into fire or water, as either of 'em threaten his\ndestruction,--'twill be all that is needful to be done upon that head.--\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XXXVII.\n\nThe description of the siege of Jericho itself, could not have\nengaged the attention of my uncle Toby more powerfully than the last\nchapter;--his eyes were fixed upon my father throughout it;--he never\nmentioned radical heat and radical moisture, but my uncle Toby took his\npipe out of his mouth, and shook his head; and as soon as the chapter\nwas finished, he beckoned to the corporal to come close to his chair,\nto ask him the following question,--aside.--.... It was at the siege of\nLimerick, an' please your honour, replied the corporal, making a bow.\n\nThe poor fellow and I, quoth my uncle Toby, addressing himself to my\nfather, were scarce able to crawl out of our tents, at the time the\nsiege of Limerick was raised, upon the very account you mention.--Now\nwhat can have got into that precious noddle of thine, my dear brother\nToby? cried my father, mentally.--By Heaven! continued he, communing\nstill with himself, it would puzzle an Oedipus to bring it in point.--\n\nI believe, an' please your honour, quoth the corporal, that if it had\nnot been for the quantity of brandy we set fire to every night, and the\nclaret and cinnamon with which I plyed your honour off;--And the geneva,\nTrim, added my uncle Toby, which did us more good than all--I verily\nbelieve, continued the corporal, we had both, an' please your honour,\nleft our lives in the trenches, and been buried in them too.--The\nnoblest grave, corporal! cried my uncle Toby, his eyes sparkling as he\nspoke, that a soldier could wish to lie down in.--But a pitiful death\nfor him! an' please your honour, replied the corporal.\n\nAll this was as much Arabick to my father, as the rites of the Colchi\nand Troglodites had been before to my uncle Toby; my father could not\ndetermine whether he was to frown or to smile.\n\nMy uncle Toby, turning to Yorick, resumed the case at Limerick, more\nintelligibly than he had begun it,--and so settled the point for my\nfather at once.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XXXVIII.\n\nIt was undoubtedly, said my uncle Toby, a great happiness for myself\nand the corporal, that we had all along a burning fever, attended with\na most raging thirst, during the whole five-and-twenty days the flux\nwas upon us in the camp; otherwise what my brother calls the radical\nmoisture, must, as I conceive it, inevitably have got the better.--My\nfather drew in his lungs top-full of air, and looking up, blew it forth\nagain, as slowly as he possibly could.--\n\n--It was Heaven's mercy to us, continued my uncle Toby, which put it\ninto the corporal's head to maintain that due contention betwixt the\nradical heat and the radical moisture, by reinforceing the fever, as he\ndid all along, with hot wine and spices; whereby the corporal kept up\n(as it were) a continual firing, so that the radical heat stood its\nground from the beginning to the end, and was a fair match for the\nmoisture, terrible as it was.--Upon my honour, added my uncle Toby,\nyou might have heard the contention within our bodies, brother Shandy,\ntwenty toises.--If there was no firing, said Yorick.\n\nWell--said my father, with a full aspiration, and pausing a while after\nthe word--Was I a judge, and the laws of the country which made me one\npermitted it, I would condemn some of the worst malefactors, provided\nthey had had their clergy...--Yorick, foreseeing the sentence was likely\nto end with no sort of mercy, laid his hand upon my father's breast, and\nbegged he would respite it for a few minutes, till he asked the corporal\na question.--Prithee, Trim, said Yorick, without staying for my father's\nleave,--tell us honestly--what is thy opinion concerning this self-same\nradical heat and radical moisture?\n\nWith humble submission to his honour's better judgment, quoth the\ncorporal, making a bow to my uncle Toby--Speak thy opinion freely,\ncorporal, said my uncle Toby.--The poor fellow is my servant,--not my\nslave,--added my uncle Toby, turning to my father.--\n\nThe corporal put his hat under his left arm, and with his stick hanging\nupon the wrist of it, by a black thong split into a tassel about the\nknot, he marched up to the ground where he had performed his catechism;\nthen touching his under-jaw with the thumb and fingers of his right hand\nbefore he opened his mouth,--he delivered his notion thus.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XXXIX.\n\nJust as the corporal was humming, to begin--in waddled Dr. Slop.--'Tis\nnot two-pence matter--the corporal shall go on in the next chapter, let\nwho will come in.--\n\nWell, my good doctor, cried my father sportively, for the transitions of\nhis passions were unaccountably sudden,--and what has this whelp of mine\nto say to the matter?\n\nHad my father been asking after the amputation of the tail of a\npuppy-dog--he could not have done it in a more careless air: the system\nwhich Dr. Slop had laid down, to treat the accident by, no way allowed\nof such a mode of enquiry.--He sat down.\n\nPray, Sir, quoth my uncle Toby, in a manner which could not go\nunanswered,--in what condition is the boy?--'Twill end in a phimosis,\nreplied Dr. Slop.\n\nI am no wiser than I was, quoth my uncle Toby--returning his pipe\ninto his mouth.--Then let the corporal go on, said my father, with his\nmedical lecture.--The corporal made a bow to his old friend, Dr. Slop,\nand then delivered his opinion concerning radical heat and radical\nmoisture, in the following words.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XL.\n\nThe city of Limerick, the siege of which was begun under his majesty\nking William himself, the year after I went into the army--lies,\nan' please your honours, in the middle of a devilish wet, swampy\ncountry.--'Tis quite surrounded, said my uncle Toby, with the Shannon,\nand is, by its situation, one of the strongest fortified places in\nIreland.--\n\nI think this is a new fashion, quoth Dr. Slop, of beginning a medical\nlecture.--'Tis all true, answered Trim.--Then I wish the faculty would\nfollow the cut of it, said Yorick.--'Tis all cut through, an' please\nyour reverence, said the corporal, with drains and bogs; and besides,\nthere was such a quantity of rain fell during the siege, the whole\ncountry was like a puddle,--'twas that, and nothing else, which brought\non the flux, and which had like to have killed both his honour and\nmyself; now there was no such thing, after the first ten days, continued\nthe corporal, for a soldier to lie dry in his tent, without cutting a\nditch round it, to draw off the water;--nor was that enough, for those\nwho could afford it, as his honour could, without setting fire every\nnight to a pewter dish full of brandy, which took off the damp of the\nair, and made the inside of the tent as warm as a stove.--\n\nAnd what conclusion dost thou draw, corporal Trim, cried my father, from\nall these premises?\n\nI infer, an' please your worship, replied Trim, that the radical\nmoisture is nothing in the world but ditch-water--and that the radical\nheat, of those who can go to the expence of it, is burnt brandy,--the\nradical heat and moisture of a private man, an' please your honour, is\nnothing but ditch-water--and a dram of geneva--and give us but enough\nof it, with a pipe of tobacco, to give us spirits, and drive away the\nvapours--we know not what it is to fear death.\n\nI am at a loss, Captain Shandy, quoth Doctor Slop, to determine in which\nbranch of learning your servant shines most, whether in physiology or\ndivinity.--Slop had not forgot Trim's comment upon the sermon.--\n\nIt is but an hour ago, replied Yorick, since the corporal was examined\nin the latter, and passed muster with great honour.--\n\nThe radical heat and moisture, quoth Doctor Slop, turning to my father,\nyou must know, is the basis and foundation of our being--as the root of\na tree is the source and principle of its vegetation.--It is inherent\nin the seeds of all animals, and may be preserved sundry ways,\nbut principally in my opinion by consubstantials, impriments, and\noccludents.--Now this poor fellow, continued Dr. Slop, pointing to the\ncorporal, has had the misfortune to have heard some superficial empiric\ndiscourse upon this nice point.--That he has,--said my father.--Very\nlikely, said my uncle.--I'm sure of it--quoth Yorick.--\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XLI.\n\nDoctor Slop being called out to look at a cataplasm he had ordered, it\ngave my father an opportunity of going on with another chapter in the\nTristra-paedia.--Come! cheer up, my lads; I'll shew you land--for when\nwe have tugged through that chapter, the book shall not be opened again\nthis twelve-month.--Huzza--!\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XLII.\n\n--Five years with a bib under his chin;\n\nFour years in travelling from Christ-cross-row to Malachi;\n\nA year and a half in learning to write his own name;\n\nSeven long years and more (Greek)-ing it, at Greek and Latin;\n\nFour years at his probations and his negations--the fine statue still\nlying in the middle of the marble block,--and nothing done, but his\ntools sharpened to hew it out!--'Tis a piteous delay!--Was not the great\nJulius Scaliger within an ace of never getting his tools sharpened at\nall?--Forty-four years old was he before he could manage his Greek;--and\nPeter Damianus, lord bishop of Ostia, as all the world knows, could not\nso much as read, when he was of man's estate.--And Baldus himself, as\neminent as he turned out after, entered upon the law so late in life,\nthat every body imagined he intended to be an advocate in the other\nworld: no wonder, when Eudamidas, the son of Archidamas, heard\nXenocrates at seventy-five disputing about wisdom, that he asked\ngravely,--If the old man be yet disputing and enquiring concerning\nwisdom,--what time will he have to make use of it?\n\nYorick listened to my father with great attention; there was a seasoning\nof wisdom unaccountably mixed up with his strangest whims, and he had\nsometimes such illuminations in the darkest of his eclipses, as almost\natoned for them:--be wary, Sir, when you imitate him.\n\nI am convinced, Yorick, continued my father, half reading and half\ndiscoursing, that there is a North-west passage to the intellectual\nworld; and that the soul of man has shorter ways of going to work, in\nfurnishing itself with knowledge and instruction, than we generally take\nwith it.--But, alack! all fields have not a river or a spring running\nbesides them;--every child, Yorick, has not a parent to point it out.\n\n--The whole entirely depends, added my father, in a low voice, upon the\nauxiliary verbs, Mr. Yorick.\n\nHad Yorick trod upon Virgil's snake, he could not have looked more\nsurprised.--I am surprised too, cried my father, observing it,--and\nI reckon it as one of the greatest calamities which ever befel the\nrepublic of letters, That those who have been entrusted with the\neducation of our children, and whose business it was to open their\nminds, and stock them early with ideas, in order to set the imagination\nloose upon them, have made so little use of the auxiliary verbs in doing\nit, as they have done--So that, except Raymond Lullius, and the elder\nPelegrini, the last of which arrived to such perfection in the use of\n'em, with his topics, that, in a few lessons, he could teach a young\ngentleman to discourse with plausibility upon any subject, pro and con,\nand to say and write all that could be spoken or written concerning it,\nwithout blotting a word, to the admiration of all who beheld him.--I\nshould be glad, said Yorick, interrupting my father, to be made to\ncomprehend this matter. You shall, said my father.\n\nThe highest stretch of improvement a single word is capable of, is a\nhigh metaphor,--for which, in my opinion, the idea is generally the\nworse, and not the better;--but be that as it may,--when the mind\nhas done that with it--there is an end,--the mind and the idea are at\nrest,--until a second idea enters;--and so on.\n\nNow the use of the Auxiliaries is, at once to set the soul a-going\nby herself upon the materials as they are brought her; and by the\nversability of this great engine, round which they are twisted, to open\nnew tracts of enquiry, and make every idea engender millions.\n\nYou excite my curiosity greatly, said Yorick.\n\nFor my own part, quoth my uncle Toby, I have given it up.--The Danes,\nan' please your honour, quoth the corporal, who were on the left at the\nsiege of Limerick, were all auxiliaries.--And very good ones, said my\nuncle Toby.--But the auxiliaries, Trim, my brother is talking about,--I\nconceive to be different things.--\n\n--You do? said my father, rising up.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XLIII.\n\nMy father took a single turn across the room, then sat down, and\nfinished the chapter.\n\nThe verbs auxiliary we are concerned in here, continued my father, are,\nam; was; have; had; do; did; make; made; suffer; shall; should; will;\nwould; can; could; owe; ought; used; or is wont.--And these varied with\ntenses, present, past, future, and conjugated with the verb see,--or\nwith these questions added to them;--Is it? Was it? Will it be? Would it\nbe? May it be? Might it be? And these again put negatively, Is it not?\nWas it not? Ought it not?--Or affirmatively,--It is; It was; It ought to\nbe. Or chronologically,--Has it been always? Lately? How long ago?--Or\nhypothetically,--If it was? If it was not? What would follow?--If the\nFrench should beat the English? If the Sun go out of the Zodiac?\n\nNow, by the right use and application of these, continued my father,\nin which a child's memory should be exercised, there is no one idea can\nenter his brain, how barren soever, but a magazine of conceptions and\nconclusions may be drawn forth from it.--Didst thou ever see a white\nbear? cried my father, turning his head round to Trim, who stood at\nthe back of his chair:--No, an' please your honour, replied the\ncorporal.--But thou couldst discourse about one, Trim, said my father,\nin case of need?--How is it possible, brother, quoth my uncle Toby,\nif the corporal never saw one?--'Tis the fact I want, replied my\nfather,--and the possibility of it is as follows.\n\nA White Bear! Very well. Have I ever seen one? Might I ever have seen\none? Am I ever to see one? Ought I ever to have seen one? Or can I ever\nsee one?\n\nWould I had seen a white bear! (for how can I imagine it?)\n\nIf I should see a white bear, what should I say? If I should never see a\nwhite bear, what then?\n\nIf I never have, can, must, or shall see a white bear alive; have I ever\nseen the skin of one? Did I ever see one painted?--described? Have I\nnever dreamed of one?\n\nDid my father, mother, uncle, aunt, brothers or sisters, ever see a\nwhite bear? What would they give? How would they behave? How would the\nwhite bear have behaved? Is he wild? Tame? Terrible? Rough? Smooth?\n\n--Is the white bear worth seeing?--\n\n--Is there no sin in it?--\n\nIs it better than a Black One?\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XLIV.\n\n--We'll not stop two moments, my dear Sir,--only, as we have got through\nthese five volumes (In the first edition, the sixth volume began with\nthis chapter.), (do, Sir, sit down upon a set--they are better\nthan nothing) let us just look back upon the country we have pass'd\nthrough.--\n\n--What a wilderness has it been! and what a mercy that we have not both\nof us been lost, or devoured by wild beasts in it!\n\nDid you think the world itself, Sir, had contained such a number of Jack\nAsses?--How they view'd and review'd us as we passed over the rivulet at\nthe bottom of that little valley!--and when we climbed over that hill,\nand were just getting out of sight--good God! what a braying did they\nall set up together!\n\n--Prithee, shepherd! who keeps all those Jack Asses?....\n\n--Heaven be their comforter--What! are they never curried?--Are they\nnever taken in in winter?--Bray bray--bray. Bray on,--the world is\ndeeply your debtor;--louder still--that's nothing:--in good sooth, you\nare ill-used:--Was I a Jack Asse, I solemnly declare, I would bray in\nG-sol-re-ut from morning, even unto night.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XLV.\n\nWhen my father had danced his white bear backwards and forwards through\nhalf a dozen pages, he closed the book for good an' all,--and in a kind\nof triumph redelivered it into Trim's hand, with a nod to lay it upon\nthe 'scrutoire, where he found it.--Tristram, said he, shall be made to\nconjugate every word in the dictionary, backwards and forwards the same\nway;--every word, Yorick, by this means, you see, is converted into a\nthesis or an hypothesis;--every thesis and hypothesis have an off-spring\nof propositions;--and each proposition has its own consequences and\nconclusions; every one of which leads the mind on again, into fresh\ntracks of enquiries and doubtings.--The force of this engine, added my\nfather, is incredible in opening a child's head.--'Tis enough, brother\nShandy, cried my uncle Toby, to burst it into a thousand splinters.--\n\nI presume, said Yorick, smiling,--it must be owing to this,--(for let\nlogicians say what they will, it is not to be accounted for sufficiently\nfrom the bare use of the ten predicaments)--That the famous Vincent\nQuirino, amongst the many other astonishing feats of his childhood, of\nwhich the Cardinal Bembo has given the world so exact a story,--should\nbe able to paste up in the public schools at Rome, so early as in the\neighth year of his age, no less than four thousand five hundred and\nfifty different theses, upon the most abstruse points of the most\nabstruse theology;--and to defend and maintain them in such sort, as to\ncramp and dumbfound his opponents.--What is that, cried my father, to\nwhat is told us of Alphonsus Tostatus, who, almost in his nurse's arms,\nlearned all the sciences and liberal arts without being taught any one\nof them?--What shall we say of the great Piereskius?--That's the very\nman, cried my uncle Toby, I once told you of, brother Shandy, who walked\na matter of five hundred miles, reckoning from Paris to Shevling, and\nfrom Shevling back again, merely to see Stevinus's flying chariot.--He\nwas a very great man! added my uncle Toby (meaning Stevinus)--He was so,\nbrother Toby, said my father (meaning Piereskius)--and had multiplied\nhis ideas so fast, and increased his knowledge to such a prodigious\nstock, that, if we may give credit to an anecdote concerning him, which\nwe cannot withhold here, without shaking the authority of all anecdotes\nwhatever--at seven years of age, his father committed entirely to\nhis care the education of his younger brother, a boy of five years\nold,--with the sole management of all his concerns.--Was the father\nas wise as the son? quoth my uncle Toby:--I should think not, said\nYorick:--But what are these, continued my father--(breaking out in a\nkind of enthusiasm)--what are these, to those prodigies of childhood\nin Grotius, Scioppius, Heinsius, Politian, Pascal, Joseph Scaliger,\nFerdinand de Cordoue, and others--some of which left off their\nsubstantial forms at nine years old, or sooner, and went on reasoning\nwithout them;--others went through their classics at seven;--wrote\ntragedies at eight;--Ferdinand de Cordoue was so wise at nine,--'twas\nthought the Devil was in him;--and at Venice gave such proofs of his\nknowledge and goodness, that the monks imagined he was Antichrist, or\nnothing.--Others were masters of fourteen languages at ten,--finished\nthe course of their rhetoric, poetry, logic, and ethics, at eleven,--put\nforth their commentaries upon Servius and Martianus Capella at\ntwelve,--and at thirteen received their degrees in philosophy, laws, and\ndivinity:--but you forget the great Lipsius, quoth Yorick, who composed\na work (Nous aurions quelque interet, says Baillet, de montrer qu'il n'a\nrien de ridicule s'il etoit veritable, au moins dans le sens enigmatique\nque Nicius Erythraeus a ta he de lui donner. Cet auteur dit que pour\ncomprendre comme Lipse, il a pu composer un ouvrage le premier jour de\nsa vie, il faut s'imaginer, que ce premier jour n'est pas celui de\nsa naissance charnelle, mais celui au quel il a commence d'user de\nla raison; il veut que c'ait ete a l'age de neuf ans; et il nous veut\npersuader que ce fut en cet age, que Lipse fit un poeme.--Le tour est\ningenieux, &c. &c.) the day he was born:--They should have wiped it up,\nsaid my uncle Toby, and said no more about it.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XLVI.\n\nWhen the cataplasm was ready, a scruple of decorum had unseasonably rose\nup in Susannah's conscience, about holding the candle, whilst Slop tied\nit on; Slop had not treated Susannah's distemper with anodynes,--and so\na quarrel had ensued betwixt them.\n\n--Oh! oh!--said Slop, casting a glance of undue freedom in Susannah's\nface, as she declined the office;--then, I think I know you, madam--You\nknow me, Sir! cried Susannah fastidiously, and with a toss of her\nhead, levelled evidently, not at his profession, but at the doctor\nhimself,--you know me! cried Susannah again.--Doctor Slop clapped his\nfinger and his thumb instantly upon his nostrils;--Susannah's spleen\nwas ready to burst at it;--'Tis false, said Susannah.--Come, come, Mrs.\nModesty, said Slop, not a little elated with the success of his last\nthrust,--If you won't hold the candle, and look--you may hold it and\nshut your eyes:--That's one of your popish shifts, cried Susannah:--'Tis\nbetter, said Slop, with a nod, than no shift at all, young woman;--I\ndefy you, Sir, cried Susannah, pulling her shift sleeve below her elbow.\n\nIt was almost impossible for two persons to assist each other in a\nsurgical case with a more splenetic cordiality.\n\nSlop snatched up the cataplasm--Susannah snatched up the candle;--A\nlittle this way, said Slop; Susannah looking one way, and rowing\nanother, instantly set fire to Slop's wig, which being somewhat bushy\nand unctuous withal, was burnt out before it was well kindled.--You\nimpudent whore! cried Slop,--(for what is passion, but a wild\nbeast?)--you impudent whore, cried Slop, getting upright, with the\ncataplasm in his hand;--I never was the destruction of any body's nose,\nsaid Susannah,--which is more than you can say:--Is it? cried Slop,\nthrowing the cataplasm in her face;--Yes, it is, cried Susannah,\nreturning the compliment with what was left in the pan.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XLVII.\n\nDoctor Slop and Susannah filed cross-bills against each other in the\nparlour; which done, as the cataplasm had failed, they retired into the\nkitchen to prepare a fomentation for me;--and whilst that was doing, my\nfather determined the point as you will read.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XLVIII.\n\nYou see 'tis high time, said my father, addressing himself equally to my\nuncle Toby and Yorick, to take this young creature out of these women's\nhands, and put him into those of a private governor. Marcus Antoninus\nprovided fourteen governors all at once to superintend his son\nCommodus's education,--and in six weeks he cashiered five of them;--I\nknow very well, continued my father, that Commodus's mother was in love\nwith a gladiator at the time of her conception, which accounts for a\ngreat many of Commodus's cruelties when he became emperor;--but still I\nam of opinion, that those five whom Antoninus dismissed, did Commodus's\ntemper, in that short time, more hurt than the other nine were able to\nrectify all their lives long.\n\nNow as I consider the person who is to be about my son, as the mirror\nin which he is to view himself from morning to night, by which he is to\nadjust his looks, his carriage, and perhaps the inmost sentiments of his\nheart;--I would have one, Yorick, if possible, polished at all points,\nfit for my child to look into.--This is very good sense, quoth my uncle\nToby to himself.\n\n--There is, continued my father, a certain mien and motion of the body\nand all its parts, both in acting and speaking, which argues a man well\nwithin; and I am not at all surprised that Gregory of Nazianzum, upon\nobserving the hasty and untoward gestures of Julian, should foretel he\nwould one day become an apostate;--or that St. Ambrose should turn his\nAmanuensis out of doors, because of an indecent motion of his head,\nwhich went backwards and forwards like a flail;--or that Democritus\nshould conceive Protagoras to be a scholar, from seeing him bind up a\nfaggot, and thrusting, as he did it, the small twigs inwards.--There\nare a thousand unnoticed openings, continued my father, which let a\npenetrating eye at once into a man's soul; and I maintain it, added he,\nthat a man of sense does not lay down his hat in coming into a room,--or\ntake it up in going out of it, but something escapes, which discovers\nhim.\n\nIt is for these reasons, continued my father, that the governor I make\nchoice of shall neither (Vid. Pellegrina.) lisp, or squint, or wink, or\ntalk loud, or look fierce, or foolish;--or bite his lips, or grind\nhis teeth, or speak through his nose, or pick it, or blow it with his\nfingers.--He shall neither walk fast,--or slow, or fold his arms,--for\nthat is laziness;--or hang them down,--for that is folly; or hide them\nin his pocket, for that is nonsense.--\n\nHe shall neither strike, or pinch, or tickle--or bite, or cut his\nnails, or hawk, or spit, or snift, or drum with his feet or fingers in\ncompany;--nor (according to Erasmus) shall he speak to any one in making\nwater,--nor shall he point to carrion or excrement.--Now this is all\nnonsense again, quoth my uncle Toby to himself.--\n\nI will have him, continued my father, cheerful, facete, jovial; at the\nsame time, prudent, attentive to business, vigilant, acute, argute,\ninventive, quick in resolving doubts and speculative questions;--he\nshall be wise, and judicious, and learned:--And why not humble, and\nmoderate, and gentle-tempered, and good? said Yorick:--And why not,\ncried my uncle Toby, free, and generous, and bountiful, and brave?--He\nshall, my dear Toby, replied my father, getting up and shaking him by\nhis hand.--Then, brother Shandy, answered my uncle Toby, raising himself\noff the chair, and laying down his pipe to take hold of my father's\nother hand,--I humbly beg I may recommend poor Le Fever's son to you;--a\ntear of joy of the first water sparkled in my uncle Toby's eye, and\nanother, the fellow to it, in the corporal's, as the proposition was\nmade;--you will see why when you read Le Fever's story:--fool that I\nwas! nor can I recollect (nor perhaps you) without turning back to the\nplace, what it was that hindered me from letting the corporal tell it in\nhis own words;--but the occasion is lost,--I must tell it now in my own.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XLIX.\n\nThe Story of Le Fever.\n\nIt was some time in the summer of that year in which Dendermond was\ntaken by the allies,--which was about seven years before my father came\ninto the country,--and about as many, after the time, that my uncle Toby\nand Trim had privately decamped from my father's house in town, in order\nto lay some of the finest sieges to some of the finest fortified cities\nin Europe--when my uncle Toby was one evening getting his supper, with\nTrim sitting behind him at a small sideboard,--I say, sitting--for in\nconsideration of the corporal's lame knee (which sometimes gave him\nexquisite pain)--when my uncle Toby dined or supped alone, he would\nnever suffer the corporal to stand; and the poor fellow's veneration for\nhis master was such, that, with a proper artillery, my uncle Toby could\nhave taken Dendermond itself, with less trouble than he was able to gain\nthis point over him; for many a time when my uncle Toby supposed the\ncorporal's leg was at rest, he would look back, and detect him standing\nbehind him with the most dutiful respect: this bred more little\nsquabbles betwixt them, than all other causes for five-and-twenty years\ntogether--But this is neither here nor there--why do I mention it?--Ask\nmy pen,--it governs me,--I govern not it.\n\nHe was one evening sitting thus at his supper, when the landlord of a\nlittle inn in the village came into the parlour, with an empty phial in\nhis hand, to beg a glass or two of sack; 'Tis for a poor gentleman,--I\nthink, of the army, said the landlord, who has been taken ill at my\nhouse four days ago, and has never held up his head since, or had a\ndesire to taste any thing, till just now, that he has a fancy for a\nglass of sack and a thin toast,--I think, says he, taking his hand from\nhis forehead, it would comfort me.--\n\n--If I could neither beg, borrow, or buy such a thing--added the\nlandlord,--I would almost steal it for the poor gentleman, he is so\nill.--I hope in God he will still mend, continued he,--we are all of us\nconcerned for him.\n\nThou art a good-natured soul, I will answer for thee, cried my uncle\nToby; and thou shalt drink the poor gentleman's health in a glass of\nsack thyself,--and take a couple of bottles with my service, and tell\nhim he is heartily welcome to them, and to a dozen more if they will do\nhim good.\n\nThough I am persuaded, said my uncle Toby, as the landlord shut the\ndoor, he is a very compassionate fellow--Trim,--yet I cannot help\nentertaining a high opinion of his guest too; there must be something\nmore than common in him, that in so short a time should win so much\nupon the affections of his host;--And of his whole family, added the\ncorporal, for they are all concerned for him,.--Step after him, said my\nuncle Toby,--do Trim,--and ask if he knows his name.\n\n--I have quite forgot it truly, said the landlord, coming back into the\nparlour with the corporal,--but I can ask his son again:--Has he a son\nwith him then? said my uncle Toby.--A boy, replied the landlord, of\nabout eleven or twelve years of age;--but the poor creature has tasted\nalmost as little as his father; he does nothing but mourn and lament for\nhim night and day:--He has not stirred from the bed-side these two days.\n\nMy uncle Toby laid down his knife and fork, and thrust his plate from\nbefore him, as the landlord gave him the account; and Trim, without\nbeing ordered, took away, without saying one word, and in a few minutes\nafter brought him his pipe and tobacco.\n\n--Stay in the room a little, said my uncle Toby.\n\nTrim!--said my uncle Toby, after he lighted his pipe, and smoak'd about\na dozen whiffs.--Trim came in front of his master, and made his bow;--my\nuncle Toby smoak'd on, and said no more.--Corporal! said my uncle\nToby--the corporal made his bow.--My uncle Toby proceeded no farther,\nbut finished his pipe.\n\nTrim! said my uncle Toby, I have a project in my head, as it is a bad\nnight, of wrapping myself up warm in my roquelaure, and paying a visit\nto this poor gentleman.--Your honour's roquelaure, replied the corporal,\nhas not once been had on, since the night before your honour received\nyour wound, when we mounted guard in the trenches before the gate of St.\nNicholas;--and besides, it is so cold and rainy a night, that what with\nthe roquelaure, and what with the weather, 'twill be enough to give your\nhonour your death, and bring on your honour's torment in your groin. I\nfear so, replied my uncle Toby; but I am not at rest in my mind, Trim,\nsince the account the landlord has given me.--I wish I had not known so\nmuch of this affair,--added my uncle Toby,--or that I had known more of\nit:--How shall we manage it? Leave it, an't please your honour, to me,\nquoth the corporal;--I'll take my hat and stick and go to the house and\nreconnoitre, and act accordingly; and I will bring your honour a full\naccount in an hour.--Thou shalt go, Trim, said my uncle Toby, and here's\na shilling for thee to drink with his servant.--I shall get it all out\nof him, said the corporal, shutting the door.\n\nMy uncle Toby filled his second pipe; and had it not been, that he now\nand then wandered from the point, with considering whether it was not\nfull as well to have the curtain of the tennaile a straight line, as a\ncrooked one,--he might be said to have thought of nothing else but poor\nLe Fever and his boy the whole time he smoaked it.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.L.\n\nThe Story of Le Fever Continued.\n\nIt was not till my uncle Toby had knocked the ashes out of his third\npipe, that corporal Trim returned from the inn, and gave him the\nfollowing account.\n\nI despaired, at first, said the corporal, of being able to bring\nback your honour any kind of intelligence concerning the poor sick\nlieutenant--Is he in the army, then? said my uncle Toby--He is, said\nthe corporal--And in what regiment? said my uncle Toby--I'll tell your\nhonour, replied the corporal, every thing straight forwards, as I learnt\nit.--Then, Trim, I'll fill another pipe, said my uncle Toby, and not\ninterrupt thee till thou hast done; so sit down at thy ease, Trim, in\nthe window-seat, and begin thy story again. The corporal made his old\nbow, which generally spoke as plain as a bow could speak it--Your honour\nis good:--And having done that, he sat down, as he was ordered,--and\nbegun the story to my uncle Toby over again in pretty near the same\nwords.\n\nI despaired at first, said the corporal, of being able to bring back any\nintelligence to your honour, about the lieutenant and his son; for when\nI asked where his servant was, from whom I made myself sure of knowing\nevery thing which was proper to be asked,--That's a right distinction,\nTrim, said my uncle Toby--I was answered, an' please your honour, that\nhe had no servant with him;--that he had come to the inn with hired\nhorses, which, upon finding himself unable to proceed (to join, I\nsuppose, the regiment), he had dismissed the morning after he came.--If\nI get better, my dear, said he, as he gave his purse to his son to pay\nthe man,--we can hire horses from hence.--But alas! the poor gentleman\nwill never get from hence, said the landlady to me,--for I heard the\ndeath-watch all night long;--and when he dies, the youth, his son, will\ncertainly die with him; for he is broken-hearted already.\n\nI was hearing this account, continued the corporal, when the youth came\ninto the kitchen, to order the thin toast the landlord spoke of;--but I\nwill do it for my father myself, said the youth.--Pray let my save you\nthe trouble, young gentleman, said I, taking up a fork for the purpose,\nand offering him my chair to sit down upon by the fire, whilst I did\nit.--I believe, Sir, said he, very modestly, I can please him best\nmyself.--I am sure, said I, his honour will not like the toast the worse\nfor being toasted by an old soldier.--The youth took hold of my hand,\nand instantly burst into tears.--Poor youth! said my uncle Toby,--he\nhas been bred up from an infant in the army, and the name of a soldier,\nTrim, sounded in his ears like the name of a friend;--I wish I had him\nhere.\n\n--I never, in the longest march, said the corporal, had so great a mind\nto my dinner, as I had to cry with him for company:--What could be the\nmatter with me, an' please your honour? Nothing in the world, Trim,\nsaid my uncle Toby, blowing his nose,--but that thou art a good-natured\nfellow.\n\nWhen I gave him the toast, continued the corporal, I thought it was\nproper to tell him I was captain Shandy's servant, and that your honour\n(though a stranger) was extremely concerned for his father;--and that\nif there was any thing in your house or cellar--(And thou might'st have\nadded my purse too, said my uncle Toby),--he was heartily welcome to\nit:--He made a very low bow (which was meant to your honour), but no\nanswer--for his heart was full--so he went up stairs with the toast;--I\nwarrant you, my dear, said I, as I opened the kitchen-door, your father\nwill be well again.--Mr. Yorick's curate was smoking a pipe by the\nkitchen fire,--but said not a word good or bad to comfort the youth.--I\nthought it wrong; added the corporal--I think so too, said my uncle\nToby.\n\nWhen the lieutenant had taken his glass of sack and toast, he felt\nhimself a little revived, and sent down into the kitchen, to let me\nknow, that in about ten minutes he should be glad if I would step\nup stairs.--I believe, said the landlord, he is going to say his\nprayers,--for there was a book laid upon the chair by his bed-side, and\nas I shut the door, I saw his son take up a cushion.--\n\nI thought, said the curate, that you gentlemen of the army, Mr. Trim,\nnever said your prayers at all.--I heard the poor gentleman say his\nprayers last night, said the landlady, very devoutly, and with my own\nears, or I could not have believed it.--Are you sure of it? replied the\ncurate.--A soldier, an' please your reverence, said I, prays as often\n(of his own accord) as a parson;--and when he is fighting for his king,\nand for his own life, and for his honour too, he has the most reason\nto pray to God of any one in the whole world--'Twas well said of thee,\nTrim, said my uncle Toby.--But when a soldier, said I, an' please your\nreverence, has been standing for twelve hours together in the trenches,\nup to his knees in cold water,--or engaged, said I, for months\ntogether in long and dangerous marches;--harassed, perhaps, in his rear\nto-day;--harassing others to-morrow;--detached here;--countermanded\nthere;--resting this night out upon his arms;--beat up in his shirt the\nnext;--benumbed in his joints;--perhaps without straw in his tent to\nkneel on;--must say his prayers how and when he can.--I believe, said\nI,--for I was piqued, quoth the corporal, for the reputation of the\narmy,--I believe, an' please your reverence, said I, that when a soldier\ngets time to pray,--he prays as heartily as a parson,--though not with\nall his fuss and hypocrisy.--Thou shouldst not have said that, Trim,\nsaid my uncle Toby,--for God only knows who is a hypocrite, and who is\nnot:--At the great and general review of us all, corporal, at the day of\njudgment (and not till then)--it will be seen who has done their\nduties in this world,--and who has not; and we shall be advanced, Trim,\naccordingly.--I hope we shall, said Trim.--It is in the Scripture, said\nmy uncle Toby; and I will shew it thee to-morrow:--In the mean time we\nmay depend upon it, Trim, for our comfort, said my uncle Toby, that God\nAlmighty is so good and just a governor of the world, that if we have\nbut done our duties in it,--it will never be enquired into, whether\nwe have done them in a red coat or a black one:--I hope not, said the\ncorporal--But go on, Trim, said my uncle Toby, with thy story.\n\nWhen I went up, continued the corporal, into the lieutenant's room,\nwhich I did not do till the expiration of the ten minutes,--he was lying\nin his bed with his head raised upon his hand, with his elbow upon the\npillow, and a clean white cambrick handkerchief beside it:--The youth\nwas just stooping down to take up the cushion, upon which I supposed he\nhad been kneeling,--the book was laid upon the bed,--and, as he rose, in\ntaking up the cushion with one hand, he reached out his other to take\nit away at the same time.--Let it remain there, my dear, said the\nlieutenant.\n\nHe did not offer to speak to me, till I had walked up close to his\nbed-side:--If you are captain Shandy's servant, said he, you must\npresent my thanks to your master, with my little boy's thanks along\nwith them, for his courtesy to me;--if he was of Levens's--said the\nlieutenant.--I told him your honour was--Then, said he, I served three\ncampaigns with him in Flanders, and remember him,--but 'tis most likely,\nas I had not the honour of any acquaintance with him, that he knows\nnothing of me.--You will tell him, however, that the person his\ngood-nature has laid under obligations to him, is one Le Fever, a\nlieutenant in Angus's--but he knows me not,--said he, a second time,\nmusing;--possibly he may my story--added he--pray tell the captain, I\nwas the ensign at Breda, whose wife was most unfortunately killed with\na musket-shot, as she lay in my arms in my tent.--I remember the story,\nan't please your honour, said I, very well.--Do you so? said he, wiping\nhis eyes with his handkerchief--then well may I.--In saying this, he\ndrew a little ring out of his bosom, which seemed tied with a black\nribband about his neck, and kiss'd it twice--Here, Billy, said he,--the\nboy flew across the room to the bed-side,--and falling down upon his\nknee, took the ring in his hand, and kissed it too,--then kissed his\nfather, and sat down upon the bed and wept.\n\nI wish, said my uncle Toby, with a deep sigh,--I wish, Trim, I was\nasleep.\n\nYour honour, replied the corporal, is too much concerned;--shall I pour\nyour honour out a glass of sack to your pipe?--Do, Trim, said my uncle\nToby.\n\nI remember, said my uncle Toby, sighing again, the story of the ensign\nand his wife, with a circumstance his modesty omitted;--and particularly\nwell that he, as well as she, upon some account or other (I forget what)\nwas universally pitied by the whole regiment;--but finish the story thou\nart upon:--'Tis finished already, said the corporal,--for I could stay\nno longer,--so wished his honour a good night; young Le Fever rose from\noff the bed, and saw me to the bottom of the stairs; and as we went down\ntogether, told me, they had come from Ireland, and were on their route\nto join the regiment in Flanders.--But alas! said the corporal,--the\nlieutenant's last day's march is over.--Then what is to become of his\npoor boy? cried my uncle Toby.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LI.\n\nThe Story of Le Fever Continued.\n\nIt was to my uncle Toby's eternal honour,--though I tell it only for the\nsake of those, who, when coop'd in betwixt a natural and a positive\nlaw, know not, for their souls, which way in the world to turn\nthemselves--That notwithstanding my uncle Toby was warmly engaged at\nthat time in carrying on the siege of Dendermond, parallel with the\nallies, who pressed theirs on so vigorously, that they scarce allowed\nhim time to get his dinner--that nevertheless he gave up Dendermond,\nthough he had already made a lodgment upon the counterscarp;--and bent\nhis whole thoughts towards the private distresses at the inn; and except\nthat he ordered the garden gate to be bolted up, by which he might be\nsaid to have turned the siege of Dendermond into a blockade,--he left\nDendermond to itself--to be relieved or not by the French king, as the\nFrench king thought good; and only considered how he himself should\nrelieve the poor lieutenant and his son.\n\n--That kind Being, who is a friend to the friendless, shall recompence\nthee for this.\n\nThou hast left this matter short, said my uncle Toby to the corporal, as\nhe was putting him to bed,--and I will tell thee in what, Trim.--In the\nfirst place, when thou madest an offer of my services to Le Fever,--as\nsickness and travelling are both expensive, and thou knowest he was but\na poor lieutenant, with a son to subsist as well as himself out of his\npay,--that thou didst not make an offer to him of my purse; because, had\nhe stood in need, thou knowest, Trim, he had been as welcome to it as\nmyself.--Your honour knows, said the corporal, I had no orders;--True,\nquoth my uncle Toby,--thou didst very right, Trim, as a soldier,--but\ncertainly very wrong as a man.\n\nIn the second place, for which, indeed, thou hast the same excuse,\ncontinued my uncle Toby,--when thou offeredst him whatever was in my\nhouse,--thou shouldst have offered him my house too:--A sick brother\nofficer should have the best quarters, Trim, and if we had him with\nus,--we could tend and look to him:--Thou art an excellent nurse\nthyself, Trim,--and what with thy care of him, and the old woman's and\nhis boy's, and mine together, we might recruit him again at once, and\nset him upon his legs.--\n\n--In a fortnight or three weeks, added my uncle Toby, smiling,--he might\nmarch.--He will never march; an' please your honour, in this world, said\nthe corporal:--He will march; said my uncle Toby, rising up from the\nside of the bed, with one shoe off:--An' please your honour, said the\ncorporal, he will never march but to his grave:--He shall march, cried\nmy uncle Toby, marching the foot which had a shoe on, though without\nadvanceing an inch,--he shall march to his regiment.--He cannot\nstand it, said the corporal;--He shall be supported, said my uncle\nToby;--He'll drop at last, said the corporal, and what will become\nof his boy?--He shall not drop, said my uncle Toby,\nfirmly.--A-well-o'day,--do what we can for him, said Trim, maintaining\nhis point,--the poor soul will die:--He shall not die, by G.., cried my\nuncle Toby.\n\n--The Accusing Spirit, which flew up to heaven's chancery with the oath,\nblush'd as he gave it in;--and the Recording Angel, as he wrote it down,\ndropp'd a tear upon the word, and blotted it out for ever.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LII.\n\n--My uncle Toby went to his bureau,--put his purse into his breeches\npocket, and having ordered the corporal to go early in the morning for a\nphysician,--he went to bed, and fell asleep.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LIII.\n\nThe Story of Le Fever Continued.\n\nThe sun looked bright the morning after, to every eye in the village but\nLe Fever's and his afflicted son's; the hand of death pressed heavy upon\nhis eye-lids,--and hardly could the wheel at the cistern turn round its\ncircle,--when my uncle Toby, who had rose up an hour before his wonted\ntime, entered the lieutenant's room, and without preface or apology, sat\nhimself down upon the chair by the bed-side, and, independently of all\nmodes and customs, opened the curtain in the manner an old friend and\nbrother officer would have done it, and asked him how he did,--how\nhe had rested in the night,--what was his complaint,--where was his\npain,--and what he could do to help him:--and without giving him time\nto answer any one of the enquiries, went on, and told him of the little\nplan which he had been concerting with the corporal the night before for\nhim.--\n\n--You shall go home directly, Le Fever, said my uncle Toby, to my\nhouse,--and we'll send for a doctor to see what's the matter,--and we'll\nhave an apothecary,--and the corporal shall be your nurse;--and I'll be\nyour servant, Le Fever.\n\nThere was a frankness in my uncle Toby,--not the effect of\nfamiliarity,--but the cause of it,--which let you at once into his soul,\nand shewed you the goodness of his nature; to this there was something\nin his looks, and voice, and manner, superadded, which eternally\nbeckoned to the unfortunate to come and take shelter under him, so that\nbefore my uncle Toby had half finished the kind offers he was making to\nthe father, had the son insensibly pressed up close to his knees, and\nhad taken hold of the breast of his coat, and was pulling it towards\nhim.--The blood and spirits of Le Fever, which were waxing cold and\nslow within him, and were retreating to their last citadel, the\nheart--rallied back,--the film forsook his eyes for a moment,--he\nlooked up wishfully in my uncle Toby's face,--then cast a look upon his\nboy,--and that ligament, fine as it was,--was never broken.--\n\nNature instantly ebb'd again,--the film returned to its\nplace,--the pulse fluttered--stopp'd--went on--throbb'd--stopp'd\nagain--moved--stopp'd--shall I go on?--No.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LIV.\n\nI am so impatient to return to my own story, that what remains of young\nLe Fever's, that is, from this turn of his fortune, to the time my uncle\nToby recommended him for my preceptor, shall be told in a very few words\nin the next chapter.--All that is necessary to be added to this chapter\nis as follows.--\n\nThat my uncle Toby, with young Le Fever in his hand, attended the poor\nlieutenant, as chief mourners, to his grave.\n\nThat the governor of Dendermond paid his obsequies all military\nhonours,--and that Yorick, not to be behind-hand--paid him all\necclesiastic--for he buried him in his chancel:--And it appears\nlikewise, he preached a funeral sermon over him--I say it appears,--for\nit was Yorick's custom, which I suppose a general one with those of\nhis profession, on the first leaf of every sermon which he composed,\nto chronicle down the time, the place, and the occasion of its being\npreached: to this, he was ever wont to add some short comment\nor stricture upon the sermon itself, seldom, indeed, much to its\ncredit:--For instance, This sermon upon the Jewish dispensation--I\ndon't like it at all;--Though I own there is a world of Water-Landish\nknowledge in it;--but 'tis all tritical, and most tritically put\ntogether.--This is but a flimsy kind of a composition; what was in my\nhead when I made it?\n\n--N.B. The excellency of this text is, that it will suit any\nsermon,--and of this sermon,--that it will suit any text.--\n\n--For this sermon I shall be hanged,--for I have stolen the greatest\npart of it. Doctor Paidagunes found me out. > Set a thief to catch a\nthief.--\n\nOn the back of half a dozen I find written, So, so, and no more--and\nupon a couple Moderato; by which, as far as one may gather from\nAltieri's Italian dictionary,--but mostly from the authority of a piece\nof green whipcord, which seemed to have been the unravelling of Yorick's\nwhip-lash, with which he has left us the two sermons marked Moderato,\nand the half dozen of So, so, tied fast together in one bundle by\nthemselves,--one may safely suppose he meant pretty near the same thing.