Part 7

. §8.

[18] Vide Brook Abridg. Tit. Administr. N. 47.

[19] Mater non numeratur inter consanguineos, Bald. in ult. C. de Verb. signific.

[20] Vide Brook Abridg. tit. Administr. N .47.

C H A P. LXV

—AND pray, said my uncle _Toby_, leaning upon _Yorick_, as he and my father were helping him leisurely down the stairs——don’t be terrified, madam, this stair-case conversation is not so long as the last——And pray, _Yorick_, said my uncle _Toby_, which way is this said affair of _Tristram_ at length settled by these learned men? Very satisfactorily, replied _Yorick;_ no mortal, Sir, has any concern with it——for Mrs. _Shandy_ the mother is nothing at all a-kin to him——and as the mother’s is the surest side——Mr. _Shandy_, in course is still less than nothing——In short, he is not as much a-kin to him, Sir, as I am.——

——That may well be, said my father, shaking his head.

——Let the learned say what they will, there must certainly, quoth my uncle _Toby_, have been some sort of consanguinity betwixt the duchess of _Suffolk_ and her son.

The vulgar are of the same opinion, quoth _Yorick_, to this hour.

C H A P. LXVI

THOUGH my father was hugely tickled with the subtleties of these learned discourses——’twas still but like the anointing of a broken bone——The moment he got home, the weight of his afflictions returned upon him but so much the heavier, as is ever the case when the staff we lean on slips from under us.—He became pensive—walked frequently forth to the fish-pond—let down one loop of his hat——sigh’d often——forbore to snap—and, as the hasty sparks of temper, which occasion snapping, so much assist perspiration and digestion, as _Hippocrates_ tells us—he had certainly fallen ill with the extinction of them, had not his thoughts been critically drawn off, and his health rescued by a fresh train of disquietudes left him, with a legacy of a thousand pounds, by my aunt _Dinah._

My father had scarce read the letter, when taking the thing by the right end, he instantly began to plague and puzzle his head how to lay it out mostly to the honour of his family.—A hundred-and-fifty odd projects took possession of his brains by turns—he would do this, and that and t’other—He would go to _Rome_——he would go to law——he would buy stock——he would buy _John Hobson_’s farm—he would new fore front his house, and add a new wing to make it even——There was a fine water-mill on this side, and he would build a wind-mill on the other side of the river in full view to answer it—But above all things in the world, he would inclose the great _Ox-moor_, and send out my brother _Bobby_ immediately upon his travels.

But as the sum was finite, and consequently could not do every thing——and in truth very few of these to any purpose—of all the projects which offered themselves upon this occasion, the two last seemed to make the deepest impression; and he would infallibly have determined upon both at once, but for the small inconvenience hinted at above, which absolutely put him under a necessity of deciding in favour either of the one or the other.

This was not altogether so easy to be done; for though ’tis certain my father had long before set his heart upon this necessary part of my brother’s education, and like a prudent man had actually determined to carry it into execution, with the first money that returned from the second creation of actions in the _Missisippi_-scheme, in which he was an adventurer——yet the _Ox-moor_, which was a fine, large, whinny, undrained, unimproved common, belonging to the _Shandy_-estate, had almost as old a claim upon him: he had long and affectionately set his heart upon turning it likewise to some account.

But having never hitherto been pressed with such a conjuncture of things, as made it necessary to settle either the priority or justice of their claims——like a wise man he had refrained entering into any nice or critical examination about them: so that upon the dismission of every other project at this crisis——the two old projects, the OX-MOOR and my BROTHER, divided him again; and so equal a match were they for each other, as to become the occasion of no small contest in the old gentleman’s mind—which of the two should be set o’going first.

——People may laugh as they will—but the case was this.

It had ever been the custom of the family, and by length of time was almost become a matter of common right, that the eldest son of it should have free ingress, egress, and regress into foreign parts before marriage—not only for the sake of bettering his own private parts, by the benefit of exercise and change of so much air—but simply for the mere delectation of his fancy, by the feather put into his cap, of having been abroad—_tantum valet_, my father would say, _quantum sonat._

Now as this was a reasonable, and in course a most christian indulgence——to deprive him of it, without why or wherefore——and thereby make an example of him, as the first _Shandy_ unwhirl’d about _Europe_ in a post-chaise, and only because he was a heavy lad——would be using him ten times worse than a _Turk._

On the other hand, the case of the _Ox-moor_ was full as hard.

Exclusive of the original purchase-money, which was eight hundred pounds——it had cost the family eight hundred pounds more in a law-suit about fifteen years before—besides the Lord knows what trouble and vexation.

It had been moreover in possession of the _Shandy_-family ever since the middle of the last century; and though it lay full in view before the house, bounded on one extremity by the water-mill, and on the other by the projected wind-mill spoken of above—and for all these reasons seemed to have the fairest title of any part of the estate to the care and protection of the family—yet by an unaccountable fatality, common to men, as well as the ground they tread on——it had all along most shamefully been overlook’d; and to speak the truth of it, had suffered so much by it, that it would have made any man’s heart have bled (_Obadiah_ said) who understood the value of the land, to have rode over it, and only seen the condition it was in.

However, as neither the purchasing this tract of ground—nor indeed the placing of it where it lay, were either of them, properly speaking, of my father’s doing——he had never thought himself any way concerned in the affair——till the fifteen years before, when the breaking out of that cursed law-suit mentioned above (and which had arose about its boundaries)——which being altogether my father’s own act and deed, it naturally awakened every other argument in its favour, and upon summing them all up together, he saw, not merely in interest, but in honour, he was bound to do something for it——and that now or never was the time.

I think there must certainly have been a mixture of ill-luck in it, that the reasons on both sides should happen to be so equally balanced by each other; for though my father weigh’d them in all humours and conditions——spent many an anxious hour in the most profound and abstracted meditation upon what was best to be done—reading books of farming one day——books of travels another——laying aside all passion whatever—viewing the arguments on both sides in all their lights and circumstances—communing every day with my uncle _Toby_—arguing with _Yorick_, and talking over the whole affair of the _Ox-moor_ with _Obadiah_——yet nothing in all that time appeared so strongly in behalf of the one, which was not either strictly applicable to the other, or at least so far counterbalanced by some consideration of equal weight, as to keep the scales even.