\n\nThere is but one difficulty in the way of this conjecture, which is\nthis, that the moderato's are five times better than the so, so's;--show\nten times more knowledge of the human heart;--have seventy times\nmore wit and spirit in them;--(and, to rise properly in my\nclimax)--discovered a thousand times more genius;--and to crown all, are\ninfinitely more entertaining than those tied up with them:--for which\nreason, whene'er Yorick's dramatic sermons are offered to the world,\nthough I shall admit but one out of the whole number of the so, so's, I\nshall, nevertheless, adventure to print the two moderato's without any\nsort of scruple.\n\nWhat Yorick could mean by the words lentamente,--tenute,--grave,--and\nsometimes adagio,--as applied to theological compositions, and with\nwhich he has characterised some of these sermons, I dare not venture\nto guess.--I am more puzzled still upon finding a l'octava alta!\nupon one;--Con strepito upon the back of another;--Scicilliana upon a\nthird;--Alla capella upon a fourth;--Con l'arco upon this;--Senza l'arco\nupon that.--All I know is, that they are musical terms, and have a\nmeaning;--and as he was a musical man, I will make no doubt, but that by\nsome quaint application of such metaphors to the compositions in hand,\nthey impressed very distinct ideas of their several characters upon his\nfancy,--whatever they may do upon that of others.\n\nAmongst these, there is that particular sermon which has unaccountably\nled me into this digression--The funeral sermon upon poor Le Fever,\nwrote out very fairly, as if from a hasty copy.--I take notice of it\nthe more, because it seems to have been his favourite composition--It\nis upon mortality; and is tied length-ways and cross-ways with a yarn\nthrum, and then rolled up and twisted round with a half-sheet of dirty\nblue paper, which seems to have been once the cast cover of a general\nreview, which to this day smells horribly of horse drugs.--Whether these\nmarks of humiliation were designed,--I something doubt;--because at the\nend of the sermon (and not at the beginning of it)--very different from\nhis way of treating the rest, he had wrote--Bravo!\n\n--Though not very offensively,--for it is at two inches, at least, and\na half's distance from, and below the concluding line of the sermon,\nat the very extremity of the page, and in that right hand corner of it,\nwhich, you know, is generally covered with your thumb; and, to do it\njustice, it is wrote besides with a crow's quill so faintly in a small\nItalian hand, as scarce to solicit the eye towards the place, whether\nyour thumb is there or not,--so that from the manner of it, it stands\nhalf excused; and being wrote moreover with very pale ink, diluted\nalmost to nothing,--'tis more like a ritratto of the shadow of vanity,\nthan of Vanity herself--of the two; resembling rather a faint thought of\ntransient applause, secretly stirring up in the heart of the composer;\nthan a gross mark of it, coarsely obtruded upon the world.\n\nWith all these extenuations, I am aware, that in publishing this, I\ndo no service to Yorick's character as a modest man;--but all men have\ntheir failings! and what lessens this still farther, and almost wipes it\naway, is this; that the word was struck through sometime afterwards (as\nappears from a different tint of the ink) with a line quite across it in\nthis manner, BRAVO (crossed out)--as if he had retracted, or was ashamed\nof the opinion he had once entertained of it.\n\nThese short characters of his sermons were always written, excepting in\nthis one instance, upon the first leaf of his sermon, which served as a\ncover to it; and usually upon the inside of it, which was turned towards\nthe text;--but at the end of his discourse, where, perhaps, he had five\nor six pages, and sometimes, perhaps, a whole score to turn himself\nin,--he took a large circuit, and, indeed, a much more mettlesome\none;--as if he had snatched the occasion of unlacing himself with a\nfew more frolicksome strokes at vice, than the straitness of the pulpit\nallowed.--These, though hussar-like, they skirmish lightly and out of\nall order, are still auxiliaries on the side of virtue;--tell me then,\nMynheer Vander Blonederdondergewdenstronke, why they should not be\nprinted together?\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LV.\n\nWhen my uncle Toby had turned every thing into money, and settled all\naccounts betwixt the agent of the regiment and Le Fever, and betwixt Le\nFever and all mankind,--there remained nothing more in my uncle Toby's\nhands, than an old regimental coat and a sword; so that my uncle Toby\nfound little or no opposition from the world in taking administration.\nThe coat my uncle Toby gave the corporal;--Wear it, Trim, said my\nuncle Toby, as long as it will hold together, for the sake of the poor\nlieutenant--And this,--said my uncle Toby, taking up the sword in his\nhand, and drawing it out of the scabbard as he spoke--and this, Le\nFever, I'll save for thee,--'tis all the fortune, continued my uncle\nToby, hanging it up upon a crook, and pointing to it,--'tis all the\nfortune, my dear Le Fever, which God has left thee; but if he has given\nthee a heart to fight thy way with it in the world,--and thou doest it\nlike a man of honour,--'tis enough for us.\n\nAs soon as my uncle Toby had laid a foundation, and taught him to\ninscribe a regular polygon in a circle, he sent him to a public school,\nwhere, excepting Whitsontide and Christmas, at which times the corporal\nwas punctually dispatched for him,--he remained to the spring of the\nyear, seventeen; when the stories of the emperor's sending his army into\nHungary against the Turks, kindling a spark of fire in his bosom, he\nleft his Greek and Latin without leave, and throwing himself upon his\nknees before my uncle Toby, begged his father's sword, and my\nuncle Toby's leave along with it, to go and try his fortune under\nEugene.--Twice did my uncle Toby forget his wound and cry out, Le Fever!\nI will go with thee, and thou shalt fight beside me--And twice he\nlaid his hand upon his groin, and hung down his head in sorrow and\ndisconsolation.--\n\nMy uncle Toby took down the sword from the crook, where it had hung\nuntouched ever since the lieutenant's death, and delivered it to\nthe corporal to brighten up;--and having detained Le Fever a single\nfortnight to equip him, and contract for his passage to Leghorn,--he\nput the sword into his hand.--If thou art brave, Le Fever, said my\nuncle Toby, this will not fail thee,--but Fortune, said he (musing a\nlittle),--Fortune may--And if she does,--added my uncle Toby, embracing\nhim, come back again to me, Le Fever, and we will shape thee another\ncourse.\n\nThe greatest injury could not have oppressed the heart of Le Fever more\nthan my uncle Toby's paternal kindness;--he parted from my uncle Toby,\nas the best of sons from the best of fathers--both dropped tears--and as\nmy uncle Toby gave him his last kiss, he slipped sixty guineas, tied up\nin an old purse of his father's, in which was his mother's ring, into\nhis hand,--and bid God bless him.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LVI.\n\nLe Fever got up to the Imperial army just time enough to try what metal\nhis sword was made of, at the defeat of the Turks before Belgrade; but\na series of unmerited mischances had pursued him from that moment,\nand trod close upon his heels for four years together after; he had\nwithstood these buffetings to the last, till sickness overtook him at\nMarseilles, from whence he wrote my uncle Toby word, he had lost his\ntime, his services, his health, and, in short, every thing but his\nsword;--and was waiting for the first ship to return back to him.\n\nAs this letter came to hand about six weeks before Susannah's accident,\nLe Fever was hourly expected; and was uppermost in my uncle Toby's mind\nall the time my father was giving him and Yorick a description of what\nkind of a person he would chuse for a preceptor to me: but as my uncle\nToby thought my father at first somewhat fanciful in the accomplishments\nhe required, he forbore mentioning Le Fever's name,--till the character,\nby Yorick's inter-position, ending unexpectedly, in one, who should be\ngentle-tempered, and generous, and good, it impressed the image of\nLe Fever, and his interest, upon my uncle Toby so forcibly, he rose\ninstantly off his chair; and laying down his pipe, in order to take hold\nof both my father's hands--I beg, brother Shandy, said my uncle Toby,\nI may recommend poor Le Fever's son to you--I beseech you do, added\nYorick--He has a good heart, said my uncle Toby--And a brave one too,\nan' please your honour, said the corporal.\n\n--The best hearts, Trim, are ever the bravest, replied my uncle\nToby.--And the greatest cowards, an' please your honour, in our\nregiment, were the greatest rascals in it.--There was serjeant Kumber,\nand ensign--\n\n--We'll talk of them, said my father, another time.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LVII.\n\nWhat a jovial and a merry world would this be, may it please your\nworships, but for that inextricable labyrinth of debts, cares, woes,\nwant, grief, discontent, melancholy, large jointures, impositions, and\nlies!\n\nDoctor Slop, like a son of a w..., as my father called him for it,--to\nexalt himself,--debased me to death,--and made ten thousand times more\nof Susannah's accident, than there was any grounds for; so that in a\nweek's time, or less, it was in every body's mouth, That poor Master\nShandy...entirely.--And Fame, who loves to double every thing,--in\nthree days more, had sworn, positively she saw it,--and all the world,\nas usual, gave credit to her evidence--'That the nursery window had not\nonly...;--but that.. .'s also.'\n\nCould the world have been sued like a Body-Corporate,--my father had\nbrought an action upon the case, and trounced it sufficiently; but to\nfall foul of individuals about it--as every soul who had mentioned the\naffair, did it with the greatest pity imaginable;--'twas like flying\nin the very face of his best friends:--And yet to acquiesce under the\nreport, in silence--was to acknowledge it openly,--at least in the\nopinion of one half of the world; and to make a bustle again, in\ncontradicting it,--was to confirm it as strongly in the opinion of the\nother half.--\n\n--Was ever poor devil of a country gentleman so hampered? said my\nfather.\n\nI would shew him publickly, said my uncle Toby, at the market cross.\n\n--'Twill have no effect, said my father.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LVIII.\n\n--I'll put him, however, into breeches, said my father,--let the world\nsay what it will.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LIX.\n\nThere are a thousand resolutions, Sir, both in church and state, as well\nas in matters, Madam, of a more private concern;--which, though they\nhave carried all the appearance in the world of being taken, and\nentered upon in a hasty, hare-brained, and unadvised manner, were,\nnotwithstanding this, (and could you or I have got into the cabinet,\nor stood behind the curtain, we should have found it was so) weighed,\npoized, and perpended--argued upon--canvassed through--entered into,\nand examined on all sides with so much coolness, that the Goddess of\nCoolness herself (I do not take upon me to prove her existence) could\nneither have wished it, or done it better.\n\nOf the number of these was my father's resolution of putting me into\nbreeches; which, though determined at once,--in a kind of huff, and a\ndefiance of all mankind, had, nevertheless, been pro'd and conn'd, and\njudicially talked over betwixt him and my mother about a month before,\nin two several beds of justice, which my father had held for that\npurpose. I shall explain the nature of these beds of justice in my next\nchapter; and in the chapter following that, you shall step with me,\nMadam, behind the curtain, only to hear in what kind of manner my\nfather and my mother debated between themselves, this affair of the\nbreeches,--from which you may form an idea, how they debated all lesser\nmatters.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LX.\n\nThe ancient Goths of Germany, who (the learned Cluverius is positive)\nwere first seated in the country between the Vistula and the Oder, and\nwho afterwards incorporated the Herculi, the Bugians, and some other\nVandallick clans to 'em--had all of them a wise custom of debating every\nthing of importance to their state, twice, that is,--once drunk, and\nonce sober:--Drunk--that their councils might not want vigour;--and\nsober--that they might not want discretion.\n\nNow my father being entirely a water-drinker,--was a long time gravelled\nalmost to death, in turning this as much to his advantage, as he did\nevery other thing which the ancients did or said; and it was not till\nthe seventh year of his marriage, after a thousand fruitless experiments\nand devices, that he hit upon an expedient which answered the\npurpose;--and that was, when any difficult and momentous point was to be\nsettled in the family, which required great sobriety, and great spirit\ntoo, in its determination,--he fixed and set apart the first Sunday\nnight in the month, and the Saturday night which immediately preceded\nit, to argue it over, in bed with my mother: By which contrivance, if\nyou consider, Sir, with yourself,.. ..\n\nThese my father, humorously enough, called his beds of justice;--for\nfrom the two different counsels taken in these two different humours, a\nmiddle one was generally found out which touched the point of wisdom as\nwell, as if he had got drunk and sober a hundred times.\n\nI must not be made a secret of to the world, that this answers full as\nwell in literary discussions, as either in military or conjugal; but it\nis not every author that can try the experiment as the Goths and Vandals\ndid it--or, if he can, may it be always for his body's health; and to do\nit, as my father did it,--am I sure it would be always for his soul's.\n\nMy way is this:--\n\nIn all nice and ticklish discussions,--(of which, heaven knows, there\nare but too many in my book)--where I find I cannot take a step without\nthe danger of having either their worships or their reverences upon\nmy back--I write one-half full,--and t'other fasting;--or write it all\nfull,--and correct it fasting;--or write it fasting,--and correct\nit full, for they all come to the same thing:--So that with a less\nvariation from my father's plan, than my father's from the Gothick--I\nfeel myself upon a par with him in his first bed of justice,--and no\nway inferior to him in his second.--These different and almost\nirreconcileable effects, flow uniformly from the wise and wonderful\nmechanism of nature,--of which,--be her's the honour.--All that we\ncan do, is to turn and work the machine to the improvement and better\nmanufactory of the arts and sciences.--\n\nNow, when I write full,--I write as if I was never to write fasting\nagain as long as I live;--that is, I write free from the cares as well\nas the terrors of the world.--I count not the number of my scars,--nor\ndoes my fancy go forth into dark entries and bye-corners to ante-date my\nstabs.--In a word, my pen takes its course; and I write on as much from\nthe fulness of my heart, as my stomach.--\n\nBut when, an' please your honours, I indite fasting, 'tis a different\nhistory.--I pay the world all possible attention and respect,--and have\nas great a share (whilst it lasts) of that under strapping virtue of\ndiscretion as the best of you.--So that betwixt both, I write a careless\nkind of a civil, nonsensical, good-humoured Shandean book, which will do\nall your hearts good--\n\n--And all your heads too,--provided you understand it.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LXI.\n\nWe should begin, said my father, turning himself half round in bed,\nand shifting his pillow a little towards my mother's, as he opened the\ndebate--We should begin to think, Mrs. Shandy, of putting this boy into\nbreeches.--\n\nWe should so,--said my mother.--We defer it, my dear, quoth my father,\nshamefully.--\n\nI think we do, Mr. Shandy,--said my mother.\n\n--Not but the child looks extremely well, said my father, in his vests\nand tunicks.--\n\n--He does look very well in them,--replied my mother.--\n\n--And for that reason it would be almost a sin, added my father, to take\nhim out of 'em.--\n\n--It would so,--said my mother:--But indeed he is growing a very tall\nlad,--rejoined my father.\n\n--He is very tall for his age, indeed,--said my mother.--\n\n--I can not (making two syllables of it) imagine, quoth my father, who\nthe deuce he takes after.--\n\nI cannot conceive, for my life, said my mother.--\n\nHumph!--said my father.\n\n(The dialogue ceased for a moment.)\n\n--I am very short myself,--continued my father gravely.\n\nYou are very short, Mr. Shandy,--said my mother.\n\nHumph! quoth my father to himself, a second time: in muttering which, he\nplucked his pillow a little further from my mother's,--and turning about\nagain, there was an end of the debate for three minutes and a half.\n\n--When he gets these breeches made, cried my father in a higher tone,\nhe'll look like a beast in 'em.\n\nHe will be very awkward in them at first, replied my mother.\n\n--And 'twill be lucky, if that's the worst on't, added my father.\n\nIt will be very lucky, answered my mother.\n\nI suppose, replied my father,--making some pause first,--he'll be\nexactly like other people's children.--\n\nExactly, said my mother.--\n\n--Though I shall be sorry for that, added my father: and so the debate\nstopp'd again.--\n\n--They should be of leather, said my father, turning him about again.--\n\nThey will last him, said my mother, the longest.\n\nBut he can have no linings to 'em, replied my father.--\n\nHe cannot, said my mother.\n\n'Twere better to have them of fustian, quoth my father.\n\nNothing can be better, quoth my mother.--\n\n--Except dimity,--replied my father:--'Tis best of all,--replied my\nmother.\n\n--One must not give him his death, however,--interrupted my father.\n\nBy no means, said my mother:--and so the dialogue stood still again.\n\nI am resolved, however, quoth my father, breaking silence the fourth\ntime, he shall have no pockets in them.--\n\n--There is no occasion for any, said my mother.--\n\nI mean in his coat and waistcoat,--cried my father.\n\n--I mean so too,--replied my mother.\n\n--Though if he gets a gig or top--Poor souls! it is a crown and a\nsceptre to them,--they should have where to secure it.--\n\nOrder it as you please, Mr. Shandy, replied my mother.--\n\n--But don't you think it right? added my father, pressing the point home\nto her.\n\nPerfectly, said my mother, if it pleases you, Mr. Shandy.--\n\n--There's for you! cried my father, losing his temper--Pleases me!--You\nnever will distinguish, Mrs. Shandy, nor shall I ever teach you to do\nit, betwixt a point of pleasure and a point of convenience.--This was on\nthe Sunday night:--and further this chapter sayeth not.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LXII.\n\nAfter my father had debated the affair of the breeches with my\nmother,--he consulted Albertus Rubenius upon it; and Albertus Rubenius\nused my father ten times worse in the consultation (if possible) than\neven my father had used my mother: For as Rubenius had wrote a quarto\nexpress, De re Vestiaria Veterum,--it was Rubenius's business to have\ngiven my father some lights.--On the contrary, my father might as well\nhave thought of extracting the seven cardinal virtues out of a long\nbeard,--as of extracting a single word out of Rubenius upon the subject.\n\nUpon every other article of ancient dress, Rubenius was very\ncommunicative to my father;--gave him a full satisfactory account of\n\n The Toga, or loose gown.\n The Chlamys.\n The Ephod.\n The Tunica, or Jacket.\n The Synthesis.\n The Paenula.\n The Lacema, with its Cucullus.\n The Paludamentum.\n The Praetexta.\n The Sagum, or soldier's jerkin.\n The Trabea: of which, according to Suetonius, there was three kinds.--\n\n--But what are all these to the breeches? said my father.\n\nRubenius threw him down upon the counter all kinds of shoes which had\nbeen in fashion with the Romans.--\n\n There was,\n The open shoe.\n The close shoe.\n The slip shoe.\n The wooden shoe.\n The soc.\n The buskin.\n And The military shoe with hobnails in it, which Juvenal takes\n    notice of.\n\n There were,\n The clogs.\n The pattins.\n The pantoufles.\n The brogues.\n The sandals, with latchets to them.\n\n There was,\n The felt shoe.\n The linen shoe.\n The laced shoe.\n The braided shoe.\n The calceus incisus.\n And The calceus rostratus.\n\nRubenius shewed my father how well they all fitted,--in what manner they\nlaced on,--with what points, straps, thongs, latchets, ribbands, jaggs,\nand ends.--\n\n--But I want to be informed about the breeches, said my father.\n\nAlbertus Rubenius informed my father that the Romans manufactured\nstuffs of various fabrics,--some plain,--some striped,--others diapered\nthroughout the whole contexture of the wool, with silk and gold--That\nlinen did not begin to be in common use till towards the declension of\nthe empire, when the Egyptians coming to settle amongst them, brought it\ninto vogue.\n\n--That persons of quality and fortune distinguished themselves by the\nfineness and whiteness of their clothes; which colour (next to purple,\nwhich was appropriated to the great offices) they most affected, and\nwore on their birth-days and public rejoicings.--That it appeared from\nthe best historians of those times, that they frequently sent their\nclothes to the fuller, to be clean'd and whitened:--but that the\ninferior people, to avoid that expence, generally wore brown clothes,\nand of a something coarser texture,--till towards the beginning of\nAugustus's reign, when the slave dressed like his master, and almost\nevery distinction of habiliment was lost, but the Latus Clavus.\n\nAnd what was the Latus Clavus? said my father.\n\nRubenius told him, that the point was still litigating amongst the\nlearned:--That Egnatius, Sigonius, Bossius Ticinensis, Bayfius Budaeus,\nSalmasius, Lipsius, Lazius, Isaac Casaubon, and Joseph Scaliger, all\ndiffered from each other,--and he from them: That some took it to be the\nbutton,--some the coat itself,--others only the colour of it;--That the\ngreat Bayfuis in his Wardrobe of the Ancients, chap. 12--honestly said,\nhe knew not what it was,--whether a tibula,--a stud,--a button,--a\nloop,--a buckle,--or clasps and keepers.--\n\n--My father lost the horse, but not the saddle--They are hooks and eyes,\nsaid my father--and with hooks and eyes he ordered my breeches to be\nmade.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LXIII.\n\nWe are now going to enter upon a new scene of events.--\n\n--Leave we then the breeches in the taylor's hands, with my father\nstanding over him with his cane, reading him as he sat at work a\nlecture upon the latus clavus, and pointing to the precise part of the\nwaistband, where he was determined to have it sewed on.--\n\nLeave we my mother--(truest of all the Poco-curante's of her\nsex!)--careless about it, as about every thing else in the world which\nconcerned her;--that is,--indifferent whether it was done this way or\nthat,--provided it was but done at all.--\n\nLeave we Slop likewise to the full profits of all my dishonours.--\n\nLeave we poor Le Fever to recover, and get home from Marseilles as he\ncan.--And last of all,--because the hardest of all--\n\nLet us leave, if possible, myself:--But 'tis impossible,--I must go\nalong with you to the end of the work.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LXIV.\n\nIf the reader has not a clear conception of the rood and the half of\nground which lay at the bottom of my uncle Toby's kitchen-garden, and\nwhich was the scene of so many of his delicious hours,--the fault is not\nin me,--but in his imagination;--for I am sure I gave him so minute a\ndescription, I was almost ashamed of it.\n\nWhen Fate was looking forwards one afternoon, into the great\ntransactions of future times,--and recollected for what purposes\nthis little plot, by a decree fast bound down in iron, had been\ndestined,--she gave a nod to Nature,--'twas enough--Nature threw half a\nspade full of her kindliest compost upon it, with just so much clay in\nit, as to retain the forms of angles and indentings,--and so little of\nit too, as not to cling to the spade, and render works of so much glory,\nnasty in foul weather.\n\nMy uncle Toby came down, as the reader has been informed, with plans\nalong with him, of almost every fortified town in Italy and Flanders;\nso let the duke of Marlborough, or the allies, have set down before what\ntown they pleased, my uncle Toby was prepared for them.\n\nHis way, which was the simplest one in the world, was this; as soon as\never a town was invested--(but sooner when the design was known) to take\nthe plan of it (let it be what town it would), and enlarge it upon a\nscale to the exact size of his bowling-green; upon the surface of which,\nby means of a large role of packthread, and a number of small piquets\ndriven into the ground, at the several angles and redans, he transferred\nthe lines from his paper; then taking the profile of the place, with its\nworks, to determine the depths and slopes of the ditches,--the talus of\nthe glacis, and the precise height of the several banquets, parapets,\n&c.--he set the corporal to work--and sweetly went it on:--The nature\nof the soil,--the nature of the work itself,--and above all, the\ngood-nature of my uncle Toby sitting by from morning to night, and\nchatting kindly with the corporal upon past-done deeds,--left Labour\nlittle else but the ceremony of the name.\n\nWhen the place was finished in this manner, and put into a proper\nposture of defence,--it was invested,--and my uncle Toby and the\ncorporal began to run their first parallel.--I beg I may not be\ninterrupted in my story, by being told, That the first parallel should\nbe at least three hundred toises distant from the main body of the\nplace,--and that I have not left a single inch for it;--for my uncle\nToby took the liberty of incroaching upon his kitchen-garden, for the\nsake of enlarging his works on the bowling-green, and for that reason\ngenerally ran his first and second parallels betwixt two rows of his\ncabbages and his cauliflowers; the conveniences and inconveniences of\nwhich will be considered at large in the history of my uncle Toby's\nand the corporal's campaigns, of which, this I'm now writing is but a\nsketch, and will be finished, if I conjecture right, in three pages (but\nthere is no guessing)--The campaigns themselves will take up as many\nbooks; and therefore I apprehend it would be hanging too great a weight\nof one kind of matter in so flimsy a performance as this, to rhapsodize\nthem, as I once intended, into the body of the work--surely they\nhad better be printed apart,--we'll consider the affair--so take the\nfollowing sketch of them in the mean time.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LXV.\n\nWhen the town, with its works, was finished, my uncle Toby and the\ncorporal began to run their first parallel--not at random, or any\nhow--but from the same points and distances the allies had begun to run\ntheirs; and regulating their approaches and attacks, by the accounts\nmy uncle Toby received from the daily papers,--they went on, during the\nwhole siege, step by step with the allies.\n\nWhen the duke of Marlborough made a lodgment,--my uncle Toby made a\nlodgment too.--And when the face of a bastion was battered down, or a\ndefence ruined,--the corporal took his mattock and did as much,--and\nso on;--gaining ground, and making themselves masters of the works one\nafter another, till the town fell into their hands.\n\nTo one who took pleasure in the happy state of others,--there could not\nhave been a greater sight in world, than on a post morning, in which a\npracticable breach had been made by the duke of Marlborough, in the\nmain body of the place,--to have stood behind the horn-beam hedge, and\nobserved the spirit with which my uncle Toby, with Trim behind him,\nsallied forth;--the one with the Gazette in his hand,--the other with a\nspade on his shoulder to execute the contents.--What an honest triumph\nin my uncle Toby's looks as he marched up to the ramparts! What intense\npleasure swimming in his eye as he stood over the corporal, reading the\nparagraph ten times over to him, as he was at work, lest, peradventure,\nhe should make the breach an inch too wide,--or leave it an inch too\nnarrow.--But when the chamade was beat, and the corporal helped my uncle\nup it, and followed with the colours in his hand, to fix them upon the\nramparts--Heaven! Earth! Sea!--but what avails apostrophes?--with\nall your elements, wet or dry, ye never compounded so intoxicating a\ndraught.\n\nIn this track of happiness for many years, without one interruption to\nit, except now and then when the wind continued to blow due west for a\nweek or ten days together, which detained the Flanders mail, and kept\nthem so long in torture,--but still 'twas the torture of the happy--In\nthis track, I say, did my uncle Toby and Trim move for many years, every\nyear of which, and sometimes every month, from the invention of either\nthe one or the other of them, adding some new conceit or quirk of\nimprovement to their operations, which always opened fresh springs of\ndelight in carrying them on.\n\nThe first year's campaign was carried on from beginning to end, in the\nplain and simple method I've related.\n\nIn the second year, in which my uncle Toby took Liege and Ruremond, he\nthought he might afford the expence of four handsome draw-bridges; of\ntwo of which I have given an exact description in the former part of my\nwork.\n\nAt the latter end of the same year he added a couple of gates with\nport-cullises:--These last were converted afterwards into orgues, as\nthe better thing; and during the winter of the same year, my uncle Toby,\ninstead of a new suit of clothes, which he always had at Christmas,\ntreated himself with a handsome sentry-box, to stand at the corner of\nthe bowling-green, betwixt which point and the foot of the glacis,\nthere was left a little kind of an esplanade for him and the corporal to\nconfer and hold councils of war upon.\n\n--The sentry-box was in case of rain.\n\nAll these were painted white three times over the ensuing spring, which\nenabled my uncle Toby to take the field with great splendour.\n\nMy father would often say to Yorick, that if any mortal in the whole\nuniverse had done such a thing except his brother Toby, it would have\nbeen looked upon by the world as one of the most refined satires upon\nthe parade and prancing manner in which Lewis XIV. from the beginning of\nthe war, but particularly that very year, had taken the field--But 'tis\nnot my brother Toby's nature, kind soul! my father would add, to insult\nany one.\n\n--But let us go on.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LXVI.\n\nI must observe, that although in the first year's campaign, the word\ntown is often mentioned,--yet there was no town at that time within the\npolygon; that addition was not made till the summer following the spring\nin which the bridges and sentry-box were painted, which was the third\nyear of my uncle Toby's campaigns,--when upon his taking Amberg, Bonn,\nand Rhinberg, and Huy and Limbourg, one after another, a thought came\ninto the corporal's head, that to talk of taking so many towns, without\none Town to shew for it,--was a very nonsensical way of going to work,\nand so proposed to my uncle Toby, that they should have a little model\nof a town built for them,--to be run up together of slit deals, and then\npainted, and clapped within the interior polygon to serve for all.\n\nMy uncle Toby felt the good of the project instantly, and instantly\nagreed to it, but with the addition of two singular improvements, of\nwhich he was almost as proud as if he had been the original inventor of\nthe project itself.\n\nThe one was, to have the town built exactly in the style of those of\nwhich it was most likely to be the representative:--with grated windows,\nand the gable ends of the houses, facing the streets, &c. &c.--as those\nin Ghent and Bruges, and the rest of the towns in Brabant and Flanders.\n\nThe other was, not to have the houses run up together, as the corporal\nproposed, but to have every house independent, to hook on, or off, so\nas to form into the plan of whatever town they pleased. This was put\ndirectly into hand, and many and many a look of mutual congratulation\nwas exchanged between my uncle Toby and the corporal, as the carpenter\ndid the work.\n\n--It answered prodigiously the next summer--the town was a perfect\nProteus--It was Landen, and Trerebach, and Santvliet, and Drusen, and\nHagenau,--and then it was Ostend and Menin, and Aeth and Dendermond.\n\n--Surely never did any Town act so many parts, since Sodom and Gomorrah,\nas my uncle Toby's town did.\n\nIn the fourth year, my uncle Toby thinking a town looked foolishly\nwithout a church, added a very fine one with a steeple.--Trim was for\nhaving bells in it;--my uncle Toby said, the metal had better be cast\ninto cannon.\n\nThis led the way the next campaign for half a dozen brass field-pieces,\nto be planted three and three on each side of my uncle Toby's\nsentry-box; and in a short time, these led the way for a train\nof somewhat larger,--and so on--(as must always be the case in\nhobby-horsical affairs) from pieces of half an inch bore, till it came\nat last to my father's jack boots.\n\nThe next year, which was that in which Lisle was besieged, and at the\nclose of which both Ghent and Bruges fell into our hands,--my uncle\nToby was sadly put to it for proper ammunition;--I say proper\nammunition--because his great artillery would not bear powder; and 'twas\nwell for the Shandy family they would not--For so full were the papers,\nfrom the beginning to the end of the siege, of the incessant firings\nkept up by the besiegers,--and so heated was my uncle Toby's imagination\nwith the accounts of them, that he had infallibly shot away all his\nestate.\n\nSomething therefore was wanting as a succedaneum, especially in one or\ntwo of the more violent paroxysms of the siege, to keep up something\nlike a continual firing in the imagination,--and this something, the\ncorporal, whose principal strength lay in invention, supplied by an\nentire new system of battering of his own,--without which, this had been\nobjected to by military critics, to the end of the world, as one of the\ngreat desiderata of my uncle Toby's apparatus.\n\nThis will not be explained the worse, for setting off, as I generally\ndo, at a little distance from the subject.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LXVII.\n\nWith two or three other trinkets, small in themselves, but of great\nregard, which poor Tom, the corporal's unfortunate brother, had sent him\nover, with the account of his marriage with the Jew's widow--there was\n\nA Montero-cap and two Turkish tobacco-pipes.\n\nThe Montero-cap I shall describe by and bye.--The Turkish tobacco-pipes\nhad nothing particular in them, they were fitted up and ornamented as\nusual, with flexible tubes of Morocco leather and gold wire, and mounted\nat their ends, the one of them with ivory,--the other with black ebony,\ntipp'd with silver.\n\nMy father, who saw all things in lights different from the rest of the\nworld, would say to the corporal, that he ought to look upon these\ntwo presents more as tokens of his brother's nicety, than his\naffection.--Tom did not care, Trim, he would say, to put on the cap,\nor to smoke in the tobacco-pipe of a Jew.--God bless your honour, the\ncorporal would say (giving a strong reason to the contrary)--how can\nthat be?\n\nThe Montero-cap was scarlet, of a superfine Spanish cloth, dyed in\ngrain, and mounted all round with fur, except about four inches in the\nfront, which was faced with a light blue, slightly embroidered,--and\nseemed to have been the property of a Portuguese quarter-master, not of\nfoot, but of horse, as the word denotes.\n\nThe corporal was not a little proud of it, as well for its own sake, as\nthe sake of the giver, so seldom or never put it on but upon Gala-days;\nand yet never was a Montero-cap put to so many uses; for in all\ncontroverted points, whether military or culinary, provided the corporal\nwas sure he was in the right,--it was either his oath,--his wager,--or\nhis gift.\n\n--'Twas his gift in the present case.\n\nI'll be bound, said the corporal, speaking to himself, to give away\nmy Montero-cap to the first beggar who comes to the door, if I do not\nmanage this matter to his honour's satisfaction.\n\nThe completion was no further off, than the very next morning; which was\nthat of the storm of the counterscarp betwixt the Lower Deule, to the\nright, and the gate St. Andrew,--and on the left, between St. Magdalen's\nand the river.\n\nAs this was the most memorable attack in the whole war,--the most\ngallant and obstinate on both sides,--and I must add the most bloody\ntoo, for it cost the allies themselves that morning above eleven hundred\nmen,--my uncle Toby prepared himself for it with a more than ordinary\nsolemnity.\n\nThe eve which preceded, as my uncle Toby went to bed, he ordered his\nramallie wig, which had laid inside out for many years in the corner of\nan old campaigning trunk, which stood by his bedside, to be taken out\nand laid upon the lid of it, ready for the morning;--and the very first\nthing he did in his shirt, when he had stepped out of bed, my uncle\nToby, after he had turned the rough side outwards,--put it on:--This\ndone, he proceeded next to his breeches, and having buttoned the\nwaist-band, he forthwith buckled on his sword-belt, and had got his\nsword half way in,--when he considered he should want shaving, and that\nit would be very inconvenient doing it with his sword on,--so took it\noff:--In essaying to put on his regimental coat and waistcoat, my uncle\nToby found the same objection in his wig,--so that went off too:--So\nthat what with one thing and what with another, as always falls out when\na man is in the most haste,--'twas ten o'clock, which was half an hour\nlater than his usual time, before my uncle Toby sallied out.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LXVIII.\n\nMy uncle Toby had scarce turned the corner of his yew hedge, which\nseparated his kitchen-garden from his bowling-green, when he perceived\nthe corporal had begun the attack without him.--\n\nLet me stop and give you a picture of the corporal's apparatus; and of\nthe corporal himself in the height of his attack, just as it struck my\nuncle Toby, as he turned towards the sentry-box, where the corporal\nwas at work,--for in nature there is not such another,--nor can any\ncombination of all that is grotesque and whimsical in her works produce\nits equal.\n\nThe corporal--\n\n--Tread lightly on his ashes, ye men of genius,--for he was your\nkinsman:\n\nWeed his grave clean, ye men of goodness,--for he was your brother.--Oh\ncorporal! had I thee, but now,--now, that I am able to give thee a\ndinner and protection,--how would I cherish thee! thou should'st wear\nthy Montero-cap every hour of the day, and every day of the week.--and\nwhen it was worn out, I would purchase thee a couple like it:--But alas!\nalas! alas! now that I can do this in spite of their reverences--the\noccasion is lost--for thou art gone;--thy genius fled up to the stars\nfrom whence it came;--and that warm heart of thine, with all its\ngenerous and open vessels, compressed into a clod of the valley!\n\n--But what--what is this, to that future and dreaded page, where I look\ntowards the velvet pall, decorated with the military ensigns of thy\nmaster--the first--the foremost of created beings;--where, I shall see\nthee, faithful servant! laying his sword and scabbard with a trembling\nhand across his coffin, and then returning pale as ashes to the door,\nto take his mourning horse by the bridle, to follow his hearse, as he\ndirected thee;--where--all my father's systems shall be baffled by his\nsorrows; and, in spite of his philosophy, I shall behold him, as he\ninspects the lackered plate, twice taking his spectacles from off his\nnose, to wipe away the dew which nature has shed upon them--When I see\nhim cast in the rosemary with an air of disconsolation, which cries\nthrough my ears,--O Toby! in what corner of the world shall I seek thy\nfellow?\n\n--Gracious powers! which erst have opened the lips of the dumb in his\ndistress, and made the tongue of the stammerer speak plain--when I shall\narrive at this dreaded page, deal not with me, then, with a stinted\nhand.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LXIX.\n\nThe corporal, who the night before had resolved in his mind to supply\nthe grand desideratum, of keeping up something like an incessant firing\nupon the enemy during the heat of the attack,--had no further idea in\nhis fancy at that time, than a contrivance of smoking tobacco against\nthe town, out of one of my uncle Toby's six field-pieces, which were\nplanted on each side of his sentry-box; the means of effecting which\noccurring to his fancy at the same time, though he had pledged his cap,\nhe thought it in no danger from the miscarriage of his projects.\n\nUpon turning it this way, and that, a little in his mind, he soon began\nto find out, that by means of his two Turkish tobacco-pipes, with the\nsupplement of three smaller tubes of wash-leather at each of their\nlower ends, to be tagg'd by the same number of tin-pipes fitted to\nthe touch-holes, and sealed with clay next the cannon, and then tied\nhermetically with waxed silk at their several insertions into the\nMorocco tube,--he should be able to fire the six field-pieces all\ntogether, and with the same ease as to fire one.--\n\n--Let no man say from what taggs and jaggs hints may not be cut out for\nthe advancement of human knowledge. Let no man, who has read my father's\nfirst and second beds of justice, ever rise up and say again, from\ncollision of what kinds of bodies light may or may not be struck out, to\ncarry the arts and sciences up to perfection.--Heaven! thou knowest how\nI love them;--thou knowest the secrets of my heart, and that I would\nthis moment give my shirt--Thou art a fool, Shandy, says Eugenius, for\nthou hast but a dozen in the world,--and 'twill break thy set.--\n\nNo matter for that, Eugenius; I would give the shirt off my back to be\nburnt into tinder, were it only to satisfy one feverish enquirer, how\nmany sparks at one good stroke, a good flint and steel could strike\ninto the tail of it.--Think ye not that in striking these in,--he might,\nper-adventure, strike something out? as sure as a gun.--\n\n--But this project, by the bye.\n\nThe corporal sat up the best part of the night, in bringing his to\nperfection; and having made a sufficient proof of his cannon, with\ncharging them to the top with tobacco,--he went with contentment to bed.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LXX.\n\nThe corporal had slipped out about ten minutes before my uncle Toby, in\norder to fix his apparatus, and just give the enemy a shot or two before\nmy uncle Toby came.\n\nHe had drawn the six field-pieces for this end, all close up together in\nfront of my uncle Toby's sentry-box, leaving only an interval of about\na yard and a half betwixt the three, on the right and left, for the\nconvenience of charging, &c.--and the sake possibly of two batteries,\nwhich he might think double the honour of one.\n\nIn the rear and facing this opening, with his back to the door of the\nsentry-box, for fear of being flanked, had the corporal wisely taken his\npost:--He held the ivory pipe, appertaining to the battery on the right,\nbetwixt the finger and thumb of his right hand,--and the ebony pipe\ntipp'd with silver, which appertained to the battery on the left,\nbetwixt the finger and thumb of the other--and with his right knee fixed\nfirm upon the ground, as if in the front rank of his platoon, was the\ncorporal, with his Montero-cap upon his head, furiously playing off his\ntwo cross batteries at the same time against the counter-guard, which\nfaced the counterscarp, where the attack was to be made that morning.\nHis first intention, as I said, was no more than giving the enemy a\nsingle puff or two;--but the pleasure of the puffs, as well as the\npuffing, had insensibly got hold of the corporal, and drawn him on from\npuff to puff, into the very height of the attack, by the time my uncle\nToby joined him.\n\n'Twas well for my father, that my uncle Toby had not his will to make\nthat day.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LXXI.\n\nMy uncle Toby took the ivory pipe out of the corporal's hand,--looked at\nit for half a minute, and returned it.\n\nIn less than two minutes, my uncle Toby took the pipe from the corporal\nagain, and raised it half way to his mouth--then hastily gave it back a\nsecond time.\n\nThe corporal redoubled the attack,--my uncle Toby smiled,--then looked\ngrave,--then smiled for a moment,--then looked serious for a long\ntime;--Give me hold of the ivory pipe, Trim, said my uncle Toby--my\nuncle Toby put it to his lips,--drew it back directly,--gave a peep over\nthe horn-beam hedge;--never did my uncle Toby's mouth water so much for\na pipe in his life.--My uncle Toby retired into the sentry-box with the\npipe in his hand.--\n\n--Dear uncle Toby! don't go into the sentry-box with the pipe,--there's\nno trusting a man's self with such a thing in such a corner.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LXXII.\n\nI beg the reader will assist me here, to wheel off my uncle Toby's\nordnance behind the scenes,--to remove his sentry-box, and clear the\ntheatre, if possible, of horn-works and half moons, and get the rest\nof his military apparatus out of the way;--that done, my dear friend\nGarrick, we'll snuff the candles bright,--sweep the stage with a new\nbroom,--draw up the curtain, and exhibit my uncle Toby dressed in a new\ncharacter, throughout which the world can have no idea how he will act:\nand yet, if pity be a-kin to love,--and bravery no alien to it, you have\nseen enough of my uncle Toby in these, to trace these family likenesses,\nbetwixt the two passions (in case there is one) to your heart's content.\n\nVain science! thou assistest us in no case of this kind--and thou\npuzzlest us in every one.\n\nThere was, Madam, in my uncle Toby, a singleness of heart which misled\nhim so far out of the little serpentine tracks in which things of this\nnature usually go on; you can--you can have no conception of it: with\nthis, there was a plainness and simplicity of thinking, with such\nan unmistrusting ignorance of the plies and foldings of the heart of\nwoman;--and so naked and defenceless did he stand before you, (when a\nsiege was out of his head,) that you might have stood behind any one\nof your serpentine walks, and shot my uncle Toby ten times in a day,\nthrough his liver, if nine times in a day, Madam, had not served your\npurpose.\n\nWith all this, Madam,--and what confounded every thing as much on the\nother hand, my uncle Toby had that unparalleled modesty of nature I\nonce told you of, and which, by the bye, stood eternal sentry upon\nhis feelings, that you might as soon--But where am I going? these\nreflections crowd in upon me ten pages at least too soon, and take up\nthat time, which I ought to bestow upon facts.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LXXIII.\n\nOf the few legitimate sons of Adam whose breasts never felt what\nthe sting of love was,--(maintaining first, all mysogynists to be\nbastards,)--the greatest heroes of ancient and modern story have carried\noff amongst them nine parts in ten of the honour; and I wish for their\nsakes I had the key of my study, out of my draw-well, only for five\nminutes, to tell you their names--recollect them I cannot--so be content\nto accept of these, for the present, in their stead.\n\nThere was the great king Aldrovandus, and Bosphorus, and Cappadocius,\nand Dardanus, and Pontus, and Asius,--to say nothing of the iron-hearted\nCharles the XIIth, whom the Countess of K..... herself could make\nnothing of.--There was Babylonicus, and Mediterraneus, and Polixenes,\nand Persicus, and Prusicus, not one of whom (except Cappadocius and\nPontus, who were both a little suspected) ever once bowed down his\nbreast to the goddess--The truth is, they had all of them something else\nto do--and so had my uncle Toby--till Fate--till Fate I say, envying his\nname the glory of being handed down to posterity with Aldrovandus's and\nthe rest,--she basely patched up the peace of Utrecht.\n\n--Believe me, Sirs, 'twas the worst deed she did that year.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LXXIV.\n\nAmongst the many ill consequences of the treaty of Utrecht, it was\nwithin a point of giving my uncle Toby a surfeit of sieges; and though\nhe recovered his appetite afterwards, yet Calais itself left not a\ndeeper scar in Mary's heart, than Utrecht upon my uncle Toby's. To the\nend of his life he never could hear Utrecht mentioned upon any account\nwhatever,--or so much as read an article of news extracted out of the\nUtrecht Gazette, without fetching a sigh, as if his heart would break in\ntwain.\n\nMy father, who was a great Motive-Monger, and consequently a very\ndangerous person for a man to sit by, either laughing or crying,--for he\ngenerally knew your motive for doing both, much better than you knew it\nyourself--would always console my uncle Toby upon these occasions, in a\nway, which shewed plainly, he imagined my uncle Toby grieved for nothing\nin the whole affair, so much as the loss of his hobby-horse.--Never\nmind, brother Toby, he would say,--by God's blessing we shall have\nanother war break out again some of these days; and when it does,--the\nbelligerent powers, if they would hang themselves, cannot keep us out of\nplay.