For to be sure, with proper helps, in the hands of some people, tho’ the _Ox-moor_ would undoubtedly have made a different appearance in the world from what it did, or ever could do in the condition it lay——yet every tittle of this was true, with regard to my brother _Bobby_——let _Obadiah_ say what he would.——

In point of interest——the contest, I own, at first sight, did not appear so undecisive betwixt them; for whenever my father took pen and ink in hand, and set about calculating the simple expence of paring and burning, and fencing in the _Ox-moor_, &c. &c.—with the certain profit it would bring him in return——the latter turned out so prodigiously in his way of working the account, that you would have sworn the _Ox-moor_ would have carried all before it. For it was plain he should reap a hundred lasts of rape, at twenty pounds a last, the very first year——besides an excellent crop of wheat the year following——and the year after that, to speak within bounds, a hundred——but in all likelihood, a hundred and fifty——if not two hundred quarters of pease and beans——besides potatoes without end.——But then, to think he was all this while breeding up my brother, like a hog to eat them——knocked all on the head again, and generally left the old gentleman in such a state of suspense——that, as he often declared to my uncle _Toby_——he knew no more than his heels what to do.

No body, but he who has felt it, can conceive what a plaguing thing it is to have a man’s mind torn asunder by two projects of equal strength, both obstinately pulling in a contrary direction at the same time: for to say nothing of the havock, which by a certain consequence is unavoidably made by it all over the finer system of the nerves, which you know convey the animal spirits and more subtle juices from the heart to the head, and so on——it is not to be told in what a degree such a wayward kind of friction works upon the more gross and solid parts, wasting the fat and impairing the strength of a man every time as it goes backwards and forwards.

My father had certainly sunk under this evil, as certainly as he had done under that of my CHRISTIAN NAME——had he not been rescued out of it, as he was out of that, by a fresh evil——the misfortune of my brother _Bobby_’s death.

What is the life of man! Is it not to shift from side to side?——from sorrow to sorrow?——to button up one cause of vexation——and unbutton another?

C H A P. LXVII

FROM this moment I am to be considered as heir-apparent to the _Shandy_ family——and it is from this point properly, that the story of my LIFE and my OPINIONS sets out. With all my hurry and precipitation, I have but been clearing the ground to raise the building——and such a building do I foresee it will turn out, as never was planned, and as never was executed since _Adam._ In less than five minutes I shall have thrown my pen into the fire, and the little drop of thick ink which is left remaining at the bottom of my ink-horn, after it—I have but half a score things to do in the time——I have a thing to name——a thing to lament——a thing to hope——a thing to promise, and a thing to threaten—I have a thing to suppose—a thing to declare——a thing to conceal——a thing to choose, and a thing to pray for——This chapter, therefore, I _name_ the chapter of THINGS——and my next chapter to it, that is, the first chapter of my next volume, if I live, shall be my chapter upon WHISKERS, in order to keep up some sort of connection in my works.

The thing I lament is, that things have crowded in so thick upon me, that I have not been able to get into that part of my work, towards which I have all the way looked forwards, with so much earnest desire; and that is the Campaigns, but especially the amours of my uncle _Toby_, the events of which are of so singular a nature, and so Cervantick a cast, that if I can so manage it, as to convey but the same impressions to every other brain, which the occurrences themselves excite in my own—I will answer for it the book shall make its way in the world, much better than its master has done before it.——Oh _Tristram! Tristram!_ can this but be once brought about——the credit, which will attend thee as an author, shall counterbalance the many evils will have befallen thee as a man——thou wilt feast upon the one——when thou hast lost all sense and remembrance of the other!——

No wonder I itch so much as I do, to get at these amours—They are the choicest morsel of my whole story! and when I do get at ’em——assure yourselves, good folks—(nor do I value whose squeamish stomach takes offence at it) I shall not be at all nice in the choice of my words!——and that’s the thing I have to _declare._——I shall never get all through in five minutes, that I fear——and the thing I _hope_ is, that your worships and reverences are not offended—if you are, depend upon’t I’ll give you something, my good gentry, next year to be offended at——that’s my dear _Jenny_’s way—but who my _Jenny_ is—and which is the right and which the wrong end of a woman, is the thing to be _concealed_—it shall be told you in the next chapter but one to my chapter of Button-holes——and not one chapter before.

And now that you have just got to the end of these[21] three volumes——the thing I have to _ask_ is, how you feel your heads? my own akes dismally!——as for your healths, I know, they are much better.—True _Shandeism_, think what you will against it, opens the heart and lungs, and like all those affections which partake of its nature, it forces the blood and other vital fluids of the body to run freely through its channels, makes the wheel of life run long and cheerfully round.

Was I left, like _Sancho Pança_, to choose my kingdom, it should not be maritime—or a kingdom of blacks to make a penny of;—no, it should be a kingdom of hearty laughing subjects: And as the bilious and more saturnine passions, by creating disorders in the blood and humours, have as bad an influence, I see, upon the body politick as body natural——and as nothing but a habit of virtue can fully govern those passions, and subject them to reason——I should add to my prayer—that God would give my subjects grace to be as WISE as they were MERRY; and then should I be the happiest monarch, and they are the happiest people under heaven.

And so with this moral for the present, may it please your worships and your reverences, I take my leave of you till this time twelve-month, when, (unless this vile cough kills me in the mean time) I’ll have another pluck at your beards, and lay open a story to the world you little dream of.

[21] According to the preceding Editions.

END OF THE SECOND VOLUME

Tristram Shandy

_Tristram Shandy_

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY, GENTLEMAN ——— Volume the Third ———

Dixero si quid fortè jocosius, hoc mihi juris Cum venia dabis.——                  HOR.

—Si quis calumnietur levius esse quam decet theologum, aut mordacius quam deceat Christianum—non Ego, sed Democritus dixit.— ERASMUS.

Si quis Clericus, aut Monachus, verba joculatoria, risum moventia, sciebat, anathema esto.                 Second Council of CARTHAGE.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE J O H N, LORD VISCOUNT SPENCER

MY LORD,

I HUMBLY beg leave to offer you these two Volumes[22]; they are the best my talents, with such bad health as I have, could produce:—had Providence granted me a larger stock of either, they had been a much more proper present to your Lordship.

I beg your Lordship will forgive me, if, at the same time I dedicate this work to you, I join Lady SPENCER, in the liberty I take of inscribing the story of _Le Fever_ to her name; for which I have no other motive, which my heart has informed me of, but that the story is a humane one.

I am,

MY LORD, Your Lordship’s most devoted and most humble Servant,

LAUR. STERNE.

[22] Volumes V. and VI. in the first Edition.

C H A P. I

IF it had not been for those two mettlesome tits, and that madcap of a postillion who drove them from Stilton to Stamford, the thought had never entered my head. He flew like lightning——there was a slope of three miles and a half——we scarce touched the ground——the motion was most rapid——most impetuous——’twas communicated to my brain—my heart partook of it——“By the great God of day,” said I, looking towards the sun, and thrusting my arm out of the fore-window of the chaise, as I made my vow, “I will lock up my study-door the moment I get home, and throw the key of it ninety feet below the surface of the earth, into the draw-well at the back of my house.”

The London waggon confirmed me in my resolution; it hung tottering upon the hill, scarce progressive, drag’d—drag’d up by eight _heavy beasts_—“by main strength!——quoth I, nodding——but your betters draw the same way——and something of every body’s!——O rare!”

Tell me, ye learned, shall we for ever be adding so much to the _bulk_—so little to the _stock?_

Shall we for ever make new books, as apothecaries make new mixtures, by pouring only out of one vessel into another?

Are we for ever to be twisting, and untwisting the same rope? for ever in the same track—for ever at the same pace?

Shall we be destined to the days of eternity, on holy-days, as well as working-days, to be shewing the _relicks of learning_, as monks do the relicks of their saints—without working one—one single miracle with them?

Who made Man, with powers which dart him from earth to heaven in a moment—that great, that most excellent, and most noble creature of the world—the _miracle_ of nature, as Zoroaster in his book ωεσι φυσεως called him—the SHEKINAH of the divine presence, as Chrysostom——the _image_ of God, as Moses——the _ray_ of divinity, as Plato—the _marvel_ of _marvels_, as Aristotle—to go sneaking on at this pitiful—pimping——pettifogging rate?

I scorn to be as abusive as Horace upon the occasion——but if there is no catachresis in the wish, and no sin in it, I wish from my soul, that every imitator in _Great Britain, France_, and _Ireland_, had the farcy for his pains; and that there was a good farcical house, large enough to hold—aye—and sublimate them, _shag rag and bob-tail_, male and female, all together: and this leads me to the affair of _Whiskers_——but, by what chain of ideas—I leave as a legacy in _mort-main_ to Prudes and Tartufs, to enjoy and make the most of.

UPON WHISKERS.

I’m sorry I made it——’twas as inconsiderate a promise as ever entered a man’s head——A chapter upon whiskers! alas! the world will not bear it—’tis a delicate world——but I knew not of what mettle it was made—nor had I ever seen the under-written fragment; otherwise, as surely as noses are noses, and whiskers are whiskers still (let the world say what it will to the contrary); so surely would I have steered clear of this dangerous chapter.

THE FRAGMENT.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ——You are half asleep, my good lady, said the old gentleman, taking hold of the old lady’s hand, and giving it a gentle squeeze, as he pronounced the word _Whiskers_——shall we change the subject? By no means, replied the old lady—I like your account of those matters; so throwing a thin gauze handkerchief over her head, and leaning it back upon the chair with her face turned towards him, and advancing her two feet as she reclined herself——I desire, continued she, you will go on.

The old gentleman went on as follows:——Whiskers! cried the queen of _Navarre_, dropping her knotting ball, as _La Fosseuse_ uttered the word——Whiskers, madam, said _La Fosseuse_, pinning the ball to the queen’s apron, and making a courtesy as she repeated it.

_La Fosseuse_’s voice was naturally soft and low, yet ’twas an articulate voice: and every letter of the word _Whiskers_ fell distinctly upon the queen of _Navarre_’s ear—Whiskers! cried the queen, laying a greater stress upon the word, and as if she had still distrusted her ears——Whiskers! replied _La Fosseuse_, repeating the word a third time——There is not a cavalier, madam, of his age in _Navarre_, continued the maid of honour, pressing the page’s interest upon the queen, that has so gallant a pair——Of what? cried _Margaret_, smiling—Of whiskers, said _La Fosseuse_, with infinite modesty.

The word _Whiskers_ still stood its ground, and continued to be made use of in most of the best companies throughout the little kingdom of _Navarre_, notwithstanding the indiscreet use which _La Fosseuse_ had made of it: the truth was, _La Fosseuse_ had pronounced the word, not only before the queen, but upon sundry other occasions at court, with an accent which always implied something of a mystery—And as the court of _Margaret_, as all the world knows, was at that time a mixture of gallantry and devotion——and whiskers being as applicable to the one, as the other, the word naturally stood its ground——it gained full as much as it lost; that is, the clergy were for it——the laity were against it——and for the women,——_they_ were divided.

The excellency of the figure and mien of the young Sieur _De Croix_, was at that time beginning to draw the attention of the maids of honour towards the terrace before the palace gate, where the guard was mounted. The lady _De Baussiere_ fell deeply in love with him,——_La Battarelle_ did the same—it was the finest weather for it, that ever was remembered in _Navarre——La Guyol, La Maronette, La Sabatiere_, fell in love with the Sieur _De Croix_ also——_La Rebours_ and _La Fosseuse_ knew better——_De Croix_ had failed in an attempt to recommend himself to _La Rebours;_ and _La Rebours_ and _La Fosseuse_ were inseparable.

The queen of _Navarre_ was sitting with her ladies in the painted bow-window, facing the gate of the second court, as _De Croix_ passed through it—He is handsome, said the Lady _Baussiere_——He has a good mien, said _La Battarelle_——He is finely shaped, said _La Guyol_—I never saw an officer of the horse-guards in my life, said _La Maronette_, with two such legs——Or who stood so well upon them, said _La Sabatiere_——But he has no whiskers, cried _La Fosseuse_——Not a pile, said _La Rebours._

The queen went directly to her oratory, musing all the way, as she walked through the gallery, upon the subject; turning it this way and that way in her fancy—_Ave Maria!_——what can _La-Fosseuse_ mean? said she, kneeling down upon the cushion.

_La Guyol, La Battarelle, La Maronette, La Sabatiere_, retired instantly to their chambers——Whiskers! said all four of them to themselves, as they bolted their doors on the inside.