--I defy 'em, my dear Toby, he would add, to take countries without\ntaking towns,--or towns without sieges.\n\nMy uncle Toby never took this back-stroke of my father's at his\nhobby-horse kindly.--He thought the stroke ungenerous; and the more\nso, because in striking the horse he hit the rider too, and in the most\ndishonourable part a blow could fall; so that upon these occasions,\nhe always laid down his pipe upon the table with more fire to defend\nhimself than common.\n\nI told the reader, this time two years, that my uncle Toby was not\neloquent; and in the very same page gave an instance to the contrary:--I\nrepeat the observation, and a fact which contradicts it again.--He\nwas not eloquent,--it was not easy to my uncle Toby to make long\nharangues,--and he hated florid ones; but there were occasions where the\nstream overflowed the man, and ran so counter to its usual course,\nthat in some parts my uncle Toby, for a time, was at least equal to\nTertullus--but in others, in my own opinion, infinitely above him.\n\nMy father was so highly pleased with one of these apologetical orations\nof my uncle Toby's, which he had delivered one evening before him and\nYorick, that he wrote it down before he went to bed.\n\nI have had the good fortune to meet with it amongst my father's papers,\nwith here and there an insertion of his own, betwixt two crooks, thus\n(.. .), and is endorsed,\n\nMy Brother Toby's Justification of His Own Principles and Conduct in\nWishing to Continue the War.\n\nI may safely say, I have read over this apologetical oration of my uncle\nToby's a hundred times, and think it so fine a model of defence,--and\nshews so sweet a temperament of gallantry and good principles in him,\nthat I give it the world, word for word (interlineations and all), as I\nfind it.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LXXV.\n\nMy Uncle Toby's Apologetical Oration.\n\nI am not insensible, brother Shandy, that when a man whose profession\nis arms, wishes, as I have done, for war,--it has an ill aspect to the\nworld;--and that, how just and right soever his motives the intentions\nmay be,--he stands in an uneasy posture in vindicating himself from\nprivate views in doing it.\n\nFor this cause, if a soldier is a prudent man, which he may be without\nbeing a jot the less brave, he will be sure not to utter his wish in\nthe hearing of an enemy; for say what he will, an enemy will not believe\nhim.--He will be cautious of doing it even to a friend,--lest he may\nsuffer in his esteem:--But if his heart is overcharged, and a secret\nsigh for arms must have its vent, he will reserve it for the ear of\na brother, who knows his character to the bottom, and what his true\nnotions, dispositions, and principles of honour are: What, I hope, I\nhave been in all these, brother Shandy, would be unbecoming in me to\nsay:--much worse, I know, have I been than I ought,--and something\nworse, perhaps, than I think: But such as I am, you, my dear brother\nShandy, who have sucked the same breasts with me,--and with whom I have\nbeen brought up from my cradle,--and from whose knowledge, from the\nfirst hours of our boyish pastimes, down to this, I have concealed\nno one action of my life, and scarce a thought in it--Such as I am,\nbrother, you must by this time know me, with all my vices, and with\nall my weaknesses too, whether of my age, my temper, my passions, or my\nunderstanding.\n\nTell me then, my dear brother Shandy, upon which of them it is, that\nwhen I condemned the peace of Utrecht, and grieved the war was not\ncarried on with vigour a little longer, you should think your brother\ndid it upon unworthy views; or that in wishing for war, he should be bad\nenough to wish more of his fellow-creatures slain,--more slaves made,\nand more families driven from their peaceful habitations, merely for his\nown pleasure:--Tell me, brother Shandy, upon what one deed of mine do\nyou ground it? (The devil a deed do I know of, dear Toby, but one for a\nhundred pounds, which I lent thee to carry on these cursed sieges.)\n\nIf, when I was a school-boy, I could not hear a drum beat, but my heart\nbeat with it--was it my fault?--Did I plant the propensity there?--Did I\nsound the alarm within, or Nature?\n\nWhen Guy, Earl of Warwick, and Parismus and Parismenus, and Valentine\nand Orson, and the Seven Champions of England, were handed around the\nschool,--were they not all purchased with my own pocket-money? Was that\nselfish, brother Shandy? When we read over the siege of Troy, which\nlasted ten years and eight months,--though with such a train of\nartillery as we had at Namur, the town might have been carried in a\nweek--was I not as much concerned for the destruction of the Greeks and\nTrojans as any boy of the whole school? Had I not three strokes of a\nferula given me, two on my right hand, and one on my left, for calling\nHelena a bitch for it? Did any one of you shed more tears for Hector?\nAnd when king Priam came to the camp to beg his body, and returned\nweeping back to Troy without it,--you know, brother, I could not eat my\ndinner.--\n\n--Did that bespeak me cruel? Or because, brother Shandy, my blood flew\nout into the camp, and my heart panted for war,--was it a proof it could\nnot ache for the distresses of war too?\n\nO brother! 'tis one thing for a soldier to gather laurels,--and 'tis\nanother to scatter cypress.--(Who told thee, my dear Toby, that cypress\nwas used by the antients on mournful occasions?)\n\n--'Tis one thing, brother Shandy, for a soldier to hazard his own\nlife--to leap first down into the trench, where he is sure to be cut in\npieces:--'Tis one thing, from public spirit and a thirst of glory, to\nenter the breach the first man,--to stand in the foremost rank, and\nmarch bravely on with drums and trumpets, and colours flying about his\nears:--'Tis one thing, I say, brother Shandy, to do this,--and\n'tis another thing to reflect on the miseries of war;--to view the\ndesolations of whole countries, and consider the intolerable fatigues\nand hardships which the soldier himself, the instrument who works them,\nis forced (for sixpence a day, if he can get it) to undergo.\n\nNeed I be told, dear Yorick, as I was by you, in Le Fever's funeral\nsermon, That so soft and gentle a creature, born to love, to mercy, and\nkindness, as man is, was not shaped for this?--But why did you not add,\nYorick,--if not by Nature--that he is so by Necessity?--For what is war?\nwhat is it, Yorick, when fought as ours has been, upon principles of\nliberty, and upon principles of honour--what is it, but the getting\ntogether of quiet and harmless people, with their swords in their hands,\nto keep the ambitious and the turbulent within bounds? And heaven is\nmy witness, brother Shandy, that the pleasure I have taken in these\nthings,--and that infinite delight, in particular, which has attended\nmy sieges in my bowling-green, has arose within me, and I hope in the\ncorporal too, from the consciousness we both had, that in carrying them\non, we were answering the great ends of our creation.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LXXVI.\n\nI told the Christian reader--I say Christian--hoping he is one--and if\nhe is not, I am sorry for it--and only beg he will consider the matter\nwith himself, and not lay the blame entirely upon this book--\n\nI told him, Sir--for in good truth, when a man is telling a story in the\nstrange way I do mine, he is obliged continually to be going backwards\nand forwards to keep all tight together in the reader's fancy--which,\nfor my own part, if I did not take heed to do more than at first, there\nis so much unfixed and equivocal matter starting up, with so many breaks\nand gaps in it,--and so little service do the stars afford, which,\nnevertheless, I hang up in some of the darkest passages, knowing that\nthe world is apt to lose its way, with all the lights the sun itself at\nnoon-day can give it--and now you see, I am lost myself--!\n\n--But 'tis my father's fault; and whenever my brains come to be\ndissected, you will perceive, without spectacles, that he has left a\nlarge uneven thread, as you sometimes see in an unsaleable piece of\ncambrick, running along the whole length of the web, and so untowardly,\nyou cannot so much as cut out a..., (here I hang up a couple of lights\nagain)--or a fillet, or a thumb-stall, but it is seen or felt.--\n\nQuanto id diligentias in liberis procreandis cavendum, sayeth Cardan.\nAll which being considered, and that you see 'tis morally impracticable\nfor me to wind this round to where I set out--\n\nI begin the chapter over again.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LXXVII.\n\nI told the Christian reader in the beginning of the chapter which\npreceded my uncle Toby's apologetical oration,--though in a different\ntrope from what I should make use of now, That the peace of Utrecht was\nwithin an ace of creating the same shyness betwixt my uncle Toby and\nhis hobby-horse, as it did betwixt the queen and the rest of the\nconfederating powers.\n\nThere is an indignant way in which a man sometimes dismounts his horse,\nwhich, as good as says to him, 'I'll go afoot, Sir, all the days of my\nlife before I would ride a single mile upon your back again.' Now my\nuncle Toby could not be said to dismount his horse in this manner; for\nin strictness of language, he could not be said to dismount his horse at\nall--his horse rather flung him--and somewhat viciously, which made my\nuncle Toby take it ten times more unkindly. Let this matter be settled\nby state-jockies as they like.--It created, I say, a sort of shyness\nbetwixt my uncle Toby and his hobby-horse.--He had no occasion for him\nfrom the month of March to November, which was the summer after the\narticles were signed, except it was now and then to take a short ride\nout, just to see that the fortifications and harbour of Dunkirk were\ndemolished, according to stipulation.\n\nThe French were so backwards all that summer in setting about that\naffair, and Monsieur Tugghe, the deputy from the magistrates of Dunkirk,\npresented so many affecting petitions to the queen,--beseeching her\nmajesty to cause only her thunderbolts to fall upon the martial works,\nwhich might have incurred her displeasure,--but to spare--to spare the\nmole, for the mole's sake; which, in its naked situation, could be no\nmore than an object of pity--and the queen (who was but a woman) being\nof a pitiful disposition,--and her ministers also, they not wishing\nin their hearts to have the town dismantled, for these private\nreasons,...--...; so that the whole went heavily on with my uncle Toby;\ninsomuch, that it was not within three full months, after he and the\ncorporal had constructed the town, and put it in a condition to be\ndestroyed, that the several commandants, commissaries, deputies,\nnegociators, and intendants, would permit him to set about it.--Fatal\ninterval of inactivity!\n\nThe corporal was for beginning the demolition, by making a breach in the\nramparts, or main fortifications of the town--No,--that will never do,\ncorporal, said my uncle Toby, for in going that way to work with the\ntown, the English garrison will not be safe in it an hour; because\nif the French are treacherous--They are as treacherous as devils, an'\nplease your honour, said the corporal--It gives me concern always when\nI hear it, Trim, said my uncle Toby;--for they don't want personal\nbravery; and if a breach is made in the ramparts, they may enter it, and\nmake themselves masters of the place when they please:--Let them enter\nit, said the corporal, lifting up his pioneer's spade in both his hands,\nas if he was going to lay about him with it,--let them enter, an' please\nyour honour, if they dare.--In cases like this, corporal, said my\nuncle Toby, slipping his right hand down to the middle of his cane,\nand holding it afterwards truncheon-wise with his fore-finger\nextended,--'tis no part of the consideration of a commandant, what the\nenemy dare,--or what they dare not do; he must act with prudence. We\nwill begin with the outworks both towards the sea and the land, and\nparticularly with fort Louis, the most distant of them all, and demolish\nit first,--and the rest, one by one, both on our right and left, as we\nretreat towards the town;--then we'll demolish the mole,--next fill up\nthe harbour,--then retire into the citadel, and blow it up into the air:\nand having done that, corporal, we'll embark for England.--We are there,\nquoth the corporal, recollecting himself--Very true, said my uncle\nToby--looking at the church.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LXXVIII.\n\nA delusive, delicious consultation or two of this kind, betwixt my uncle\nToby and Trim, upon the demolition of Dunkirk,--for a moment rallied\nback the ideas of those pleasures, which were slipping from under\nhim:--still--still all went on heavily--the magic left the mind the\nweaker--Stillness, with Silence at her back, entered the solitary\nparlour, and drew their gauzy mantle over my uncle Toby's head;--and\nListlessness, with her lax fibre and undirected eye, sat quietly\ndown beside him in his arm-chair.--No longer Amberg and Rhinberg, and\nLimbourg, and Huy, and Bonn, in one year,--and the prospect of Landen,\nand Trerebach, and Drusen, and Dendermond, the next,--hurried on the\nblood:--No longer did saps, and mines, and blinds, and gabions, and\npalisadoes, keep out this fair enemy of man's repose:--No more could my\nuncle Toby, after passing the French lines, as he eat his egg at supper,\nfrom thence break into the heart of France,--cross over the Oyes, and\nwith all Picardie open behind him, march up to the gates of Paris, and\nfall asleep with nothing but ideas of glory:--No more was he to dream,\nhe had fixed the royal standard upon the tower of the Bastile, and awake\nwith it streaming in his head.\n\n--Softer visions,--gentler vibrations stole sweetly in upon his\nslumbers;--the trumpet of war fell out of his hands,--he took up the\nlute, sweet instrument! of all others the most delicate! the most\ndifficult!--how wilt thou touch it, my dear uncle Toby?\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LXXIX.\n\nNow, because I have once or twice said, in my inconsiderate way of\ntalking, That I was confident the following memoirs of my uncle Toby's\ncourtship of widow Wadman, whenever I got time to write them, would\nturn out one of the most complete systems, both of the elementary and\npractical part of love and love-making, that ever was addressed to\nthe world--are you to imagine from thence, that I shall set out with\na description of what love is? whether part God and part Devil, as\nPlotinus will have it--\n\n--Or by a more critical equation, and supposing the whole of love to be\nas ten--to determine with Ficinus, 'How many parts of it--the one,--and\nhow many the other;'--or whether it is all of it one great Devil, from\nhead to tail, as Plato has taken upon him to pronounce; concerning which\nconceit of his, I shall not offer my opinion:--but my opinion of Plato\nis this; that he appears, from this instance, to have been a man of much\nthe same temper and way of reasoning with doctor Baynyard, who being a\ngreat enemy to blisters, as imagining that half a dozen of 'em at once,\nwould draw a man as surely to his grave, as a herse and six--rashly\nconcluded, that the Devil himself was nothing in the world, but one\ngreat bouncing Cantharidis.--\n\nI have nothing to say to people who allow themselves this monstrous\nliberty in arguing, but what Nazianzen cried out (that is, polemically)\nto Philagrius--\n\n'(Greek)!' O rare! 'tis fine reasoning, Sir indeed!--'(Greek)' and most\nnobly do you aim at truth, when you philosophize about it in your moods\nand passions.\n\nNor is it to be imagined, for the same reason, I should stop to\ninquire, whether love is a disease,--or embroil myself with Rhasis and\nDioscorides, whether the seat of it is in the brain or liver;--because\nthis would lead me on, to an examination of the two very opposite\nmanners, in which patients have been treated--the one, of Aoetius,\nwho always begun with a cooling clyster of hempseed and bruised\ncucumbers;--and followed on with thin potations of water-lilies and\npurslane--to which he added a pinch of snuff, of the herb Hanea;--and\nwhere Aoetius durst venture it,--his topaz-ring.\n\n--The other, that of Gordonius, who (in his cap. 15. de Amore) directs\nthey should be thrashed, 'ad putorem usque,'--till they stink again.\n\nThese are disquisitions which my father, who had laid in a great stock\nof knowledge of this kind, will be very busy with in the progress of\nmy uncle Toby's affairs: I must anticipate thus much, That from his\ntheories of love, (with which, by the way, he contrived to crucify my\nuncle Toby's mind, almost as much as his amours themselves,)--he took\na single step into practice;--and by means of a camphorated cerecloth,\nwhich he found means to impose upon the taylor for buckram, whilst he\nwas making my uncle Toby a new pair of breeches, he produced Gordonius's\neffect upon my uncle Toby without the disgrace.\n\nWhat changes this produced, will be read in its proper place: all that\nis needful to be added to the anecdote, is this--That whatever effect it\nhad upon my uncle Toby,--it had a vile effect upon the house;--and if my\nuncle Toby had not smoaked it down as he did, it might have had a vile\neffect upon my father too.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LXXX.\n\n--'Twill come out of itself by and bye.--All I contend for is, that I am\nnot obliged to set out with a definition of what love is; and so long\nas I can go on with my story intelligibly, with the help of the word\nitself, without any other idea to it, than what I have in common with\nthe rest of the world, why should I differ from it a moment before the\ntime?--When I can get on no further,--and find myself entangled on\nall sides of this mystic labyrinth,--my Opinion will then come in, in\ncourse,--and lead me out.\n\nAt present, I hope I shall be sufficiently understood, in telling the\nreader, my uncle Toby fell in love:\n\n--Not that the phrase is at all to my liking: for to say a man is fallen\nin love,--or that he is deeply in love,--or up to the ears in love,--and\nsometimes even over head and ears in it,--carries an idiomatical kind of\nimplication, that love is a thing below a man:--this is recurring again\nto Plato's opinion, which, with all his divinityship,--I hold to be\ndamnable and heretical:--and so much for that.\n\nLet love therefore be what it will,--my uncle Toby fell into it.\n\n--And possibly, gentle reader, with such a temptation--so wouldst thou:\nFor never did thy eyes behold, or thy concupiscence covet any thing in\nthis world, more concupiscible than widow Wadman.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LXXXI.\n\nTo conceive this right,--call for pen and ink--here's paper ready to\nyour hand.--Sit down, Sir, paint her to your own mind--as like your\nmistress as you can--as unlike your wife as your conscience will let\nyou--'tis all one to me--please but your own fancy in it.\n\n(blank page)\n\n--Was ever any thing in Nature so sweet!--so exquisite!\n\n--Then, dear Sir, how could my uncle Toby resist it?\n\nThrice happy book! thou wilt have one page, at least, within thy covers,\nwhich Malice will not blacken, and which Ignorance cannot misrepresent.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LXXXII.\n\nAs Susannah was informed by an express from Mrs. Bridget, of my\nuncle Toby's falling in love with her mistress fifteen days before it\nhappened,--the contents of which express, Susannah communicated to my\nmother the next day,--it has just given me an opportunity of entering\nupon my uncle Toby's amours a fortnight before their existence.\n\nI have an article of news to tell you, Mr. Shandy, quoth my mother,\nwhich will surprise you greatly.--\n\nNow my father was then holding one of his second beds of justice, and\nwas musing within himself about the hardships of matrimony, as my mother\nbroke silence.--\n\n'--My brother Toby,' quoth she, 'is going to be married to Mrs. Wadman.'\n\n--Then he will never, quoth my father, be able to lie diagonally in his\nbed again as long as he lives.\n\nIt was a consuming vexation to my father, that my mother never asked the\nmeaning of a thing she did not understand.\n\n--That she is not a woman of science, my father would say--is her\nmisfortune--but she might ask a question.--\n\nMy mother never did.--In short, she went out of the world at last\nwithout knowing whether it turned round, or stood still.--My father had\nofficiously told her above a thousand times which way it was,--but she\nalways forgot.\n\nFor these reasons, a discourse seldom went on much further betwixt them,\nthan a proposition,--a reply, and a rejoinder; at the end of which,\nit generally took breath for a few minutes (as in the affair of the\nbreeches), and then went on again.\n\nIf he marries, 'twill be the worse for us,--quoth my mother.\n\nNot a cherry-stone, said my father,--he may as well batter away his\nmeans upon that, as any thing else,\n\n--To be sure, said my mother: so here ended the proposition--the\nreply,--and the rejoinder, I told you of.\n\nIt will be some amusement to him, too,--said my father.\n\nA very great one, answered my mother, if he should have children.--\n\n--Lord have mercy upon me,--said my father to himself--....\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LXXXIII.\n\nI am now beginning to get fairly into my work; and by the help of a\nvegetable diet, with a few of the cold seeds, I make no doubt but I\nshall be able to go on with my uncle Toby's story, and my own, in a\ntolerable straight line. Now,\n\n(four very squiggly lines across the page signed Inv.T.S and Scw.T.S)\n\nThese were the four lines I moved in through my first, second, third,\nand fourth volumes (Alluding to the first edition.)--In the fifth volume\nI have been very good,--the precise line I have described in it being\nthis:\n\n(one very squiggly line across the page with loops marked\nA,B,C,C,C,C,C,D)\n\nBy which it appears, that except at the curve, marked A. where I took\na trip to Navarre,--and the indented curve B. which is the short airing\nwhen I was there with the Lady Baussiere and her page,--I have not taken\nthe least frisk of a digression, till John de la Casse's devils led me\nthe round you see marked D.--for as for C C C C C they are nothing but\nparentheses, and the common ins and outs incident to the lives of\nthe greatest ministers of state; and when compared with what men have\ndone,--or with my own transgressions at the letters ABD--they vanish\ninto nothing.\n\nIn this last volume I have done better still--for from the end of Le\nFever's episode, to the beginning of my uncle Toby's campaigns,--I have\nscarce stepped a yard out of my way.\n\nIf I mend at this rate, it is not impossible--by the good leave of\nhis grace of Benevento's devils--but I may arrive hereafter at the\nexcellency of going on even thus:\n\n(straight line across the page)\n\nwhich is a line drawn as straight as I could draw it, by a\nwriting-master's ruler (borrowed for that purpose), turning neither to\nthe right hand or to the left.\n\nThis right line,--the path-way for Christians to walk in! say divines--\n\n--The emblem of moral rectitude! says Cicero--\n\n--The best line! say cabbage planters--is the shortest line, says\nArchimedes, which can be drawn from one given point to another.--\n\nI wish your ladyships would lay this matter to heart, in your next\nbirth-day suits!\n\n--What a journey!\n\nPray can you tell me,--that is, without anger, before I write my chapter\nupon straight lines--by what mistake--who told them so--or how it has\ncome to pass, that your men of wit and genius have all along confounded\nthis line, with the line of Gravitation?\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LXXXIV.\n\nNo--I think, I said, I would write two volumes every year, provided the\nvile cough which then tormented me, and which to this hour I dread worse\nthan the devil, would but give me leave--and in another place--(but\nwhere, I can't recollect now) speaking of my book as a machine, and\nlaying my pen and ruler down cross-wise upon the table, in order to gain\nthe greater credit to it--I swore it should be kept a going at that rate\nthese forty years, if it pleased but the fountain of life to bless me so\nlong with health and good spirits.\n\nNow as for my spirits, little have I to lay to their charge--nay so very\nlittle (unless the mounting me upon a long stick and playing the fool\nwith me nineteen hours out of the twenty-four, be accusations) that on\nthe contrary, I have much--much to thank 'em for: cheerily have ye made\nme tread the path of life with all the burthens of it (except its cares)\nupon my back; in no one moment of my existence, that I remember, have\nye once deserted me, or tinged the objects which came in my way, either\nwith sable, or with a sickly green; in dangers ye gilded my horizon with\nhope, and when Death himself knocked at my door--ye bad him come again;\nand in so gay a tone of careless indifference, did ye do it, that he\ndoubted of his commission--\n\n'--There must certainly be some mistake in this matter,' quoth he.\n\nNow there is nothing in this world I abominate worse, than to be\ninterrupted in a story--and I was that moment telling Eugenius a most\ntawdry one in my way, of a nun who fancied herself a shell-fish, and of\na monk damn'd for eating a muscle, and was shewing him the grounds and\njustice of the procedure--\n\n'--Did ever so grave a personage get into so vile a scrape?' quoth\nDeath. Thou hast had a narrow escape, Tristram, said Eugenius, taking\nhold of my hand as I finished my story--\n\nBut there is no living, Eugenius, replied I, at this rate; for as this\nson of a whore has found out my lodgings--\n\n--You call him rightly, said Eugenius,--for by sin, we are told, he\nenter'd the world--I care not which way he enter'd, quoth I, provided he\nbe not in such a hurry to take me out with him--for I have forty volumes\nto write, and forty thousand things to say and do which no body in the\nworld will say and do for me, except thyself; and as thou seest he has\ngot me by the throat (for Eugenius could scarce hear me speak across\nthe table), and that I am no match for him in the open field, had I not\nbetter, whilst these few scatter'd spirits remain, and these two spider\nlegs of mine (holding one of them up to him) are able to support\nme--had I not better, Eugenius, fly for my life? 'Tis my advice, my\ndear Tristram, said Eugenius--Then by heaven! I will lead him a dance\nhe little thinks of--for I will gallop, quoth I, without looking once\nbehind me, to the banks of the Garonne; and if I hear him clattering at\nmy heels--I'll scamper away to mount Vesuvius--from thence to Joppa, and\nfrom Joppa to the world's end; where, if he follows me, I pray God he\nmay break his neck--\n\n--He runs more risk there, said Eugenius, than thou.\n\nEugenius's wit and affection brought blood into the cheek from whence it\nhad been some months banish'd--'twas a vile moment to bid adieu in; he\nled me to my chaise--Allons! said I; the post-boy gave a crack with\nhis whip--off I went like a cannon, and in half a dozen bounds got into\nDover.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LXXXV.\n\nNow hang it! quoth I, as I look'd towards the French coast--a man should\nknow something of his own country too, before he goes abroad--and I\nnever gave a peep into Rochester church, or took notice of the dock of\nChatham, or visited St. Thomas at Canterbury, though they all three laid\nin my way--\n\n--But mine, indeed, is a particular case--\n\nSo without arguing the matter further with Thomas o'Becket, or any one\nelse--I skip'd into the boat, and in five minutes we got under sail, and\nscudded away like the wind.\n\nPray, captain, quoth I, as I was going down into the cabin, is a man\nnever overtaken by Death in this passage?\n\nWhy, there is not time for a man to be sick in it, replied he--What\na cursed lyar! for I am sick as a horse, quoth I, already--what a\nbrain!--upside down!--hey-day! the cells are broke loose one into\nanother, and the blood, and the lymph, and the nervous juices, with the\nfix'd and volatile salts, are all jumbled into one mass--good G..! every\nthing turns round in it like a thousand whirlpools--I'd give a shilling\nto know if I shan't write the clearer for it--\n\nSick! sick! sick! sick--!\n\n--When shall we get to land? captain--they have hearts like stones--O\nI am deadly sick!--reach me that thing, boy--'tis the most discomfiting\nsickness--I wish I was at the bottom--Madam! how is it with you? Undone!\nundone! un...--O! undone! sir--What the first time?--No, 'tis the\nsecond, third, sixth, tenth time, sir,--hey-day!--what a trampling over\nhead!--hollo! cabin boy! what's the matter?\n\nThe wind chopp'd about! s'Death--then I shall meet him full in the face.\n\nWhat luck!--'tis chopp'd about again, master--O the devil chop it--\n\nCaptain, quoth she, for heaven's sake, let us get ashore.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LXXXVI.\n\nIt is a great inconvenience to a man in a haste, that there are three\ndistinct roads between Calais and Paris, in behalf of which there is so\nmuch to be said by the several deputies from the towns which lie along\nthem, that half a day is easily lost in settling which you'll take.\n\nFirst, the road by Lisle and Arras, which is the most about--but most\ninteresting, and instructing.\n\nThe second, that by Amiens, which you may go, if you would see\nChantilly--\n\nAnd that by Beauvais, which you may go, if you will.\n\nFor this reason a great many chuse to go by Beauvais.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LXXXVII.\n\n'Now before I quit Calais,' a travel-writer would say, 'it would not be\namiss to give some account of it.'--Now I think it very much amiss--that\na man cannot go quietly through a town and let it alone, when it does\nnot meddle with him, but that he must be turning about and drawing his\npen at every kennel he crosses over, merely o' my conscience for the\nsake of drawing it; because, if we may judge from what has been wrote of\nthese things, by all who have wrote and gallop'd--or who have gallop'd\nand wrote, which is a different way still; or who, for more expedition\nthan the rest, have wrote galloping, which is the way I do at\npresent--from the great Addison, who did it with his satchel of school\nbooks hanging at his a..., and galling his beast's crupper at every\nstroke--there is not a gallopper of us all who might not have gone on\nambling quietly in his own ground (in case he had any), and have wrote\nall he had to write, dry-shod, as well as not.\n\nFor my own part, as heaven is my judge, and to which I shall ever make\nmy last appeal--I know no more of Calais (except the little my barber\ntold me of it as he was whetting his razor) than I do this moment of\nGrand Cairo; for it was dusky in the evening when I landed, and dark as\npitch in the morning when I set out, and yet by merely knowing what\nis what, and by drawing this from that in one part of the town, and by\nspelling and putting this and that together in another--I would lay any\ntravelling odds, that I this moment write a chapter upon Calais as long\nas my arm; and with so distinct and satisfactory a detail of every item,\nwhich is worth a stranger's curiosity in the town--that you would take\nme for the town-clerk of Calais itself--and where, sir, would be\nthe wonder? was not Democritus, who laughed ten times more than\nI--town-clerk of Abdera? and was not (I forget his name) who had more\ndiscretion than us both, town-clerk of Ephesus?--it should be penn'd\nmoreover, sir, with so much knowledge and good sense, and truth, and\nprecision--\n\n--Nay--if you don't believe me, you may read the chapter for your pains.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LXXXVIII.\n\nCalais, Calatium, Calusium, Calesium.\n\nThis town, if we may trust its archives, the authority of which I see no\nreason to call in question in this place--was once no more than a small\nvillage belonging to one of the first Counts de Guignes; and as it\nboasts at present of no less than fourteen thousand inhabitants,\nexclusive of four hundred and twenty distinct families in the basse\nville, or suburbs--it must have grown up by little and little, I\nsuppose, to its present size.\n\nThough there are four convents, there is but one parochial church in the\nwhole town; I had not an opportunity of taking its exact dimensions, but\nit is pretty easy to make a tolerable conjecture of 'em--for as there\nare fourteen thousand inhabitants in the town, if the church holds them\nall it must be considerably large--and if it will not--'tis a very\ngreat pity they have not another--it is built in form of a cross, and\ndedicated to the Virgin Mary; the steeple, which has a spire to it, is\nplaced in the middle of the church, and stands upon four pillars elegant\nand light enough, but sufficiently strong at the same time--it is\ndecorated with eleven altars, most of which are rather fine than\nbeautiful. The great altar is a master-piece in its kind; 'tis of white\nmarble, and, as I was told, near sixty feet high--had it been much\nhigher, it had been as high as mount Calvary itself--therefore, I\nsuppose it must be high enough in all conscience.\n\nThere was nothing struck me more than the great Square; tho' I cannot\nsay 'tis either well paved or well built; but 'tis in the heart of the\ntown, and most of the streets, especially those in that quarter, all\nterminate in it; could there have been a fountain in all Calais,\nwhich it seems there cannot, as such an object would have been a great\nornament, it is not to be doubted, but that the inhabitants would have\nhad it in the very centre of this square,--not that it is properly a\nsquare,--because 'tis forty feet longer from east to west, than from\nnorth to south; so that the French in general have more reason on their\nside in calling them Places than Squares, which, strictly speaking, to\nbe sure, they are not.\n\nThe town-house seems to be but a sorry building, and not to be kept in\nthe best repair; otherwise it had been a second great ornament to this\nplace; it answers however its destination, and serves very well for the\nreception of the magistrates, who assemble in it from time to time; so\nthat 'tis presumable, justice is regularly distributed.\n\nI have heard much of it, but there is nothing at all curious in the\nCourgain; 'tis a distinct quarter of the town, inhabited solely by\nsailors and fishermen; it consists of a number of small streets, neatly\nbuilt and mostly of brick; 'tis extremely populous, but as that may\nbe accounted for, from the principles of their diet,--there is nothing\ncurious in that neither.--A traveller may see it to satisfy himself--he\nmust not omit however taking notice of La Tour de Guet, upon any\naccount; 'tis so called from its particular destination, because in war\nit serves to discover and give notice of the enemies which approach the\nplace, either by sea or land;--but 'tis monstrous high, and catches the\neye so continually, you cannot avoid taking notice of it if you would.\n\nIt was a singular disappointment to me, that I could not have permission\nto take an exact survey of the fortifications, which are the strongest\nin the world, and which, from first to last, that is, for the time they\nwere set about by Philip of France, Count of Bologne, to the present\nwar, wherein many reparations were made, have cost (as I learned\nafterwards from an engineer in Gascony)--above a hundred millions of\nlivres. It is very remarkable, that at the Tete de Gravelenes, and where\nthe town is naturally the weakest, they have expended the most money;\nso that the outworks stretch a great way into the campaign, and\nconsequently occupy a large tract of ground--However, after all that is\nsaid and done, it must be acknowledged that Calais was never upon any\naccount so considerable from itself, as from its situation, and that\neasy entrance which it gave our ancestors, upon all occasions, into\nFrance: it was not without its inconveniences also; being no less\ntroublesome to the English in those times, than Dunkirk has been to\nus, in ours; so that it was deservedly looked upon as the key to both\nkingdoms, which no doubt is the reason that there have arisen so many\ncontentions who should keep it: of these, the siege of Calais, or rather\nthe blockade (for it was shut up both by land and sea), was the most\nmemorable, as it with-stood the efforts of Edward the Third a whole\nyear, and was not terminated at last but by famine and extreme misery;\nthe gallantry of Eustace de St. Pierre, who first offered himself a\nvictim for his fellow-citizens, has rank'd his name with heroes. As it\nwill not take up above fifty pages, it would be injustice to the reader,\nnot to give him a minute account of that romantic transaction, as well\nas of the siege itself, in Rapin's own words:\n\n\n\nChapter 3.LXXXIX.\n\n--But courage! gentle reader!--I scorn it--'tis enough to have thee in\nmy power--but to make use of the advantage which the fortune of the pen\nhas now gained over thee, would be too much--No--! by that all-powerful\nfire which warms the visionary brain, and lights the spirits through\nunworldly tracts! ere I would force a helpless creature upon this hard\nservice, and make thee pay, poor soul! for fifty pages, which I have no\nright to sell thee,--naked as I am, I would browse upon the mountains,\nand smile that the north wind brought me neither my tent or my supper.\n\n--So put on, my brave boy! and make the best of thy way to Boulogne.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XC.\n\nBoulogne!--hah!--so we are all got together--debtors and sinners before\nheaven; a jolly set of us--but I can't stay and quaff it off with\nyou--I'm pursued myself like a hundred devils, and shall be overtaken,\nbefore I can well change horses:--for heaven's sake, make haste--'Tis\nfor high-treason, quoth a very little man, whispering as low as he could\nto a very tall man, that stood next him--Or else for murder; quoth\nthe tall man--Well thrown, Size-ace! quoth I. No; quoth a third, the\ngentleman has been committing--\n\nAh! ma chere fille! said I, as she tripp'd by from her matins--you\nlook as rosy as the morning (for the sun was rising, and it made\nthe compliment the more gracious)--No; it can't be that, quoth a\nfourth--(she made a curt'sy to me--I kiss'd my hand) 'tis debt,\ncontinued he: 'Tis certainly for debt; quoth a fifth; I would not pay\nthat gentleman's debts, quoth Ace, for a thousand pounds; nor would I,\nquoth Size, for six times the sum--Well thrown, Size-ace, again! quoth\nI;--but I have no debt but the debt of Nature, and I want but patience\nof her, and I will pay her every farthing I owe her--How can you be\nso hard-hearted, Madam, to arrest a poor traveller going along\nwithout molestation to any one upon his lawful occasions? do stop that\ndeath-looking, long-striding scoundrel of a scare-sinner, who is posting\nafter me--he never would have followed me but for you--if it be but for\na stage or two, just to give me start of him, I beseech you, madam--do,\ndear lady--\n\n--Now, in troth, 'tis a great pity, quoth mine Irish host, that all this\ngood courtship should be lost; for the young gentlewoman has been after\ngoing out of hearing of it all along.--\n\n--Simpleton! quoth I.\n\n--So you have nothing else in Boulogne worth seeing?\n\n--By Jasus! there is the finest Seminary for the Humanities--\n\n--There cannot be a finer; quoth I.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XCI.\n\nWhen the precipitancy of a man's wishes hurries on his ideas ninety\ntimes faster than the vehicle he rides in--woe be to truth! and woe be\nto the vehicle and its tackling (let 'em be made of what stuff you will)\nupon which he breathes forth the disappointment of his soul!\n\nAs I never give general characters either of men or things in choler,\n'the most haste the worse speed,' was all the reflection I made upon\nthe affair, the first time it happen'd;--the second, third, fourth, and\nfifth time, I confined it respectively to those times, and accordingly\nblamed only the second, third, fourth, and fifth post-boy for it,\nwithout carrying my reflections further; but the event continuing to\nbefal me from the fifth, to the sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, and\ntenth time, and without one exception, I then could not avoid making a\nnational reflection of it, which I do in these words;\n\nThat something is always wrong in a French post-chaise, upon first\nsetting out.\n\nOr the proposition may stand thus:\n\nA French postilion has always to alight before he has got three hundred\nyards out of town.\n\nWhat's wrong now?--Diable!--a rope's broke!--a knot has slipt!--a\nstaple's drawn!--a bolt's to whittle!--a tag, a rag, a jag, a strap, a\nbuckle, or a buckle's tongue, want altering.\n\nNow true as all this is, I never think myself impowered to excommunicate\nthereupon either the post-chaise, or its driver--nor do I take it\ninto my head to swear by the living G.., I would rather go a-foot\nten thousand times--or that I will be damn'd, if ever I get into\nanother--but I take the matter coolly before me, and consider, that some\ntag, or rag, or jag, or bolt, or buckle, or buckle's tongue, will ever\nbe a wanting or want altering, travel where I will--so I never chaff,\nbut take the good and the bad as they fall in my road, and get on:--Do\nso, my lad! said I; he had lost five minutes already, in alighting in\norder to get at a luncheon of black bread, which he had cramm'd into the\nchaise-pocket, and was remounted, and going leisurely on, to relish it\nthe better.--Get on, my lad, said I, briskly--but in the most persuasive\ntone imaginable, for I jingled a four-and-twenty sous piece against the\nglass, taking care to hold the flat side towards him, as he look'd back:\nthe dog grinn'd intelligence from his right ear to his left, and behind\nhis sooty muzzle discovered such a pearly row of teeth, that Sovereignty\nwould have pawn'd her jewels for them.\n\nJust heaven! What masticators!--/What bread--!\n\nand so as he finished the last mouthful of it, we entered the town of\nMontreuil.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XCII.\n\nThere is not a town in all France which, in my opinion, looks better in\nthe map, than Montreuil;--I own, it does not look so well in the book\nof post-roads; but when you come to see it--to be sure it looks most\npitifully.\n\nThere is one thing, however, in it at present very handsome; and that\nis, the inn-keeper's daughter: She has been eighteen months at Amiens,\nand six at Paris, in going through her classes; so knits, and sews, and\ndances, and does the little coquetries very well.--\n\n--A slut! in running them over within these five minutes that I have\nstood looking at her, she has let fall at least a dozen loops in a white\nthread stocking--yes, yes--I see, you cunning gipsy!--'tis long and\ntaper--you need not pin it to your knee--and that 'tis your own--and\nfits you exactly.--\n\n--That Nature should have told this creature a word about a statue's\nthumb!\n\n--But as this sample is worth all their thumbs--besides, I have her\nthumbs and fingers in at the bargain, if they can be any guide to\nme,--and as Janatone withal (for that is her name) stands so well for\na drawing--may I never draw more, or rather may I draw like a\ndraught-horse, by main strength all the days of my life,--if I do not\ndraw her in all her proportions, and with as determined a pencil, as if\nI had her in the wettest drapery.--\n\n--But your worships chuse rather that I give you the length, breadth,\nand perpendicular height of the great parish-church, or drawing of the\nfacade of the abbey of Saint Austreberte which has been transported\nfrom Artois hither--every thing is just I suppose as the masons and\ncarpenters left them,--and if the belief in Christ continues so long,\nwill be so these fifty years to come--so your worships and reverences\nmay all measure them at your leisures--but he who measures thee,\nJanatone, must do it now--thou carriest the principles of change within\nthy frame; and considering the chances of a transitory life, I would not\nanswer for thee a moment; ere twice twelve months are passed and gone,\nthou mayest grow out like a pumpkin, and lose thy shapes--or thou mayest\ngo off like a flower, and lose thy beauty--nay, thou mayest go off like\na hussy--and lose thyself.--I would not answer for my aunt Dinah,\nwas she alive--'faith, scarce for her picture--were it but painted by\nReynolds--\n\nBut if I go on with my drawing, after naming that son of Apollo, I'll be\nshot--\n\nSo you must e'en be content with the original; which, if the evening is\nfine in passing thro' Montreuil, you will see at your chaise-door, as\nyou change horses: but unless you have as bad a reason for haste as I\nhave--you had better stop:--She has a little of the devote: but that,\nsir, is a terce to a nine in your favour-- -L... help me! I could not\ncount a single point: so had been piqued and repiqued, and capotted to\nthe devil.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XCIII.\n\nAll which being considered, and that Death moreover might be much nearer\nme than I imagined--I wish I was at Abbeville, quoth I, were it only to\nsee how they card and spin--so off we set.\n\n  (Vid. Book of French post-roads, page 36. edition of 1762.)\n  de Montreuil a Nampont-  poste et demi\n  de Nampont a Bernay ---  poste\n  de Bernay a Nouvion ---  poste\n  de Nouvion a Abbeville   poste\n  --but the carders and spinners were all gone to bed.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XCIV.\n\nWhat a vast advantage is travelling! only it heats one; but there is a\nremedy for that, which you may pick out of the next chapter.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XCV.\n\nWas I in a condition to stipulate with Death, as I am this moment with\nmy apothecary, how and where I will take his clyster--I should certainly\ndeclare against submitting to it before my friends; and therefore\nI never seriously think upon the mode and manner of this great\ncatastrophe, which generally takes up and torments my thoughts as much\nas the catastrophe itself; but I constantly draw the curtain across it\nwith this wish, that the Disposer of all things may so order it, that\nit happen not to me in my own house--but rather in some decent inn--at\nhome, I know it,--the concern of my friends, and the last services of\nwiping my brows, and smoothing my pillow, which the quivering hand of\npale affection shall pay me, will so crucify my soul, that I shall die\nof a distemper which my physician is not aware of: but in an inn, the\nfew cold offices I wanted, would be purchased with a few guineas, and\npaid me with an undisturbed, but punctual attention--but mark. This inn\nshould not be the inn at Abbeville--if there was not another inn in the\nuniverse, I would strike that inn out of the capitulation: so\n\nLet the horses be in the chaise exactly by four in the morning--Yes,\nby four, Sir,--or by Genevieve! I'll raise a clatter in the house shall\nwake the dead.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XCVI.\n\n'Make them like unto a wheel,' is a bitter sarcasm, as all the learned\nknow, against the grand tour, and that restless spirit for making it,\nwhich David prophetically foresaw would haunt the children of men in the\nlatter days; and therefore, as thinketh the great bishop Hall, 'tis\none of the severest imprecations which David ever utter'd against the\nenemies of the Lord--and, as if he had said, 'I wish them no worse luck\nthan always to be rolling about.'--So much motion, continues he (for he\nwas very corpulent)--is so much unquietness; and so much of rest, by the\nsame analogy, is so much of heaven.\n\nNow, I (being very thin) think differently; and that so much of motion,\nis so much of life, and so much of joy--and that to stand still, or get\non but slowly, is death and the devil--\n\nHollo! Ho!--the whole world's asleep!--bring out the horses--grease the\nwheels--tie on the mail--and drive a nail into that moulding--I'll not\nlose a moment--\n\nNow the wheel we are talking of, and whereinto (but not whereonto,\nfor that would make an Ixion's wheel of it) he curseth his enemies,\naccording to the bishop's habit of body, should certainly be a\npost-chaise wheel, whether they were set up in Palestine at that time\nor not--and my wheel, for the contrary reasons, must as certainly be a\ncart-wheel groaning round its revolution once in an age; and of which\nsort, were I to turn commentator, I should make no scruple to affirm,\nthey had great store in that hilly country.\n\nI love the Pythagoreans (much more than ever I dare tell my dear Jenny)\nfor their '(Greek)'--(their) 'getting out of the body, in order to think\nwell.' No man thinks right, whilst he is in it; blinded as he must be,\nwith his congenial humours, and drawn differently aside, as the bishop\nand myself have been, with too lax or too tense a fibre--Reason is, half\nof it, Sense; and the measure of heaven itself is but the measure of our\npresent appetites and concoctions.--\n\n--But which of the two, in the present case, do you think to be mostly\nin the wrong?\n\nYou, certainly: quoth she, to disturb a whole family so early.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XCVII.\n\n--But she did not know I was under a vow not to shave my beard till I\ngot to Paris;--yet I hate to make mysteries of nothing;--'tis the cold\ncautiousness of one of those little souls from which Lessius (lib. 13.\nde moribus divinis, cap. 24.) hath made his estimate, wherein he setteth\nforth, That one Dutch mile, cubically multiplied, will allow room\nenough, and to spare, for eight hundred thousand millions, which he\nsupposes to be as great a number of souls (counting from the fall of\nAdam) as can possibly be damn'd to the end of the world.