The Lady _Carnavallette_ was counting her beads with both hands, unsuspected, under her farthingal——from St. _Antony_ down to St. _Ursula_ inclusive, not a saint passed through her fingers without whiskers; St. _Francis_, St. _Dominick_, St. _Bennet_, St. _Basil_, St. _Bridget_, had all whiskers.

The Lady _Baussiere_ had got into a wilderness of conceits, with moralizing too intricately upon _La Fosseuse_’s text——She mounted her palfrey, her page followed her——the host passed by—the Lady _Baussiere_ rode on.

One denier, cried the order of mercy—one single denier, in behalf of a thousand patient captives, whose eyes look towards heaven and you for their redemption.

——The Lady _Baussiere_ rode on.

Pity the unhappy, said a devout, venerable, hoary-headed man, meekly holding up a box, begirt with iron, in his withered hands——I beg for the unfortunate—good my Lady, ’tis for a prison—for an hospital—’tis for an old man—a poor man undone by shipwreck, by suretyship, by fire——I call God and all his angels to witness——’tis to clothe the naked——to feed the hungry——’tis to comfort the sick and the broken-hearted.

The Lady _Baussiere_ rode on.

A decayed kinsman bowed himself to the ground.

——The Lady _Baussiere_ rode on.

He ran begging bare-headed on one side of her palfrey, conjuring her by the former bonds of friendship, alliance, consanguinity, &c.——Cousin, aunt, sister, mother,——for virtue’s sake, for your own, for mine, for Christ’s sake, remember me——pity me.

——The Lady _Baussiere_ rode on.

Take hold of my whiskers, said the Lady _Baussiere_—The page took hold of her palfrey. She dismounted at the end of the terrace.

There are some trains of certain ideas which leave prints of themselves about our eyes and eye-brows; and there is a consciousness of it, somewhere about the heart, which serves but to make these etchings the stronger—we see, spell, and put them together without a dictionary.

Ha, ha! he, hee! cried _La Guyol_ and _La Sabatiere_, looking close at each other’s prints——Ho, ho! cried _La Battarelle_ and _Maronette_, doing the same:—Whist! cried one—ft, ft,—said a second—hush, quoth a third—poo, poo, replied a fourth—gramercy! cried the Lady _Carnavallette;_——’twas she who bewhisker’d St. _Bridget._

_La Fosseuse_ drew her bodkin from the knot of her hair, and having traced the outline of a small whisker, with the blunt end of it, upon one side of her upper lip, put in into _La Rebours_’ hand—_La Rebours_ shook her head.

The Lady _Baussiere_ coughed thrice into the inside of her muff—_La Guyol_ smiled—Fy, said the Lady _Baussiere._ The queen of _Navarre_ touched her eye with the tip of her fore-finger—as much as to say, I understand you all.

’Twas plain to the whole court the word was ruined: _La Fosseuse_ had given it a wound, and it was not the better for passing through all these defiles——It made a faint stand, however, for a few months, by the expiration of which, the Sieur _De Croix_, finding it high time to leave _Navarre_ for want of whiskers——the word in course became indecent, and (after a few efforts) absolutely unfit for use.

The best word, in the best language of the best world, must have suffered under such combinations.——The curate of _d’Estella_ wrote a book against them, setting forth the dangers of accessory ideas, and warning the _Navarois_ against them.

Does not all the world know, said the curate _d’Estella_ at the conclusion of his work, that Noses ran the same fate some centuries ago in most parts of _Europe_, which Whiskers have now done in the kingdom of _Navarre?_—The evil indeed spread no farther then—but have not beds and bolsters, and night-caps and chamber-pots stood upon the brink of destruction ever since? Are not trouse, and placket-holes, and pump-handles—and spigots and faucets, in danger still from the same association?—Chastity, by nature, the gentlest of all affections—give it but its head——’tis like a ramping and a roaring lion.

The drift of the curate _d’Estella_’s argument was not understood.—They ran the scent the wrong way.—The world bridled his ass at the tail.—And when the _extremes_ of DELICACY, and the _beginnings_ of CONCUPISCENCE, hold their next provincial chapter together, they may decree that bawdy also.

C H A P. II

WHEN my father received the letter which brought him the melancholy account of my brother _Bobby_’s death, he was busy calculating the expence of his riding post from _Calais_ to _Paris_, and so on to _Lyons._

’Twas a most inauspicious journey; my father having had every foot of it to travel over again, and his calculation to begin afresh, when he had almost got to the end of it, by _Obadiah_’s opening the door to acquaint him the family was out of yeast—and to ask whether he might not take the great coach-horse early in the morning and ride in search of some.—With all my heart, _Obadiah_, said my father (pursuing his journey)—take the coach-horse, and welcome.——But he wants a shoe, poor creature! said _Obadiah._——Poor creature! said my uncle _Toby_, vibrating the note back again, like a string in unison. Then ride the _Scotch_ horse, quoth my father hastily.—He cannot bear a saddle upon his back, quoth _Obadiah_, for the whole world.——The devil’s in that horse; then take PATRIOT, cried my father, and shut the door.——PATRIOT is sold, said _Obadiah._ Here’s for you! cried my father, making a pause, and looking in my uncle _Toby_’s face, as if the thing had not been a matter of fact.—Your worship ordered me to sell him last _April_, said _Obadiah._—Then go on foot for your pains, cried my father——I had much rather walk than ride, said _Obadiah_, shutting the door.

What plagues, cried my father, going on with his calculation.——But the waters are out, said _Obadiah_,—opening the door again.

Till that moment, my father, who had a map of _Sanson_’s, and a book of the post-roads before him, had kept his hand upon the head of his compasses, with one foot of them fixed upon _Nevers_, the last stage he had paid for—purposing to go on from that point with his journey and calculation, as soon as _Obadiah_ quitted the room: but this second attack of _Obadiah_’s, in opening the door and laying the whole country under water, was too much.——He let go his compasses—or rather with a mixed motion between accident and anger, he threw them upon the table; and then there was nothing for him to do, but to return back to _Calais_ (like many others) as wise as he had set out.

When the letter was brought into the parlour, which contained the news of my brother’s death, my father had got forwards again upon his journey to within a stride of the compasses of the very same stage of _Nevers._——By your leave, Mons. _Sanson_, cried my father, striking the point of his compasses through _Nevers_ into the table—and nodding to my uncle _Toby_ to see what was in the letter—twice of one night, is too much for an English gentleman and his son, Mons. _Sanson_, to be turned back from so lousy a town as _Nevers_—What think’st thou, _Toby_? added my father in a sprightly tone.——Unless it be a garrison town, said my uncle _Toby_——for then—I shall be a fool, said my father, smiling to himself, as long as I live.—So giving a second nod—and keeping his compasses still upon _Nevers_ with one hand, and holding his book of the post-roads in the other—half calculating and half listening, he leaned forwards upon the table with both elbows, as my uncle _Toby_ hummed over the letter.

—— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —he’s gone! said my uncle _Toby_——Where——Who? cried my father.——My nephew, said my uncle _Toby._——What—without leave—without money—without governor? cried my father in amazement. No:——he is dead, my dear brother, quoth my uncle _Toby._—Without being ill? cried my father again.—I dare say not, said my uncle _Toby_, in a low voice, and fetching a deep sigh from the bottom of his heart, he has been ill enough, poor lad! I’ll answer for him——for he is dead.

When _Agrippina_ was told of her son’s death, _Tacitus_ informs us, that, not being able to moderate the violence of her passions, she abruptly broke off her work—My father stuck his compasses into _Nevers_, but so much the faster.—What contrarieties! his, indeed, was matter of calculation!—_Agrippina_’s must have been quite a different affair; who else could pretend to reason from history?

How my father went on, in my opinion, deserves a chapter to itself.—

C H A P. III

————And a chapter it shall have, and a devil of a one too—so look to yourselves.

’Tis either _Plato_, or _Plutarch_, or _Seneca_, or _Xenophon_, or _Epictetus_, or _Theophrastus_, or _Lucian_—or some one perhaps of later date—either _Cardan_, or _Budæus_, or _Petrarch_, or _Stella_—or possibly it may be some divine or father of the church, St. _Austin_, or St. _Cyprian_, or _Barnard_, who affirms that it is an irresistible and natural passion to weep for the loss of our friends or children—and _Seneca_ (I’m positive) tells us somewhere, that such griefs evacuate themselves best by that particular channel—And accordingly we find, that _David_ wept for his son _Absalom_—_Adrian_ for his _Antinous_—_Niobe_ for her children, and that _Apollodorus_ and _Crito_ both shed tears for _Socrates_ before his death.

My father managed his affliction otherwise; and indeed differently from most men either ancient or modern; for he neither wept it away, as the _Hebrews_ and the _Romans_—or slept it off, as the _Laplanders_—or hanged it, as the _English_, or drowned it, as the _Germans_,—nor did he curse it, or damn it, or excommunicate it, or rhyme it, or lillabullero it.——

——He got rid of it, however.

Will your worships give me leave to squeeze in a story between these two pages?

When _Tully_ was bereft of his dear daughter _Tullia_, at first he laid it to his heart,—he listened to the voice of nature, and modulated his own unto it.—O my _Tullia!_ my daughter! my child!—still, still, still,—’twas O my _Tullia!_—my _Tullia!_ Methinks I see my _Tullia_, I hear my _Tullia_, I talk with my _Tullia._—But as soon as he began to look into the stores of philosophy, and consider how many excellent things might be said upon the occasion—no body upon earth can conceive, says the great orator, how happy, how joyful it made me.

My father was as proud of his eloquence as MARCUS TULLIUS CICERO could be for his life, and, for aught I am convinced of to the contrary at present, with as much reason: it was indeed his strength—and his weakness too.——His strength—for he was by nature eloquent; and his weakness—for he was hourly a dupe to it; and, provided an occasion in life would but permit him to shew his talents, or say either a wise thing, a witty, or a shrewd one—(bating the case of a systematic misfortune)—he had all he wanted.—A blessing which tied up my father’s tongue, and a misfortune which let it loose with a good grace, were pretty equal: sometimes, indeed, the misfortune was the better of the two; for instance, where the pleasure of the harangue was as _ten_, and the pain of the misfortune but as _five_—my father gained half in half, and consequently was as well again off, as if it had never befallen him.

This clue will unravel what otherwise would seem very inconsistent in my father’s domestic character; and it is this, that, in the provocations arising from the neglects and blunders of servants, or other mishaps unavoidable in a family, his anger, or rather the duration of it, eternally ran counter to all conjecture.

My father had a favourite little mare, which he had consigned over to a most beautiful Arabian horse, in order to have a pad out of her for his own riding: he was sanguine in all his projects; so talked about his pad every day with as absolute a security, as if it had been reared, broke,—and bridled and saddled at his door ready for mounting. By some neglect or other in _Obadiah_, it so fell out, that my father’s expectations were answered with nothing better than a mule, and as ugly a beast of the kind as ever was produced.

My mother and my uncle _Toby_ expected my father would be the death of _Obadiah_—and that there never would be an end of the disaster——See here! you rascal, cried my father, pointing to the mule, what you have done!——It was not me, said _Obadiah._——How do I know that? replied my father.

Triumph swam in my father’s eyes, at the repartee—the _Attic_ salt brought water into them—and so _Obadiah_ heard no more about it.

Now let us go back to my brother’s death.

Philosophy has a fine saying for every thing.—For _Death_ it has an entire set; the misery was, they all at once rushed into my father’s head, that ’twas difficult to string them together, so as to make any thing of a consistent show out of them.—He took them as they came.

“’Tis an inevitable chance—the first statute in _Magna Charta_—it is an everlasting act of parliament, my dear brother,—_All must die._

“If my son could not have died, it had been matter of wonder,—not that he is dead.

“Monarchs and princes dance in the same ring with us.

“—_To die_, is the great debt and tribute due unto nature: tombs and monuments, which should perpetuate our memories, pay it themselves; and the proudest pyramid of them all, which wealth and science have erected, has lost its apex, and stands obtruncated in the traveller’s horizon.” (My father found he got great ease, and went on)—“Kingdoms and provinces, and towns and cities, have they not their periods? and when those principles and powers, which at first cemented and put them together, performed their several evolutions, they fall back.”—Brother _Shandy_, said my uncle _Toby_, laying down his pipe at the word _evolutions_—Revolutions, I meant, quoth my father,—by heaven! I meant revolutions, brother _Toby_—evolutions is nonsense.——’Tis not nonsense—said my uncle _Toby._——But is it not nonsense to break the thread of such a discourse upon such an occasion? cried my father—do not—dear _Toby_, continued he, taking him by the hand, do not—do not, I beseech thee, interrupt me at this crisis.——My uncle _Toby_ put his pipe into his mouth.