\n\nFrom what he has made this second estimate--unless from the parental\ngoodness of God--I don't know--I am much more at a loss what could be in\nFranciscus Ribbera's head, who pretends that no less a space than one of\ntwo hundred Italian miles multiplied into itself, will be sufficient to\nhold the like number--he certainly must have gone upon some of the old\nRoman souls, of which he had read, without reflecting how much, by a\ngradual and most tabid decline, in the course of eighteen hundred years,\nthey must unavoidably have shrunk so as to have come, when he wrote,\nalmost to nothing.\n\nIn Lessius's time, who seems the cooler man, they were as little as can\nbe imagined--\n\n--We find them less now--\n\nAnd next winter we shall find them less again; so that if we go on from\nlittle to less, and from less to nothing, I hesitate not one moment to\naffirm, that in half a century at this rate, we shall have no souls\nat all; which being the period beyond which I doubt likewise of the\nexistence of the Christian faith, 'twill be one advantage that both of\n'em will be exactly worn out together.\n\nBlessed Jupiter! and blessed every other heathen god and goddess!\nfor now ye will all come into play again, and with Priapus at your\ntails--what jovial times!--but where am I? and into what a delicious\nriot of things am I rushing? I--I who must be cut short in the midst\nof my days, and taste no more of 'em than what I borrow from my\nimagination--peace to thee, generous fool! and let me go on.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XCVIII.\n\n--'So hating, I say, to make mysteries of nothing'--I intrusted it with\nthe post-boy, as soon as ever I got off the stones; he gave a crack with\nhis whip to balance the compliment; and with the thill-horse trotting,\nand a sort of an up and a down of the other, we danced it along to Ailly\nau clochers, famed in days of yore for the finest chimes in the world;\nbut we danced through it without music--the chimes being greatly out of\norder--(as in truth they were through all France).\n\nAnd so making all possible speed, from\n\nAilly au clochers, I got to Hixcourt, from Hixcourt I got to Pequignay,\nand from Pequignay, I got to Amiens, concerning which town I have\nnothing to inform you, but what I have informed you once before--and\nthat was--that Janatone went there to school.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.XCIX.\n\nIn the whole catalogue of those whiffling vexations which come\npuffing across a man's canvass, there is not one of a more teasing\nand tormenting nature, than this particular one which I am going to\ndescribe--and for which (unless you travel with an avance-courier, which\nnumbers do in order to prevent it)--there is no help: and it is this.\n\nThat be you in never so kindly a propensity to sleep--though you are\npassing perhaps through the finest country--upon the best roads, and in\nthe easiest carriage for doing it in the world--nay, was you sure you\ncould sleep fifty miles straight forwards, without once opening your\neyes--nay, what is more, was you as demonstratively satisfied as you can\nbe of any truth in Euclid, that you should upon all accounts be full as\nwell asleep as awake--nay, perhaps better--Yet the incessant returns of\npaying for the horses at every stage,--with the necessity thereupon of\nputting your hand into your pocket, and counting out from thence three\nlivres fifteen sous (sous by sous), puts an end to so much of the\nproject, that you cannot execute above six miles of it (or supposing it\nis a post and a half, that is but nine)--were it to save your soul from\ndestruction.\n\n--I'll be even with 'em, quoth I, for I'll put the precise sum into a\npiece of paper, and hold it ready in my hand all the way: 'Now I shall\nhave nothing to do,' said I (composing myself to rest), 'but to drop\nthis gently into the post-boy's hat, and not say a word.'--Then there\nwants two sous more to drink--or there is a twelve sous piece of Louis\nXIV. which will not pass--or a livre and some odd liards to be brought\nover from the last stage, which Monsieur had forgot; which altercations\n(as a man cannot dispute very well asleep) rouse him: still is sweet\nsleep retrievable; and still might the flesh weigh down the spirit, and\nrecover itself of these blows--but then, by heaven! you have paid but\nfor a single post--whereas 'tis a post and a half; and this obliges\nyou to pull out your book of post-roads, the print of which is so very\nsmall, it forces you to open your eyes, whether you will or no: Then\nMonsieur le Cure offers you a pinch of snuff--or a poor soldier shews\nyou his leg--or a shaveling his box--or the priestesse of the cistern\nwill water your wheels--they do not want it--but she swears by her\npriesthood (throwing it back) that they do:--then you have all these\npoints to argue, or consider over in your mind; in doing of which, the\nrational powers get so thoroughly awakened--you may get 'em to sleep\nagain as you can.\n\nIt was entirely owing to one of these misfortunes, or I had pass'd clean\nby the stables of Chantilly--\n\n--But the postillion first affirming, and then persisting in it to my\nface, that there was no mark upon the two sous piece, I open'd my eyes\nto be convinced--and seeing the mark upon it as plain as my nose--I\nleap'd out of the chaise in a passion, and so saw every thing at\nChantilly in spite.--I tried it but for three posts and a half, but\nbelieve 'tis the best principle in the world to travel speedily upon;\nfor as few objects look very inviting in that mood--you have little or\nnothing to stop you; by which means it was that I passed through St.\nDennis, without turning my head so much as on one side towards the\nAbby--\n\n--Richness of their treasury! stuff and nonsense!--bating their jewels,\nwhich are all false, I would not give three sous for any one thing in\nit, but Jaidas's lantern--nor for that either, only as it grows dark, it\nmight be of use.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.C.\n\nCrack, crack--crack, crack--crack, crack--so this is Paris! quoth I\n(continuing in the same mood)--and this is Paris!--humph!--Paris! cried\nI, repeating the name the third time--\n\nThe first, the finest, the most brilliant--\n\nThe streets however are nasty.\n\nBut it looks, I suppose, better than it smells--crack, crack--crack,\ncrack--what a fuss thou makest!--as if it concerned the good people to\nbe informed, that a man with pale face and clad in black, had the honour\nto be driven into Paris at nine o'clock at night, by a postillion in a\ntawny yellow jerkin, turned up with red calamanco--crack, crack--crack,\ncrack--crack, crack,--I wish thy whip--\n\n--But 'tis the spirit of thy nation; so crack--crack on.\n\nHa!--and no one gives the wall!--but in the School of Urbanity herself,\nif the walls are besh..t--how can you do otherwise?\n\nAnd prithee when do they light the lamps? What?--never in the summer\nmonths!--Ho! 'tis the time of sallads.--O rare! sallad and soup--soup\nand sallad--sallad and soup, encore--\n\n--'Tis too much for sinners.\n\nNow I cannot bear the barbarity of it; how can that unconscionable\ncoachman talk so much bawdy to that lean horse? don't you see, friend,\nthe streets are so villanously narrow, that there is not room in all\nParis to turn a wheelbarrow? In the grandest city of the whole world, it\nwould not have been amiss, if they had been left a thought wider; nay,\nwere it only so much in every single street, as that a man might know\n(was it only for satisfaction) on which side of it he was walking.\n\nOne--two--three--four--five--six--seven--eight--nine--ten.--Ten cooks\nshops! and twice the number of barbers! and all within three minutes\ndriving! one would think that all the cooks in the world, on some great\nmerry-meeting with the barbers, by joint consent had said--Come, let\nus all go live at Paris: the French love good eating--they are all\ngourmands--we shall rank high; if their god is their belly--their cooks\nmust be gentlemen: and forasmuch as the periwig maketh the man, and the\nperiwig-maker maketh the periwig--ergo, would the barbers say, we shall\nrank higher still--we shall be above you all--we shall be Capitouls\n(Chief Magistrate in Toulouse, &c. &c. &c.) at least--pardi! we shall\nall wear swords--\n\n--And so, one would swear, (that is, by candle-light,--but there is no\ndepending upon it,) they continued to do, to this day.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.CI.\n\nThe French are certainly misunderstood:--but whether the fault is\ntheirs, in not sufficiently explaining themselves; or speaking with that\nexact limitation and precision which one would expect on a point of such\nimportance, and which, moreover, is so likely to be contested by\nus--or whether the fault may not be altogether on our side, in not\nunderstanding their language always so critically as to know 'what they\nwould be at'--I shall not decide; but 'tis evident to me, when they\naffirm, 'That they who have seen Paris, have seen every thing,' they\nmust mean to speak of those who have seen it by day-light.\n\nAs for candle-light--I give it up--I have said before, there was no\ndepending upon it--and I repeat it again; but not because the lights and\nshades are too sharp--or the tints confounded--or that there is neither\nbeauty or keeping, &c....for that's not truth--but it is an uncertain\nlight in this respect, That in all the five hundred grand Hotels, which\nthey number up to you in Paris--and the five hundred good things, at a\nmodest computation (for 'tis only allowing one good thing to a Hotel),\nwhich by candle-light are best to be seen, felt, heard, and understood\n(which, by the bye, is a quotation from Lilly)--the devil a one of us\nout of fifty, can get our heads fairly thrust in amongst them.\n\nThis is no part of the French computation: 'tis simply this,\n\nThat by the last survey taken in the year one thousand seven hundred and\nsixteen, since which time there have been considerable augmentations,\nParis doth contain nine hundred streets; (viz)\n\n  In the quarter called the City--there are fifty-three streets.\n  In St. James of the Shambles, fifty-five streets.\n  In St. Oportune, thirty-four streets.\n  In the quarter of the Louvre, twenty-five streets.\n  In the Palace Royal, or St. Honorius, forty-nine streets.\n  In Mont. Martyr, forty-one streets.\n  In St. Eustace, twenty-nine streets.\n  In the Halles, twenty-seven streets.\n  In St. Dennis, fifty-five streets.\n  In St. Martin, fifty-four streets.\n  In St. Paul, or the Mortellerie, twenty-seven streets.\n  The Greve, thirty-eight streets.\n  In St. Avoy, or the Verrerie, nineteen streets.\n  In the Marais, or the Temple, fifty-two streets.\n  In St. Antony's, sixty-eight streets.\n  In the Place Maubert, eighty-one streets.\n  In St. Bennet, sixty streets.\n  In St. Andrews de Arcs, fifty-one streets.\n  In the quarter of the Luxembourg, sixty-two streets.\n\nAnd in that of St. Germain, fifty-five streets, into any of which you\nmay walk; and that when you have seen them with all that belongs to\nthem, fairly by day-light--their gates, their bridges, their squares,\ntheir statues...and have crusaded it moreover, through all their\nparish-churches, by no means omitting St. Roche and Sulpice...and to\ncrown all, have taken a walk to the four palaces, which you may see,\neither with or without the statues and pictures, just as you chuse--\n\n--Then you will have seen--\n\n--but 'tis what no one needeth to tell you, for you will read of it\nyourself upon the portico of the Louvre, in these words,\n\n     Earth No Such Folks!--No Folks E'er Such A Town\n     As Paris Is!--Sing, Derry, Derry, Down.\n     (Non orbis gentem, non urbem gens habet ullam\n     --ulla parem.)\n\nThe French have a gay way of treating every thing that is Great; and\nthat is all can be said upon it.\n\n\n\nChapter 3.CII.\n\nIn mentioning the word gay (as in the close of the last chapter) it puts\none (i.e. an author) in mind of the word spleen--especially if he has\nany thing to say upon it: not that by any analysis--or that from any\ntable of interest or genealogy, there appears much more ground of\nalliance betwixt them, than betwixt light and darkness, or any two of\nthe most unfriendly opposites in nature--only 'tis an undercraft of\nauthors to keep up a good understanding amongst words, as politicians\ndo amongst men--not knowing how near they may be under a necessity of\nplacing them to each other--which point being now gain'd, and that I may\nplace mine exactly to my mind, I write it down here--\n\nSpleen.\n\nThis, upon leaving Chantilly, I declared to be the best principle in the\nworld to travel speedily upon; but I gave it only as matter of opinion.\nI still continue in the same sentiments--only I had not then experience\nenough of its working to add this, that though you do get on at a\ntearing rate, yet you get on but uneasily to yourself at the same\ntime; for which reason I here quit it entirely, and for ever, and 'tis\nheartily at any one's service--it has spoiled me the digestion of a good\nsupper, and brought on a bilious diarrhoea, which has brought me back\nagain to my first principle on which I set out--and with which I shall\nnow scamper it away to the banks of the Garonne--\n\n--No;--I cannot stop a moment to give you the character of the\npeople--their genius--their manners--their customs--their laws--their\nreligion--their government--their manufactures--their commerce--their\nfinances, with all the resources and hidden springs which sustain them:\nqualified as I may be, by spending three days and two nights amongst\nthem, and during all that time making these things the entire subject of\nmy enquiries and reflections--\n\nStill--still I must away--the roads are paved--the posts are short--the\ndays are long--'tis no more than noon--I shall be at Fontainebleau\nbefore the king--\n\n--Was he going there? not that I know--\n\n\nEnd of the Third Volume.\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY, GENT.--VOLUME THE FOURTH.\n\n\n     Non enim excursus hic ejus, sed opus ipsum est.\n\n     Plin. Lib. V. Epist. 6.\n\n\n     Si quid urbaniuscule lusum a nobis, per Musas et Charitas et\n     omnium poetarum Numina, Oro te, ne me male capias.\n\n\nA Dedication to a Great Man.\n\nHaving, a priori, intended to dedicate The Amours of my Uncle Toby to\nMr. ...--I see more reasons, a posteriori, for doing it to Lord........\n\nI should lament from my soul, if this exposed me to the jealousy of\ntheir Reverences; because a posteriori, in Court-latin, signifies the\nkissing hands for preferment--or any thing else--in order to get it.\n\nMy opinion of Lord....... is neither better nor worse, than it was of\nMr. .... Honours, like impressions upon coin, may give an ideal and\nlocal value to a bit of base metal; but Gold and Silver will pass all\nthe world over without any other recommendation than their own weight.\n\nThe same good-will that made me think of offering up half an hour's\namusement to Mr.... when out of place--operates more forcibly at\npresent, as half an hour's amusement will be more serviceable and\nrefreshing after labour and sorrow, than after a philosophical repast.\n\nNothing is so perfectly amusement as a total change of ideas; no ideas\nare so totally different as those of Ministers, and innocent Lovers:\nfor which reason, when I come to talk of Statesmen and Patriots, and set\nsuch marks upon them as will prevent confusion and mistakes concerning\nthem for the future--I propose to dedicate that Volume to some gentle\nShepherd,\n\n     Whose thoughts proud Science never taught to stray,\n     Far as the Statesman's walk or Patriot-way;\n     Yet simple Nature to his hopes had given\n     Out of a cloud-capp'd head a humbler heaven;\n     Some untam'd World in depths of wood embraced--\n     Some happier Island in the wat'ry-waste--\n     And where admitted to that equal sky,\n     His faithful Dogs should bear him company.\n\nIn a word, by thus introducing an entire new set of objects to his\nImagination, I shall unavoidably give a Diversion to his passionate and\nlove-sick Contemplations. In the mean time,\n\nI am\n\nThe Author.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.I.\n\nNow I hate to hear a person, especially if he be a traveller, complain\nthat we do not get on so fast in France as we do in England; whereas we\nget on much faster, consideratis considerandis; thereby always meaning,\nthat if you weigh their vehicles with the mountains of baggage which\nyou lay both before and behind upon them--and then consider their puny\nhorses, with the very little they give them--'tis a wonder they get on\nat all: their suffering is most unchristian, and 'tis evident thereupon\nto me, that a French post-horse would not know what in the world to do,\nwas it not for the two words...... and...... in which there is as much\nsustenance, as if you give him a peck of corn: now as these words cost\nnothing, I long from my soul to tell the reader what they are; but\nhere is the question--they must be told him plainly, and with the most\ndistinct articulation, or it will answer no end--and yet to do it\nin that plain way--though their reverences may laugh at it in the\nbed-chamber--full well I wot, they will abuse it in the parlour: for\nwhich cause, I have been volving and revolving in my fancy some time,\nbut to no purpose, by what clean device or facette contrivance I might\nso modulate them, that whilst I satisfy that ear which the reader chuses\nto lend me--I might not dissatisfy the other which he keeps to himself.\n\n--My ink burns my finger to try--and when I have--'twill have a worse\nconsequence--It will burn (I fear) my paper.\n\n--No;--I dare not--\n\nBut if you wish to know how the abbess of Andouillets and a novice\nof her convent got over the difficulty (only first wishing myself all\nimaginable success)--I'll tell you without the least scruple.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.II.\n\nThe abbess of Andouillets, which if you look into the large set of\nprovincial maps now publishing at Paris, you will find situated amongst\nthe hills which divide Burgundy from Savoy, being in danger of an\nAnchylosis or stiff joint (the sinovia of her knee becoming hard by long\nmatins), and having tried every remedy--first, prayers and thanksgiving;\nthen invocations to all the saints in heaven promiscuously--then\nparticularly to every saint who had ever had a stiff leg before\nher--then touching it with all the reliques of the convent, principally\nwith the thigh-bone of the man of Lystra, who had been impotent from\nhis youth--then wrapping it up in her veil when she went to bed--then\ncross-wise her rosary--then bringing in to her aid the secular arm, and\nanointing it with oils and hot fat of animals--then treating it\nwith emollient and resolving fomentations--then with poultices\nof marsh-mallows, mallows, bonus Henricus, white lillies and\nfenugreek--then taking the woods, I mean the smoak of 'em, holding\nher scapulary across her lap--then decoctions of wild chicory,\nwater-cresses, chervil, sweet cecily and cochlearia--and nothing all\nthis while answering, was prevailed on at last to try the hot-baths of\nBourbon--so having first obtained leave of the visitor-general to take\ncare of her existence--she ordered all to be got ready for her journey:\na novice of the convent of about seventeen, who had been troubled with\na whitloe in her middle finger, by sticking it constantly into the\nabbess's cast poultices, &c.--had gained such an interest, that\noverlooking a sciatical old nun, who might have been set up for ever by\nthe hot-baths of Bourbon, Margarita, the little novice, was elected as\nthe companion of the journey.\n\nAn old calesh, belonging to the abbesse, lined with green frize, was\nordered to be drawn out into the sun--the gardener of the convent being\nchosen muleteer, led out the two old mules, to clip the hair from the\nrump-ends of their tails, whilst a couple of lay-sisters were busied,\nthe one in darning the lining, and the other in sewing on the shreds\nof yellow binding, which the teeth of time had unravelled--the\nunder-gardener dress'd the muleteer's hat in hot wine-lees--and a taylor\nsat musically at it, in a shed over-against the convent, in assorting\nfour dozen of bells for the harness, whistling to each bell, as he tied\nit on with a thong.--\n\n--The carpenter and the smith of Andouillets held a council of wheels;\nand by seven, the morning after, all look'd spruce, and was ready at\nthe gate of the convent for the hot-baths of Bourbon--two rows of the\nunfortunate stood ready there an hour before.\n\nThe abbess of Andouillets, supported by Margarita the novice, advanced\nslowly to the calesh, both clad in white, with their black rosaries\nhanging at their breasts--\n\n--There was a simple solemnity in the contrast: they entered the calesh;\nthe nuns in the same uniform, sweet emblem of innocence, each occupied\na window, and as the abbess and Margarita look'd up--each (the sciatical\npoor nun excepted)--each stream'd out the end of her veil in the\nair--then kiss'd the lilly hand which let it go: the good abbess and\nMargarita laid their hands saint-wise upon their breasts--look'd up to\nheaven--then to them--and look'd 'God bless you, dear sisters.'\n\nI declare I am interested in this story, and wish I had been there.\n\nThe gardener, whom I shall now call the muleteer, was a little, hearty,\nbroad-set, good-natured, chattering, toping kind of a fellow, who\ntroubled his head very little with the hows and whens of life; so had\nmortgaged a month of his conventical wages in a borrachio, or leathern\ncask of wine, which he had disposed behind the calesh, with a large\nrusset-coloured riding-coat over it, to guard it from the sun; and as\nthe weather was hot, and he not a niggard of his labours, walking ten\ntimes more than he rode--he found more occasions than those of nature,\nto fall back to the rear of his carriage; till by frequent coming and\ngoing, it had so happen'd, that all his wine had leak'd out at the legal\nvent of the borrachio, before one half of the journey was finish'd.\n\nMan is a creature born to habitudes. The day had been sultry--the\nevening was delicious--the wine was generous--the Burgundian hill on\nwhich it grew was steep--a little tempting bush over the door of a\ncool cottage at the foot of it, hung vibrating in full harmony with\nthe passions--a gentle air rustled distinctly through the\nleaves--'Come--come, thirsty muleteer,--come in.'\n\n--The muleteer was a son of Adam, I need not say a word more. He gave\nthe mules, each of 'em, a sound lash, and looking in the abbess's and\nMargarita's faces (as he did it)--as much as to say 'here I am'--he\ngave a second good crack--as much as to say to his mules, 'get on'--so\nslinking behind, he enter'd the little inn at the foot of the hill.\n\nThe muleteer, as I told you, was a little, joyous, chirping fellow, who\nthought not of to-morrow, nor of what had gone before, or what was to\nfollow it, provided he got but his scantling of Burgundy, and a little\nchit-chat along with it; so entering into a long conversation, as how\nhe was chief gardener to the convent of Andouillets, &c. &c. and out of\nfriendship for the abbess and Mademoiselle Margarita, who was only in\nher noviciate, he had come along with them from the confines of Savoy,\n&c. &c.--and as how she had got a white swelling by her devotions--and\nwhat a nation of herbs he had procured to mollify her humours, &c. &c.\nand that if the waters of Bourbon did not mend that leg--she might\nas well be lame of both--&c. &c. &c.--He so contrived his story, as\nabsolutely to forget the heroine of it--and with her the little novice,\nand what was a more ticklish point to be forgot than both--the two\nmules; who being creatures that take advantage of the world, inasmuch\nas their parents took it of them--and they not being in a condition to\nreturn the obligation downwards (as men and women and beasts are)--they\ndo it side-ways, and long-ways, and back-ways--and up hill, and down\nhill, and which way they can.--Philosophers, with all their ethicks,\nhave never considered this rightly--how should the poor muleteer, then\nin his cups, consider it at all? he did not in the least--'tis time we\ndo; let us leave him then in the vortex of his element, the happiest and\nmost thoughtless of mortal men--and for a moment let us look after the\nmules, the abbess, and Margarita.\n\nBy virtue of the muleteer's two last strokes the mules had gone quietly\non, following their own consciences up the hill, till they had conquer'd\nabout one half of it; when the elder of them, a shrewd crafty old devil,\nat the turn of an angle, giving a side glance, and no muleteer behind\nthem,--\n\nBy my fig! said she, swearing, I'll go no further--And if I do, replied\nthe other, they shall make a drum of my hide.--\n\nAnd so with one consent they stopp'd thus--\n\n\n\nChapter 4.III.\n\n--Get on with you, said the abbess.\n\n--Wh...ysh--ysh--cried Margarita.\n\nSh...a--shu..u--shu..u--sh..aw--shaw'd the abbess.\n\n--Whu--v--w--whew--w--w--whuv'd Margarita, pursing up her sweet lips\nbetwixt a hoot and a whistle.\n\nThump--thump--thump--obstreperated the abbess of Andouillets with the\nend of her gold-headed cane against the bottom of the calesh--\n\nThe old mule let a f...\n\n\n\nChapter 4.IV.\n\nWe are ruin'd and undone, my child, said the abbess to Margarita,--we\nshall be here all night--we shall be plunder'd--we shall be ravished--\n\n--We shall be ravish'd, said Margarita, as sure as a gun.\n\nSancta Maria! cried the abbess (forgetting the O!)--why was I govern'd\nby this wicked stiff joint? why did I leave the convent of Andouillets?\nand why didst thou not suffer thy servant to go unpolluted to her tomb?\n\nO my finger! my finger! cried the novice, catching fire at the word\nservant--why was I not content to put it here, or there, any where\nrather than be in this strait?\n\nStrait! said the abbess.\n\nStrait--said the novice; for terror had struck their understandings--the\none knew not what she said--the other what she answer'd.\n\nO my virginity! virginity! cried the abbess.\n\n...inity!...inity! said the novice, sobbing.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.V.\n\nMy dear mother, quoth the novice, coming a little to herself,--there are\ntwo certain words, which I have been told will force any horse, or ass,\nor mule, to go up a hill whether he will or no; be he never so obstinate\nor ill-will'd, the moment he hears them utter'd, he obeys. They\nare words magic! cried the abbess in the utmost horror--No; replied\nMargarita calmly--but they are words sinful--What are they? quoth the\nabbess, interrupting her: They are sinful in the first degree, answered\nMargarita,--they are mortal--and if we are ravished and die unabsolved\nof them, we shall both-but you may pronounce them to me, quoth the\nabbess of Andouillets--They cannot, my dear mother, said the novice,\nbe pronounced at all; they will make all the blood in one's body fly up\ninto one's face--But you may whisper them in my ear, quoth the abbess.\n\nHeaven! hadst thou no guardian angel to delegate to the inn at\nthe bottom of the hill? was there no generous and friendly spirit\nunemployed--no agent in nature, by some monitory shivering, creeping\nalong the artery which led to his heart, to rouse the muleteer from his\nbanquet?--no sweet minstrelsy to bring back the fair idea of the abbess\nand Margarita, with their black rosaries!\n\nRouse! rouse!--but 'tis too late--the horrid words are pronounced this\nmoment--\n\n--and how to tell them--Ye, who can speak of every thing existing, with\nunpolluted lips--instruct me--guide me--\n\n\n\nChapter 4.VI.\n\nAll sins whatever, quoth the abbess, turning casuist in the distress\nthey were under, are held by the confessor of our convent to be either\nmortal or venial: there is no further division. Now a venial sin being\nthe slightest and least of all sins--being halved--by taking either only\nthe half of it, and leaving the rest--or, by taking it all, and amicably\nhalving it betwixt yourself and another person--in course becomes\ndiluted into no sin at all.\n\nNow I see no sin in saying, bou, bou, bou, bou, bou, a hundred times\ntogether; nor is there any turpitude in pronouncing the syllable ger,\nger, ger, ger, ger, were it from our matins to our vespers: Therefore,\nmy dear daughter, continued the abbess of Andouillets--I will say bou,\nand thou shalt say ger; and then alternately, as there is no more sin in\nfou than in bou--Thou shalt say fou--and I will come in (like fa, sol,\nla, re, mi, ut, at our complines) with ter. And accordingly the abbess,\ngiving the pitch note, set off thus:\n\n     Abbess,.....)  Bou...bou...bou..\n     Margarita,..)  ---ger,..ger,..ger.\n\n     Margarita,..)  Fou...fou...fou..\n     Abbess,.....)  ---ter,..ter,..ter.\n\nThe two mules acknowledged the notes by a mutual lash of their tails;\nbut it went no further--'Twill answer by an' by, said the novice.\n\n     Abbess,.....)  Bou.  bou.  bou.  bou.  bou.  bou.\n     Margarita,..)  ---ger,  ger,  ger,  ger,  ger,  ger.\n\nQuicker still, cried Margarita. Fou, fou, fou, fou, fou, fou, fou, fou,\nfou.\n\nQuicker still, cried Margarita. Bou, bou, bou, bou, bou, bou, bou, bou,\nbou.\n\nQuicker still--God preserve me; said the abbess--They do not understand\nus, cried Margarita--But the Devil does, said the abbess of Andouillets.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.VII.\n\nWhat a tract of country have I run!--how many degrees nearer to the\nwarm sun am I advanced, and how many fair and goodly cities have I seen,\nduring the time you have been reading and reflecting, Madam, upon this\nstory! There's Fontainbleau, and Sens, and Joigny, and Auxerre, and\nDijon the capital of Burgundy, and Challon, and Macon the capital of the\nMaconese, and a score more upon the road to Lyons--and now I have run\nthem over--I might as well talk to you of so many market towns in the\nmoon, as tell you one word about them: it will be this chapter at the\nleast, if not both this and the next entirely lost, do what I will--\n\n--Why, 'tis a strange story! Tristram.\n\nAlas! Madam, had it been upon some melancholy lecture of the cross--the\npeace of meekness, or the contentment of resignation--I had not been\nincommoded: or had I thought of writing it upon the purer abstractions\nof the soul, and that food of wisdom and holiness and contemplation,\nupon which the spirit of man (when separated from the body) is to\nsubsist for ever--You would have come with a better appetite from it--\n\n--I wish I never had wrote it: but as I never blot any thing out--let us\nuse some honest means to get it out of our heads directly.\n\n--Pray reach me my fool's cap--I fear you sit upon it, Madam--'tis under\nthe cushion--I'll put it on--\n\nBless me! you have had it upon your head this half hour.--There then let\nit stay, with a\n\n     Fa-ra diddle di\n     and a fa-ri diddle d\n     and a high-dum--dye-dum\n     fiddle...dumb-c.\n\nAnd now, Madam, we may venture, I hope a little to go on.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.VIII.\n\n--All you need say of Fontainbleau (in case you are ask'd) is, that it\nstands about forty miles (south something) from Paris, in the middle of\na large forest--That there is something great in it--That the king\ngoes there once every two or three years, with his whole court, for the\npleasure of the chace--and that, during that carnival of sporting,\nany English gentleman of fashion (you need not forget yourself) may be\naccommodated with a nag or two, to partake of the sport, taking care\nonly not to out-gallop the king--\n\nThough there are two reasons why you need not talk loud of this to every\none.\n\nFirst, Because 'twill make the said nags the harder to be got; and\n\nSecondly, 'Tis not a word of it true.--Allons!\n\nAs for Sens--you may dispatch--in a word--''Tis an archiepiscopal see.'\n\n--For Joigny--the less, I think, one says of it the better.\n\nBut for Auxerre--I could go on for ever: for in my grand tour through\nEurope, in which, after all, my father (not caring to trust me with any\none) attended me himself, with my uncle Toby, and Trim, and Obadiah, and\nindeed most of the family, except my mother, who being taken up with\na project of knitting my father a pair of large worsted breeches--(the\nthing is common sense)--and she not caring to be put out of her way,\nshe staid at home, at Shandy Hall, to keep things right during the\nexpedition; in which, I say, my father stopping us two days at Auxerre,\nand his researches being ever of such a nature, that they would have\nfound fruit even in a desert--he has left me enough to say upon Auxerre:\nin short, wherever my father went--but 'twas more remarkably so, in\nthis journey through France and Italy, than in any other stages of his\nlife--his road seemed to lie so much on one side of that, wherein all\nother travellers have gone before him--he saw kings and courts and silks\nof all colours, in such strange lights--and his remarks and reasonings\nupon the characters, the manners, and customs of the countries we pass'd\nover, were so opposite to those of all other mortal men, particularly\nthose of my uncle Toby and Trim--(to say nothing of myself)--and to\ncrown all--the occurrences and scrapes which we were perpetually meeting\nand getting into, in consequence of his systems and opiniotry--they were\nof so odd, so mix'd and tragi-comical a contexture--That the whole put\ntogether, it appears of so different a shade and tint from any tour of\nEurope, which was ever executed--that I will venture to pronounce--the\nfault must be mine and mine only--if it be not read by all travellers\nand travel-readers, till travelling is no more,--or which comes to the\nsame point--till the world, finally, takes it into its head to stand\nstill.--\n\n--But this rich bale is not to be open'd now; except a small thread or\ntwo of it, merely to unravel the mystery of my father's stay at Auxerre.\n\n--As I have mentioned it--'tis too slight to be kept suspended; and when\n'tis wove in, there is an end of it.\n\nWe'll go, brother Toby, said my father, whilst dinner is coddling--to\nthe abbey of Saint Germain, if it be only to see these bodies, of which\nMonsieur Sequier has given such a recommendation.--I'll go see any body,\nquoth my uncle Toby; for he was all compliance through every step of the\njourney--Defend me! said my father--they are all mummies--Then one need\nnot shave; quoth my uncle Toby--Shave! no--cried my father--'twill be\nmore like relations to go with our beards on--So out we sallied, the\ncorporal lending his master his arm, and bringing up the rear, to the\nabbey of Saint Germain.\n\nEvery thing is very fine, and very rich, and very superb, and very\nmagnificent, said my father, addressing himself to the sacristan, who\nwas a younger brother of the order of Benedictines--but our curiosity\nhas led us to see the bodies, of which Monsieur Sequier has given the\nworld so exact a description.--The sacristan made a bow, and lighting a\ntorch first, which he had always in the vestry ready for the purpose; he\nled us into the tomb of St. Heribald--This, said the sacristan, laying\nhis hand upon the tomb, was a renowned prince of the house of Bavaria,\nwho under the successive reigns of Charlemagne, Louis le Debonnair,\nand Charles the Bald, bore a great sway in the government, and had a\nprincipal hand in bringing every thing into order and discipline--\n\nThen he has been as great, said my uncle, in the field, as in the\ncabinet--I dare say he has been a gallant soldier--He was a monk--said\nthe sacristan.\n\nMy uncle Toby and Trim sought comfort in each other's faces--but found\nit not: my father clapped both his hands upon his cod-piece, which was a\nway he had when any thing hugely tickled him: for though he hated a monk\nand the very smell of a monk worse than all the devils in hell--yet the\nshot hitting my uncle Toby and Trim so much harder than him, 'twas a\nrelative triumph; and put him into the gayest humour in the world.\n\n--And pray what do you call this gentleman? quoth my father, rather\nsportingly: This tomb, said the young Benedictine, looking downwards,\ncontains the bones of Saint Maxima, who came from Ravenna on purpose to\ntouch the body--\n\n--Of Saint Maximus, said my father, popping in with his saint before\nhim,--they were two of the greatest saints in the whole martyrology,\nadded my father--Excuse me, said the sacristan--'twas to touch the bones\nof Saint Germain, the builder of the abbey--And what did she get by\nit? said my uncle Toby--What does any woman get by it? said my\nfather--Martyrdome; replied the young Benedictine, making a bow down\nto the ground, and uttering the word with so humble, but decisive a\ncadence, it disarmed my father for a moment. 'Tis supposed, continued\nthe Benedictine, that St. Maxima has lain in this tomb four hundred\nyears, and two hundred before her canonization--'Tis but a slow rise,\nbrother Toby, quoth my father, in this self-same army of martyrs.--A\ndesperate slow one, an' please your honour, said Trim, unless one could\npurchase--I should rather sell out entirely, quoth my uncle Toby--I am\npretty much of your opinion, brother Toby, said my father.\n\n--Poor St. Maxima! said my uncle Toby low to himself, as we turn'd from\nher tomb: She was one of the fairest and most beautiful ladies either of\nItaly or France, continued the sacristan--But who the duce has got lain\ndown here, besides her? quoth my father, pointing with his cane to\na large tomb as we walked on--It is Saint Optat, Sir, answered the\nsacristan--And properly is Saint Optat plac'd! said my father: And\nwhat is Saint Optat's story? continued he. Saint Optat, replied the\nsacristan, was a bishop--\n\n--I thought so, by heaven! cried my father, interrupting him--Saint\nOptat!--how should Saint Optat fail? so snatching out his pocket-book,\nand the young Benedictine holding him the torch as he wrote, he set it\ndown as a new prop to his system of Christian names, and I will be bold\nto say, so disinterested was he in the search of truth, that had he\nfound a treasure in Saint Optat's tomb, it would not have made him half\nso rich: 'Twas as successful a short visit as ever was paid to the\ndead; and so highly was his fancy pleas'd with all that had passed in\nit,--that he determined at once to stay another day in Auxerre.\n\n--I'll see the rest of these good gentry to-morrow, said my father, as\nwe cross'd over the square--And while you are paying that visit, brother\nShandy, quoth my uncle Toby--the corporal and I will mount the ramparts.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.IX.\n\n--Now this is the most puzzled skein of all--for in this last chapter,\nas far at least as it has help'd me through Auxerre, I have been getting\nforwards in two different journies together, and with the same dash of\nthe pen--for I have got entirely out of Auxerre in this journey which\nI am writing now, and I am got half way out of Auxerre in that which I\nshall write hereafter--There is but a certain degree of perfection in\nevery thing; and by pushing at something beyond that, I have brought\nmyself into such a situation, as no traveller ever stood before me;\nfor I am this moment walking across the market-place of Auxerre with\nmy father and my uncle Toby, in our way back to dinner--and I am this\nmoment also entering Lyons with my post-chaise broke into a thousand\npieces--and I am moreover this moment in a handsome pavillion built by\nPringello (The same Don Pringello, the celebrated Spanish architect, of\nwhom my cousin Antony has made such honourable mention in a scholium to\nthe Tale inscribed to his name. Vid. p.129, small edit.), upon the banks\nof the Garonne, which Mons. Sligniac has lent me, and where I now sit\nrhapsodising all these affairs.\n\n--Let me collect myself, and pursue my journey.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.X.\n\nI am glad of it, said I, settling the account with myself, as I walk'd\ninto Lyons--my chaise being all laid higgledy-piggledy with my baggage\nin a cart, which was moving slowly before me--I am heartily glad, said\nI, that 'tis all broke to pieces; for now I can go directly by water\nto Avignon, which will carry me on a hundred and twenty miles of my\njourney, and not cost me seven livres--and from thence, continued I,\nbringing forwards the account, I can hire a couple of mules--or asses,\nif I like, (for nobody knows me,) and cross the plains of Languedoc for\nalmost nothing--I shall gain four hundred livres by the misfortune clear\ninto my purse: and pleasure! worth--worth double the money by it. With\nwhat velocity, continued I, clapping my two hands together, shall I fly\ndown the rapid Rhone, with the Vivares on my right hand, and Dauphiny\non my left, scarce seeing the ancient cities of Vienne, Valence,\nand Vivieres. What a flame will it rekindle in the lamp, to snatch a\nblushing grape from the Hermitage and Cote roti, as I shoot by the foot\nof them! and what a fresh spring in the blood! to behold upon the banks\nadvancing and retiring, the castles of romance, whence courteous knights\nhave whilome rescued the distress'd--and see vertiginous, the rocks, the\nmountains, the cataracts, and all the hurry which Nature is in with all\nher great works about her.\n\nAs I went on thus, methought my chaise, the wreck of which look'd\nstately enough at the first, insensibly grew less and less in its\nsize; the freshness of the painting was no more--the gilding lost its\nlustre--and the whole affair appeared so poor in my eyes--so sorry!--so\ncontemptible! and, in a word, so much worse than the abbess of\nAndouillets' itself--that I was just opening my mouth to give it to the\ndevil--when a pert vamping chaise-undertaker, stepping nimbly across\nthe street, demanded if Monsieur would have his chaise refitted--No,\nno, said I, shaking my head sideways--Would Monsieur choose to sell\nit? rejoined the undertaker--With all my soul, said I--the iron work is\nworth forty livres--and the glasses worth forty more--and the leather\nyou may take to live on.\n\nWhat a mine of wealth, quoth I, as he counted me the money, has this\npost-chaise brought me in? And this is my usual method of book-keeping,\nat least with the disasters of life--making a penny of every one of 'em\nas they happen to me--\n\n--Do, my dear Jenny, tell the world for me, how I behaved under one, the\nmost oppressive of its kind, which could befal me as a man, proud as he\nought to be of his manhood--\n\n'Tis enough, saidst thou, coming close up to me, as I stood with my\ngarters in my hand, reflecting upon what had not pass'd--'Tis enough,\nTristram, and I am satisfied, saidst thou, whispering these words in my\near,.......... .........;--.........--any other man would have sunk down\nto the centre--\n\n--Every thing is good for something, quoth I.\n\n--I'll go into Wales for six weeks, and drink goat's whey--and I'll\ngain seven years longer life for the accident. For which reason I think\nmyself inexcusable, for blaming Fortune so often as I have done, for\npelting me all my life long, like an ungracious duchess, as I call'd\nher, with so many small evils: surely, if I have any cause to be angry\nwith her, 'tis that she has not sent me great ones--a score of good\ncursed, bouncing losses, would have been as good as a pension to me.\n\n--One of a hundred a year, or so, is all I wish--I would not be at the\nplague of paying land-tax for a larger.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XI.\n\nTo those who call vexations, Vexations, as knowing what they are, there\ncould not be a greater, than to be the best part of a day at Lyons,\nthe most opulent and flourishing city in France, enriched with the most\nfragments of antiquity--and not be able to see it. To be withheld upon\nany account, must be a vexation; but to be withheld by a vexation--must\ncertainly be, what philosophy justly calls Vexation upon Vexation.\n\nI had got my two dishes of milk coffee (which by the bye is excellently\ngood for a consumption, but you must boil the milk and coffee\ntogether--otherwise 'tis only coffee and milk)--and as it was no more\nthan eight in the morning, and the boat did not go off till noon, I had\ntime to see enough of Lyons to tire the patience of all the friends I\nhad in the world with it. I will take a walk to the cathedral, said I,\nlooking at my list, and see the wonderful mechanism of this great clock\nof Lippius of Basil, in the first place--\n\nNow, of all things in the world, I understand the least of mechanism--I\nhave neither genius, or taste, or fancy--and have a brain so entirely\nunapt for every thing of that kind, that I solemnly declare I was never\nyet able to comprehend the principles of motion of a squirrel cage, or a\ncommon knife-grinder's wheel--tho' I have many an hour of my life look'd\nup with great devotion at the one--and stood by with as much patience as\nany christian ever could do, at the other--\n\nI'll go see the surprising movements of this great clock, said I, the\nvery first thing I do: and then I will pay a visit to the great library\nof the Jesuits, and procure, if possible, a sight of the thirty volumes\nof the general history of China, wrote (not in the Tartarean, but) in\nthe Chinese language, and in the Chinese character too.\n\nNow I almost know as little of the Chinese language, as I do of the\nmechanism of Lippius's clock-work; so, why these should have jostled\nthemselves into the two first articles of my list--I leave to the\ncurious as a problem of Nature. I own it looks like one of her\nladyship's obliquities; and they who court her, are interested in\nfinding out her humour as much as I.\n\nWhen these curiosities are seen, quoth I, half addressing myself to my\nvalet de place, who stood behind me--'twill be no hurt if we go to the\nchurch of St. Irenaeus, and see the pillar to which Christ was tied--and\nafter that, the house where Pontius Pilate lived--'Twas at the next\ntown, said the valet de place--at Vienne; I am glad of it, said I,\nrising briskly from my chair, and walking across the room with strides\ntwice as long as my usual pace--'for so much the sooner shall I be at\nthe Tomb of the two lovers.'\n\nWhat was the cause of this movement, and why I took such long strides in\nuttering this--I might leave to the curious too; but as no principle\nof clock-work is concerned in it--'twill be as well for the reader if I\nexplain it myself.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XII.\n\nO! there is a sweet aera in the life of man, when (the brain being\ntender and fibrillous, and more like pap than any thing else)--a story\nread of two fond lovers, separated from each other by cruel parents, and\nby still more cruel destiny--\n\n Amandus--He\n Amanda--She--\n each ignorant of the other's course,\n He--east\n She--west\n\nAmandus taken captive by the Turks, and carried to the emperor of\nMorocco's court, where the princess of Morocco falling in love with him,\nkeeps him twenty years in prison for the love of his Amanda.--\n\nShe--(Amanda) all the time wandering barefoot, and with dishevell'd\nhair, o'er rocks and mountains, enquiring for Amandus!--Amandus!\nAmandus!--making every hill and valley to echo back his name--Amandus!\nAmandus! at every town and city, sitting down forlorn at the gate--Has\nAmandus!--has my Amandus enter'd?--till,--going round, and round, and\nround the world--chance unexpected bringing them at the same moment of\nthe night, though by different ways, to the gate of Lyons, their native\ncity, and each in well-known accents calling out aloud,\n\nIs Amandus / Is my Amanda still alive?\n\nthey fly into each other's arms, and both drop down dead for joy.\n\nThere is a soft aera in every gentle mortal's life, where such a story\naffords more pabulum to the brain, than all the Frusts, and Crusts, and\nRusts of antiquity, which travellers can cook up for it.\n\n--'Twas all that stuck on the right side of the cullender in my own, of\nwhat Spon and others, in their accounts of Lyons, had strained into it;\nand finding, moreover, in some Itinerary, but in what God knows--That\nsacred to the fidelity of Amandus and Amanda, a tomb was built without\nthe gates, where, to this hour, lovers called upon them to attest their\ntruths--I never could get into a scrape of that kind in my life,\nbut this tomb of the lovers would, somehow or other, come in at the\nclose--nay such a kind of empire had it establish'd over me, that I\ncould seldom think or speak of Lyons--and sometimes not so much as see\neven a Lyons-waistcoat, but this remnant of antiquity would present\nitself to my fancy; and I have often said in my wild way of running\non--tho' I fear with some irreverence--'I thought this shrine (neglected\nas it was) as valuable as that of Mecca, and so little short, except in\nwealth, of the Santa Casa itself, that some time or other, I would go a\npilgrimage (though I had no other business at Lyons) on purpose to pay\nit a visit.'\n\nIn my list, therefore, of Videnda at Lyons, this, tho' last,--was not,\nyou see, least; so taking a dozen or two of longer strides than usual\ncross my room, just whilst it passed my brain, I walked down calmly\ninto the basse cour, in order to sally forth; and having called for my\nbill--as it was uncertain whether I should return to my inn, I had paid\nit--had moreover given the maid ten sous, and was just receiving the\ndernier compliments of Monsieur Le Blanc, for a pleasant voyage down the\nRhone--when I was stopped at the gate--\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XIII.