“Where is _Troy_ and _Mycenæ_, and _Thebes_ and _Delos_, and _Persepolis_ and _Agrigentum?_”—continued my father, taking up his book of post-roads, which he had laid down.—“What is become, brother _Toby_, of _Nineveh_ and _Babylon_, of _Cizicum_ and _Mitylenæ?_ The fairest towns that ever the sun rose upon, are now no more; the names only are left, and those (for many of them are wrong spelt) are falling themselves by piece-meals to decay, and in length of time will be forgotten, and involved with every thing in a perpetual night: the world itself, brother _Toby_, must—must come to an end.

“Returning out of _Asia_, when I sailed from _Ægina_ towards _Megara_,” (_when can this have been? thought my uncle Toby_,) “I began to view the country round about. _Ægina_ was behind me, _Megara_ was before, _Pyræus_ on the right hand, _Corinth_ on the left.—What flourishing towns now prostrate upon the earth! Alas! alas! said I to myself, that man should disturb his soul for the loss of a child, when so much as this lies awfully buried in his presence——Remember, said I to myself again—remember thou art a man.”—

Now my uncle _Toby_ knew not that this last paragraph was an extract of _Servius Sulpicius_’s consolatory letter to Tully.—He had as little skill, honest man, in the fragments, as he had in the whole pieces of antiquity.—And as my father, whilst he was concerned in the _Turkey_ trade, had been three or four different times in the _Levant_, in one of which he had stayed a whole year and an half at _Zant_, my uncle _Toby_ naturally concluded, that, in some one of these periods, he had taken a trip across the _Archipelago_ into _Asia;_ and that all this sailing affair with _Ægina_ behind, and _Megara_ before, and _Pyræus_ on the right hand, &c. &c. was nothing more than the true course of my father’s voyage and reflections.—’Twas certainly in his _manner_, and many an undertaking critic would have built two stories higher upon worse foundations.—And pray, brother, quoth my uncle _Toby_, laying the end of his pipe upon my father’s hand in a kindly way of interruption—but waiting till he finished the account—what year of our Lord was this?—’Twas no year of our Lord, replied my father.—That’s impossible, cried my uncle _Toby._—Simpleton! said my father,—’twas forty years before Christ was born.

My uncle _Toby_ had but two things for it; either to suppose his brother to be the wandering _Jew_, or that his misfortunes had disordered his brain.—“May the Lord God of heaven and earth protect him and restore him!” said my uncle _Toby_, praying silently for my father, and with tears in his eyes.

—My father placed the tears to a proper account, and went on with his harangue with great spirit.

“There is not such great odds, brother _Toby_, betwixt good and evil, as the world imagines”——(this way of setting off, by the bye, was not likely to cure my uncle _Toby_’s suspicions).——“Labour, sorrow, grief, sickness, want, and woe, are the sauces of life.”—Much good may do them—said my uncle _Toby_ to himself.——

“My son is dead!—so much the better;—’tis a shame in such a tempest to have but one anchor.

“But he is gone for ever from us!—be it so. He is got from under the hands of his barber before he was bald—he is but risen from a feast before he was surfeited—from a banquet before he had got drunken.

“The _Thracians_ wept when a child was born,”—(and we were very near it, quoth my uncle _Toby_,)—“and feasted and made merry when a man went out of the world; and with reason.——Death opens the gate of fame, and shuts the gate of envy after it,—it unlooses the chain of the captive, and puts the bondsman’s task into another man’s hands.

“Shew me the man, who knows what life is, who dreads it, and I’ll shew thee a prisoner who dreads his liberty.”

Is it not better, my dear brother _Toby_, (for mark—our appetites are but diseases,)—is it not better not to hunger at all, than to eat?—not to thirst, than to take physic to cure it?

Is it not better to be freed from cares and agues, from love and melancholy, and the other hot and cold fits of life, than, like a galled traveller, who comes weary to his inn, to be bound to begin his journey afresh?

There is no terrour, brother _Toby_, in its looks, but what it borrows from groans and convulsions—and the blowing of noses and the wiping away of tears with the bottoms of curtains, in a dying man’s room.—Strip it of these, what is it?—’Tis better in battle than in bed, said my uncle _Toby._—Take away its hearses, its mutes, and its mourning,—its plumes, scutcheons, and other mechanic aids—What is it?—_Better in battle!_ continued my father, smiling, for he had absolutely forgot my brother _Bobby_—’tis terrible no way—for consider, brother _Toby_,—when we _are_—death is _not;_—and when death _is_—we are _not._ My uncle _Toby_ laid down his pipe to consider the proposition; my father’s eloquence was too rapid to stay for any man—away it went,—and hurried my uncle _Toby_’s ideas along with it.——

For this reason, continued my father, ’tis worthy to recollect, how little alteration, in great men, the approaches of death have made.—_Vespasian_ died in a jest upon his close-stool—_Galba_ with a sentence—_Septimus Severus_ in a dispatch—_Tiberius_ in dissimulation, and _Cæsar Augustus_ in a compliment.—I hope ’twas a sincere one—quoth my uncle _Toby._

—’Twas to his wife,—said my father.

C H A P. IV

——And lastly—for all the choice anecdotes which history can produce of this matter, continued my father,—this, like the gilded dome which covers in the fabric—crowns all.—

’Tis of _Cornelius Gallus_, the prætor—which, I dare say, brother _Toby_, you have read.—I dare say I have not, replied my uncle.—He died, said my father as * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * —And if it was with his wife, said my uncle _Toby_—there could be no hurt in it.—That’s more than I know—replied my father.

C H A P. V

MY mother was going very gingerly in the dark along the passage which led to the parlour, as my uncle _Toby_ pronounced the word _wife._—’Tis a shrill penetrating sound of itself, and _Obadiah_ had helped it by leaving the door a little a-jar, so that my mother heard enough of it to imagine herself the subject of the conversation; so laying the edge of her finger across her two lips—holding in her breath, and bending her head a little downwards, with a twist of her neck—(not towards the door, but from it, by which means her ear was brought to the chink)—she listened with all her powers:——the listening slave, with the Goddess of Silence at his back, could not have given a finer thought for an intaglio.