\n\n--'Twas by a poor ass, who had just turned in with a couple of large\npanniers upon his back, to collect eleemosynary turnip-tops and\ncabbage-leaves; and stood dubious, with his two fore-feet on the inside\nof the threshold, and with his two hinder feet towards the street, as\nnot knowing very well whether he was to go in or no.\n\nNow, 'tis an animal (be in what hurry I may) I cannot bear to\nstrike--there is a patient endurance of sufferings, wrote so\nunaffectedly in his looks and carriage, which pleads so mightily for\nhim, that it always disarms me; and to that degree, that I do not\nlike to speak unkindly to him: on the contrary, meet him where I\nwill--whether in town or country--in cart or under panniers--whether\nin liberty or bondage--I have ever something civil to say to him on my\npart; and as one word begets another (if he has as little to do as\nI)--I generally fall into conversation with him; and surely never is my\nimagination so busy as in framing his responses from the etchings of his\ncountenance--and where those carry me not deep enough--in flying from my\nown heart into his, and seeing what is natural for an ass to think--as\nwell as a man, upon the occasion. In truth, it is the only creature\nof all the classes of beings below me, with whom I can do this: for\nparrots, jackdaws, &c.--I never exchange a word with them--nor with\nthe apes, &c. for pretty near the same reason; they act by rote, as the\nothers speak by it, and equally make me silent: nay my dog and my\ncat, though I value them both--(and for my dog he would speak if he\ncould)--yet somehow or other, they neither of them possess the talents\nfor conversation--I can make nothing of a discourse with them, beyond\nthe proposition, the reply, and rejoinder, which terminated my father's\nand my mother's conversations, in his beds of justice--and those\nutter'd--there's an end of the dialogue--\n\n--But with an ass, I can commune for ever.\n\nCome, Honesty! said I,--seeing it was impracticable to pass betwixt him\nand the gate--art thou for coming in, or going out?\n\nThe ass twisted his head round to look up the street--\n\nWell--replied I--we'll wait a minute for thy driver:\n\n--He turned his head thoughtful about, and looked wistfully the opposite\nway--\n\nI understand thee perfectly, answered I--If thou takest a wrong step\nin this affair, he will cudgel thee to death--Well! a minute is but a\nminute, and if it saves a fellow-creature a drubbing, it shall not be\nset down as ill-spent.\n\nHe was eating the stem of an artichoke as this discourse went on, and\nin the little peevish contentions of nature betwixt hunger and\nunsavouriness, had dropt it out of his mouth half a dozen times, and\npick'd it up again--God help thee, Jack! said I, thou hast a bitter\nbreakfast on't--and many a bitter day's labour,--and many a bitter blow,\nI fear, for its wages--'tis all--all bitterness to thee, whatever life\nis to others.--And now thy mouth, if one knew the truth of it, is as\nbitter, I dare say, as soot--(for he had cast aside the stem) and thou\nhast not a friend perhaps in all this world, that will give thee a\nmacaroon.--In saying this, I pull'd out a paper of 'em, which I had just\npurchased, and gave him one--and at this moment that I am telling it,\nmy heart smites me, that there was more of pleasantry in the conceit,\nof seeing how an ass would eat a macaroon--than of benevolence in giving\nhim one, which presided in the act.\n\nWhen the ass had eaten his macaroon, I press'd him to come in--the poor\nbeast was heavy loaded--his legs seem'd to tremble under him--he hung\nrather backwards, and as I pull'd at his halter, it broke short in my\nhand--he look'd up pensive in my face--'Don't thrash me with it--but if\nyou will, you may'--If I do, said I, I'll be d....d.\n\nThe word was but one-half of it pronounced, like the abbess of\nAndouillet's--(so there was no sin in it)--when a person coming in, let\nfall a thundering bastinado upon the poor devil's crupper, which put an\nend to the ceremony.\n\nOut upon it! cried I--but the interjection was equivocal--and, I think,\nwrong placed too--for the end of an osier which had started out from the\ncontexture of the ass's panier, had caught hold of my breeches pocket,\nas he rush'd by me, and rent it in the most disastrous direction you can\nimagine--so that the\n\nOut upon it! in my opinion, should have come in here--but this I leave\nto be settled by\n\n  The\n  Reviewers\n  of\n  My Breeches,\n\nwhich I have brought over along with me for that purpose.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XIV.\n\nWhen all was set to rights, I came down stairs again into the basse cour\nwith my valet de place, in order to sally out towards the tomb of the\ntwo lovers, &c.--and was a second time stopp'd at the gate--not by the\nass--but by the person who struck him; and who, by that time, had taken\npossession (as is not uncommon after a defeat) of the very spot of\nground where the ass stood.\n\nIt was a commissary sent to me from the post-office, with a rescript in\nhis hand for the payment of some six livres odd sous.\n\nUpon what account? said I.--'Tis upon the part of the king, replied the\ncommissary, heaving up both his shoulders--\n\n--My good friend, quoth I--as sure as I am I--and you are you--\n\n--And who are you? said he.--Don't puzzle me; said I.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XV.\n\n--But it is an indubitable verity, continued I, addressing myself to the\ncommissary, changing only the form of my asseveration--that I owe the\nking of France nothing but my good will; for he is a very honest man,\nand I wish him all health and pastime in the world--\n\nPardonnez moi--replied the commissary, you are indebted to him six\nlivres four sous, for the next post from hence to St. Fons, in your\nroute to Avignon--which being a post royal, you pay double for the\nhorses and postillion--otherwise 'twould have amounted to no more than\nthree livres two sous--\n\n--But I don't go by land; said I.\n\n--You may if you please; replied the commissary--\n\nYour most obedient servant--said I, making him a low bow--\n\nThe commissary, with all the sincerity of grave good breeding--made me\none, as low again.--I never was more disconcerted with a bow in my life.\n\n--The devil take the serious character of these people! quoth I--(aside)\nthey understand no more of Irony than this--\n\nThe comparison was standing close by with his panniers--but something\nseal'd up my lips--I could not pronounce the name--\n\nSir, said I, collecting myself--it is not my intention to take post--\n\n--But you may--said he, persisting in his first reply--you may take post\nif you chuse--\n\n--And I may take salt to my pickled herring, said I, if I chuse--\n\n--But I do not chuse--\n\n--But you must pay for it, whether you do or no.\n\nAye! for the salt; said I (I know)--\n\n--And for the post too; added he. Defend me! cried I--\n\nI travel by water--I am going down the Rhone this very afternoon--my\nbaggage is in the boat--and I have actually paid nine livres for my\npassage--\n\nC'est tout egal--'tis all one; said he.\n\nBon Dieu! what, pay for the way I go! and for the way I do not go!\n\n--C'est tout egal; replied the commissary--\n\n--The devil it is! said I--but I will go to ten thousand Bastiles\nfirst--\n\nO England! England! thou land of liberty, and climate of good sense,\nthou tenderest of mothers--and gentlest of nurses, cried I, kneeling\nupon one knee, as I was beginning my apostrophe.\n\nWhen the director of Madam Le Blanc's conscience coming in at that\ninstant, and seeing a person in black, with a face as pale as ashes, at\nhis devotions--looking still paler by the contrast and distress of his\ndrapery--ask'd, if I stood in want of the aids of the church--\n\nI go by Water--said I--and here's another will be for making me pay for\ngoing by Oil.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XVI.\n\nAs I perceived the commissary of the post-office would have his six\nlivres four sous, I had nothing else for it, but to say some smart thing\nupon the occasion, worth the money:\n\nAnd so I set off thus:--\n\n--And pray, Mr. Commissary, by what law of courtesy is a defenceless\nstranger to be used just the reverse from what you use a Frenchman in\nthis matter?\n\nBy no means; said he.\n\nExcuse me; said I--for you have begun, Sir, with first tearing off my\nbreeches-and now you want my pocket--\n\nWhereas--had you first taken my pocket, as you do with your own\npeople--and then left me bare a..'d after--I had been a beast to have\ncomplain'd--\n\nAs it is--\n\n--'Tis contrary to the law of nature.\n\n--'Tis contrary to reason.\n\n--'Tis contrary to the Gospel.\n\nBut not to this--said he--putting a printed paper into my hand,\n\nPar le Roy.\n\n--'Tis a pithy prolegomenon, quoth I--and so read on....\n\n--By all which it appears, quoth I, having read it over, a little too\nrapidly, that if a man sets out in a post-chaise from Paris--he must go\non travelling in one, all the days of his life--or pay for it.--Excuse\nme, said the commissary, the spirit of the ordinance is this--That if\nyou set out with an intention of running post from Paris to Avignon, &c.\nyou shall not change that intention or mode of travelling, without first\nsatisfying the fermiers for two posts further than the place you repent\nat--and 'tis founded, continued he, upon this, that the Revenues are not\nto fall short through your fickleness--\n\n--O by heavens! cried I--if fickleness is taxable in France--we have\nnothing to do but to make the best peace with you we can--\n\nAnd So the Peace Was Made;\n\n--And if it is a bad one--as Tristram Shandy laid the corner-stone of\nit--nobody but Tristram Shandy ought to be hanged.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XVII.\n\nThough I was sensible I had said as many clever things to the commissary\nas came to six livres four sous, yet I was determined to note down\nthe imposition amongst my remarks before I retired from the place; so\nputting my hand into my coat-pocket for my remarks--(which, by the\nbye, may be a caution to travellers to take a little more care of\ntheir remarks for the future) 'my remarks were stolen'--Never did sorry\ntraveller make such a pother and racket about his remarks as I did about\nmine, upon the occasion.\n\nHeaven! earth! sea! fire! cried I, calling in every thing to my aid but\nwhat I should--My remarks are stolen!--what shall I do?--Mr. Commissary!\npray did I drop any remarks, as I stood besides you?--\n\nYou dropp'd a good many very singular ones; replied he--Pugh! said I,\nthose were but a few, not worth above six livres two sous--but these are\na large parcel--He shook his head--Monsieur Le Blanc! Madam Le\nBlanc! did you see any papers of mine?--you maid of the house! run up\nstairs--Francois! run up after her--\n\n--I must have my remarks--they were the best remarks, cried I, that ever\nwere made--the wisest--the wittiest--What shall I do?--which way shall I\nturn myself?\n\nSancho Panca, when he lost his ass's Furniture, did not exclaim more\nbitterly.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XVIII.\n\nWhen the first transport was over, and the registers of the brain were\nbeginning to get a little out of the confusion into which this jumble of\ncross accidents had cast them--it then presently occurr'd to me, that I\nhad left my remarks in the pocket of the chaise--and that in selling\nmy chaise, I had sold my remarks along with it, to the chaise-vamper. I\nleave this void space that the reader may swear into it any oath that\nhe is most accustomed to--For my own part, if ever I swore a whole oath\ninto a vacancy in my life, I think it was into that--........., said\nI--and so my remarks through France, which were as full of wit, as an\negg is full of meat, and as well worth four hundred guineas, as the said\negg is worth a penny--have I been selling here to a chaise-vamper--for\nfour Louis d'Ors--and giving him a post-chaise (by heaven) worth six\ninto the bargain; had it been to Dodsley, or Becket, or any creditable\nbookseller, who was either leaving off business, and wanted a\npost-chaise--or who was beginning it--and wanted my remarks, and two\nor three guineas along with them--I could have borne it--but to a\nchaise-vamper!--shew me to him this moment, Francois,--said I--The valet\nde place put on his hat, and led the way--and I pull'd off mine, as I\npass'd the commissary, and followed him.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XIX.\n\nWhen we arrived at the chaise-vamper's house, both the house and the\nshop were shut up; it was the eighth of September, the nativity of the\nblessed Virgin Mary, mother of God--\n\n--Tantarra-ra-tan-tivi--the whole world was gone out a\nMay-poling--frisking here--capering there--no body cared a button for me\nor my remarks; so I sat me down upon a bench by the door, philosophating\nupon my condition: by a better fate than usually attends me, I had not\nwaited half an hour, when the mistress came in to take the papilliotes\nfrom off her hair, before she went to the May-poles--\n\nThe French women, by the bye, love May-poles, a la folie--that is, as\nmuch as their matins--give 'em but a May-pole, whether in May, June,\nJuly or September--they never count the times--down it goes--'tis meat,\ndrink, washing, and lodging to 'em--and had we but the policy, an'\nplease your worships (as wood is a little scarce in France), to send\nthem but plenty of May-poles--\n\nThe women would set them up; and when they had done, they would dance\nround them (and the men for company) till they were all blind.\n\nThe wife of the chaise-vamper stepp'd in, I told you, to take the\npapilliotes from off her hair--the toilet stands still for no man--so\nshe jerk'd off her cap, to begin with them as she open'd the door, in\ndoing which, one of them fell upon the ground--I instantly saw it was my\nown writing--\n\nO Seigneur! cried I--you have got all my remarks upon your head,\nMadam!--J'en suis bien mortifiee, said she--'tis well, thinks I, they\nhave stuck there--for could they have gone deeper, they would have made\nsuch confusion in a French woman's noddle--She had better have gone with\nit unfrizled, to the day of eternity.\n\nTenez--said she--so without any idea of the nature of my suffering,\nshe took them from her curls, and put them gravely one by one into my\nhat--one was twisted this way--another twisted that--ey! by my faith;\nand when they are published, quoth I,--\n\nThey will be worse twisted still.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XX.\n\nAnd now for Lippius's clock! said I, with the air of a man, who had got\nthro' all his difficulties--nothing can prevent us seeing that, and the\nChinese history, &c. except the time, said Francois--for 'tis almost\neleven--then we must speed the faster, said I, striding it away to the\ncathedral.\n\nI cannot say, in my heart, that it gave me any concern in being told\nby one of the minor canons, as I was entering the west door,--That\nLippius's great clock was all out of joints, and had not gone for some\nyears--It will give me the more time, thought I, to peruse the Chinese\nhistory; and besides I shall be able to give the world a better account\nof the clock in its decay, than I could have done in its flourishing\ncondition--\n\n--And so away I posted to the college of the Jesuits.\n\nNow it is with the project of getting a peep at the history of China in\nChinese characters--as with many others I could mention, which strike\nthe fancy only at a distance; for as I came nearer and nearer to the\npoint--my blood cool'd--the freak gradually went off, till at length I\nwould not have given a cherry-stone to have it gratified--The truth was,\nmy time was short, and my heart was at the Tomb of the Lovers--I wish to\nGod, said I, as I got the rapper in my hand, that the key of the library\nmay be but lost; it fell out as well--\n\nFor all the Jesuits had got the cholic--and to that degree, as never was\nknown in the memory of the oldest practitioner.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XXI.\n\nAs I knew the geography of the Tomb of the Lovers, as well as if I had\nlived twenty years in Lyons, namely, that it was upon the turning of my\nright hand, just without the gate, leading to the Fauxbourg de Vaise--I\ndispatched Francois to the boat, that I might pay the homage I so long\now'd it, without a witness of my weakness--I walk'd with all imaginable\njoy towards the place--when I saw the gate which intercepted the tomb,\nmy heart glowed within me--\n\n--Tender and faithful spirits! cried I, addressing myself to Amandus and\nAmanda--long--long have I tarried to drop this tear upon your tomb--I\ncome--I come--\n\nWhen I came--there was no tomb to drop it upon.\n\nWhat would I have given for my uncle Toby, to have whistled Lillo\nbullero!\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XXII.\n\nNo matter how, or in what mood--but I flew from the tomb of the\nlovers--or rather I did not fly from it--(for there was no such thing\nexisting) and just got time enough to the boat to save my passage;--and\nere I had sailed a hundred yards, the Rhone and the Saon met together,\nand carried me down merrily betwixt them.\n\nBut I have described this voyage down the Rhone, before I made it--\n\n--So now I am at Avignon, and as there is nothing to see but the old\nhouse, in which the duke of Ormond resided, and nothing to stop me but\na short remark upon the place, in three minutes you will see me crossing\nthe bridge upon a mule, with Francois upon a horse with my portmanteau\nbehind him, and the owner of both, striding the way before us, with a\nlong gun upon his shoulder, and a sword under his arm, lest peradventure\nwe should run away with his cattle. Had you seen my breeches in entering\nAvignon,--Though you'd have seen them better, I think, as I mounted--you\nwould not have thought the precaution amiss, or found in your heart to\nhave taken it in dudgeon; for my own part, I took it most kindly; and\ndetermined to make him a present of them, when we got to the end of our\njourney, for the trouble they had put him to, of arming himself at all\npoints against them.\n\nBefore I go further, let me get rid of my remark upon Avignon, which is\nthis: That I think it wrong, merely because a man's hat has been blown\noff his head by chance the first night he comes to Avignon,--that he\nshould therefore say, 'Avignon is more subject to high winds than any\ntown in all France:' for which reason I laid no stress upon the accident\ntill I had enquired of the master of the inn about it, who telling me\nseriously it was so--and hearing, moreover, the windiness of Avignon\nspoke of in the country about as a proverb--I set it down, merely to ask\nthe learned what can be the cause--the consequence I saw--for they\nare all Dukes, Marquisses, and Counts, there--the duce a Baron, in all\nAvignon--so that there is scarce any talking to them on a windy day.\n\nPrithee, friend, said I, take hold of my mule for a moment--for I\nwanted to pull off one of my jack-boots, which hurt my heel--the man was\nstanding quite idle at the door of the inn, and as I had taken it into\nmy head, he was someway concerned about the house or stable, I put the\nbridle into his hand--so begun with the boot:--when I had finished the\naffair, I turned about to take the mule from the man, and thank him--\n\n--But Monsieur le Marquis had walked in--\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XXIII.\n\nI had now the whole south of France, from the banks of the Rhone to\nthose of the Garonne, to traverse upon my mule at my own leisure--at my\nown leisure--for I had left Death, the Lord knows--and He only--how far\nbehind me--'I have followed many a man thro' France, quoth he--but never\nat this mettlesome rate.'--Still he followed,--and still I fled him--but\nI fled him cheerfully--still he pursued--but, like one who pursued\nhis prey without hope--as he lagg'd, every step he lost, softened his\nlooks--why should I fly him at this rate?\n\nSo notwithstanding all the commissary of the post-office had said, I\nchanged the mode of my travelling once more; and, after so precipitate\nand rattling a course as I had run, I flattered my fancy with thinking\nof my mule, and that I should traverse the rich plains of Languedoc upon\nhis back, as slowly as foot could fall.\n\nThere is nothing more pleasing to a traveller--or more terrible to\ntravel-writers, than a large rich plain; especially if it is without\ngreat rivers or bridges; and presents nothing to the eye, but one\nunvaried picture of plenty: for after they have once told you, that\n'tis delicious! or delightful! (as the case happens)--that the soil was\ngrateful, and that nature pours out all her abundance, &c...they have\nthen a large plain upon their hands, which they know not what to do\nwith--and which is of little or no use to them but to carry them to some\ntown; and that town, perhaps of little more, but a new place to start\nfrom to the next plain--and so on.\n\n--This is most terrible work; judge if I don't manage my plains better.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XXIV.\n\nI had not gone above two leagues and a half, before the man with his gun\nbegan to look at his priming.\n\nI had three several times loiter'd terribly behind; half a mile at least\nevery time; once, in deep conference with a drum-maker, who was making\ndrums for the fairs of Baucaira and Tarascone--I did not understand the\nprinciples--\n\nThe second time, I cannot so properly say, I stopp'd--for meeting a\ncouple of Franciscans straitened more for time than myself, and not\nbeing able to get to the bottom of what I was about--I had turn'd back\nwith them--\n\nThe third, was an affair of trade with a gossip, for a hand-basket of\nProvence figs for four sous; this would have been transacted at once;\nbut for a case of conscience at the close of it; for when the figs were\npaid for, it turn'd out, that there were two dozen of eggs covered over\nwith vine-leaves at the bottom of the basket--as I had no intention of\nbuying eggs--I made no sort of claim of them--as for the space they had\noccupied--what signified it? I had figs enow for my money--\n\n--But it was my intention to have the basket--it was the gossip's\nintention to keep it, without which, she could do nothing with her\neggs--and unless I had the basket, I could do as little with my figs,\nwhich were too ripe already, and most of 'em burst at the side: this\nbrought on a short contention, which terminated in sundry proposals,\nwhat we should both do--\n\n--How we disposed of our eggs and figs, I defy you, or the Devil\nhimself, had he not been there (which I am persuaded he was), to form\nthe least probable conjecture: You will read the whole of it--not this\nyear, for I am hastening to the story of my uncle Toby's amours--but\nyou will read it in the collection of those which have arose out of the\njourney across this plain--and which, therefore, I call my\n\nPlain Stories.\n\nHow far my pen has been fatigued, like those of other travellers, in\nthis journey of it, over so barren a track--the world must judge--but\nthe traces of it, which are now all set o' vibrating together this\nmoment, tell me 'tis the most fruitful and busy period of my life; for\nas I had made no convention with my man with the gun, as to time--by\nstopping and talking to every soul I met, who was not in a full\ntrot--joining all parties before me--waiting for every soul\nbehind--hailing all those who were coming through cross-roads--arresting\nall kinds of beggars, pilgrims, fiddlers, friars--not passing by a woman\nin a mulberry-tree without commending her legs, and tempting her into\nconversation with a pinch of snuff--In short, by seizing every handle,\nof what size or shape soever, which chance held out to me in this\njourney--I turned my plain into a city--I was always in company, and\nwith great variety too; and as my mule loved society as much as myself,\nand had some proposals always on his part to offer to every beast he\nmet--I am confident we could have passed through Pall-Mall, or St.\nJames's-Street, for a month together, with fewer adventures--and seen\nless of human nature.\n\nO! there is that sprightly frankness, which at once unpins every plait\nof a Languedocian's dress--that whatever is beneath it, it looks so\nlike the simplicity which poets sing of in better days--I will delude my\nfancy, and believe it is so.\n\n'Twas in the road betwixt Nismes and Lunel, where there is the best\nMuscatto wine in all France, and which by the bye belongs to the honest\ncanons of Montpellier--and foul befal the man who has drunk it at their\ntable, who grudges them a drop of it.\n\n--The sun was set--they had done their work; the nymphs had tied up\ntheir hair afresh--and the swains were preparing for a carousal--my mule\nmade a dead point--'Tis the fife and tabourin, said I--I'm frighten'd\nto death, quoth he--They are running at the ring of pleasure, said I,\ngiving him a prick--By saint Boogar, and all the saints at the backside\nof the door of purgatory, said he--(making the same resolution with the\nabbesse of Andouillets) I'll not go a step further--'Tis very well, sir,\nsaid I--I never will argue a point with one of your family, as long as I\nlive; so leaping off his back, and kicking off one boot into this ditch,\nand t'other into that--I'll take a dance, said I--so stay you here.\n\nA sun-burnt daughter of Labour rose up from the groupe to meet me, as\nI advanced towards them; her hair, which was a dark chesnut approaching\nrather to a black, was tied up in a knot, all but a single tress.\n\nWe want a cavalier, said she, holding out both her hands, as if to offer\nthem--And a cavalier ye shall have; said I, taking hold of both of them.\n\nHadst thou, Nannette, been array'd like a duchesse!\n\n--But that cursed slit in thy petticoat!\n\nNannette cared not for it.\n\nWe could not have done without you, said she, letting go one hand, with\nself-taught politeness, leading me up with the other.\n\nA lame youth, whom Apollo had recompensed with a pipe, and to which he\nhad added a tabourin of his own accord, ran sweetly over the prelude,\nas he sat upon the bank--Tie me up this tress instantly, said Nannette,\nputting a piece of string into my hand--It taught me to forget I was a\nstranger--The whole knot fell down--We had been seven years acquainted.\n\nThe youth struck the note upon the tabourin--his pipe followed, and off\nwe bounded--'the duce take that slit!'\n\nThe sister of the youth, who had stolen her voice from heaven, sung\nalternately with her brother--'twas a Gascoigne roundelay.\n\n     Viva la Joia!\n     Fidon la Tristessa!\n\nThe nymphs join'd in unison, and their swains an octave below them--\n\nI would have given a crown to have it sew'd up--Nannette would not have\ngiven a sous--Viva la joia! was in her lips--Viva la joia! was in her\neyes. A transient spark of amity shot across the space betwixt us--She\nlook'd amiable!--Why could I not live, and end my days thus? Just\nDisposer of our joys and sorrows, cried I, why could not a man sit down\nin the lap of content here--and dance, and sing, and say his prayers,\nand go to heaven with this nut-brown maid? Capriciously did she bend her\nhead on one side, and dance up insidious--Then 'tis time to dance off,\nquoth I; so changing only partners and tunes, I danced it away from\nLunel to Montpellier--from thence to Pescnas, Beziers--I danced it along\nthrough Narbonne, Carcasson, and Castle Naudairy, till at last I danced\nmyself into Perdrillo's pavillion, where pulling out a paper of black\nlines, that I might go on straight forwards, without digression or\nparenthesis, in my uncle Toby's amours--\n\nI begun thus--\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XXV.\n\n--But softly--for in these sportive plains, and under this genial sun,\nwhere at this instant all flesh is running out piping, fiddling, and\ndancing to the vintage, and every step that's taken, the judgment is\nsurprised by the imagination, I defy, notwithstanding all that has been\nsaid upon straight lines (Vid. Vol. III.) in sundry pages of my book--I\ndefy the best cabbage planter that ever existed, whether he plants\nbackwards or forwards, it makes little difference in the account\n(except that he will have more to answer for in the one case than in\nthe other)--I defy him to go on coolly, critically, and canonically,\nplanting his cabbages one by one, in straight lines, and stoical\ndistances, especially if slits in petticoats are unsew'd up--without\never and anon straddling out, or sidling into some bastardly\ndigression--In Freeze-land, Fog-land, and some other lands I wot of--it\nmay be done--\n\nBut in this clear climate of fantasy and perspiration, where every idea,\nsensible and insensible, gets vent--in this land, my dear Eugenius--in\nthis fertile land of chivalry and romance, where I now sit, unskrewing\nmy ink-horn to write my uncle Toby's amours, and with all the meanders\nof Julia's track in quest of her Diego, in full view of my study\nwindow--if thou comest not and takest me by the hand--\n\nWhat a work it is likely to turn out!\n\nLet us begin it.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XXVI.\n\nIt is with Love as with Cuckoldom--\n\nBut now I am talking of beginning a book, and have long had a thing upon\nmy mind to be imparted to the reader, which, if not imparted now, can\nnever be imparted to him as long as I live (whereas the Comparison may\nbe imparted to him any hour in the day)--I'll just mention it, and begin\nin good earnest.\n\nThe thing is this.\n\nThat of all the several ways of beginning a book which are now in\npractice throughout the known world, I am confident my own way of doing\nit is the best--I'm sure it is the most religious--for I begin with\nwriting the first sentence--and trusting to Almighty God for the second.\n\n'Twould cure an author for ever of the fuss and folly of opening his\nstreet-door, and calling in his neighbours and friends, and kinsfolk,\nwith the devil and all his imps, with their hammers and engines, &c.\nonly to observe how one sentence of mine follows another, and how the\nplan follows the whole.\n\nI wish you saw me half starting out of my chair, with what confidence,\nas I grasp the elbow of it, I look up--catching the idea, even sometimes\nbefore it half way reaches me--\n\nI believe in my conscience I intercept many a thought which heaven\nintended for another man.\n\nPope and his Portrait (Vid. Pope's Portrait.) are fools to me--no martyr\nis ever so full of faith or fire--I wish I could say of good works\ntoo--but I have no\n\n  Zeal or Anger--or\n  Anger or Zeal--\n\nAnd till gods and men agree together to call it by the same name--the\nerrantest Tartuffe, in science--in politics--or in religion, shall\nnever kindle a spark within me, or have a worse word, or a more unkind\ngreeting, than what he will read in the next chapter.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XXVII.\n\n--Bon jour!--good morrow!--so you have got your cloak on betimes!--but\n'tis a cold morning, and you judge the matter rightly--'tis better to\nbe well mounted, than go o' foot--and obstructions in the glands are\ndangerous--And how goes it with thy concubine--thy wife,--and thy little\nones o' both sides? and when did you hear from the old gentleman and\nlady--your sister, aunt, uncle, and cousins--I hope they have got\nbetter of their colds, coughs, claps, tooth-aches, fevers, stranguries,\nsciaticas, swellings, and sore eyes.\n\n--What a devil of an apothecary! to take so much blood--give such a vile\npurge--puke--poultice--plaister--night-draught--clyster--blister?--And\nwhy so many grains of calomel? santa Maria! and such a dose of opium!\nperi-clitating, pardi! the whole family of ye, from head to tail--By my\ngreat-aunt Dinah's old black velvet mask! I think there is no occasion\nfor it.\n\nNow this being a little bald about the chin, by frequently putting off\nand on, before she was got with child by the coachman--not one of our\nfamily would wear it after. To cover the Mask afresh, was more than the\nmask was worth--and to wear a mask which was bald, or which could be\nhalf seen through, was as bad as having no mask at all--\n\nThis is the reason, may it please your reverences, that in all our\nnumerous family, for these four generations, we count no more than one\narchbishop, a Welch judge, some three or four aldermen, and a single\nmountebank--\n\nIn the sixteenth century, we boast of no less than a dozen alchymists.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XXVIII.\n\n'It is with Love as with Cuckoldom'--the suffering party is at least the\nthird, but generally the last in the house who knows any thing about\nthe matter: this comes, as all the world knows, from having half a dozen\nwords for one thing; and so long, as what in this vessel of the\nhuman frame, is Love--may be Hatred, in that--Sentiment half a yard\nhigher--and Nonsense--no, Madam,--not there--I mean at the part I am now\npointing to with my forefinger--how can we help ourselves?\n\nOf all mortal, and immortal men too, if you please, who ever\nsoliloquized upon this mystic subject, my uncle Toby was the worst\nfitted, to have push'd his researches, thro' such a contention of\nfeelings; and he had infallibly let them all run on, as we do\nworse matters, to see what they would turn out--had not Bridget's\npre-notification of them to Susannah, and Susannah's repeated\nmanifestoes thereupon to all the world, made it necessary for my uncle\nToby to look into the affair.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XXIX.\n\nWhy weavers, gardeners, and gladiators--or a man with a pined leg\n(proceeding from some ailment in the foot)--should ever have had some\ntender nymph breaking her heart in secret for them, are points well and\nduly settled and accounted for, by ancient and modern physiologists.\n\nA water-drinker, provided he is a profess'd one, and does it without\nfraud or covin, is precisely in the same predicament: not that, at first\nsight, there is any consequence, or show of logic in it, 'That a rill of\ncold water dribbling through my inward parts, should light up a torch in\nmy Jenny's--'\n\n--The proposition does not strike one; on the contrary, it seems to run\nopposite to the natural workings of causes and effects--\n\nBut it shews the weakness and imbecility of human reason.\n\n--'And in perfect good health with it?'\n\n--The most perfect,--Madam, that friendship herself could wish me--\n\n'And drink nothing!--nothing but water?'\n\n--Impetuous fluid! the moment thou pressest against the flood-gates of\nthe brain--see how they give way--!\n\nIn swims Curiosity, beckoning to her damsels to follow--they dive into\nthe center of the current--\n\nFancy sits musing upon the bank, and with her eyes following the stream,\nturns straws and bulrushes into masts and bow-sprits--And Desire, with\nvest held up to the knee in one hand, snatches at them, as they swim by\nher, with the other--\n\nO ye water drinkers! is it then by this delusive fountain, that ye\nhave so often governed and turn'd this world about like a\nmill-wheel--grinding the faces of the impotent--bepowdering their\nribs--bepeppering their noses, and changing sometimes even the very\nframe and face of nature--\n\nIf I was you, quoth Yorick, I would drink more water, Eugenius--And, if\nI was you, Yorick, replied Eugenius, so would I.\n\nWhich shews they had both read Longinus--\n\nFor my own part, I am resolved never to read any book but my own, as\nlong as I live.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XXX.\n\nI wish my uncle Toby had been a water-drinker; for then the thing had\nbeen accounted for, That the first moment Widow Wadman saw him, she felt\nsomething stirring within her in his favour--Something!--something.\n\n--Something perhaps more than friendship--less than love--something--no\nmatter what--no matter where--I would not give a single hair off my\nmule's tail, and be obliged to pluck it off myself (indeed the villain\nhas not many to spare, and is not a little vicious into the bargain), to\nbe let by your worships into the secret--\n\nBut the truth is, my uncle Toby was not a water-drinker; he drank it\nneither pure nor mix'd, or any how, or any where, except fortuitously\nupon some advanced posts, where better liquor was not to be had--or\nduring the time he was under cure; when the surgeon telling him it would\nextend the fibres, and bring them sooner into contact--my uncle Toby\ndrank it for quietness sake.\n\nNow as all the world knows, that no effect in nature can be produced\nwithout a cause, and as it is as well known, that my uncle Toby was\nneither a weaver--a gardener, or a gladiator--unless as a captain, you\nwill needs have him one--but then he was only a captain of foot--and\nbesides, the whole is an equivocation--There is nothing left for us to\nsuppose, but that my uncle Toby's leg--but that will avail us little in\nthe present hypothesis, unless it had proceeded from some ailment in\nthe foot--whereas his leg was not emaciated from any disorder in his\nfoot--for my uncle Toby's leg was not emaciated at all. It was a little\nstiff and awkward, from a total disuse of it, for the three years he lay\nconfined at my father's house in town; but it was plump and muscular,\nand in all other respects as good and promising a leg as the other.\n\nI declare, I do not recollect any one opinion or passage of my life,\nwhere my understanding was more at a loss to make ends meet, and torture\nthe chapter I had been writing, to the service of the chapter following\nit, than in the present case: one would think I took a pleasure in\nrunning into difficulties of this kind, merely to make fresh experiments\nof getting out of 'em--Inconsiderate soul that thou art! What! are not\nthe unavoidable distresses with which, as an author and a man, thou art\nhemm'd in on every side of thee--are they, Tristram, not sufficient, but\nthou must entangle thyself still more?\n\nIs it not enough that thou art in debt, and that thou hast ten\ncart-loads of thy fifth and sixth volumes (Alluding to the first\nedition.) still--still unsold, and art almost at thy wit's ends, how to\nget them off thy hands?\n\nTo this hour art thou not tormented with the vile asthma that thou\ngattest in skating against the wind in Flanders? and is it but two\nmonths ago, that in a fit of laughter, on seeing a cardinal make water\nlike a quirister (with both hands) thou brakest a vessel in thy lungs,\nwhereby, in two hours, thou lost as many quarts of blood; and hadst thou\nlost as much more, did not the faculty tell thee--it would have amounted\nto a gallon?--\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XXXI.\n\n--But for heaven's sake, let us not talk of quarts or gallons--let us\ntake the story straight before us; it is so nice and intricate a one, it\nwill scarce bear the transposition of a single tittle; and, somehow or\nother, you have got me thrust almost into the middle of it--\n\n--I beg we may take more care.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XXXII.\n\nMy uncle Toby and the corporal had posted down with so much heat and\nprecipitation, to take possession of the spot of ground we have so often\nspoke of, in order to open their campaign as early as the rest of the\nallies; that they had forgot one of the most necessary articles of the\nwhole affair, it was neither a pioneer's spade, a pickax, or a shovel--\n\n--It was a bed to lie on: so that as Shandy-Hall was at that time\nunfurnished; and the little inn where poor Le Fever died, not yet built;\nmy uncle Toby was constrained to accept of a bed at Mrs. Wadman's, for\na night or two, till corporal Trim (who to the character of an excellent\nvalet, groom, cook, sempster, surgeon, and engineer, super-added that of\nan excellent upholsterer too), with the help of a carpenter and a couple\nof taylors, constructed one in my uncle Toby's house.\n\nA daughter of Eve, for such was widow Wadman, and 'tis all the character\nI intend to give of her--\n\n--'That she was a perfect woman--' had better be fifty leagues off--or\nin her warm bed--or playing with a case-knife--or any thing you\nplease--than make a man the object of her attention, when the house and\nall the furniture is her own.\n\nThere is nothing in it out of doors and in broad day-light, where a\nwoman has a power, physically speaking, of viewing a man in more lights\nthan one--but here, for her soul, she can see him in no light without\nmixing something of her own goods and chattels along with him--till\nby reiterated acts of such combination, he gets foisted into her\ninventory--\n\n--And then good night.\n\nBut this is not matter of System; for I have delivered that above--nor\nis it matter of Breviary--for I make no man's creed but my own--nor\nmatter of Fact--at least that I know of; but 'tis matter copulative and\nintroductory to what follows.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XXXIII.\n\nI do not speak it with regard to the coarseness or cleanness of them--or\nthe strength of their gussets--but pray do not night-shifts differ\nfrom day-shifts as much in this particular, as in any thing else in the\nworld; that they so far exceed the others in length, that when you\nare laid down in them, they fall almost as much below the feet, as the\nday-shifts fall short of them?\n\nWidow Wadman's night-shifts (as was the mode I suppose in King William's\nand Queen Anne's reigns) were cut however after this fashion; and if the\nfashion is changed (for in Italy they are come to nothing)--so much the\nworse for the public; they were two Flemish ells and a half in length,\nso that allowing a moderate woman two ells, she had half an ell to\nspare, to do what she would with.\n\nNow from one little indulgence gained after another, in the many\nbleak and decemberley nights of a seven years widow-hood, things\nhad insensibly come to this pass, and for the two last years had got\nestablish'd into one of the ordinances of the bed-chamber--That as soon\nas Mrs. Wadman was put to bed, and had got her legs stretched down to\nthe bottom of it, of which she always gave Bridget notice--Bridget, with\nall suitable decorum, having first open'd the bed-clothes at the feet,\ntook hold of the half-ell of cloth we are speaking of, and having\ngently, and with both her hands, drawn it downwards to its furthest\nextension, and then contracted it again side-long by four or five even\nplaits, she took a large corking-pin out of her sleeve, and with the\npoint directed towards her, pinn'd the plaits all fast together a little\nabove the hem; which done, she tuck'd all in tight at the feet, and\nwish'd her mistress a good night.\n\nThis was constant, and without any other variation than this; that on\nshivering and tempestuous nights, when Bridget untuck'd the feet of the\nbed, &c. to do this--she consulted no thermometer but that of her\nown passions; and so performed it standing--kneeling--or squatting,\naccording to the different degrees of faith, hope, and charity, she was\nin, and bore towards her mistress that night. In every other respect,\nthe etiquette was sacred, and might have vied with the most mechanical\none of the most inflexible bed-chamber in Christendom.\n\nThe first night, as soon as the corporal had conducted my uncle Toby\nup stairs, which was about ten--Mrs. Wadman threw herself into her\narm-chair, and crossing her left knee with her right, which formed a\nresting-place for her elbow, she reclin'd her cheek upon the palm of her\nhand, and leaning forwards, ruminated till midnight upon both sides of\nthe question.\n\nThe second night she went to her bureau, and having ordered Bridget to\nbring her up a couple of fresh candles and leave them upon the table,\nshe took out her marriage-settlement, and read it over with great\ndevotion: and the third night (which was the last of my uncle Toby's\nstay) when Bridget had pull'd down the night-shift, and was assaying to\nstick in the corking pin--\n\n--With a kick of both heels at once, but at the same time the\nmost natural kick that could be kick'd in her situation--for\nsupposing......... to be the sun in its meridian, it was a north-east\nkick--she kick'd the pin out of her fingers--the etiquette which hung\nupon it, down--down it fell to the ground, and was shiver'd into a\nthousand atoms.\n\nFrom all which it was plain that widow Wadman was in love with my uncle\nToby.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XXXIV.\n\nMy uncle Toby's head at that time was full of other matters, so that it\nwas not till the demolition of Dunkirk, when all the other civilities of\nEurope were settled, that he found leisure to return this.\n\nThis made an armistice (that is, speaking with regard to my uncle\nToby--but with respect to Mrs. Wadman, a vacancy)--of almost eleven\nyears. But in all cases of this nature, as it is the second blow, happen\nat what distance of time it will, which makes the fray--I chuse for\nthat reason to call these the amours of my uncle Toby with Mrs. Wadman,\nrather than the amours of Mrs. Wadman with my uncle Toby.\n\nThis is not a distinction without a difference.\n\nIt is not like the affair of an old hat cock'd--and a cock'd old\nhat, about which your reverences have so often been at odds with one\nanother--but there is a difference here in the nature of things--\n\nAnd let me tell you, gentry, a wide one too.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XXXV.\n\nNow as widow Wadman did love my uncle Toby--and my uncle Toby did not\nlove widow Wadman, there was nothing for widow Wadman to do, but to go\non and love my uncle Toby--or let it alone.\n\nWidow Wadman would do neither the one or the other.\n\n--Gracious heaven!--but I forget I am a little of her temper myself; for\nwhenever it so falls out, which it sometimes does about the equinoxes,\nthat an earthly goddess is so much this, and that, and t'other, that I\ncannot eat my breakfast for her--and that she careth not three halfpence\nwhether I eat my breakfast or no--\n\n--Curse on her! and so I send her to Tartary, and from Tartary to Terra\ndel Fuogo, and so on to the devil: in short, there is not an infernal\nnitch where I do not take her divinityship and stick it.\n\nBut as the heart is tender, and the passions in these tides ebb and flow\nten times in a minute, I instantly bring her back again; and as I do all\nthings in extremes, I place her in the very center of the milky-way--\n\nBrightest of stars! thou wilt shed thy influence upon some one--\n\n--The duce take her and her influence too--for at that word I lose all\npatience--much good may it do him!--By all that is hirsute and gashly! I\ncry, taking off my furr'd cap, and twisting it round my finger--I would\nnot give sixpence for a dozen such!\n\n--But 'tis an excellent cap too (putting it upon my head, and pressing\nit close to my ears)--and warm--and soft; especially if you stroke\nit the right way--but alas! that will never be my luck--(so here my\nphilosophy is shipwreck'd again.)\n\n--No; I shall never have a finger in the pye (so here I break my\nmetaphor)--  Crust and Crumb\n  Inside and out\n\nTop and bottom--I detest it, I hate it, I repudiate it--I'm sick at the\nsight of it--\n\n   'Tis all pepper,\n   garlick,\n   staragen,\n   salt, and\n\ndevil's dung--by the great arch-cooks of cooks, who does nothing, I\nthink, from morning to night, but sit down by the fire-side and invent\ninflammatory dishes for us, I would not touch it for the world--\n\n--O Tristram! Tristram! cried Jenny.\n\nO Jenny! Jenny! replied I, and so went on with the thirty-sixth chapter.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XXXVI.\n\n--'Not touch it for the world,' did I say--\n\nLord, how I have heated my imagination with this metaphor!\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XXXVII.\n\nWhich shews, let your reverences and worships say what you will of it\n(for as for thinking--all who do think--think pretty much alike both\nupon it and other matters)--Love is certainly, at least alphabetically\nspeaking, one of the most\n\n   A gitating\n   B ewitching\n   C onfounded\n   D evilish affairs of life--the most\n   E xtravagant\n   F utilitous\n   G alligaskinish\n   H andy-dandyish\n   I racundulous (there is no K to it) and\n   L yrical of all human passions: at the same time, the most\n   M isgiving\n   N innyhammering\n   O bstipating\n   P ragmatical\n   S tridulous\n   R idiculous\n\n--though by the bye the R should have gone first--But in short 'tis of\nsuch a nature, as my father once told my uncle Toby upon the close of a\nlong dissertation upon the subject--'You can scarce,' said he, 'combine\ntwo ideas together upon it, brother Toby, without an hypallage'--What's\nthat? cried my uncle Toby.\n\nThe cart before the horse, replied my father--\n\n--And what is he to do there? cried my uncle Toby.\n\nNothing, quoth my father, but to get in--or let it alone.\n\nNow widow Wadman, as I told you before, would do neither the one or the\nother.\n\nShe stood however ready harnessed and caparisoned at all points, to\nwatch accidents.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XXXVIII.\n\nThe Fates, who certainly all fore-knew of these amours of widow Wadman\nand my uncle Toby, had, from the first creation of matter and motion\n(and with more courtesy than they usually do things of this kind),\nestablished such a chain of causes and effects hanging so fast to one\nanother, that it was scarce possible for my uncle Toby to have dwelt in\nany other house in the world, or to have occupied any other garden\nin Christendom, but the very house and garden which join'd and laid\nparallel to Mrs. Wadman's; this, with the advantage of a thickset\narbour in Mrs. Wadman's garden, but planted in the hedge-row of my\nuncle Toby's, put all the occasions into her hands which Love-militancy\nwanted; she could observe my uncle Toby's motions, and was mistress\nlikewise of his councils of war; and as his unsuspecting heart had given\nleave to the corporal, through the mediation of Bridget, to make her\na wicker-gate of communication to enlarge her walks, it enabled her\nto carry on her approaches to the very door of the sentry-box; and\nsometimes out of gratitude, to make an attack, and endeavour to blow my\nuncle Toby up in the very sentry-box itself.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XXXIX.\n\nIt is a great pity--but 'tis certain from every day's observation of\nman, that he may be set on fire like a candle, at either end--provided\nthere is a sufficient wick standing out; if there is not--there's an\nend of the affair; and if there is--by lighting it at the bottom, as\nthe flame in that case has the misfortune generally to put out\nitself--there's an end of the affair again.\n\nFor my part, could I always have the ordering of it which way I would\nbe burnt myself--for I cannot bear the thoughts of being burnt like a\nbeast--I would oblige a housewife constantly to light me at the top; for\nthen I should burn down decently to the socket; that is, from my head to\nmy heart, from my heart to my liver, from my liver to my bowels, and\nso on by the meseraick veins and arteries, through all the turns and\nlateral insertions of the intestines and their tunicles to the blind\ngut--\n\n--I beseech you, doctor Slop, quoth my uncle Toby, interrupting him as\nhe mentioned the blind gut, in a discourse with my father the night my\nmother was brought to bed of me--I beseech you, quoth my uncle Toby, to\ntell me which is the blind gut; for, old as I am, I vow I do not know to\nthis day where it lies.\n\nThe blind gut, answered doctor Slop, lies betwixt the Ilion and Colon--\n\nIn a man? said my father.\n\n--'Tis precisely the same, cried doctor Slop, in a woman.--\n\nThat's more than I know; quoth my father.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XL.\n\n--And so to make sure of both systems, Mrs. Wadman predetermined to\nlight my uncle Toby neither at this end or that; but, like a prodigal's\ncandle, to light him, if possible, at both ends at once.\n\nNow, through all the lumber rooms of military furniture, including both\nof horse and foot, from the great arsenal of Venice to the Tower of\nLondon (exclusive), if Mrs. Wadman had been rummaging for seven years\ntogether, and with Bridget to help her, she could not have found any one\nblind or mantelet so fit for her purpose, as that which the expediency\nof my uncle Toby's affairs had fix'd up ready to her hands.\n\nI believe I have not told you--but I don't know--possibly I have--be it\nas it will, 'tis one of the number of those many things, which a man\nhad better do over again, than dispute about it--That whatever town\nor fortress the corporal was at work upon, during the course of\ntheir campaign, my uncle Toby always took care, on the inside of his\nsentry-box, which was towards his left hand, to have a plan of the\nplace, fasten'd up with two or three pins at the top, but loose at\nthe bottom, for the conveniency of holding it up to the eye, &c...as\noccasions required; so that when an attack was resolved upon, Mrs.\nWadman had nothing more to do, when she had got advanced to the door\nof the sentry-box, but to extend her right hand; and edging in her left\nfoot at the same movement, to take hold of the map or plan, or upright,\nor whatever it was, and with out-stretched neck meeting it half way,--to\nadvance it towards her; on which my uncle Toby's passions were sure to\ncatch fire--for he would instantly take hold of the other corner of the\nmap in his left hand, and with the end of his pipe in the other, begin\nan explanation.\n\nWhen the attack was advanced to this point;--the world will\nnaturally enter into the reasons of Mrs. Wadman's next stroke of\ngeneralship--which was, to take my uncle Toby's tobacco-pipe out of his\nhand as soon as she possibly could; which, under one pretence or other,\nbut generally that of pointing more distinctly at some redoubt or\nbreastwork in the map, she would effect before my uncle Toby (poor\nsoul!) had well march'd above half a dozen toises with it.\n\n--It obliged my uncle Toby to make use of his forefinger.\n\nThe difference it made in the attack was this; That in going upon it, as\nin the first case, with the end of her fore-finger against the end of my\nuncle Toby's tobacco-pipe, she might have travelled with it, along the\nlines, from Dan to Beersheba, had my uncle Toby's lines reach'd so far,\nwithout any effect: For as there was no arterial or vital heat in the\nend of the tobacco-pipe, it could excite no sentiment--it could neither\ngive fire by pulsation--or receive it by sympathy--'twas nothing but\nsmoke.\n\nWhereas, in following my uncle Toby's forefinger with hers, close thro'\nall the little turns and indentings of his works--pressing sometimes\nagainst the side of it--then treading upon its nail--then tripping it\nup--then touching it here--then there, and so on--it set something at\nleast in motion.\n\nThis, tho' slight skirmishing, and at a distance from the main body, yet\ndrew on the rest; for here, the map usually falling with the back of it,\nclose to the side of the sentry-box, my uncle Toby, in the simplicity\nof his soul, would lay his hand flat upon it, in order to go on with his\nexplanation; and Mrs. Wadman, by a manoeuvre as quick as thought,\nwould as certainly place her's close beside it; this at once opened a\ncommunication, large enough for any sentiment to pass or re-pass, which\na person skill'd in the elementary and practical part of love-making,\nhas occasion for--\n\nBy bringing up her forefinger parallel (as before) to my uncle\nToby's--it unavoidably brought the thumb into action--and the forefinger\nand thumb being once engaged, as naturally brought in the whole hand.\nThine, dear uncle Toby! was never now in 'ts right place--Mrs. Wadman\nhad it ever to take up, or, with the gentlest pushings, protrusions,\nand equivocal compressions, that a hand to be removed is capable of\nreceiving--to get it press'd a hair breadth of one side out of her way.\n\nWhilst this was doing, how could she forget to make him sensible, that\nit was her leg (and no one's else) at the bottom of the sentry-box,\nwhich slightly press'd against the calf of his--So that my uncle Toby\nbeing thus attack'd and sore push'd on both his wings--was it a wonder,\nif now and then, it put his centre into disorder?--\n\n--The duce take it! said my uncle Toby.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XLI.\n\nThese attacks of Mrs. Wadman, you will readily conceive to be of\ndifferent kinds; varying from each other, like the attacks which history\nis full of, and from the same reasons. A general looker-on would scarce\nallow them to be attacks at all--or if he did, would confound them all\ntogether--but I write not to them: it will be time enough to be a little\nmore exact in my descriptions of them, as I come up to them, which will\nnot be for some chapters; having nothing more to add in this, but that\nin a bundle of original papers and drawings which my father took care\nto roll up by themselves, there is a plan of Bouchain in perfect\npreservation (and shall be kept so, whilst I have power to preserve any\nthing), upon the lower corner of which, on the right hand side, there is\nstill remaining the marks of a snuffy finger and thumb, which there\nis all the reason in the world to imagine, were Mrs. Wadman's; for\nthe opposite side of the margin, which I suppose to have been my uncle\nToby's, is absolutely clean: This seems an authenticated record of one\nof these attacks; for there are vestigia of the two punctures partly\ngrown up, but still visible on the opposite corner of the map, which are\nunquestionably the very holes, through which it has been pricked up in\nthe sentry-box--\n\nBy all that is priestly! I value this precious relick, with its stigmata\nand pricks, more than all the relicks of the Romish church--always\nexcepting, when I am writing upon these matters, the pricks which\nentered the flesh of St. Radagunda in the desert, which in your road\nfrom Fesse to Cluny, the nuns of that name will shew you for love.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XLII.\n\nI think, an' please your honour, quoth Trim, the fortifications are\nquite destroyed--and the bason is upon a level with the mole--I think\nso too; replied my uncle Toby with a sigh half suppress'd--but step into\nthe parlour, Trim, for the stipulation--it lies upon the table.\n\nIt has lain there these six weeks, replied the corporal, till this very\nmorning that the old woman kindled the fire with it--\n\n--Then, said my uncle Toby, there is no further occasion for our\nservices. The more, an' please your honour, the pity, said the corporal;\nin uttering which he cast his spade into the wheel-barrow, which was\nbeside him, with an air the most expressive of disconsolation that can\nbe imagined, and was heavily turning about to look for his pickax, his\npioneer's shovel, his picquets, and other little military stores, in\norder to carry them off the field--when a heigh-ho! from the sentry-box,\nwhich being made of thin slit deal, reverberated the sound more\nsorrowfully to his ear, forbad him.\n\n--No; said the corporal to himself, I'll do it before his honour rises\nto-morrow morning; so taking his spade out of the wheel-barrow again,\nwith a little earth in it, as if to level something at the foot of the\nglacis--but with a real intent to approach nearer to his master, in\norder to divert him--he loosen'd a sod or two--pared their edges with\nhis spade, and having given them a gentle blow or two with the back\nof it, he sat himself down close by my uncle Toby's feet and began as\nfollows.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XLIII.\n\nIt was a thousand pities--though I believe, an' please your honour, I am\ngoing to say but a foolish kind of a thing for a soldier--\n\nA soldier, cried my uncle Toby, interrupting the corporal, is no more\nexempt from saying a foolish thing, Trim, than a man of letters--But not\nso often, an' please your honour, replied the corporal--my uncle Toby\ngave a nod.\n\nIt was a thousand pities then, said the corporal, casting his eye upon\nDunkirk, and the mole, as Servius Sulpicius, in returning out of Asia\n(when he sailed from Aegina towards Megara), did upon Corinth and\nPyreus--\n\n--'It was a thousand pities, an' please your honour, to destroy these\nworks--and a thousand pities to have let them stood.'--\n\n--Thou art right, Trim, in both cases; said my uncle Toby.--This,\ncontinued the corporal, is the reason, that from the beginning of their\ndemolition to the end--I have never once whistled, or sung, or laugh'd,\nor cry'd, or talk'd of past done deeds, or told your honour one story\ngood or bad--\n\n--Thou hast many excellencies, Trim, said my uncle Toby, and I hold it\nnot the least of them, as thou happenest to be a story-teller, that of\nthe number thou hast told me, either to amuse me in my painful hours, or\ndivert me in my grave ones--thou hast seldom told me a bad one--\n\n--Because, an' please your honour, except one of a King of Bohemia and\nhis seven castles,--they are all true; for they are about myself--\n\nI do not like the subject the worse, Trim, said my uncle Toby, on that\nscore: But prithee what is this story? thou hast excited my curiosity.\n\nI'll tell it your honour, quoth the corporal, directly--Provided,\nsaid my uncle Toby, looking earnestly towards Dunkirk and the mole\nagain--provided it is not a merry one; to such, Trim, a man should ever\nbring one half of the entertainment along with him; and the disposition\nI am in at present would wrong both thee, Trim, and thy story--It is\nnot a merry one by any means, replied the corporal--Nor would I have it\naltogether a grave one, added my uncle Toby--It is neither the one nor\nthe other, replied the corporal, but will suit your honour exactly--Then\nI'll thank thee for it with all my heart, cried my uncle Toby; so\nprithee begin it, Trim.\n\nThe corporal made his reverence; and though it is not so easy a matter\nas the world imagines, to pull off a lank Montero-cap with grace--or a\nwhit less difficult, in my conceptions, when a man is sitting squat upon\nthe ground, to make a bow so teeming with respect as the corporal was\nwont; yet by suffering the palm of his right hand, which was towards his\nmaster, to slip backwards upon the grass, a little beyond his body, in\norder to allow it the greater sweep--and by an unforced compression, at\nthe same time, of his cap with the thumb and the two forefingers of his\nleft, by which the diameter of the cap became reduced, so that it\nmight be said, rather to be insensibly squeez'd--than pull'd off with a\nflatus--the corporal acquitted himself of both in a better manner than\nthe posture of his affairs promised; and having hemmed twice, to find in\nwhat key his story would best go, and best suit his master's humour,--he\nexchanged a single look of kindness with him, and set off thus.\n\nThe Story of the King of Bohemia and His Seven Castles.\n\nThere was a certain king of Bo...he--As the corporal was entering the\nconfines of Bohemia, my uncle Toby obliged him to halt for a single\nmoment; he had set out bare-headed, having, since he pull'd off his\nMontero-cap in the latter end of the last chapter, left it lying beside\nhim on the ground.\n\n--The eye of Goodness espieth all things--so that before the corporal\nhad well got through the first five words of his story, had my\nuncle Toby twice touch'd his Montero-cap with the end of his cane,\ninterrogatively--as much as to say, Why don't you put it on, Trim? Trim\ntook it up with the most respectful slowness, and casting a glance of\nhumiliation as he did it, upon the embroidery of the fore-part, which\nbeing dismally tarnish'd and fray'd moreover in some of the principal\nleaves and boldest parts of the pattern, he lay'd it down again between\nhis two feet, in order to moralize upon the subject.\n\n--'Tis every word of it but too true, cried my uncle Toby, that thou art\nabout to observe--\n\n'Nothing in this world, Trim, is made to last for ever.'\n\n--But when tokens, dear Tom, of thy love and remembrance wear out, said\nTrim, what shall we say?\n\nThere is no occasion, Trim, quoth my uncle Toby, to say any thing else;\nand was a man to puzzle his brains till Doom's day, I believe, Trim, it\nwould be impossible.\n\nThe corporal, perceiving my uncle Toby was in the right, and that it\nwould be in vain for the wit of man to think of extracting a purer moral\nfrom his cap, without further attempting it, he put it on; and passing\nhis hand across his forehead to rub out a pensive wrinkle, which the\ntext and the doctrine between them had engender'd, he return'd, with the\nsame look and tone of voice, to his story of the king of Bohemia and his\nseven castles.\n\nThe Story of the King of Bohemia and His Seven Castles, Continued.\n\nThere was a certain king of Bohemia, but in whose reign, except his own,\nI am not able to inform your honour--\n\nI do not desire it of thee, Trim, by any means, cried my uncle Toby.\n\n--It was a little before the time, an' please your honour, when giants\nwere beginning to leave off breeding:--but in what year of our Lord that\nwas--\n\nI would not give a halfpenny to know, said my uncle Toby.\n\n--Only, an' please your honour, it makes a story look the better in the\nface--\n\n--'Tis thy own, Trim, so ornament it after thy own fashion; and take\nany date, continued my uncle Toby, looking pleasantly upon him--take any\ndate in the whole world thou chusest, and put it to--thou art heartily\nwelcome--\n\nThe corporal bowed; for of every century, and of every year of that\ncentury, from the first creation of the world down to Noah's flood; and\nfrom Noah's flood to the birth of Abraham; through all the pilgrimages\nof the patriarchs, to the departure of the Israelites out of Egypt--and\nthroughout all the Dynasties, Olympiads, Urbeconditas, and other\nmemorable epochas of the different nations of the world, down to the\ncoming of Christ, and from thence to the very moment in which the\ncorporal was telling his story--had my uncle Toby subjected this vast\nempire of time and all its abysses at his feet; but as Modesty scarce\ntouches with a finger what Liberality offers her with both hands\nopen--the corporal contented himself with the very worst year of the\nwhole bunch; which, to prevent your honours of the Majority and Minority\nfrom tearing the very flesh off your bones in contestation, 'Whether\nthat year is not always the last cast-year of the last cast-almanack'--I\ntell you plainly it was; but from a different reason than you wot of--\n\n--It was the year next him--which being the year of our Lord seventeen\nhundred and twelve, when the Duke of Ormond was playing the devil\nin Flanders--the corporal took it, and set out with it afresh on his\nexpedition to Bohemia.\n\nThe Story of the King of Bohemia and His Seven Castles, Continued.\n\nIn the year of our Lord one thousand seven hundred and twelve, there\nwas, an' please your honour--\n\n--To tell thee truly, Trim, quoth my uncle Toby, any other date would\nhave pleased me much better, not only on account of the sad stain upon\nour history that year, in marching off our troops, and refusing to cover\nthe siege of Quesnoi, though Fagel was carrying on the works with such\nincredible vigour--but likewise on the score, Trim, of thy own story;\nbecause if there are--and which, from what thou hast dropt, I partly\nsuspect to be the fact--if there are giants in it--\n\nThere is but one, an' please your honour--\n\n--'Tis as bad as twenty, replied my uncle Toby--thou should'st have\ncarried him back some seven or eight hundred years out of harm's way,\nboth of critics and other people: and therefore I would advise thee, if\never thou tellest it again--\n\n--If I live, an' please your honour, but once to get through it, I\nwill never tell it again, quoth Trim, either to man, woman, or\nchild--Poo--poo! said my uncle Toby--but with accents of such sweet\nencouragement did he utter it, that the corporal went on with his story\nwith more alacrity than ever.\n\nThe Story of the King of Bohemia and His Seven Castles, Continued.\n\nThere was, an' please your honour, said the corporal, raising his voice\nand rubbing the palms of his two hands cheerily together as he begun, a\ncertain king of Bohemia--\n\n--Leave out the date entirely, Trim, quoth my uncle Toby, leaning\nforwards, and laying his hand gently upon the corporal's shoulder to\ntemper the interruption--leave it out entirely, Trim; a story passes\nvery well without these niceties, unless one is pretty sure of 'em--Sure\nof 'em! said the corporal, shaking his head--\n\nRight; answered my uncle Toby, it is not easy, Trim, for one, bred up as\nthou and I have been to arms, who seldom looks further forward than to\nthe end of his musket, or backwards beyond his knapsack, to know much\nabout this matter--God bless your honour! said the corporal, won by the\nmanner of my uncle Toby's reasoning, as much as by the reasoning itself,\nhe has something else to do; if not on action, or a march, or upon\nduty in his garrison--he has his firelock, an' please your honour,\nto furbish--his accoutrements to take care of--his regimentals to\nmend--himself to shave and keep clean, so as to appear always like what\nhe is upon the parade; what business, added the corporal triumphantly,\nhas a soldier, an' please your honour, to know any thing at all of\ngeography?\n\n--Thou would'st have said chronology, Trim, said my uncle Toby; for\nas for geography, 'tis of absolute use to him; he must be acquainted\nintimately with every country and its boundaries where his profession\ncarries him; he should know every town and city, and village and hamlet,\nwith the canals, the roads, and hollow ways which lead up to them; there\nis not a river or a rivulet he passes, Trim, but he should be able at\nfirst sight to tell thee what is its name--in what mountains it\ntakes its rise--what is its course--how far it is navigable--where\nfordable--where not; he should know the fertility of every valley, as\nwell as the hind who ploughs it; and be able to describe, or, if it is\nrequired, to give thee an exact map of all the plains and defiles, the\nforts, the acclivities, the woods and morasses, thro' and by which his\narmy is to march; he should know their produce, their plants, their\nminerals, their waters, their animals, their seasons, their climates,\ntheir heats and cold, their inhabitants, their customs, their language,\ntheir policy, and even their religion.\n\nIs it else to be conceived, corporal, continued my uncle Toby, rising\nup in his sentry-box, as he began to warm in this part of his\ndiscourse--how Marlborough could have marched his army from the banks of\nthe Maes to Belburg; from Belburg to Kerpenord--(here the corporal\ncould sit no longer) from Kerpenord, Trim, to Kalsaken; from Kalsaken\nto Newdorf; from Newdorf to Landenbourg; from Landenbourg to Mildenheim;\nfrom Mildenheim to Elchingen; from Elchingen to Gingen; from Gingen to\nBalmerchoffen; from Balmerchoffen to Skellenburg, where he broke in\nupon the enemy's works; forced his passage over the Danube; cross'd the\nLech--push'd on his troops into the heart of the empire, marching at the\nhead of them through Fribourg, Hokenwert, and Schonevelt, to the plains\nof Blenheim and Hochstet?--Great as he was, corporal, he could not have\nadvanced a step, or made one single day's march without the aids of\nGeography.--As for Chronology, I own, Trim, continued my uncle Toby,\nsitting down again coolly in his sentry-box, that of all others, it\nseems a science which the soldier might best spare, was it not for the\nlights which that science must one day give him, in determining the\ninvention of powder; the furious execution of which, renversing every\nthing like thunder before it, has become a new aera to us of military\nimprovements, changing so totally the nature of attacks and defences\nboth by sea and land, and awakening so much art and skill in doing it,\nthat the world cannot be too exact in ascertaining the precise time\nof its discovery, or too inquisitive in knowing what great man was the\ndiscoverer, and what occasions gave birth to it.\n\nI am far from controverting, continued my uncle Toby, what historians\nagree in, that in the year of our Lord 1380, under the reign of\nWencelaus, son of Charles the Fourth--a certain priest, whose name\nwas Schwartz, shew'd the use of powder to the Venetians, in their wars\nagainst the Genoese; but 'tis certain he was not the first; because if\nwe are to believe Don Pedro, the bishop of Leon--How came priests and\nbishops, an' please your honour, to trouble their heads so much about\ngun-powder? God knows, said my uncle Toby--his providence brings good\nout of every thing--and he avers, in his chronicle of King Alphonsus,\nwho reduced Toledo, That in the year 1343, which was full thirty-seven\nyears before that time, the secret of powder was well known, and\nemployed with success, both by Moors and Christians, not only in their\nsea-combats, at that period, but in many of their most memorable sieges\nin Spain and Barbary--And all the world knows, that Friar Bacon had\nwrote expressly about it, and had generously given the world a receipt\nto make it by, above a hundred and fifty years before even Schwartz was\nborn--And that the Chinese, added my uncle Toby, embarrass us, and all\naccounts of it, still more, by boasting of the invention some hundreds\nof years even before him--\n\nThey are a pack of liars, I believe, cried Trim--\n\n--They are somehow or other deceived, said my uncle Toby, in this\nmatter, as is plain to me from the present miserable state of military\narchitecture amongst them; which consists of nothing more than a fosse\nwith a brick wall without flanks--and for what they gave us as a bastion\nat each angle of it, 'tis so barbarously constructed, that it looks for\nall the world--Like one of my seven castles, an' please your honour,\nquoth Trim.\n\nMy uncle Toby, tho' in the utmost distress for a comparison, most\ncourteously refused Trim's offer--till Trim telling him, he had half a\ndozen more in Bohemia, which he knew not how to get off his hands--my\nuncle Toby was so touch'd with the pleasantry of heart of the\ncorporal--that he discontinued his dissertation upon gun-powder--and\nbegged the corporal forthwith to go on with his story of the King of\nBohemia and his seven castles.\n\nThe Story of the King of Bohemia and His Seven Castles, Continued.\n\nThis unfortunate King of Bohemia, said Trim,--Was he unfortunate, then?\ncried my uncle Toby, for he had been so wrapt up in his dissertation\nupon gun-powder, and other military affairs, that tho' he had desired\nthe corporal to go on, yet the many interruptions he had given, dwelt\nnot so strong upon his fancy as to account for the epithet--Was he\nunfortunate, then, Trim? said my uncle Toby, pathetically--The corporal,\nwishing first the word and all its synonimas at the devil, forthwith\nbegan to run back in his mind, the principal events in the King of\nBohemia's story; from every one of which, it appearing that he was the\nmost fortunate man that ever existed in the world--it put the corporal\nto a stand: for not caring to retract his epithet--and less to explain\nit--and least of all, to twist his tale (like men of lore) to serve a\nsystem--he looked up in my uncle Toby's face for assistance--but seeing\nit was the very thing my uncle Toby sat in expectation of himself--after\na hum and a haw, he went on--\n\nThe King of Bohemia, an' please your honour, replied the corporal,\nwas unfortunate, as thus--That taking great pleasure and delight in\nnavigation and all sort of sea affairs--and there happening throughout\nthe whole kingdom of Bohemia, to be no sea-port town whatever--\n\nHow the duce should there--Trim? cried my uncle Toby; for Bohemia being\ntotally inland, it could have happen'd no otherwise--It might, said\nTrim, if it had pleased God--\n\nMy uncle Toby never spoke of the being and natural attributes of God,\nbut with diffidence and hesitation--\n\n--I believe not, replied my uncle Toby, after some pause--for being\ninland, as I said, and having Silesia and Moravia to the east; Lusatia\nand Upper Saxony to the north; Franconia to the west; and Bavaria to the\nsouth; Bohemia could not have been propell'd to the sea without ceasing\nto be Bohemia--nor could the sea, on the other hand, have come up to\nBohemia, without overflowing a great part of Germany, and destroying\nmillions of unfortunate inhabitants who could make no defence against\nit--Scandalous! cried Trim--Which would bespeak, added my uncle Toby,\nmildly, such a want of compassion in him who is the father of it--that,\nI think, Trim--the thing could have happen'd no way.\n\nThe corporal made the bow of unfeign'd conviction; and went on.\n\nNow the King of Bohemia with his queen and courtiers happening one fine\nsummer's evening to walk out--Aye! there the word happening is right,\nTrim, cried my uncle Toby; for the King of Bohemia and his queen might\nhave walk'd out or let it alone:--'twas a matter of contingency, which\nmight happen, or not, just as chance ordered it.\n\nKing William was of an opinion, an' please your honour, quoth Trim,\nthat every thing was predestined for us in this world; insomuch, that\nhe would often say to his soldiers, that 'every ball had its billet.' He\nwas a great man, said my uncle Toby--And I believe, continued Trim, to\nthis day, that the shot which disabled me at the battle of Landen,\nwas pointed at my knee for no other purpose, but to take me out of his\nservice, and place me in your honour's, where I should be taken so\nmuch better care of in my old age--It shall never, Trim, be construed\notherwise, said my uncle Toby.\n\nThe heart, both of the master and the man, were alike subject to sudden\nover-flowings;--a short silence ensued.\n\nBesides, said the corporal, resuming the discourse--but in a gayer\naccent--if it had not been for that single shot, I had never, 'an please\nyour honour, been in love--\n\nSo, thou wast once in love, Trim! said my uncle Toby, smiling--\n\nSouse! replied the corporal--over head and ears! an' please your honour.\nPrithee when? where?--and how came it to pass?--I never heard one word\nof it before; quoth my uncle Toby:--I dare say, answered Trim, that\nevery drummer and serjeant's son in the regiment knew of it--It's high\ntime I should--said my uncle Toby.\n\nYour honour remembers with concern, said the corporal, the total rout\nand confusion of our camp and army at the affair of Landen; every one\nwas left to shift for himself; and if it had not been for the regiments\nof Wyndham, Lumley, and Galway, which covered the retreat over the\nbridge Neerspeeken, the king himself could scarce have gained it--he was\npress'd hard, as your honour knows, on every side of him--\n\nGallant mortal! cried my uncle Toby, caught up with enthusiasm--this\nmoment, now that all is lost, I see him galloping across me, corporal,\nto the left, to bring up the remains of the English horse along with him\nto support the right, and tear the laurel from Luxembourg's brows, if\nyet 'tis possible--I see him with the knot of his scarfe just shot off,\ninfusing fresh spirits into poor Galway's regiment--riding along the\nline--then wheeling about, and charging Conti at the head of it--Brave,\nbrave, by heaven! cried my uncle Toby--he deserves a crown--As richly,\nas a thief a halter; shouted Trim.\n\nMy uncle Toby knew the corporal's loyalty;--otherwise the comparison\nwas not at all to his mind--it did not altogether strike the corporal's\nfancy when he had made it--but it could not be recall'd--so he had\nnothing to do, but proceed.\n\nAs the number of wounded was prodigious, and no one had time to think\nof any thing but his own safety--Though Talmash, said my uncle Toby,\nbrought off the foot with great prudence--But I was left upon the field,\nsaid the corporal. Thou wast so; poor fellow! replied my uncle Toby--So\nthat it was noon the next day, continued the corporal, before I was\nexchanged, and put into a cart with thirteen or fourteen more, in order\nto be convey'd to our hospital.\n\nThere is no part of the body, an' please your honour, where a wound\noccasions more intolerable anguish than upon the knee--\n\nExcept the groin; said my uncle Toby. An' please your honour, replied\nthe corporal, the knee, in my opinion, must certainly be the most acute,\nthere being so many tendons and what-d'ye-call-'ems all about it.\n\nIt is for that reason, quoth my uncle Toby, that the groin is\ninfinitely more sensible--there being not only as many tendons\nand what-d'ye-call-'ems (for I know their names as little as thou\ndost)--about it--but moreover ...--\n\nMrs. Wadman, who had been all the time in her arbour--instantly stopp'd\nher breath--unpinn'd her mob at the chin, and stood upon one leg--\n\nThe dispute was maintained with amicable and equal force betwixt my\nuncle Toby and Trim for some time; till Trim at length recollecting that\nhe had often cried at his master's sufferings, but never shed a tear\nat his own--was for giving up the point, which my uncle Toby would not\nallow--'Tis a proof of nothing, Trim, said he, but the generosity of thy\ntemper--\n\nSo that whether the pain of a wound in the groin (caeteris paribus) is\ngreater than the pain of a wound in the knee--or\n\nWhether the pain of a wound in the knee is not greater than the pain of\na wound in the groin--are points which to this day remain unsettled.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XLIV.\n\nThe anguish of my knee, continued the corporal, was excessive in itself;\nand the uneasiness of the cart, with the roughness of the roads, which\nwere terribly cut up--making bad still worse--every step was death to\nme: so that with the loss of blood, and the want of care-taking of\nme, and a fever I felt coming on besides--(Poor soul! said my uncle\nToby)--all together, an' please your honour, was more than I could\nsustain.\n\nI was telling my sufferings to a young woman at a peasant's house, where\nour cart, which was the last of the line, had halted; they had help'd\nme in, and the young woman had taken a cordial out of her pocket and\ndropp'd it upon some sugar, and seeing it had cheer'd me, she had given\nit me a second and a third time--So I was telling her, an' please your\nhonour, the anguish I was in, and was saying it was so intolerable\nto me, that I had much rather lie down upon the bed, turning my face\ntowards one which was in the corner of the room--and die, than go\non--when, upon her attempting to lead me to it, I fainted away in her\narms. She was a good soul! as your honour, said the corporal, wiping his\neyes, will hear.\n\nI thought love had been a joyous thing, quoth my uncle Toby.\n\n'Tis the most serious thing, an' please your honour (sometimes), that is\nin the world.\n\nBy the persuasion of the young woman, continued the corporal, the cart\nwith the wounded men set off without me: she had assured them I should\nexpire immediately if I was put into the cart. So when I came to\nmyself--I found myself in a still quiet cottage, with no one but the\nyoung woman, and the peasant and his wife. I was laid across the bed in\nthe corner of the room, with my wounded leg upon a chair, and the\nyoung woman beside me, holding the corner of her handkerchief dipp'd in\nvinegar to my nose with one hand, and rubbing my temples with the other.\n\nI took her at first for the daughter of the peasant (for it was no\ninn)--so had offer'd her a little purse with eighteen florins, which my\npoor brother Tom (here Trim wip'd his eyes) had sent me as a token, by a\nrecruit, just before he set out for Lisbon--\n\n--I never told your honour that piteous story yet--here Trim wiped his\neyes a third time.\n\nThe young woman call'd the old man and his wife into the room, to shew\nthem the money, in order to gain me credit for a bed and what little\nnecessaries I should want, till I should be in a condition to be got to\nthe hospital--Come then! said she, tying up the little purse--I'll be\nyour banker--but as that office alone will not keep me employ'd, I'll be\nyour nurse too.\n\nI thought by her manner of speaking this, as well as by her dress, which\nI then began to consider more attentively--that the young woman could\nnot be the daughter of the peasant.\n\nShe was in black down to her toes, with her hair conceal'd under a\ncambric border, laid close to her forehead: she was one of those kind of\nnuns, an' please your honour, of which, your honour knows, there are\na good many in Flanders, which they let go loose--By thy description,\nTrim, said my uncle Toby, I dare say she was a young Beguine, of\nwhich there are none to be found any where but in the Spanish\nNetherlands--except at Amsterdam--they differ from nuns in this, that\nthey can quit their cloister if they choose to marry; they visit and\ntake care of the sick by profession--I had rather, for my own part, they\ndid it out of good-nature.\n\n--She often told me, quoth Trim, she did it for the love of Christ--I\ndid not like it.--I believe, Trim, we are both wrong, said my uncle\nToby--we'll ask Mr. Yorick about it to-night at my brother Shandy's--so\nput me in mind; added my uncle Toby.\n\nThe young Beguine, continued the corporal, had scarce given herself time\nto tell me 'she would be my nurse,' when she hastily turned about to\nbegin the office of one, and prepare something for me--and in a short\ntime--though I thought it a long one--she came back with flannels, &c.\n&c. and having fomented my knee soundly for a couple of hours, &c. and\nmade me a thin bason of gruel for my supper--she wish'd me rest, and\npromised to be with me early in the morning.--She wish'd me, an'\nplease your honour, what was not to be had. My fever ran very high that\nnight--her figure made sad disturbance within me--I was every moment\ncutting the world in two--to give her half of it--and every moment was I\ncrying, That I had nothing but a knapsack and eighteen florins to share\nwith her--The whole night long was the fair Beguine, like an angel,\nclose by my bed-side, holding back my curtain and offering me\ncordials--and I was only awakened from my dream by her coming there at\nthe hour promised, and giving them in reality. In truth, she was scarce\never from me; and so accustomed was I to receive life from her hands,\nthat my heart sickened, and I lost colour when she left the room: and\nyet, continued the corporal (making one of the strangest reflections\nupon it in the world)----'It was not love'--for during the three weeks\nshe was almost constantly with me, fomenting my knee with her hand,\nnight and day--I can honestly say, an' please your honour--that...once.\n\nThat was very odd, Trim, quoth my uncle Toby.\n\nI think so too--said Mrs. Wadman.\n\nIt never did, said the corporal.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XLV.\n\n--But 'tis no marvel, continued the corporal--seeing my uncle Toby\nmusing upon it--for Love, an' please your honour, is exactly like war,\nin this; that a soldier, though he has escaped three weeks complete\no'Saturday night,--may nevertheless be shot through his heart on\nSunday morning--It happened so here, an' please your honour, with this\ndifference only--that it was on Sunday in the afternoon, when I fell\nin love all at once with a sisserara--It burst upon me, an' please your\nhonour, like a bomb--scarce giving me time to say, 'God bless me.'\n\nI thought, Trim, said my uncle Toby, a man never fell in love so very\nsuddenly.\n\nYes, an' please your honour, if he is in the way of it--replied Trim.\n\nI prithee, quoth my uncle Toby, inform me how this matter happened.\n\n--With all pleasure, said the corporal, making a bow.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XLVI.\n\nI had escaped, continued the corporal, all that time from falling\nin love, and had gone on to the end of the chapter, had it not been\npredestined otherwise--there is no resisting our fate.\n\nIt was on a Sunday, in the afternoon, as I told your honour.\n\nThe old man and his wife had walked out--\n\nEvery thing was still and hush as midnight about the house--\n\nThere was not so much as a duck or a duckling about the yard--\n\n--When the fair Beguine came in to see me.\n\nMy wound was then in a fair way of doing well--the inflammation had been\ngone off for some time, but it was succeeded with an itching both above\nand below my knee, so insufferable, that I had not shut my eyes the\nwhole night for it.\n\nLet me see it, said she, kneeling down upon the ground parallel to my\nknee, and laying her hand upon the part below it--it only wants rubbing\na little, said the Beguine; so covering it with the bed-clothes, she\nbegan with the fore-finger of her right hand to rub under my knee,\nguiding her fore-finger backwards and forwards by the edge of the\nflannel which kept on the dressing.\n\nIn five or six minutes I felt slightly the end of her second finger--and\npresently it was laid flat with the other, and she continued rubbing in\nthat way round and round for a good while; it then came into my head,\nthat I should fall in love--I blush'd when I saw how white a hand she\nhad--I shall never, an' please your honour, behold another hand so white\nwhilst I live--\n\n--Not in that place, said my uncle Toby--\n\nThough it was the most serious despair in nature to the corporal--he\ncould not forbear smiling.\n\nThe young Beguine, continued the corporal, perceiving it was of great\nservice to me--from rubbing for some time, with two fingers--proceeded\nto rub at length, with three--till by little and little she brought\ndown the fourth, and then rubb'd with her whole hand: I will never\nsay another word, an' please your honour, upon hands again--but it was\nsofter than sattin--\n\n--Prithee, Trim, commend it as much as thou wilt, said my uncle Toby;\nI shall hear thy story with the more delight--The corporal thank'd his\nmaster most unfeignedly; but having nothing to say upon the Beguine's\nhand but the same over again--he proceeded to the effects of it.\n\nThe fair Beguine, said the corporal, continued rubbing with her whole\nhand under my knee--till I fear'd her zeal would weary her--'I would do\na thousand times more,' said she, 'for the love of Christ'--In saying\nwhich, she pass'd her hand across the flannel, to the part above my\nknee, which I had equally complain'd of, and rubb'd it also.\n\nI perceiv'd, then, I was beginning to be in love--\n\nAs she continued rub-rub-rubbing--I felt it spread from under her hand,\nan' please your honour, to every part of my frame--\n\nThe more she rubb'd, and the longer strokes she took--the more the fire\nkindled in my veins--till at length, by two or three strokes longer than\nthe rest--my passion rose to the highest pitch--I seiz'd her hand--\n\n--And then thou clapped'st it to thy lips, Trim, said my uncle Toby--and\nmadest a speech.\n\nWhether the corporal's amour terminated precisely in the way my uncle\nToby described it, is not material; it is enough that it contained in\nit the essence of all the love romances which ever have been wrote since\nthe beginning of the world.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XLVII.\n\nAs soon as the corporal had finished the story of his amour--or rather\nmy uncle Toby for him--Mrs. Wadman silently sallied forth from her\narbour, replaced the pin in her mob, pass'd the wicker gate, and\nadvanced slowly towards my uncle Toby's sentry-box: the disposition\nwhich Trim had made in my uncle Toby's mind, was too favourable a crisis\nto be let slipp'd--\n\n--The attack was determin'd upon: it was facilitated still more by my\nuncle Toby's having ordered the corporal to wheel off the pioneer's\nshovel, the spade, the pick-axe, the picquets, and other military stores\nwhich lay scatter'd upon the ground where Dunkirk stood--The corporal\nhad march'd--the field was clear.\n\nNow, consider, sir, what nonsense it is, either in fighting, or writing,\nor any thing else (whether in rhyme to it, or not) which a man has\noccasion to do--to act by plan: for if ever Plan, independent of all\ncircumstances, deserved registering in letters of gold (I mean in the\narchives of Gotham)--it was certainly the Plan of Mrs. Wadman's attack\nof my uncle Toby in his sentry-box, By Plan--Now the plan hanging up in\nit at this juncture, being the Plan of Dunkirk--and the tale of Dunkirk\na tale of relaxation, it opposed every impression she could make: and\nbesides, could she have gone upon it--the manoeuvre of fingers and hands\nin the attack of the sentry-box, was so outdone by that of the fair\nBeguine's, in Trim's story--that just then, that particular attack,\nhowever successful before--became the most heartless attack that could\nbe made--\n\nO! let woman alone for this. Mrs. Wadman had scarce open'd the\nwicker-gate, when her genius sported with the change of circumstances.\n\n--She formed a new attack in a moment.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XLVIII.\n\n--I am half distracted, captain Shandy, said Mrs. Wadman, holding up her\ncambrick handkerchief to her left eye, as she approach'd the door of my\nuncle Toby's sentry-box--a mote--or sand--or something--I know not what,\nhas got into this eye of mine--do look into it--it is not in the white--\n\nIn saying which, Mrs. Wadman edged herself close in beside my uncle\nToby, and squeezing herself down upon the corner of his bench, she gave\nhim an opportunity of doing it without rising up--Do look into it--said\nshe.\n\nHonest soul! thou didst look into it with as much innocency of heart,\nas ever child look'd into a raree-shew-box; and 'twere as much a sin to\nhave hurt thee.\n\n--If a man will be peeping of his own accord into things of that\nnature--I've nothing to say to it--\n\nMy uncle Toby never did: and I will answer for him, that he would have\nsat quietly upon a sofa from June to January (which, you know, takes\nin both the hot and cold months), with an eye as fine as the Thracian\nRodope's (Rodope Thracia tam inevitabili fascino instructa, tam exacte\noculus intuens attraxit, ut si in illam quis incidisset, fieri non\nposset, quin caperetur.--I know not who.) besides him, without being\nable to tell, whether it was a black or blue one.\n\nThe difficulty was to get my uncle Toby, to look at one at all.\n\n'Tis surmounted. And\n\nI see him yonder with his pipe pendulous in his hand, and the ashes\nfalling out of it--looking--and looking--then rubbing his eyes--and\nlooking again, with twice the good-nature that ever Galileo look'd for a\nspot in the sun.\n\n--In vain! for by all the powers which animate the organ--Widow Wadman's\nleft eye shines this moment as lucid as her right--there is neither\nmote, or sand, or dust, or chaff, or speck, or particle of opake matter\nfloating in it--There is nothing, my dear paternal uncle! but one\nlambent delicious fire, furtively shooting out from every part of it, in\nall directions, into thine--\n\n--If thou lookest, uncle Toby, in search of this mote one moment\nlonger,--thou art undone.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XLIX.\n\nAn eye is for all the world exactly like a cannon, in this respect; That\nit is not so much the eye or the cannon, in themselves, as it is the\ncarriage of the eye--and the carriage of the cannon, by which both the\none and the other are enabled to do so much execution. I don't think the\ncomparison a bad one: However, as 'tis made and placed at the head of\nthe chapter, as much for use as ornament, all I desire in return, is,\nthat whenever I speak of Mrs. Wadman's eyes (except once in the next\nperiod), that you keep it in your fancy.\n\nI protest, Madam, said my uncle Toby, I can see nothing whatever in your\neye.\n\nIt is not in the white; said Mrs. Wadman: my uncle Toby look'd with\nmight and main into the pupil--\n\nNow of all the eyes which ever were created--from your own, Madam, up to\nthose of Venus herself, which certainly were as venereal a pair of eyes\nas ever stood in a head--there never was an eye of them all, so fitted\nto rob my uncle Toby of his repose, as the very eye, at which he was\nlooking--it was not, Madam a rolling eye--a romping or a wanton one--nor\nwas it an eye sparkling--petulant or imperious--of high claims and\nterrifying exactions, which would have curdled at once that milk of\nhuman nature, of which my uncle Toby was made up--but 'twas an eye\nfull of gentle salutations--and soft responses--speaking--not like the\ntrumpet stop of some ill-made organ, in which many an eye I talk to,\nholds coarse converse--but whispering soft--like the last low accent of\nan expiring saint--'How can you live comfortless, captain Shandy, and\nalone, without a bosom to lean your head on--or trust your cares to?'\n\nIt was an eye--\n\nBut I shall be in love with it myself, if I say another word about it.\n\n--It did my uncle Toby's business.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.L.\n\nThere is nothing shews the character of my father and my uncle Toby, in\na more entertaining light, than their different manner of deportment,\nunder the same accident--for I call not love a misfortune, from a\npersuasion, that a man's heart is ever the better for it--Great God!\nwhat must my uncle Toby's have been, when 'twas all benignity without\nit.\n\nMy father, as appears from many of his papers, was very subject to this\npassion, before he married--but from a little subacid kind of drollish\nimpatience in his nature, whenever it befell him, he would never submit\nto it like a christian; but would pish, and huff, and bounce, and kick,\nand play the Devil, and write the bitterest Philippicks against the eye\nthat ever man wrote--there is one in verse upon somebody's eye or other,\nthat for two or three nights together, had put him by his rest; which in\nhis first transport of resentment against it, he begins thus:\n\n   'A Devil 'tis--and mischief such doth work\n   As never yet did Pagan, Jew, or Turk.'\n\n(This will be printed with my father's Life of Socrates, &c. &c.)\n\nIn short, during the whole paroxism, my father was all abuse and foul\nlanguage, approaching rather towards malediction--only he did not do\nit with as much method as Ernulphus--he was too impetuous; nor with\nErnulphus's policy--for tho' my father, with the most intolerant spirit,\nwould curse both this and that, and every thing under heaven, which was\neither aiding or abetting to his love--yet never concluded his chapter\nof curses upon it, without cursing himself in at the bargain, as one of\nthe most egregious fools and cox-combs, he would say, that ever was let\nloose in the world.\n\nMy uncle Toby, on the contrary, took it like a lamb--sat still and\nlet the poison work in his veins without resistance--in the sharpest\nexacerbations of his wound (like that on his groin) he never dropt one\nfretful or discontented word--he blamed neither heaven nor earth--or\nthought or spoke an injurious thing of any body, or any part of it; he\nsat solitary and pensive with his pipe--looking at his lame leg--then\nwhiffing out a sentimental heigh ho! which mixing with the smoke,\nincommoded no one mortal.\n\nHe took it like a lamb--I say.\n\nIn truth he had mistook it at first; for having taken a ride with my\nfather, that very morning, to save if possible a beautiful wood, which\nthe dean and chapter were hewing down to give to the poor (Mr. Shandy\nmust mean the poor in spirit; inasmuch as they divided the money amongst\nthemselves.); which said wood being in full view of my uncle Toby's\nhouse, and of singular service to him in his description of the battle\nof Wynnendale--by trotting on too hastily to save it--upon an uneasy\nsaddle--worse horse, &c. &c...it had so happened, that the serous part\nof the blood had got betwixt the two skins, in the nethermost part of\nmy uncle Toby--the first shootings of which (as my uncle Toby had no\nexperience of love) he had taken for a part of the passion--till the\nblister breaking in the one case--and the other remaining--my uncle Toby\nwas presently convinced, that his wound was not a skin-deep wound--but\nthat it had gone to his heart.