In this attitude I am determined to let her stand for five minutes: till I bring up the affairs of the kitchen (as _Rapin_ does those of the church) to the same period.

C H A P. VI

THOUGH in one sense, our family was certainly a simple machine, as it consisted of a few wheels; yet there was thus much to be said for it, that these wheels were set in motion by so many different springs, and acted one upon the other from such a variety of strange principles and impulses——that though it was a simple machine, it had all the honour and advantages of a complex one,——and a number of as odd movements within it, as ever were beheld in the inside of a _Dutch_ silk-mill.

Amongst these there was one, I am going to speak of, in which, perhaps, it was not altogether so singular, as in many others; and it was this, that whatever motion, debate, harangue, dialogue, project, or dissertation, was going forwards in the parlour, there was generally another at the same time, and upon the same subject, running parallel along with it in the kitchen.

Now to bring this about, whenever an extraordinary message, or letter, was delivered in the parlour—or a discourse suspended till a servant went out—or the lines of discontent were observed to hang upon the brows of my father or mother—or, in short, when any thing was supposed to be upon the tapis worth knowing or listening to, ’twas the rule to leave the door, not absolutely shut, but somewhat a-jar—as it stands just now,—which, under covert of the bad hinge, (and that possibly might be one of the many reasons why it was never mended,) it was not difficult to manage; by which means, in all these cases, a passage was generally left, not indeed as wide as the _Dardanelles_, but wide enough, for all that, to carry on as much of this windward trade, as was sufficient to save my father the trouble of governing his house;—my mother at this moment stands profiting by it.—_Obadiah_ did the same thing, as soon as he had left the letter upon the table which brought the news of my brother’s death, so that before my father had well got over his surprise, and entered upon his harangue,—had _Trim_ got upon his legs, to speak his sentiments upon the subject.

A curious observer of nature, had he been worth the inventory of all _Job_’s stock—though by the bye, _your curious observers are seldom worth a groat_—would have given the half of it, to have heard Corporal _Trim_ and my father, two orators so contrasted by nature and education, haranguing over the same bier.

My father—a man of deep reading—prompt memory—with _Cato_, and _Seneca_, and _Epictetus_, at his fingers ends.—

The corporal—with nothing—to remember—of no deeper reading than his muster-roll—or greater names at his fingers end, than the contents of it.

The one proceeding from period to period, by metaphor and allusion, and striking the fancy as he went along (as men of wit and fancy do) with the entertainment and pleasantry of his pictures and images.

The other, without wit or antithesis, or point, or turn, this way or that; but leaving the images on one side, and the picture on the other, going straight forwards as nature could lead him, to the heart. O _Trim!_ would to heaven thou had’st a better historian!—would!—thy historian had a better pair of breeches!——O ye critics! will nothing melt you?

C H A P. VII

——My young master in London is dead? said _Obadiah._—

——A green sattin night-gown of my mother’s, which had been twice scoured, was the first idea which _Obadiah_’s exclamation brought into _Susannah_’s head.

—Well might _Locke_ write a chapter upon the imperfections of words.—Then, quoth _Susannah_, we must all go into mourning.—But note a second time: the word _mourning_, notwithstanding _Susannah_ made use of it herself—failed also of doing its office; it excited not one single idea, tinged either with grey or black,—all was green.——The green sattin night-gown hung there still.

—O! ’twill be the death of my poor mistress, cried _Susannah._—My mother’s whole wardrobe followed.—What a procession! her red damask,—her orange tawney,—her white and yellow lutestrings,—her brown taffata,—her bone-laced caps, her bed-gowns, and comfortable under-petticoats.—Not a rag was left behind.—“_No,—she will never look up again_,” said _Susannah._

We had a fat, foolish scullion—my father, I think, kept her for her simplicity;—she had been all autumn struggling with a dropsy.—He is dead, said _Obadiah_,—he is certainly dead!—So am not I, said the foolish scullion.

——Here is sad news, _Trim_, cried _Susannah_, wiping her eyes as _Trim_ stepp’d into the kitchen,—master _Bobby_ is dead and _buried_—the funeral was an interpolation of _Susannah_’s—we shall have all to go into mourning, said _Susannah._

I hope not, said _Trim._—You hope not! cried _Susannah_ earnestly.—The mourning ran not in _Trim_’s head, whatever it did in _Susannah_’s.—I hope—said _Trim_, explaining himself, I hope in God the news is not true. I heard the letter read with my own ears, answered _Obadiah;_ and we shall have a terrible piece of work of it in stubbing the ox-moor.—Oh! he’s dead, said _Susannah._—As sure, said the scullion, as I’m alive.

I lament for him from my heart and my soul, said _Trim_, fetching a sigh.—Poor creature!—poor boy!—poor gentleman!

—He was alive last _Whitsontide!_ said the coachman.—_Whitsontide!_ alas! cried _Trim_, extending his right arm, and falling instantly into the same attitude in which he read the sermon,—what is _Whitsontide, Jonathan_ (for that was the coachman’s name), or _Shrovetide_, or any tide or time past, to this? Are we not here now, continued the corporal (striking the end of his stick perpendicularly upon the floor, so as to give an idea of health and stability)—and are we not—(dropping his hat upon the ground) gone! in a moment!—’Twas infinitely striking! _Susannah_ burst into a flood of tears.—We are not stocks and stones.—_Jonathan, Obadiah_, the cook-maid, all melted.—The foolish fat scullion herself, who was scouring a fish-kettle upon her knees, was rous’d with it.—The whole kitchen crowded about the corporal.

Now, as I perceive plainly, that the preservation of our constitution in church and state,—and possibly the preservation of the whole world—or what is the same thing, the distribution and balance of its property and power, may in time to come depend greatly upon the right understanding of this stroke of the corporal’s eloquence—I do demand your attention—your worships and reverences, for any ten pages together, take them where you will in any other part of the work, shall sleep for it at your ease.

I said, “we were not stocks and stones”—’tis very well. I should have added, nor are we angels, I wish we were,—but men clothed with bodies, and governed by our imaginations;—and what a junketing piece of work of it there is, betwixt these and our seven senses, especially some of them, for my own part, I own it, I am ashamed to confess. Let it suffice to affirm, that of all the senses, the eye (for I absolutely deny the touch, though most of your _Barbati_, I know, are for it) has the quickest commerce with the soul,—gives a smarter stroke, and leaves something more inexpressible upon the fancy, than words can either convey—or sometimes get rid of.