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LI.\n\nThe world is ashamed of being virtuous--my uncle Toby knew little of the\nworld; and therefore when he felt he was in love with widow Wadman, he\nhad no conception that the thing was any more to be made a mystery of,\nthan if Mrs. Wadman had given him a cut with a gap'd knife across his\nfinger: Had it been otherwise--yet as he ever look'd upon Trim as a\nhumble friend; and saw fresh reasons every day of his life, to treat\nhim as such--it would have made no variation in the manner in which he\ninformed him of the affair.\n\n'I am in love, corporal!' quoth my uncle Toby.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LII.\n\nIn love!--said the corporal--your honour was very well the day before\nyesterday, when I was telling your honour of the story of the King of\nBohemia--Bohemia! said my uncle Toby...musing a long time...What became\nof that story, Trim?\n\n--We lost it, an' please your honour, somehow betwixt us--but your\nhonour was as free from love then, as I am--'twas just whilst thou\nwent'st off with the wheel-barrow--with Mrs. Wadman, quoth my uncle\nToby--She has left a ball here--added my uncle Toby--pointing to his\nbreast--\n\n--She can no more, an' please your honour, stand a siege, than she can\nfly--cried the corporal--\n\n--But as we are neighbours, Trim,--the best way I think is to let her\nknow it civilly first--quoth my uncle Toby.\n\nNow if I might presume, said the corporal, to differ from your honour--\n\n--Why else do I talk to thee, Trim? said my uncle Toby, mildly--\n\n--Then I would begin, an' please your honour, with making a good\nthundering attack upon her, in return--and telling her civilly\nafterwards--for if she knows any thing of your honour's being in love,\nbefore hand--L..d help her!--she knows no more at present of it, Trim,\nsaid my uncle Toby--than the child unborn--\n\nPrecious souls--!\n\nMrs. Wadman had told it, with all its circumstances, to Mrs. Bridget\ntwenty-four hours before; and was at that very moment sitting in council\nwith her, touching some slight misgivings with regard to the issue of\nthe affairs, which the Devil, who never lies dead in a ditch, had put\ninto her head--before he would allow half time, to get quietly through\nher Te Deum.\n\nI am terribly afraid, said widow Wadman, in case I should marry him,\nBridget--that the poor captain will not enjoy his health, with the\nmonstrous wound upon his groin--\n\nIt may not, Madam, be so very large, replied Bridget, as you think--and\nI believe, besides, added she--that 'tis dried up--\n\n--I could like to know--merely for his sake, said Mrs. Wadman--\n\n--We'll know and long and the broad of it, in ten days--answered Mrs.\nBridget, for whilst the captain is paying his addresses to you--I'm\nconfident Mr. Trim will be for making love to me--and I'll let him as\nmuch as he will--added Bridget--to get it all out of him--\n\nThe measures were taken at once--and my uncle Toby and the corporal went\non with theirs.\n\nNow, quoth the corporal, setting his left hand a-kimbo, and giving such\na flourish with his right, as just promised success--and no more--if\nyour honour will give me leave to lay down the plan of this attack--\n\n--Thou wilt please me by it, Trim, said my uncle Toby, exceedingly--and\nas I foresee thou must act in it as my aid de camp, here's a crown,\ncorporal, to begin with, to steep thy commission.\n\nThen, an' please your honour, said the corporal (making a bow first for\nhis commission)--we will begin with getting your honour's laced clothes\nout of the great campaign-trunk, to be well air'd, and have the blue and\ngold taken up at the sleeves--and I'll put your white ramallie-wig fresh\ninto pipes--and send for a taylor, to have your honour's thin scarlet\nbreeches turn'd--\n\n--I had better take the red plush ones, quoth my uncle Toby--They will\nbe too clumsy--said the corporal.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LIII.\n\n--Thou wilt get a brush and a little chalk to my sword--'Twill be only\nin your honour's way, replied Trim.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LIV.\n\n--But your honour's two razors shall be new set--and I will get\nmy Montero cap furbish'd up, and put on poor lieutenant Le Fever's\nregimental coat, which your honour gave me to wear for his sake--and as\nsoon as your honour is clean shaved--and has got your clean shirt\non, with your blue and gold, or your fine scarlet--sometimes one and\nsometimes t'other--and every thing is ready for the attack--we'll march\nup boldly, as if 'twas to the face of a bastion; and whilst your honour\nengages Mrs. Wadman in the parlour, to the right--I'll attack Mrs.\nBridget in the kitchen, to the left; and having seiz'd the pass,\nI'll answer for it, said the corporal, snapping his fingers over his\nhead--that the day is our own.\n\nI wish I may but manage it right; said my uncle Toby--but I declare,\ncorporal, I had rather march up to the very edge of a trench--\n\n--A woman is quite a different thing--said the corporal.\n\n--I suppose so, quoth my uncle Toby.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LV.\n\nIf any thing in this world, which my father said, could have provoked my\nuncle Toby, during the time he was in love, it was the perverse use my\nfather was always making of an expression of Hilarion the hermit; who,\nin speaking of his abstinence, his watchings, flagellations, and\nother instrumental parts of his religion--would say--tho' with more\nfacetiousness than became an hermit--'That they were the means he used,\nto make his ass (meaning his body) leave off kicking.'\n\nIt pleased my father well; it was not only a laconick way of\nexpressing--but of libelling, at the same time, the desires and\nappetites of the lower part of us; so that for many years of my father's\nlife, 'twas his constant mode of expression--he never used the word\npassions once--but ass always instead of them--So that he might be said\ntruly, to have been upon the bones, or the back of his own ass, or else\nof some other man's, during all that time.\n\nI must here observe to you the difference betwixt My father's ass and my\nhobby-horse--in order to keep characters as separate as may be, in our\nfancies as we go along.\n\nFor my hobby-horse, if you recollect a little, is no way a vicious\nbeast; he has scarce one hair or lineament of the ass about him--'Tis\nthe sporting little filly-folly which carries you out for the present\nhour--a maggot, a butterfly, a picture, a fiddlestick--an uncle Toby's\nsiege--or an any thing, which a man makes a shift to get a-stride on, to\ncanter it away from the cares and solicitudes of life--'Tis as useful\na beast as is in the whole creation--nor do I really see how the world\ncould do without it--\n\n--But for my father's ass--oh! mount him--mount him--mount him--(that's\nthree times, is it not?)--mount him not:--'tis a beast concupiscent--and\nfoul befal the man, who does not hinder him from kicking.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LVI.\n\nWell! dear brother Toby, said my father, upon his first seeing him after\nhe fell in love--and how goes it with your Asse?\n\nNow my uncle Toby thinking more of the part where he had had the\nblister, than of Hilarion's metaphor--and our preconceptions having (you\nknow) as great a power over the sounds of words as the shapes of things,\nhe had imagined, that my father, who was not very ceremonious in his\nchoice of words, had enquired after the part by its proper name: so\nnotwithstanding my mother, doctor Slop, and Mr. Yorick, were sitting in\nthe parlour, he thought it rather civil to conform to the term my father\nhad made use of than not. When a man is hemm'd in by two indecorums, and\nmust commit one of 'em--I always observe--let him chuse which he will,\nthe world will blame him--so I should not be astonished if it blames my\nuncle Toby.\n\nMy A..e, quoth my uncle Toby, is much better--brother Shandy--My father\nhad formed great expectations from his Asse in this onset; and would\nhave brought him on again; but doctor Slop setting up an intemperate\nlaugh--and my mother crying out L... bless us!--it drove my father's\nAsse off the field--and the laugh then becoming general--there was no\nbringing him back to the charge, for some time--\n\nAnd so the discourse went on without him.\n\nEvery body, said my mother, says you are in love, brother Toby,--and we\nhope it is true.\n\nI am as much in love, sister, I believe, replied my uncle Toby, as any\nman usually is--Humph! said my father--and when did you know it? quoth\nmy mother--\n\n--When the blister broke; replied my uncle Toby.\n\nMy uncle Toby's reply put my father into good temper--so he charg'd o'\nfoot.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LVII.\n\nAs the ancients agree, brother Toby, said my father, that there are two\ndifferent and distinct kinds of love, according to the different parts\nwhich are affected by it--the Brain or Liver--I think when a man is in\nlove, it behoves him a little to consider which of the two he is fallen\ninto.\n\nWhat signifies it, brother Shandy, replied my uncle Toby, which of the\ntwo it is, provided it will but make a man marry, and love his wife, and\nget a few children?\n\n--A few children! cried my father, rising out of his chair, and looking\nfull in my mother's face, as he forced his way betwixt her's and doctor\nSlop's--a few children! cried my father, repeating my uncle Toby's words\nas he walk'd to and fro--\n\n--Not, my dear brother Toby, cried my father, recovering himself all at\nonce, and coming close up to the back of my uncle Toby's chair--not\nthat I should be sorry hadst thou a score--on the contrary, I should\nrejoice--and be as kind, Toby, to every one of them as a father--\n\nMy uncle Toby stole his hand unperceived behind his chair, to give my\nfather's a squeeze--\n\n--Nay, moreover, continued he, keeping hold of my uncle Toby's hand--so\nmuch dost thou possess, my dear Toby, of the milk of human nature, and\nso little of its asperities--'tis piteous the world is not peopled by\ncreatures which resemble thee; and was I an Asiatic monarch, added\nmy father, heating himself with his new project--I would oblige thee,\nprovided it would not impair thy strength--or dry up thy radical\nmoisture too fast--or weaken thy memory or fancy, brother Toby, which\nthese gymnics inordinately taken are apt to do--else, dear Toby, I would\nprocure thee the most beautiful woman in my empire, and I would oblige\nthee, nolens, volens, to beget for me one subject every month--\n\nAs my father pronounced the last word of the sentence--my mother took a\npinch of snuff.\n\nNow I would not, quoth my uncle Toby, get a child, nolens, volens, that\nis, whether I would or no, to please the greatest prince upon earth--\n\n--And 'twould be cruel in me, brother Toby, to compel thee; said my\nfather--but 'tis a case put to shew thee, that it is not thy begetting\na child--in case thou should'st be able--but the system of Love and\nMarriage thou goest upon, which I would set thee right in--\n\nThere is at least, said Yorick, a great deal of reason and plain sense\nin captain Shandy's opinion of love; and 'tis amongst the ill-spent\nhours of my life, which I have to answer for, that I have read so many\nflourishing poets and rhetoricians in my time, from whom I never could\nextract so much--I wish, Yorick, said my father, you had read Plato;\nfor there you would have learnt that there are two Loves--I know there\nwere two Religions, replied Yorick, amongst the ancients--one--for the\nvulgar, and another for the learned;--but I think One Love might have\nserved both of them very well--\n\nI could not; replied my father--and for the same reasons: for of\nthese Loves, according to Ficinus's comment upon Velasius, the one is\nrational--\n\n--the other is natural--the first ancient--without mother--where Venus\nhad nothing to do: the second, begotten of Jupiter and Dione--\n\n--Pray, brother, quoth my uncle Toby, what has a man who believes in\nGod to do with this? My father could not stop to answer, for fear of\nbreaking the thread of his discourse--\n\nThis latter, continued he, partakes wholly of the nature of Venus.\n\nThe first, which is the golden chain let down from heaven, excites\nto love heroic, which comprehends in it, and excites to the desire of\nphilosophy and truth--the second, excites to desire, simply--\n\n--I think the procreation of children as beneficial to the world, said\nYorick, as the finding out the longitude--\n\n--To be sure, said my mother, love keeps peace in the world--\n\n--In the house--my dear, I own--\n\n--It replenishes the earth; said my mother--\n\nBut it keeps heaven empty--my dear; replied my father.\n\n--'Tis Virginity, cried Slop, triumphantly, which fills paradise.\n\nWell push'd nun! quoth my father.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LVIII.\n\nMy father had such a skirmishing, cutting kind of a slashing way with\nhim in his disputations, thrusting and ripping, and giving every one a\nstroke to remember him by in his turn--that if there were twenty people\nin company--in less than half an hour he was sure to have every one of\n'em against him.\n\nWhat did not a little contribute to leave him thus without an ally, was,\nthat if there was any one post more untenable than the rest, he would be\nsure to throw himself into it; and to do him justice, when he was\nonce there, he would defend it so gallantly, that 'twould have been a\nconcern, either to a brave man or a good-natured one, to have seen him\ndriven out.\n\nYorick, for this reason, though he would often attack him--yet could\nnever bear to do it with all his force.\n\nDoctor Slop's Virginity, in the close of the last chapter, had got him\nfor once on the right side of the rampart; and he was beginning to blow\nup all the convents in Christendom about Slop's ears, when corporal Trim\ncame into the parlour to inform my uncle Toby, that his thin scarlet\nbreeches, in which the attack was to be made upon Mrs. Wadman, would not\ndo; for that the taylor, in ripping them up, in order to turn them, had\nfound they had been turn'd before--Then turn them again, brother, said\nmy father, rapidly, for there will be many a turning of 'em yet\nbefore all's done in the affair--They are as rotten as dirt, said\nthe corporal--Then by all means, said my father, bespeak a new pair,\nbrother--for though I know, continued my father, turning himself to the\ncompany, that widow Wadman has been deeply in love with my brother Toby\nfor many years, and has used every art and circumvention of woman to\noutwit him into the same passion, yet now that she has caught him--her\nfever will be pass'd its height--\n\n--She has gained her point.\n\nIn this case, continued my father, which Plato, I am persuaded, never\nthought of--Love, you see, is not so much a Sentiment as a Situation,\ninto which a man enters, as my brother Toby would do, into a corps--no\nmatter whether he loves the service or no--being once in it--he acts as\nif he did; and takes every step to shew himself a man of prowesse.\n\nThe hypothesis, like the rest of my father's, was plausible enough, and\nmy uncle Toby had but a single word to object to it--in which Trim stood\nready to second him--but my father had not drawn his conclusion--\n\nFor this reason, continued my father (stating the case over\nagain)--notwithstanding all the world knows, that Mrs. Wadman affects my\nbrother Toby--and my brother Toby contrariwise affects Mrs. Wadman, and\nno obstacle in nature to forbid the music striking up this very night,\nyet will I answer for it, that this self-same tune will not be play'd\nthis twelvemonth.\n\nWe have taken our measures badly, quoth my uncle Toby, looking up\ninterrogatively in Trim's face.\n\nI would lay my Montero-cap, said Trim--Now Trim's Montero-cap, as I once\ntold you, was his constant wager; and having furbish'd it up that\nvery night, in order to go upon the attack--it made the odds look more\nconsiderable--I would lay, an' please your honour, my Montero-cap to a\nshilling--was it proper, continued Trim (making a bow), to offer a wager\nbefore your honours--\n\n--There is nothing improper in it, said my father--'tis a mode of\nexpression; for in saying thou would'st lay thy Montero-cap to a\nshilling--all thou meanest is this--that thou believest--\n\n--Now, What do'st thou believe?\n\nThat widow Wadman, an' please your worship, cannot hold it out ten\ndays--\n\nAnd whence, cried Slop, jeeringly, hast thou all this knowledge of\nwoman, friend?\n\nBy falling in love with a popish clergy-woman; said Trim.\n\n'Twas a Beguine, said my uncle Toby.\n\nDoctor Slop was too much in wrath to listen to the distinction; and my\nfather taking that very crisis to fall in helter-skelter upon the whole\norder of Nuns and Beguines, a set of silly, fusty, baggages--Slop could\nnot stand it--and my uncle Toby having some measures to take about his\nbreeches--and Yorick about his fourth general division--in order for\ntheir several attacks next day--the company broke up: and my father\nbeing left alone, and having half an hour upon his hands betwixt that\nand bed-time; he called for pen, ink, and paper, and wrote my uncle Toby\nthe following letter of instructions:\n\nMy dear brother Toby,\n\nWhat I am going to say to thee is upon the nature of women, and of\nlove-making to them; and perhaps it is as well for thee--tho' not so\nwell for me--that thou hast occasion for a letter of instructions upon\nthat head, and that I am able to write it to thee.\n\nHad it been the good pleasure of him who disposes of our lots--and\nthou no sufferer by the knowledge, I had been well content that thou\nshould'st have dipp'd the pen this moment into the ink, instead of\nmyself; but that not being the case--Mrs. Shandy being now close beside\nme, preparing for bed--I have thrown together without order, and just as\nthey have come into my mind, such hints and documents as I deem may be\nof use to thee; intending, in this, to give thee a token of my love; not\ndoubting, my dear Toby, of the manner in which it will be accepted.\n\nIn the first place, with regard to all which concerns religion in the\naffair--though I perceive from a glow in my cheek, that I blush as\nI begin to speak to thee upon the subject, as well knowing,\nnotwithstanding thy unaffected secrecy, how few of its offices thou\nneglectest--yet I would remind thee of one (during the continuance of\nthy courtship) in a particular manner, which I would not have omitted;\nand that is, never to go forth upon the enterprize, whether it be in\nthe morning or the afternoon, without first recommending thyself to the\nprotection of Almighty God, that he may defend thee from the evil one.\n\nShave the whole top of thy crown clean once at least every four or five\ndays, but oftner if convenient; lest in taking off thy wig before her,\nthro' absence of mind, she should be able to discover how much has been\ncut away by Time--how much by Trim.\n\n--'Twere better to keep ideas of baldness out of her fancy.\n\nAlways carry it in thy mind, and act upon it as a sure maxim, Toby--\n\n'That women are timid:' And 'tis well they are--else there would be no\ndealing with them.\n\nLet not thy breeches be too tight, or hang too loose about thy thighs,\nlike the trunk-hose of our ancestors.\n\n--A just medium prevents all conclusions.\n\nWhatever thou hast to say, be it more or less, forget not to utter it\nin a low soft tone of voice. Silence, and whatever approaches it, weaves\ndreams of midnight secrecy into the brain: For this cause, if thou canst\nhelp it, never throw down the tongs and poker.\n\nAvoid all kinds of pleasantry and facetiousness in thy discourse with\nher, and do whatever lies in thy power at the same time, to keep\nher from all books and writings which tend thereto: there are some\ndevotional tracts, which if thou canst entice her to read over--it will\nbe well: but suffer her not to look into Rabelais, or Scarron, or Don\nQuixote--\n\n--They are all books which excite laughter; and thou knowest, dear Toby,\nthat there is no passion so serious as lust.\n\nStick a pin in the bosom of thy shirt, before thou enterest her parlour.\n\nAnd if thou art permitted to sit upon the same sopha with her, and she\ngives thee occasion to lay thy hand upon hers--beware of taking it--thou\ncanst not lay thy hand on hers, but she will feel the temper of thine.\nLeave that and as many other things as thou canst, quite undetermined;\nby so doing, thou wilt have her curiosity on thy side; and if she is not\nconquered by that, and thy Asse continues still kicking, which there is\ngreat reason to suppose--Thou must begin, with first losing a few\nounces of blood below the ears, according to the practice of the ancient\nScythians, who cured the most intemperate fits of the appetite by that\nmeans.\n\nAvicenna, after this, is for having the part anointed with the syrup of\nhellebore, using proper evacuations and purges--and I believe rightly.\nBut thou must eat little or no goat's flesh, nor red deer--nor even\nfoal's flesh by any means; and carefully abstain--that is, as much as\nthou canst, from peacocks, cranes, coots, didappers, and water-hens--\n\nAs for thy drink--I need not tell thee, it must be the infusion of\nVervain and the herb Hanea, of which Aelian relates such effects--but\nif thy stomach palls with it--discontinue it from time to time, taking\ncucumbers, melons, purslane, water-lillies, woodbine, and lettice, in\nthe stead of them.\n\nThere is nothing further for thee, which occurs to me at present--\n\n--Unless the breaking out of a fresh war--So wishing every thing, dear\nToby, for best,\n\nI rest thy affectionate brother,\n\nWalter Shandy.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LIX.\n\nWhilst my father was writing his letter of instructions, my uncle Toby\nand the corporal were busy in preparing every thing for the attack. As\nthe turning of the thin scarlet breeches was laid aside (at least for\nthe present), there was nothing which should put it off beyond the next\nmorning; so accordingly it was resolv'd upon, for eleven o'clock.\n\nCome, my dear, said my father to my mother--'twill be but like a brother\nand sister, if you and I take a walk down to my brother Toby's--to\ncountenance him in this attack of his.\n\nMy uncle Toby and the corporal had been accoutred both some time, when\nmy father and mother enter'd, and the clock striking eleven, were that\nmoment in motion to sally forth--but the account of this is worth more\nthan to be wove into the fag end of the eighth (Alluding to the first\nedition.) volume of such a work as this.--My father had no time but to\nput the letter of instructions into my uncle Toby's coat-pocket--and\njoin with my mother in wishing his attack prosperous.\n\nI could like, said my mother, to look through the key-hole out of\ncuriosity--Call it by its right name, my dear, quoth my father--\n\nAnd look through the key-hole as long as you will.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LX.\n\nI call all the powers of time and chance, which severally check us in\nour careers in this world, to bear me witness, that I could never yet\nget fairly to my uncle Toby's amours, till this very moment, that my\nmother's curiosity, as she stated the affair,--or a different impulse\nin her, as my father would have it--wished her to take a peep at them\nthrough the key-hole.\n\n'Call it, my dear, by its right name, quoth my father, and look through\nthe key-hole as long as you will.'\n\nNothing but the fermentation of that little subacid humour, which I\nhave often spoken of, in my father's habit, could have vented such an\ninsinuation--he was however frank and generous in his nature, and at all\ntimes open to conviction; so that he had scarce got to the last word of\nthis ungracious retort, when his conscience smote him.\n\nMy mother was then conjugally swinging with her left arm twisted under\nhis right, in such wise, that the inside of her hand rested upon the\nback of his--she raised her fingers, and let them fall--it could scarce\nbe call'd a tap; or if it was a tap--'twould have puzzled a casuist to\nsay, whether 'twas a tap of remonstrance, or a tap of confession:\nmy father, who was all sensibilities from head to foot, class'd it\nright--Conscience redoubled her blow--he turn'd his face suddenly the\nother way, and my mother supposing his body was about to turn with it in\norder to move homewards, by a cross movement of her right leg, keeping\nher left as its centre, brought herself so far in front, that as he\nturned his head, he met her eye--Confusion again! he saw a thousand\nreasons to wipe out the reproach, and as many to reproach himself--a\nthin, blue, chill, pellucid chrystal with all its humours so at rest,\nthe least mote or speck of desire might have been seen, at the bottom of\nit, had it existed--it did not--and how I happen to be so lewd myself,\nparticularly a little before the vernal and autumnal equinoxes--Heaven\nabove knows--My mother--madam--was so at no time, either by nature, by\ninstitution, or example.\n\nA temperate current of blood ran orderly through her veins in all months\nof the year, and in all critical moments both of the day and night\nalike; nor did she superinduce the least heat into her humours from the\nmanual effervescencies of devotional tracts, which having little or no\nmeaning in them, nature is oft-times obliged to find one--And as for\nmy father's example! 'twas so far from being either aiding or abetting\nthereunto, that 'twas the whole business of his life, to keep all\nfancies of that kind out of her head--Nature had done her part, to have\nspared him this trouble; and what was not a little inconsistent, my\nfather knew it--And here am I sitting, this 12th day of August 1766, in\na purple jerkin and yellow pair of slippers, without either wig or cap\non, a most tragicomical completion of his prediction, 'That I should\nneither think, nor act like any other man's child, upon that very\naccount.'\n\nThe mistake in my father, was in attacking my mother's motive, instead\nof the act itself; for certainly key-holes were made for other purposes;\nand considering the act, as an act which interfered with a true\nproposition, and denied a key-hole to be what it was--it became a\nviolation of nature; and was so far, you see, criminal.\n\nIt is for this reason, an' please your Reverences, That key-holes are\nthe occasions of more sin and wickedness, than all other holes in this\nworld put together.\n\n--which leads me to my uncle Toby's amours.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LXI.\n\nThough the corporal had been as good as his word in putting my uncle\nToby's great ramallie-wig into pipes, yet the time was too short to\nproduce any great effects from it: it had lain many years squeezed up in\nthe corner of his old campaign trunk; and as bad forms are not so\neasy to be got the better of, and the use of candle-ends not so well\nunderstood, it was not so pliable a business as one would have wished.\nThe corporal with cheary eye and both arms extended, had fallen back\nperpendicular from it a score times, to inspire it, if possible, with\na better air--had Spleen given a look at it, 'twould have cost her\nladyship a smile--it curl'd every where but where the corporal would\nhave it; and where a buckle or two, in his opinion, would have done it\nhonour, he could as soon have raised the dead.\n\nSuch it was--or rather such would it have seem'd upon any other\nbrow; but the sweet look of goodness which sat upon my uncle Toby's,\nassimilated every thing around it so sovereignly to itself, and Nature\nhad moreover wrote Gentleman with so fair a hand in every line of his\ncountenance, that even his tarnish'd gold-laced hat and huge cockade of\nflimsy taffeta became him; and though not worth a button in themselves,\nyet the moment my uncle Toby put them on, they became serious objects,\nand altogether seem'd to have been picked up by the hand of Science to\nset him off to advantage.\n\nNothing in this world could have co-operated more powerfully towards\nthis, than my uncle Toby's blue and gold--had not Quantity in some\nmeasure been necessary to Grace: in a period of fifteen or sixteen years\nsince they had been made, by a total inactivity in my uncle Toby's life,\nfor he seldom went further than the bowling-green--his blue and gold had\nbecome so miserably too straight for him, that it was with the utmost\ndifficulty the corporal was able to get him into them; the taking them\nup at the sleeves, was of no advantage.--They were laced however\ndown the back, and at the seams of the sides, &c. in the mode of King\nWilliam's reign; and to shorten all description, they shone so bright\nagainst the sun that morning, and had so metallick and doughty an\nair with them, that had my uncle Toby thought of attacking in armour,\nnothing could have so well imposed upon his imagination.\n\nAs for the thin scarlet breeches, they had been unripp'd by the taylor\nbetween the legs, and left at sixes and sevens--\n\n--Yes, Madam,--but let us govern our fancies. It is enough they were\nheld impracticable the night before, and as there was no alternative in\nmy uncle Toby's wardrobe, he sallied forth in the red plush.\n\nThe corporal had array'd himself in poor Le Fever's regimental coat; and\nwith his hair tuck'd up under his Montero-cap, which he had furbish'd up\nfor the occasion, march'd three paces distant from his master: a whiff\nof military pride had puff'd out his shirt at the wrist; and upon that\nin a black leather thong clipp'd into a tassel beyond the knot, hung the\ncorporal's stick--my uncle Toby carried his cane like a pike.\n\n--It looks well at least; quoth my father to himself.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LXII.\n\nMy uncle Toby turn'd his head more than once behind him, to see how he\nwas supported by the corporal; and the corporal as oft as he did it,\ngave a slight flourish with his stick--but not vapouringly; and with the\nsweetest accent of most respectful encouragement, bid his honour 'never\nfear.'\n\nNow my uncle Toby did fear; and grievously too; he knew not (as my\nfather had reproach'd him) so much as the right end of a Woman from the\nwrong, and therefore was never altogether at his ease near any one of\nthem--unless in sorrow or distress; then infinite was his pity; nor\nwould the most courteous knight of romance have gone further, at least\nupon one leg, to have wiped away a tear from a woman's eye; and yet\nexcepting once that he was beguiled into it by Mrs. Wadman, he had\nnever looked stedfastly into one; and would often tell my father in the\nsimplicity of his heart, that it was almost (if not about) as bad as\ntaking bawdy.--\n\n--And suppose it is? my father would say.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LXIII.\n\nShe cannot, quoth my uncle Toby, halting, when they had march'd up to\nwithin twenty paces of Mrs. Wadman's door--she cannot, corporal, take it\namiss.--\n\n--She will take it, an' please your honour, said the corporal, just as\nthe Jew's widow at Lisbon took it of my brother Tom.--\n\n--And how was that? quoth my uncle Toby, facing quite about to the\ncorporal.\n\nYour honour, replied the corporal, knows of Tom's misfortunes; but this\naffair has nothing to do with them any further than this, That if Tom\nhad not married the widow--or had it pleased God after their marriage,\nthat they had but put pork into their sausages, the honest soul\nhad never been taken out of his warm bed, and dragg'd to the\ninquisition--'Tis a cursed place--added the corporal, shaking his\nhead,--when once a poor creature is in, he is in, an' please your\nhonour, for ever.\n\n'Tis very true; said my uncle Toby, looking gravely at Mrs. Wadman's\nhouse, as he spoke.\n\nNothing, continued the corporal, can be so sad as confinement for\nlife--or so sweet, an' please your honour, as liberty.\n\nNothing, Trim--said my uncle Toby, musing--\n\nWhilst a man is free,--cried the corporal, giving a flourish with his\nstick thus--\n\n(squiggly line diagonally across the page)\n\nA thousand of my father's most subtle syllogisms could not have said\nmore for celibacy.\n\nMy uncle Toby look'd earnestly towards his cottage and his\nbowling-green.\n\nThe corporal had unwarily conjured up the Spirit of calculation with his\nwand; and he had nothing to do, but to conjure him down again with his\nstory, and in this form of Exorcism, most un-ecclesiastically did the\ncorporal do it.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LXIV.\n\nAs Tom's place, an' please your honour, was easy--and the weather\nwarm--it put him upon thinking seriously of settling himself in the\nworld; and as it fell out about that time, that a Jew who kept a sausage\nshop in the same street, had the ill luck to die of a strangury, and\nleave his widow in possession of a rousing trade--Tom thought (as every\nbody in Lisbon was doing the best he could devise for himself) there\ncould be no harm in offering her his service to carry it on: so without\nany introduction to the widow, except that of buying a pound of sausages\nat her shop--Tom set out--counting the matter thus within himself, as\nhe walk'd along; that let the worst come of it that could, he should at\nleast get a pound of sausages for their worth--but, if things went\nwell, he should be set up; inasmuch as he should get not only a pound of\nsausages--but a wife and--a sausage shop, an' please your honour, into\nthe bargain.\n\nEvery servant in the family, from high to low, wish'd Tom success; and I\ncan fancy, an' please your honour, I see him this moment with his white\ndimity waist-coat and breeches, and hat a little o' one side, passing\njollily along the street, swinging his stick, with a smile and a\nchearful word for every body he met:--But alas! Tom! thou smilest no\nmore, cried the corporal, looking on one side of him upon the ground, as\nif he apostrophised him in his dungeon.\n\nPoor fellow! said my uncle Toby, feelingly.\n\nHe was an honest, light-hearted lad, an' please your honour, as ever\nblood warm'd--\n\n--Then he resembled thee, Trim, said my uncle Toby, rapidly.\n\nThe corporal blush'd down to his fingers ends--a tear of sentimental\nbashfulness--another of gratitude to my uncle Toby--and a tear of sorrow\nfor his brother's misfortunes, started into his eye, and ran sweetly\ndown his cheek together; my uncle Toby's kindled as one lamp does at\nanother; and taking hold of the breast of Trim's coat (which had been\nthat of Le Fever's) as if to ease his lame leg, but in reality to\ngratify a finer feeling--he stood silent for a minute and a half; at the\nend of which he took his hand away, and the corporal making a bow, went\non with his story of his brother and the Jew's widow.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LXV.\n\nWhen Tom, an' please your honour, got to the shop, there was nobody in\nit, but a poor negro girl, with a bunch of white feathers slightly tied\nto the end of a long cane, flapping away flies--not killing them.--'Tis\na pretty picture! said my uncle Toby--she had suffered persecution,\nTrim, and had learnt mercy--\n\n--She was good, an' please your honour, from nature, as well as from\nhardships; and there are circumstances in the story of that poor\nfriendless slut, that would melt a heart of stone, said Trim; and some\ndismal winter's evening, when your honour is in the humour, they shall\nbe told you with the rest of Tom's story, for it makes a part of it--\n\nThen do not forget, Trim, said my uncle Toby.\n\nA negro has a soul? an' please your honour, said the corporal\n(doubtingly).\n\nI am not much versed, corporal, quoth my uncle Toby, in things of that\nkind; but I suppose, God would not leave him without one, any more than\nthee or me--\n\n--It would be putting one sadly over the head of another, quoth the\ncorporal.\n\nIt would so; said my uncle Toby. Why then, an' please your honour, is a\nblack wench to be used worse than a white one?\n\nI can give no reason, said my uncle Toby--\n\n--Only, cried the corporal, shaking his head, because she has no one to\nstand up for her--\n\n--'Tis that very thing, Trim, quoth my uncle Toby,--which recommends her\nto protection--and her brethren with her; 'tis the fortune of war which\nhas put the whip into our hands now--where it may be hereafter, heaven\nknows!--but be it where it will, the brave, Trim! will not use it\nunkindly.\n\n--God forbid, said the corporal.\n\nAmen, responded my uncle Toby, laying his hand upon his heart.\n\nThe corporal returned to his story, and went on--but with an\nembarrassment in doing it, which here and there a reader in this world\nwill not be able to comprehend; for by the many sudden transitions all\nalong, from one kind and cordial passion to another, in getting thus far\non his way, he had lost the sportable key of his voice, which gave sense\nand spirit to his tale: he attempted twice to resume it, but could not\nplease himself; so giving a stout hem! to rally back the retreating\nspirits, and aiding nature at the same time with his left arm a kimbo\non one side, and with his right a little extended, supporting her on\nthe other--the corporal got as near the note as he could; and in that\nattitude, continued his story.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LXVI.\n\nAs Tom, an' please your honour, had no business at that time with the\nMoorish girl, he passed on into the room beyond, to talk to the Jew's\nwidow about love--and this pound of sausages; and being, as I have told\nyour honour, an open cheary-hearted lad, with his character wrote in his\nlooks and carriage, he took a chair, and without much apology, but with\ngreat civility at the same time, placed it close to her at the table,\nand sat down.\n\nThere is nothing so awkward, as courting a woman, an' please your\nhonour, whilst she is making sausages--So Tom began a discourse upon\nthem; first, gravely,--'as how they were made--with what meats, herbs,\nand spices.'--Then a little gayly,--as, 'With what skins--and if they\nnever burst--Whether the largest were not the best?'--and so on--taking\ncare only as he went along, to season what he had to say upon sausages,\nrather under than over;--that he might have room to act in--\n\nIt was owing to the neglect of that very precaution, said my uncle Toby,\nlaying his hand upon Trim's shoulder, that Count De la Motte lost the\nbattle of Wynendale: he pressed too speedily into the wood; which if he\nhad not done, Lisle had not fallen into our hands, nor Ghent and Bruges,\nwhich both followed her example; it was so late in the year, continued\nmy uncle Toby, and so terrible a season came on, that if things had\nnot fallen out as they did, our troops must have perish'd in the open\nfield.--\n\n--Why, therefore, may not battles, an' please your honour, as well as\nmarriages, be made in heaven?--my uncle Toby mused--\n\nReligion inclined him to say one thing, and his high idea of military\nskill tempted him to say another; so not being able to frame a reply\nexactly to his mind--my uncle Toby said nothing at all; and the corporal\nfinished his story.\n\nAs Tom perceived, an' please your honour, that he gained ground, and\nthat all he had said upon the subject of sausages was kindly taken, he\nwent on to help her a little in making them.--First, by taking hold of\nthe ring of the sausage whilst she stroked the forced meat down with her\nhand--then by cutting the strings into proper lengths, and holding them\nin his hand, whilst she took them out one by one--then, by putting them\nacross her mouth, that she might take them out as she wanted them--and\nso on from little to more, till at last he adventured to tie the sausage\nhimself, whilst she held the snout.--\n\n--Now a widow, an' please your honour, always chuses a second husband as\nunlike the first as she can: so the affair was more than half settled in\nher mind before Tom mentioned it.\n\nShe made a feint however of defending herself, by snatching up a\nsausage:--Tom instantly laid hold of another--\n\nBut seeing Tom's had more gristle in it--\n\nShe signed the capitulation--and Tom sealed it; and there was an end of\nthe matter.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LXVII.\n\nAll womankind, continued Trim, (commenting upon his story) from\nthe highest to the lowest, an' please your honour, love jokes; the\ndifficulty is to know how they chuse to have them cut; and there is no\nknowing that, but by trying, as we do with our artillery in the field,\nby raising or letting down their breeches, till we hit the mark.--\n\n--I like the comparison, said my uncle Toby, better than the thing\nitself--\n\n--Because your honour, quoth the corporal, loves glory, more than\npleasure.\n\nI hope, Trim, answered my uncle Toby, I love mankind more than either;\nand as the knowledge of arms tends so apparently to the good and quiet\nof the world--and particularly that branch of it which we have practised\ntogether in our bowling-green, has no object but to shorten the strides\nof Ambition, and intrench the lives and fortunes of the few, from the\nplunderings of the many--whenever that drum beats in our ears, I\ntrust, corporal, we shall neither of us want so much humanity and\nfellow-feeling, as to face about and march.\n\nIn pronouncing this, my uncle Toby faced about, and march'd firmly as\nat the head of his company--and the faithful corporal, shouldering his\nstick, and striking his hand upon his coat-skirt as he took his first\nstep--march'd close behind him down the avenue.\n\n--Now what can their two noddles be about? cried my father to my\nmother--by all that's strange, they are besieging Mrs. Wadman in\nform, and are marching round her house to mark out the lines of\ncircumvallation.\n\nI dare say, quoth my mother--But stop, dear Sir--for what my mother\ndared to say upon the occasion--and what my father did say upon it--with\nher replies and his rejoinders, shall be read, perused, paraphrased,\ncommented, and descanted upon--or to say it all in a word, shall be\nthumb'd over by Posterity in a chapter apart--I say, by Posterity--and\ncare not, if I repeat the word again--for what has this book done more\nthan the Legation of Moses, or the Tale of a Tub, that it may not swim\ndown the gutter of Time along with them?\n\nI will not argue the matter: Time wastes too fast: every letter I trace\ntells me with what rapidity Life follows my pen: the days and hours of\nit, more precious, my dear Jenny! than the rubies about thy neck, are\nflying over our heads like light clouds of a windy day, never to return\nmore--every thing presses on--whilst thou art twisting that lock,--see!\nit grows grey; and every time I kiss thy hand to bid adieu, and every\nabsence which follows it, are preludes to that eternal separation which\nwe are shortly to make.--\n\n--Heaven have mercy upon us both!\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LXVIII.\n\nNow, for what the world thinks of that ejaculation--I would not give a\ngroat.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LXIX.\n\nMy mother had gone with her left arm twisted in my father's right, till\nthey had got to the fatal angle of the old garden wall, where Doctor\nSlop was overthrown by Obadiah on the coach-horse: as this was directly\nopposite to the front of Mrs. Wadman's house, when my father came to it,\nhe gave a look across; and seeing my uncle Toby and the corporal within\nten paces of the door, he turn'd about--'Let us just stop a moment,\nquoth my father, and see with what ceremonies my brother Toby and his\nman Trim make their first entry--it will not detain us, added my father,\na single minute:'\n\n--No matter, if it be ten minutes, quoth my mother.\n\n--It will not detain us half one; said my father.\n\nThe corporal was just then setting in with the story of his brother\nTom and the Jew's widow: the story went on--and on--it had episodes in\nit--it came back, and went on--and on again; there was no end of it--the\nreader found it very long--\n\n--G.. help my father! he pish'd fifty times at every new attitude, and\ngave the corporal's stick, with all its flourishings and danglings, to\nas many devils as chose to accept of them.\n\nWhen issues of events like these my father is waiting for, are hanging\nin the scales of fate, the mind has the advantage of changing the\nprinciple of expectation three times, without which it would not have\npower to see it out.\n\nCuriosity governs the first moment; and the second moment is all\noeconomy to justify the expence of the first--and for the third, fourth,\nfifth, and sixth moments, and so on to the day of judgment--'tis a point\nof Honour.\n\nI need not be told, that the ethic writers have assigned this all to\nPatience; but that Virtue, methinks, has extent of dominion sufficient\nof her own, and enough to do in it, without invading the few dismantled\ncastles which Honour has left him upon the earth.\n\nMy father stood it out as well as he could with these three auxiliaries\nto the end of Trim's story; and from thence to the end of my uncle\nToby's panegyrick upon arms, in the chapter following it; when seeing,\nthat instead of marching up to Mrs. Wadman's door, they both faced\nabout and march'd down the avenue diametrically opposite to his\nexpectation--he broke out at once with that little subacid soreness of\nhumour, which, in certain situations, distinguished his character from\nthat of all other men.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LXX.\n\n--'Now what can their two noddles be about?' cried my father...&c....\n\nI dare say, said my mother, they are making fortifications--\n\n--Not on Mrs. Wadman's premises! cried my father, stepping back--\n\nI suppose not: quoth my mother.\n\nI wish, said my father, raising his voice, the whole science of\nfortification at the devil, with all its trumpery of saps, mines,\nblinds, gabions, fausse-brays and cuvetts--\n\n--They are foolish things--said my mother.\n\nNow she had a way, which, by the bye, I would this moment give away my\npurple jerkin, and my yellow slippers into the bargain, if some of your\nreverences would imitate--and that was, never to refuse her assent and\nconsent to any proposition my father laid before her, merely because she\ndid not understand it, or had no ideas of the principal word or term of\nart, upon which the tenet or proposition rolled. She contented herself\nwith doing all that her godfathers and godmothers promised for her--but\nno more; and so would go on using a hard word twenty years together--and\nreplying to it too, if it was a verb, in all its moods and tenses,\nwithout giving herself any trouble to enquire about it.\n\nThis was an eternal source of misery to my father, and broke the neck,\nat the first setting out, of more good dialogues between them, than\ncould have done the most petulant contradiction--the few which survived\nwere the better for the cuvetts--\n\n--'They are foolish things;' said my mother.\n\n--Particularly the cuvetts; replied my father.\n\n'Tis enough--he tasted the sweet of triumph--and went on.\n\n--Not that they are, properly speaking, Mrs. Wadman's premises, said my\nfather, partly correcting himself--because she is but tenant for life--\n\n--That makes a great difference--said my mother--\n\n--In a fool's head, replied my father--\n\nUnless she should happen to have a child--said my mother--\n\n--But she must persuade my brother Toby first to get her one--\n\nTo be sure, Mr. Shandy, quoth my mother.\n\n--Though if it comes to persuasion--said my father--Lord have mercy upon\nthem.\n\nAmen: said my mother, piano.\n\nAmen: cried my father, fortissime.\n\nAmen: said my mother again--but with such a sighing cadence of personal\npity at the end of it, as discomfited every fibre about my father--he\ninstantly took out his almanack; but before he could untie it, Yorick's\ncongregation coming out of church, became a full answer to one half\nof his business with it--and my mother telling him it was a sacrament\nday--left him as little in doubt, as to the other part--He put his\nalmanack into his pocket.\n\nThe first Lord of the Treasury thinking of ways and means, could not\nhave returned home with a more embarrassed look.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LXXI.\n\nUpon looking back from the end of the last chapter, and surveying the\ntexture of what has been wrote, it is necessary, that upon this page and\nthe three following, a good quantity of heterogeneous matter be inserted\nto keep up that just balance betwixt wisdom and folly, without which a\nbook would not hold together a single year: nor is it a poor creeping\ndigression (which but for the name of, a man might continue as well\ngoing on in the king's highway) which will do the business--no; if it\nis to be a digression, it must be a good frisky one, and upon a frisky\nsubject too, where neither the horse or his rider are to be caught, but\nby rebound.\n\nThe only difficulty, is raising powers suitable to the nature of\nthe service: Fancy is capricious--Wit must not be searched for--and\nPleasantry (good-natured slut as she is) will not come in at a call, was\nan empire to be laid at her feet.\n\n--The best way for a man, is to say his prayers--\n\nOnly if it puts him in mind of his infirmities and defects as well\nghostly as bodily--for that purpose, he will find himself rather worse\nafter he has said them than before--for other purposes, better.\n\nFor my own part, there is not a way either moral or mechanical under\nheaven that I could think of, which I have not taken with myself in this\ncase: sometimes by addressing myself directly to the soul herself, and\narguing the point over and over again with her upon the extent of her\nown faculties--\n\n--I never could make them an inch the wider--\n\nThen by changing my system, and trying what could be made of it upon the\nbody, by temperance, soberness, and chastity: These are good, quoth\nI, in themselves--they are good, absolutely;--they are good,\nrelatively;--they are good for health--they are good for happiness in\nthis world--they are good for happiness in the next--\n\nIn short, they were good for every thing but the thing wanted; and there\nthey were good for nothing, but to leave the soul just as heaven made\nit: as for the theological virtues of faith and hope, they give it\ncourage; but then that snivelling virtue of Meekness (as my father would\nalways call it) takes it quite away again, so you are exactly where you\nstarted.\n\nNow in all common and ordinary cases, there is nothing which I have\nfound to answer so well as this--\n\n--Certainly, if there is any dependence upon Logic, and that I am not\nblinded by self-love, there must be something of true genius about me,\nmerely upon this symptom of it, that I do not know what envy is:\nfor never do I hit upon any invention or device which tendeth to the\nfurtherance of good writing, but I instantly make it public; willing\nthat all mankind should write as well as myself.\n\n--Which they certainly will, when they think as little.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LXXII.\n\nNow in ordinary cases, that is, when I am only stupid, and the thoughts\nrise heavily and pass gummous through my pen--\n\nOr that I am got, I know not how, into a cold unmetaphorical vein of\ninfamous writing, and cannot take a plumb-lift out of it for my soul; so\nmust be obliged to go on writing like a Dutch commentator to the end of\nthe chapter, unless something be done--\n\n--I never stand conferring with pen and ink one moment; for if a pinch\nof snuff, or a stride or two across the room will not do the business\nfor me--I take a razor at once; and having tried the edge of it upon\nthe palm of my hand, without further ceremony, except that of first\nlathering my beard, I shave it off; taking care only if I do leave a\nhair, that it be not a grey one: this done, I change my shirt--put on a\nbetter coat--send for my last wig--put my topaz ring upon my finger; and\nin a word, dress myself from one end to the other of me, after my best\nfashion.\n\nNow the devil in hell must be in it, if this does not do: for consider,\nSir, as every man chuses to be present at the shaving of his own beard\n(though there is no rule without an exception), and unavoidably sits\nover-against himself the whole time it is doing, in case he has a hand\nin it--the Situation, like all others, has notions of her own to put\ninto the brain.--\n\n--I maintain it, the conceits of a rough-bearded man, are seven years\nmore terse and juvenile for one single operation; and if they did not\nrun a risk of being quite shaved away, might be carried up by continual\nshavings, to the highest pitch of sublimity--How Homer could write with\nso long a beard, I don't know--and as it makes against my hypothesis, I\nas little care--But let us return to the Toilet.\n\nLudovicus Sorbonensis makes this entirely an affair of the body (Greek)\nas he calls it--but he is deceived: the soul and body are joint-sharers\nin every thing they get: A man cannot dress, but his ideas get cloth'd\nat the same time; and if he dresses like a gentleman, every one of them\nstands presented to his imagination, genteelized along with him--so that\nhe has nothing to do, but take his pen, and write like himself.\n\nFor this cause, when your honours and reverences would know whether I\nwrit clean and fit to be read, you will be able to judge full as well by\nlooking into my Laundress's bill, as my book: there is one single month\nin which I can make it appear, that I dirtied one and thirty shirts with\nclean writing; and after all, was more abus'd, cursed, criticis'd, and\nconfounded, and had more mystic heads shaken at me, for what I had\nwrote in that one month, than in all the other months of that year put\ntogether.\n\n--But their honours and reverences had not seen my bills.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LXXIII.\n\nAs I never had any intention of beginning the Digression, I am making\nall this preparation for, till I come to the 74th chapter--I have this\nchapter to put to whatever use I think proper--I have twenty this moment\nready for it--I could write my chapter of Button-holes in it--\n\nOr my chapter of Pishes, which should follow them--\n\nOr my chapter of Knots, in case their reverences have done with\nthem--they might lead me into mischief: the safest way is to follow\nthe track of the learned, and raise objections against what I have been\nwriting, tho' I declare before-hand, I know no more than my heels how to\nanswer them.\n\nAnd first, it may be said, there is a pelting kind of thersitical\nsatire, as black as the very ink 'tis wrote with--(and by the bye,\nwhoever says so, is indebted to the muster-master general of the Grecian\narmy, for suffering the name of so ugly and foul-mouth'd a man as\nThersites to continue upon his roll--for it has furnish'd him with an\nepithet)--in these productions he will urge, all the personal washings\nand scrubbings upon earth do a sinking genius no sort of good--but\njust the contrary, inasmuch as the dirtier the fellow is, the better\ngenerally he succeeds in it.\n\nTo this, I have no other answer--at least ready--but that the Archbishop\nof Benevento wrote his nasty Romance of the Galatea, as all the world\nknows, in a purple coat, waistcoat, and purple pair of breeches; and\nthat the penance set him of writing a commentary upon the book of the\nRevelations, as severe as it was look'd upon by one part of the world,\nwas far from being deem'd so, by the other, upon the single account of\nthat Investment.\n\nAnother objection, to all this remedy, is its want of universality;\nforasmuch as the shaving part of it, upon which so much stress is\nlaid, by an unalterable law of nature excludes one half of the species\nentirely from its use: all I can say is, that female writers, whether of\nEngland, or of France, must e'en go without it--\n\nAs for the Spanish ladies--I am in no sort of distress--\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LXXIV.\n\nThe seventy-fourth chapter is come at last; and brings nothing with it\nbut a sad signature of 'How our pleasures slip from under us in this\nworld!'\n\nFor in talking of my digression--I declare before heaven I have made it!\nWhat a strange creature is mortal man! said she.\n\n'Tis very true, said I--but 'twere better to get all these things out of\nour heads, and return to my uncle Toby.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LXXV.\n\nWhen my uncle Toby and the corporal had marched down to the bottom of\nthe avenue, they recollected their business lay the other way; so they\nfaced about and marched up straight to Mrs. Wadman's door.\n\nI warrant your honour; said the corporal, touching his Montero-cap with\nhis hand, as he passed him in order to give a knock at the door--My\nuncle Toby, contrary to his invariable way of treating his faithful\nservant, said nothing good or bad: the truth was, he had not altogether\nmarshal'd his ideas; he wish'd for another conference, and as the\ncorporal was mounting up the three steps before the door--he hem'd\ntwice--a portion of my uncle Toby's most modest spirits fled, at each\nexpulsion, towards the corporal; he stood with the rapper of the door\nsuspended for a full minute in his hand, he scarce knew why. Bridget\nstood perdue within, with her finger and her thumb upon the latch,\nbenumb'd with expectation; and Mrs. Wadman, with an eye ready to be\ndeflowered again, sat breathless behind the window-curtain of her\nbed-chamber, watching their approach.\n\nTrim! said my uncle Toby--but as he articulated the word, the minute\nexpired, and Trim let fall the rapper.\n\nMy uncle Toby perceiving that all hopes of a conference were knock'd on\nthe head by it--whistled Lillabullero.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LXXVI.\n\nAs Mrs. Bridget's finger and thumb were upon the latch, the corporal did\nnot knock as often as perchance your honour's taylor--I might have taken\nmy example something nearer home; for I owe mine, some five and twenty\npounds at least, and wonder at the man's patience--\n\n--But this is nothing at all to the world: only 'tis a cursed thing to\nbe in debt; and there seems to be a fatality in the exchequers of some\npoor princes, particularly those of our house, which no Economy can\nbind down in irons: for my own part, I'm persuaded there is not any one\nprince, prelate, pope, or potentate, great or small upon earth, more\ndesirous in his heart of keeping straight with the world than I am--or\nwho takes more likely means for it. I never give above half a guinea--or\nwalk with boots--or cheapen tooth-picks--or lay out a shilling upon a\nband-box the year round; and for the six months I'm in the country, I'm\nupon so small a scale, that with all the good temper in the world, I\noutdo Rousseau, a bar length--for I keep neither man or boy, or horse,\nor cow, or dog, or cat, or any thing that can eat or drink, except a\nthin poor piece of a Vestal (to keep my fire in), and who has generally\nas bad an appetite as myself--but if you think this makes a philosopher\nof me--I would not, my good people! give a rush for your judgments.\n\nTrue philosophy--but there is no treating the subject whilst my uncle is\nwhistling Lillabullero.\n\n--Let us go into the house.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LXXVII.\n\n(blank page)\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LXXVIII.\n\n(blank page)\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LXXIX.\n\n--(two blank paragraphs)--\n\n--You shall see the very place, Madam; said my uncle Toby.\n\nMrs. Wadman blush'd--look'd towards the door--turn'd pale--blush'd\nslightly again--recover'd her natural colour--blush'd worse than ever;\nwhich, for the sake of the unlearned reader, I translate thus--\n\n'L..d! I cannot look at it--\n\n'What would the world say if I look'd at it?\n\n'I should drop down, if I look'd at it--\n\n'I wish I could look at it--\n\n'There can be no sin in looking at it.\n\n--'I will look at it.'\n\nWhilst all this was running through Mrs. Wadman's imagination, my uncle\nToby had risen from the sopha, and got to the other side of the parlour\ndoor, to give Trim an order about it in the passage--\n\n...--I believe it is in the garret, said my uncle Toby--I saw it there,\nan' please your honour, this morning, answered Trim--Then prithee,\nstep directly for it, Trim, said my uncle Toby, and bring it into the\nparlour.\n\nThe corporal did not approve of the orders, but most cheerfully obeyed\nthem. The first was not an act of his will--the second was; so he put\non his Montero-cap, and went as fast as his lame knee would let him. My\nuncle Toby returned into the parlour, and sat himself down again upon\nthe sopha.\n\n--You shall lay your finger upon the place--said my uncle Toby.--I will\nnot touch it, however, quoth Mrs. Wadman to herself.\n\nThis requires a second translation:--it shews what little knowledge is\ngot by mere words--we must go up to the first springs.\n\nNow in order to clear up the mist which hangs upon these three pages, I\nmust endeavour to be as clear as possible myself.\n\nRub your hands thrice across your foreheads--blow your noses--cleanse\nyour emunctories--sneeze, my good people!--God bless you--\n\nNow give me all the help you can.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LXXX.\n\nAs there are fifty different ends (counting all ends in--as well civil\nas religious) for which a woman takes a husband, the first sets about\nand carefully weighs, then separates and distinguishes in her mind,\nwhich of all that number of ends is hers; then by discourse, enquiry,\nargumentation, and inference, she investigates and finds out whether\nshe has got hold of the right one--and if she has--then, by pulling it\ngently this way and that way, she further forms a judgment, whether it\nwill not break in the drawing.\n\nThe imagery under which Slawkenbergius impresses this upon the reader's\nfancy, in the beginning of his third Decad, is so ludicrous, that the\nhonour I bear the sex, will not suffer me to quote it--otherwise it is\nnot destitute of humour.\n\n'She first, saith Slawkenbergius, stops the asse, and holding his halter\nin her left hand (lest he should get away) she thrusts her right hand\ninto the very bottom of his pannier to search for it--For what?--you'll\nnot know the sooner, quoth Slawkenbergius, for interrupting me--\n\n'I have nothing, good Lady, but empty bottles;' says the asse.\n\n'I'm loaded with tripes;' says the second.\n\n--And thou art little better, quoth she to the third; for nothing is\nthere in thy panniers but trunk-hose and pantofles--and so to the fourth\nand fifth, going on one by one through the whole string, till coming to\nthe asse which carries it, she turns the pannier upside down, looks at\nit--considers it--samples it--measures it--stretches it--wets it--dries\nit--then takes her teeth both to the warp and weft of it.\n\n--Of what? for the love of Christ!\n\nI am determined, answered Slawkenbergius, that all the powers upon earth\nshall never wring that secret from my breast.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LXXXI.\n\nWe live in a world beset on all sides with mysteries and riddles--and\nso 'tis no matter--else it seems strange, that Nature, who makes every\nthing so well to answer its destination, and seldom or never errs,\nunless for pastime, in giving such forms and aptitudes to whatever\npasses through her hands, that whether she designs for the plough, the\ncaravan, the cart--or whatever other creature she models, be it but an\nasse's foal, you are sure to have the thing you wanted; and yet at the\nsame time should so eternally bungle it as she does, in making so simple\na thing as a married man.\n\nWhether it is in the choice of the clay--or that it is frequently\nspoiled in the baking; by an excess of which a husband may turn out too\ncrusty (you know) on one hand--or not enough so, through defect of heat,\non the other--or whether this great Artificer is not so attentive to the\nlittle Platonic exigences of that part of the species, for whose use she\nis fabricating this--or that her Ladyship sometimes scarce knows what\nsort of a husband will do--I know not: we will discourse about it after\nsupper.\n\nIt is enough, that neither the observation itself, or the reasoning upon\nit, are at all to the purpose--but rather against it; since with regard\nto my uncle Toby's fitness for the marriage state, nothing was ever\nbetter: she had formed him of the best and kindliest clay--had temper'd\nit with her own milk, and breathed into it the sweetest spirit--she had\nmade him all gentle, generous, and humane--she had filled his heart with\ntrust and confidence, and disposed every passage which led to it, for\nthe communication of the tenderest offices--she had moreover considered\nthe other causes for which matrimony was ordained--\n\nAnd accordingly....\n\nThe Donation was not defeated by my uncle Toby's wound.\n\nNow this last article was somewhat apocryphal; and the Devil, who is the\ngreat disturber of our faiths in this world, had raised scruples in Mrs.\nWadman's brain about it; and like a true devil as he was, had done his\nown work at the same time, by turning my uncle Toby's Virtue thereupon\ninto nothing but empty bottles, tripes, trunk-hose, and pantofles.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LXXXII.\n\nMrs. Bridget had pawn'd all the little stock of honour a poor\nchamber-maid was worth in the world, that she would get to the bottom\nof the affair in ten days; and it was built upon one of the most\nconcessible postulata in nature: namely, that whilst my uncle Toby was\nmaking love to her mistress, the corporal could find nothing better to\ndo, than make love to her--'And I'll let him as much as he will, said\nBridget, to get it out of him.'\n\nFriendship has two garments; an outer and an under one. Bridget was\nserving her mistress's interests in the one--and doing the thing which\nmost pleased herself in the other: so had as many stakes depending\nupon my uncle Toby's wound, as the Devil himself--Mrs. Wadman had but\none--and as it possibly might be her last (without discouraging Mrs.\nBridget, or discrediting her talents) was determined to play her cards\nherself.\n\nShe wanted not encouragement: a child might have look'd into his\nhand--there was such a plainness and simplicity in his playing out what\ntrumps he had--with such an unmistrusting ignorance of the ten-ace--and\nso naked and defenceless did he sit upon the same sopha with widow\nWadman, that a generous heart would have wept to have won the game of\nhim.\n\nLet us drop the metaphor.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LXXXIII.\n\n--And the story too--if you please: for though I have all along been\nhastening towards this part of it, with so much earnest desire, as\nwell knowing it to be the choicest morsel of what I had to offer to the\nworld, yet now that I am got to it, any one is welcome to take my pen,\nand go on with the story for me that will--I see the difficulties of the\ndescriptions I'm going to give--and feel my want of powers.\n\nIt is one comfort at least to me, that I lost some fourscore ounces\nof blood this week in a most uncritical fever which attacked me at the\nbeginning of this chapter; so that I have still some hopes remaining,\nit may be more in the serous or globular parts of the blood, than in the\nsubtile aura of the brain--be it which it will--an Invocation can do no\nhurt--and I leave the affair entirely to the invoked, to inspire or to\ninject me according as he sees good.\n\nThe Invocation.\n\nGentle Spirit of sweetest humour, who erst did sit upon the easy pen of\nmy beloved Cervantes; Thou who glidedst daily through his lattice, and\nturned'st the twilight of his prison into noon-day brightness by thy\npresence--tinged'st his little urn of water with heaven-sent nectar, and\nall the time he wrote of Sancho and his master, didst cast thy mystic\nmantle o'er his wither'd stump (He lost his hand at the battle of\nLepanto.), and wide extended it to all the evils of his life--\n\n--Turn in hither, I beseech thee!--behold these breeches!--they are all\nI have in world--that piteous rent was given them at Lyons--\n\nMy shirts! see what a deadly schism has happen'd amongst 'em--for the\nlaps are in Lombardy, and the rest of 'em here--I never had but six,\nand a cunning gypsey of a laundress at Milan cut me off the fore-laps of\nfive--To do her justice, she did it with some consideration--for I was\nreturning out of Italy.\n\nAnd yet, notwithstanding all this, and a pistol tinder-box which was\nmoreover filch'd from me at Sienna, and twice that I pay'd five Pauls\nfor two hard eggs, once at Raddicoffini, and a second time at Capua--I\ndo not think a journey through France and Italy, provided a man keeps\nhis temper all the way, so bad a thing as some people would make you\nbelieve: there must be ups and downs, or how the duce should we get\ninto vallies where Nature spreads so many tables of entertainment.--'Tis\nnonsense to imagine they will lend you their voitures to be shaken to\npieces for nothing; and unless you pay twelve sous for greasing your\nwheels, how should the poor peasant get butter to his bread?--We really\nexpect too much--and for the livre or two above par for your suppers and\nbed--at the most they are but one shilling and ninepence halfpenny--who\nwould embroil their philosophy for it? for heaven's and for your\nown sake, pay it--pay it with both hands open, rather than leave\nDisappointment sitting drooping upon the eye of your fair Hostess and\nher Damsels in the gate-way, at your departure--and besides, my dear\nSir, you get a sisterly kiss of each of 'em worth a pound--at least I\ndid--\n\n--For my uncle Toby's amours running all the way in my head, they had\nthe same effect upon me as if they had been my own--I was in the most\nperfect state of bounty and good-will; and felt the kindliest harmony\nvibrating within me, with every oscillation of the chaise alike; so that\nwhether the roads were rough or smooth, it made no difference; every\nthing I saw or had to do with, touch'd upon some secret spring either of\nsentiment or rapture.\n\n--They were the sweetest notes I ever heard; and I instantly let down\nthe fore-glass to hear them more distinctly--'Tis Maria; said the\npostillion, observing I was listening--Poor Maria, continued he (leaning\nhis body on one side to let me see her, for he was in a line betwixt\nus), is sitting upon a bank playing her vespers upon her pipe, with her\nlittle goat beside her.\n\nThe young fellow utter'd this with an accent and a look so perfectly in\ntune to a feeling heart, that I instantly made a vow, I would give him a\nfour-and-twenty sous piece, when I got to Moulins--\n\n--And who is poor Maria? said I.\n\nThe love and piety of all the villages around us; said the\npostillion--it is but three years ago, that the sun did not shine upon\nso fair, so quick-witted and amiable a maid; and better fate did Maria\ndeserve, than to have her Banns forbid, by the intrigues of the curate\nof the parish who published them--\n\nHe was going on, when Maria, who had made a short pause, put the pipe to\nher mouth, and began the air again--they were the same notes;--yet were\nten times sweeter: It is the evening service to the Virgin, said the\nyoung man--but who has taught her to play it--or how she came by her\npipe, no one knows; we think that heaven has assisted her in both;\nfor ever since she has been unsettled in her mind, it seems her only\nconsolation--she has never once had the pipe out of her hand, but plays\nthat service upon it almost night and day.\n\nThe postillion delivered this with so much discretion and natural\neloquence, that I could not help decyphering something in his face above\nhis condition, and should have sifted out his history, had not poor\nMaria taken such full possession of me.\n\nWe had got up by this time almost to the bank where Maria was sitting:\nshe was in a thin white jacket, with her hair, all but two tresses,\ndrawn up into a silk-net, with a few olive leaves twisted a little\nfantastically on one side--she was beautiful; and if ever I felt the\nfull force of an honest heart-ache, it was the moment I saw her--\n\n--God help her! poor damsel! above a hundred masses, said the\npostillion, have been said in the several parish churches and convents\naround, for her,--but without effect; we have still hopes, as she is\nsensible for short intervals, that the Virgin at last will restore her\nto herself; but her parents, who know her best, are hopeless upon that\nscore, and think her senses are lost for ever.\n\nAs the postillion spoke this, Maria made a cadence so melancholy, so\ntender and querulous, that I sprung out of the chaise to help her, and\nfound myself sitting betwixt her and her goat before I relapsed from my\nenthusiasm.\n\nMaria look'd wistfully for some time at me, and then at her goat--and\nthen at me--and then at her goat again, and so on, alternately--\n\n--Well, Maria, said I softly--What resemblance do you find?\n\nI do entreat the candid reader to believe me, that it was from the\nhumblest conviction of what a Beast man is,--that I asked the question;\nand that I would not have let fallen an unseasonable pleasantry in the\nvenerable presence of Misery, to be entitled to all the wit that ever\nRabelais scatter'd--and yet I own my heart smote me, and that I so\nsmarted at the very idea of it, that I swore I would set up for Wisdom,\nand utter grave sentences the rest of my days--and never--never attempt\nagain to commit mirth with man, woman, or child, the longest day I had\nto live.\n\nAs for writing nonsense to them--I believe there was a reserve--but that\nI leave to the world.\n\nAdieu, Maria!--adieu, poor hapless damsel!--some time, but not now, I\nmay hear thy sorrows from thy own lips--but I was deceived; for that\nmoment she took her pipe and told me such a tale of woe with it, that I\nrose up, and with broken and irregular steps walk'd softly to my chaise.\n\n--What an excellent inn at Moulins!\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LXXXIV.\n\nWhen we have got to the end of this chapter (but not before) we must all\nturn back to the two blank chapters, on the account of which my honour\nhas lain bleeding this half hour--I stop it, by pulling off one of my\nyellow slippers and throwing it with all my violence to the opposite\nside of my room, with a declaration at the heel of it--\n\n--That whatever resemblance it may bear to half the chapters which are\nwritten in the world, or for aught I know may be now writing in it--that\nit was as casual as the foam of Zeuxis his horse; besides, I look upon a\nchapter which has only nothing in it, with respect; and considering what\nworse things there are in the world--That it is no way a proper subject\nfor satire--\n\n--Why then was it left so? And here without staying for my reply, shall\nI be called as many blockheads, numsculs, doddypoles, dunderheads,\nninny-hammers, goosecaps, joltheads, nincompoops, and sh..t-a-beds--and\nother unsavoury appellations, as ever the cake-bakers of Lerne cast in\nthe teeth of King Garangantan's shepherds--And I'll let them do it,\nas Bridget said, as much as they please; for how was it possible they\nshould foresee the necessity I was under of writing the 84th chapter of\nmy book, before the 77th, &c?\n\n--So I don't take it amiss--All I wish is, that it may be a lesson to\nthe world, 'to let people tell their stories their own way.'\n\n\n\nThe Seventy-seventh Chapter.\n\nAs Mrs. Bridget opened the door before the corporal had well given the\nrap, the interval betwixt that and my uncle Toby's introduction into the\nparlour, was so short, that Mrs. Wadman had but just time to get from\nbehind the curtain--lay a Bible upon the table, and advance a step or\ntwo towards the door to receive him.\n\nMy uncle Toby saluted Mrs. Wadman, after the manner in which women were\nsaluted by men in the year of our Lord God one thousand seven hundred\nand thirteen--then facing about, he march'd up abreast with her to the\nsopha, and in three plain words--though not before he was sat down--nor\nafter he was sat down--but as he was sitting down, told her, 'he was in\nlove'--so that my uncle Toby strained himself more in the declaration\nthan he needed.\n\nMrs. Wadman naturally looked down, upon a slit she had been darning up\nin her apron, in expectation every moment, that my uncle Toby would go\non; but having no talents for amplification, and Love moreover of all\nothers being a subject of which he was the least a master--When he had\ntold Mrs. Wadman once that he loved her, he let it alone, and left the\nmatter to work after its own way.\n\nMy father was always in raptures with this system of my uncle Toby's, as\nhe falsely called it, and would often say, that could his brother Toby\nto his processe have added but a pipe of tobacco--he had wherewithal to\nhave found his way, if there was faith in a Spanish proverb, towards the\nhearts of half the women upon the globe.\n\nMy uncle Toby never understood what my father meant; nor will I presume\nto extract more from it, than a condemnation of an error which the bulk\nof the world lie under--but the French, every one of 'em to a man, who\nbelieve in it, almost as much as the Real Presence, 'That talking of\nlove, is making it.'\n\n--I would as soon set about making a black-pudding by the same receipt.\n\nLet us go on: Mrs. Wadman sat in expectation my uncle Toby would do so,\nto almost the first pulsation of that minute, wherein silence on one\nside or the other, generally becomes indecent: so edging herself a\nlittle more towards him, and raising up her eyes, sub blushing, as\nshe did it--she took up the gauntlet--or the discourse (if you like it\nbetter) and communed with my uncle Toby, thus:\n\nThe cares and disquietudes of the marriage state, quoth Mrs. Wadman,\nare very great. I suppose so--said my uncle Toby: and therefore when\na person, continued Mrs. Wadman, is so much at his ease as you are--so\nhappy, captain Shandy, in yourself, your friends and your amusements--I\nwonder, what reasons can incline you to the state--\n\n--They are written, quoth my uncle Toby, in the Common-Prayer Book.\n\nThus far my uncle Toby went on warily, and kept within his depth,\nleaving Mrs. Wadman to sail upon the gulph as she pleased.\n\n--As for children--said Mrs. Wadman--though a principal end perhaps of\nthe institution, and the natural wish, I suppose, of every parent--yet\ndo not we all find, they are certain sorrows, and very uncertain\ncomforts? and what is there, dear sir, to pay one for the\nheart-achs--what compensation for the many tender and disquieting\napprehensions of a suffering and defenceless mother who brings them into\nlife? I declare, said my uncle Toby, smit with pity, I know of none;\nunless it be the pleasure which it has pleased God--\n\nA fiddlestick! quoth she.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.the Seventy-eighth.\n\nNow there are such an infinitude of notes, tunes, cants, chants, airs,\nlooks, and accents with which the word fiddlestick may be pronounced in\nall such causes as this, every one of 'em impressing a sense and meaning\nas different from the other, as dirt from cleanliness--That Casuists\n(for it is an affair of conscience on that score) reckon up no less than\nfourteen thousand in which you may do either right or wrong.\n\nMrs. Wadman hit upon the fiddlestick, which summoned up all my uncle\nToby's modest blood into his cheeks--so feeling within himself that he\nhad somehow or other got beyond his depth, he stopt short; and without\nentering further either into the pains or pleasures of matrimony, he\nlaid his hand upon his heart, and made an offer to take them as they\nwere, and share them along with her.\n\nWhen my uncle Toby had said this, he did not care to say it again;\nso casting his eye upon the Bible which Mrs. Wadman had laid upon the\ntable, he took it up; and popping, dear soul! upon a passage in it,\nof all others the most interesting to him--which was the siege of\nJericho--he set himself to read it over--leaving his proposal of\nmarriage, as he had done his declaration of love, to work with her after\nits own way. Now it wrought neither as an astringent or a loosener; nor\nlike opium, or bark, or mercury, or buckthorn, or any one drug which\nnature had bestowed upon the world--in short, it work'd not at all in\nher; and the cause of that was, that there was something working there\nbefore--Babbler that I am! I have anticipated what it was a dozen times;\nbut there is fire still in the subject--allons.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LXXXV.\n\nIt is natural for a perfect stranger who is going from London to\nEdinburgh, to enquire before he sets out, how many miles to York; which\nis about the half way--nor does any body wonder, if he goes on and asks\nabout the corporation, &c....\n\nIt was just as natural for Mrs. Wadman, whose first husband was all his\ntime afflicted with a Sciatica, to wish to know how far from the hip\nto the groin; and how far she was likely to suffer more or less in her\nfeelings, in the one case than in the other.\n\nShe had accordingly read Drake's anatomy from one end to the other. She\nhad peeped into Wharton upon the brain, and borrowed Graaf (This must be\na mistake in Mr. Shandy; for Graaf wrote upon the pancreatick juice,\nand the parts of generation.) upon the bones and muscles; but could make\nnothing of it.\n\nShe had reason'd likewise from her own powers--laid down theorems--drawn\nconsequences, and come to no conclusion.\n\nTo clear up all, she had twice asked Doctor Slop, 'if poor captain\nShandy was ever likely to recover of his wound--?'\n\n--He is recovered, Doctor Slop would say--\n\nWhat! quite?\n\nQuite: madam--\n\nBut what do you mean by a recovery? Mrs. Wadman would say.\n\nDoctor Slop was the worst man alive at definitions; and so Mrs. Wadman\ncould get no knowledge: in short, there was no way to extract it, but\nfrom my uncle Toby himself.\n\nThere is an accent of humanity in an enquiry of this kind which lulls\nSuspicion to rest--and I am half persuaded the serpent got pretty near\nit, in his discourse with Eve; for the propensity in the sex to be\ndeceived could not be so great, that she should have boldness to hold\nchat with the devil, without it--But there is an accent of humanity--how\nshall I describe it?--'tis an accent which covers the part with a\ngarment, and gives the enquirer a right to be as particular with it, as\nyour body-surgeon.\n\n'--Was it without remission?--\n\n'--Was it more tolerable in bed?\n\n'--Could he lie on both sides alike with it?\n\n'--Was he able to mount a horse?\n\n'--Was motion bad for it?' et caetera, were so tenderly spoke to, and so\ndirected towards my uncle Toby's heart, that every item of them sunk\nten times deeper into it than the evils themselves--but when Mrs. Wadman\nwent round about by Namur to get at my uncle Toby's groin; and engaged\nhim to attack the point of the advanced counterscarp, and pele mele with\nthe Dutch to take the counterguard of St. Roch sword in hand--and then\nwith tender notes playing upon his ear, led him all bleeding by the\nhand out of the trench, wiping her eye, as he was carried to his\ntent--Heaven! Earth! Sea!--all was lifted up--the springs of nature rose\nabove their levels--an angel of mercy sat besides him on the sopha--his\nheart glow'd with fire--and had he been worth a thousand, he had lost\nevery heart of them to Mrs. Wadman.\n\n--And whereabouts, dear sir, quoth Mrs. Wadman, a little categorically,\ndid you receive this sad blow?--In asking this question, Mrs. Wadman\ngave a slight glance towards the waistband of my uncle Toby's red plush\nbreeches, expecting naturally, as the shortest reply to it, that\nmy uncle Toby would lay his fore-finger upon the place--It fell out\notherwise--for my uncle Toby having got his wound before the gate of St.\nNicolas, in one of the traverses of the trench opposite to the salient\nangle of the demibastion of St. Roch; he could at any time stick a pin\nupon the identical spot of ground where he was standing when the stone\nstruck him: this struck instantly upon my uncle Toby's sensorium--and\nwith it, struck his large map of the town and citadel of Namur and its\nenvirons, which he had purchased and pasted down upon a board, by the\ncorporal's aid, during his long illness--it had lain with other military\nlumber in the garret ever since, and accordingly the corporal was\ndetached to the garret to fetch it.\n\nMy uncle Toby measured off thirty toises, with Mrs. Wadman's scissars,\nfrom the returning angle before the gate of St. Nicolas; and with such\na virgin modesty laid her finger upon the place, that the goddess of\nDecency, if then in being--if not, 'twas her shade--shook her head,\nand with a finger wavering across her eyes--forbid her to explain the\nmistake.\n\nUnhappy Mrs. Wadman!\n\n--For nothing can make this chapter go off with spirit but an apostrophe\nto thee--but my heart tells me, that in such a crisis an apostrophe\nis but an insult in disguise, and ere I would offer one to a woman in\ndistress--let the chapter go to the devil; provided any damn'd critic in\nkeeping will be but at the trouble to take it with him.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LXXXVI.\n\nMy uncle Toby's Map is carried down into the kitchen.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LXXXVII.\n\n--And here is the Maes--and this is the Sambre; said the corporal,\npointing with his right hand extended a little towards the map, and his\nleft upon Mrs. Bridget's shoulder--but not the shoulder next him--and\nthis, said he, is the town of Namur--and this the citadel--and there\nlay the French--and here lay his honour and myself--and in this cursed\ntrench, Mrs. Bridget, quoth the corporal, taking her by the hand, did he\nreceive the wound which crush'd him so miserably here.--In pronouncing\nwhich, he slightly press'd the back of her hand towards the part he felt\nfor--and let it fall.\n\nWe thought, Mr. Trim, it had been more in the middle,--said Mrs.\nBridget--\n\nThat would have undone us for ever--said the corporal.\n\n--And left my poor mistress undone too, said Bridget.\n\nThe corporal made no reply to the repartee, but by giving Mrs. Bridget a\nkiss.\n\nCome--come--said Bridget--holding the palm of her left hand parallel to\nthe plane of the horizon, and sliding the fingers of the other over it,\nin a way which could not have been done, had there been the least wart\nor protruberance--'Tis every syllable of it false, cried the corporal,\nbefore she had half finished the sentence--\n\n--I know it to be fact, said Bridget, from credible witnesses.\n\n--Upon my honour, said the corporal, laying his hand upon his heart,\nand blushing, as he spoke, with honest resentment--'tis a story, Mrs.\nBridget, as false as hell--Not, said Bridget, interrupting him, that\neither I or my mistress care a halfpenny about it, whether 'tis so or\nno--only that when one is married, one would chuse to have such a thing\nby one at least--\n\nIt was somewhat unfortunate for Mrs. Bridget, that she had begun the\nattack with her manual exercise; for the corporal instantly....\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LXXXVIII.\n\nIt was like the momentary contest in the moist eye-lids of an April\nmorning, 'Whether Bridget should laugh or cry.'\n\nShe snatch'd up a rolling-pin--'twas ten to one, she had laugh'd--\n\nShe laid it down--she cried; and had one single tear of 'em but tasted\nof bitterness, full sorrowful would the corporal's heart have been that\nhe had used the argument; but the corporal understood the sex, a quart\nmajor to a terce at least, better than my uncle Toby, and accordingly he\nassailed Mrs. Bridget after this manner.\n\nI know, Mrs. Bridget, said the corporal, giving her a most respectful\nkiss, that thou art good and modest by nature, and art withal so\ngenerous a girl in thyself, that, if I know thee rightly, thou would'st\nnot wound an insect, much less the honour of so gallant and worthy a\nsoul as my master, wast thou sure to be made a countess of--but thou\nhast been set on, and deluded, dear Bridget, as is often a woman's case,\n'to please others more than themselves--'\n\nBridget's eyes poured down at the sensations the corporal excited.\n\n--Tell me--tell me, then, my dear Bridget, continued the corporal,\ntaking hold of her hand, which hung down dead by her side,--and giving a\nsecond kiss--whose suspicion has misled thee?\n\nBridget sobb'd a sob or two--then open'd her eyes--the corporal wiped\n'em with the bottom of her apron--she then open'd her heart and told him\nall.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.LXXXIX.\n\nMy uncle Toby and the corporal had gone on separately with their\noperations the greatest part of the campaign, and as effectually cut\noff from all communication of what either the one or the other had been\ndoing, as if they had been separated from each other by the Maes or the\nSambre.\n\nMy uncle Toby, on his side, had presented himself every afternoon in his\nred and silver, and blue and gold alternately, and sustained an infinity\nof attacks in them, without knowing them to be attacks--and so had\nnothing to communicate--\n\nThe corporal, on his side, in taking Bridget, by it had gain'd\nconsiderable advantages--and consequently had much to communicate--but\nwhat were the advantages--as well as what was the manner by which he had\nseiz'd them, required so nice an historian, that the corporal durst not\nventure upon it; and as sensible as he was of glory, would rather have\nbeen contented to have gone bareheaded and without laurels for ever,\nthan torture his master's modesty for a single moment--\n\n--Best of honest and gallant servants!--But I have apostrophiz'd thee,\nTrim! once before--and could I apotheosize thee also (that is to say)\nwith good company--I would do it without ceremony in the very next page.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XC.\n\nNow my uncle Toby had one evening laid down his pipe upon the table,\nand was counting over to himself upon his finger ends (beginning at his\nthumb) all Mrs. Wadman's perfections one by one; and happening two or\nthree times together, either by omitting some, or counting others twice\nover, to puzzle himself sadly before he could get beyond his middle\nfinger--Prithee, Trim! said he, taking up his pipe again,--bring me a\npen and ink: Trim brought paper also.\n\nTake a full sheet--Trim! said my uncle Toby, making a sign with his pipe\nat the same time to take a chair and sit down close by him at the table.\nThe corporal obeyed--placed the paper directly before him--took a pen,\nand dipp'd it in the ink.\n\n--She has a thousand virtues, Trim! said my uncle Toby--\n\nAm I to set them down, an' please your honour? quoth the corporal.\n\n--But they must be taken in their ranks, replied my uncle Toby; for of\nthem all, Trim, that which wins me most, and which is a security for\nall the rest, is the compassionate turn and singular humanity of her\ncharacter--I protest, added my uncle Toby, looking up, as he protested\nit, towards the top of the ceiling--That was I her brother, Trim, a\nthousand fold, she could not make more constant or more tender enquiries\nafter my sufferings--though now no more.\n\nThe corporal made no reply to my uncle Toby's protestation, but by a\nshort cough--he dipp'd the pen a second time into the inkhorn; and my\nuncle Toby, pointing with the end of his pipe as close to the top of the\nsheet at the left hand corner of it, as he could get it--the corporal\nwrote down the word HUMANITY...thus.\n\nPrithee, corporal, said my uncle Toby, as soon as Trim had done it--how\noften does Mrs. Bridget enquire after the wound on the cap of thy knee,\nwhich thou received'st at the battle of Landen?\n\nShe never, an' please your honour, enquires after it at all.\n\nThat, corporal, said my uncle Toby, with all the triumph the goodness of\nhis nature would permit--That shews the difference in the character\nof the mistress and maid--had the fortune of war allotted the same\nmischance to me, Mrs. Wadman would have enquired into every circumstance\nrelating to it a hundred times--She would have enquired, an' please your\nhonour, ten times as often about your honour's groin--The pain, Trim, is\nequally excruciating,--and Compassion has as much to do with the one as\nthe other--\n\n--God bless your honour! cried the corporal--what has a woman's\ncompassion to do with a wound upon the cap of a man's knee? had your\nhonour's been shot into ten thousand splinters at the affair of Landen,\nMrs. Wadman would have troubled her head as little about it as Bridget;\nbecause, added the corporal, lowering his voice, and speaking very\ndistinctly, as he assigned his reason--\n\n'The knee is such a distance from the main body--whereas the groin, your\nhonour knows, is upon the very curtain of the place.'\n\nMy uncle Toby gave a long whistle--but in a note which could scarce be\nheard across the table.\n\nThe corporal had advanced too far to retire--in three words he told the\nrest--\n\nMy uncle Toby laid down his pipe as gently upon the fender, as if it had\nbeen spun from the unravellings of a spider's web--\n\n--Let us go to my brother Shandy's, said he.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XCI.\n\nThere will be just time, whilst my uncle Toby and Trim are walking to\nmy father's, to inform you that Mrs. Wadman had, some moons before this,\nmade a confident of my mother; and that Mrs. Bridget, who had the burden\nof her own, as well as her mistress's secret to carry, had got happily\ndelivered of both to Susannah behind the garden-wall.\n\nAs for my mother, she saw nothing at all in it, to make the least bustle\nabout--but Susannah was sufficient by herself for all the ends and\npurposes you could possibly have, in exporting a family secret; for she\ninstantly imparted it by signs to Jonathan--and Jonathan by tokens to\nthe cook as she was basting a loin of mutton; the cook sold it with some\nkitchen-fat to the postillion for a groat, who truck'd it with the dairy\nmaid for something of about the same value--and though whisper'd in the\nhay-loft, Fame caught the notes with her brazen trumpet, and sounded\nthem upon the house-top--In a word, not an old woman in the village or\nfive miles round, who did not understand the difficulties of my uncle\nToby's siege, and what were the secret articles which had delayed the\nsurrender.--\n\nMy father, whose way was to force every event in nature into an\nhypothesis, by which means never man crucified Truth at the rate he\ndid--had but just heard of the report as my uncle Toby set out; and\ncatching fire suddenly at the trespass done his brother by it, was\ndemonstrating to Yorick, notwithstanding my mother was sitting by--not\nonly, 'That the devil was in women, and that the whole of the affair was\nlust;' but that every evil and disorder in the world, of what kind or\nnature soever, from the first fall of Adam, down to my uncle Toby's\n(inclusive), was owing one way or other to the same unruly appetite.\n\nYorick was just bringing my father's hypothesis to some temper, when\nmy uncle Toby entering the room with marks of infinite benevolence and\nforgiveness in his looks, my father's eloquence re-kindled against the\npassion--and as he was not very nice in the choice of his words when\nhe was wroth--as soon as my uncle Toby was seated by the fire, and had\nfilled his pipe, my father broke out in this manner.\n\n\n\nChapter 4.XCII.\n\n--That provision should be made for continuing the race of so great,\nso exalted and godlike a Being as man--I am far from denying--but\nphilosophy speaks freely of every thing; and therefore I still think\nand do maintain it to be a pity, that it should be done by means of\na passion which bends down the faculties, and turns all the wisdom,\ncontemplations, and operations of the soul backwards--a passion, my\ndear, continued my father, addressing himself to my mother, which\ncouples and equals wise men with fools, and makes us come out of our\ncaverns and hiding-places more like satyrs and four-footed beasts than\nmen.\n\nI know it will be said, continued my father (availing himself of the\nProlepsis), that in itself, and simply taken--like hunger, or thirst,\nor sleep--'tis an affair neither good or bad--or shameful or\notherwise.--Why then did the delicacy of Diogenes and Plato so\nrecalcitrate against it? and wherefore, when we go about to make and\nplant a man, do we put out the candle? and for what reason is it,\nthat all the parts thereof--the congredients--the preparations--the\ninstruments, and whatever serves thereto, are so held as to be conveyed\nto a cleanly mind by no language, translation, or periphrasis whatever?\n\n--The act of killing and destroying a man, continued my father, raising\nhis voice--and turning to my uncle Toby--you see, is glorious--and the\nweapons by which we do it are honourable--We march with them upon our\nshoulders--We strut with them by our sides--We gild them--We carve\nthem--We in-lay them--We enrich them--Nay, if it be but a scoundrel\ncannon, we cast an ornament upon the breach of it.--\n\n--My uncle Toby laid down his pipe to intercede for a better\nepithet--and Yorick was rising up to batter the whole hypothesis to\npieces--\n\n--When Obadiah broke into the middle of the room with a complaint, which\ncried out for an immediate hearing.\n\nThe case was this:\n\nMy father, whether by ancient custom of the manor, or as impropriator\nof the great tythes, was obliged to keep a Bull for the service of the\nParish, and Obadiah had led his cow upon a pop-visit to him one day or\nother the preceding summer--I say, one day or other--because as chance\nwould have it, it was the day on which he was married to my father's\nhouse-maid--so one was a reckoning to the other. Therefore when\nObadiah's wife was brought to bed--Obadiah thanked God--\n\n--Now, said Obadiah, I shall have a calf: so Obadiah went daily to visit\nhis cow.\n\nShe'll calve on Monday--on Tuesday--on Wednesday at the farthest--\n\nThe cow did not calve--no--she'll not calve till next week--the cow put\nit off terribly--till at the end of the sixth week Obadiah's suspicions\n(like a good man's) fell upon the Bull.\n\nNow the parish being very large, my father's Bull, to speak the truth of\nhim, was no way equal to the department; he had, however, got himself,\nsomehow or other, thrust into employment--and as he went through the\nbusiness with a grave face, my father had a high opinion of him.\n\n--Most of the townsmen, an' please your worship, quoth Obadiah, believe\nthat 'tis all the Bull's fault--\n\n--But may not a cow be barren? replied my father, turning to Doctor\nSlop.\n\nIt never happens: said Dr. Slop, but the man's wife may have come\nbefore her time naturally enough--Prithee has the child hair upon his\nhead?--added Dr. Slop--\n\n--It is as hairy as I am; said Obadiah.--Obadiah had not been shaved for\nthree weeks--Wheu...u...u...cried my father; beginning the sentence with\nan exclamatory whistle--and so, brother Toby, this poor Bull of mine,\nwho is as good a Bull as ever p..ss'd, and might have done for Europa\nherself in purer times--had he but two legs less, might have been driven\ninto Doctors Commons and lost his character--which to a Town Bull,\nbrother Toby, is the very same thing as his life--\n\nL..d! said my mother, what is all this story about?--\n\nA Cock and a Bull, said Yorick--And one of the best of its kind, I ever\nheard.\n\n\nEnd of the Fourth Volume."