—I’ve gone a little about—no matter, ’tis for health—let us only carry it back in our mind to the mortality of _Trim_’s hat—“Are we not here now,—and gone in a moment?”—There was nothing in the sentence—’twas one of your self-evident truths we have the advantage of hearing every day; and if _Trim_ had not trusted more to his hat than his head—he made nothing at all of it.

——“Are we not here now;” continued the corporal, “and are we not”—(dropping his hat plumb upon the ground—and pausing, before he pronounced the word)—“gone! in a moment?” The descent of the hat was as if a heavy lump of clay had been kneaded into the crown of it.——Nothing could have expressed the sentiment of mortality, of which it was the type and fore-runner, like it,—his hand seemed to vanish from under it,—it fell dead,—the corporal’s eye fixed upon it, as upon a corpse,—and _Susannah_ burst into a flood of tears.

Now—Ten thousand, and ten thousand times ten thousand (for matter and motion are infinite) are the ways by which a hat may be dropped upon the ground, without any effect.——Had he flung it, or thrown it, or cast it, or skimmed it, or squirted it, or let it slip or fall in any possible direction under heaven,—or in the best direction that could be given to it,—had he dropped it like a goose—like a puppy—like an ass—or in doing it, or even after he had done, had he looked like a fool—like a ninny—like a nincompoop—it had fail’d, and the effect upon the heart had been lost.

Ye who govern this mighty world and its mighty concerns with the engines of eloquence,—who heat it, and cool it, and melt it, and mollify it,——and then harden it again to _your purpose_——

Ye who wind and turn the passions with this great windlass, and, having done it, lead the owners of them, whither ye think meet.

Ye, lastly, who drive——and why not, Ye also who are driven, like turkeys to market with a stick and a red clout—meditate—meditate, I beseech you, upon _Trim_’s hat.

C H A P. VIII

STAY—I have a small account to settle with the reader before _Trim_ can go on with his harangue.—It shall be done in two minutes.

Amongst many other book-debts, all of which I shall discharge in due time,—I own myself a debtor to the world for two items,—a chapter upon _chamber-maids and button-holes_, which, in the former part of my work, I promised and fully intended to pay off this year: but some of your worships and reverences telling me, that the two subjects, especially so connected together, might endanger the morals of the world,—I pray the chapter upon chamber-maids and button-holes may be forgiven me,—and that they will accept of the last chapter in lieu of it; which is nothing, an’t please your reverences, but a chapter of _chamber-maids, green gowns, and old hats._

_Trim_ took his hat off the ground,—put it upon his head,—and then went on with his oration upon death, in manner and form following.

C H A P. IX

——To us, _Jonathan_, who know not what want or care is—who live here in the service of two of the best of masters—(bating in my own case his majesty King _William_ the Third, whom I had the honour to serve both in _Ireland_ and _Flanders_)—I own it, that from _Whitsontide_ to within three weeks of _Christmas_,—’tis not long—’tis like nothing;—but to those, _Jonathan_, who know what death is, and what havock and destruction he can make, before a man can well wheel about—’tis like a whole age.—O _Jonathan!_ ’twould make a good-natured man’s heart bleed, to consider, continued the corporal (standing perpendicularly), how low many a brave and upright fellow has been laid since that time!—And trust me, _Susy_, added the corporal, turning to _Susannah_, whose eyes were swimming in water,—before that time comes round again,—many a bright eye will be dim.—_Susannah_ placed it to the right side of the page—she wept—but she court’sied too.—Are we not, continued _Trim_, looking still at _Susannah_—are we not like a flower of the field—a tear of pride stole in betwixt every two tears of humiliation—else no tongue could have described _Susannah_’s affliction—is not all flesh grass?—Tis clay,—’tis dirt.—They all looked directly at the scullion,—the scullion had just been scouring a fish-kettle.—It was not fair.—

—What is the finest face that ever man looked at!—I could hear _Trim_ talk so for ever, cried _Susannah_,—what is it! (_Susannah_ laid her hand upon _Trim_’s shoulder)—but corruption?——_Susannah_ took it off.

Now I love you for this—and ’tis this delicious mixture within you which makes you dear creatures what you are—and he who hates you for it——all I can say of the matter is—That he has either a pumpkin for his head—or a pippin for his heart,—and whenever he is dissected ’twill be found so.

C H A P. X

WHETHER _Susannah_, by taking her hand too suddenly from off the corporal’s shoulder (by the whisking about of her passions)——broke a little the chain of his reflexions——

Or whether the corporal began to be suspicious, he had got into the doctor’s quarters, and was talking more like the chaplain than himself——

Or whether - - - - - - - - Or whether——for in all such cases a man of invention and parts may with pleasure fill a couple of pages with suppositions——which of all these was the cause, let the curious physiologist, or the curious any body determine——’tis certain, at least, the corporal went on thus with his harangue.

For my own part, I declare it, that out of doors, I value not death at all:—not this . . added the corporal, snapping his fingers,—but with an air which no one but the corporal could have given to the sentiment.—In battle, I value death not this . . . and let him not take me cowardly, like poor _Joe Gibbins_, in scouring his gun.—What is he? A pull of a trigger—a push of a bayonet an inch this way or that—makes the difference.—Look along the line—to the right—see! _Jack_’s down! well,—’tis worth a regiment of horse to him.—No—’tis _Dick._ Then _Jack_’s no worse.—Never mind which,—we pass on,—in hot pursuit the wound itself which brings him is not felt,—the best way is to stand up to him,—the man who flies, is in ten times more danger than the man who marches up into his jaws.—I’ve look’d him, added the corporal, an hundred times in the face,—and know what he is.—He’s nothing, _Obadiah_, at all in the field.—But he’s very frightful in a house, quoth _Obadiah._——I never mind it myself, said _Jonathan_, upon a coach-box.—It must, in my opinion, be most natural in bed, replied _Susannah._—And could I escape him by creeping into the worst calf’s skin that ever was made into a knapsack, I would do it there—said _Trim_—but that is nature.

——Nature is nature, said _Jonathan._—And that is the reason, cried _Susannah_, I so much pity my mistress.—She will never get the better of it.—Now I pity the captain the most of any one in the family, answered _Trim._——Madam will get ease of heart in weeping,—and the Squire in talking about it,—but my poor master will keep it all in silence to himself.—I shall hear him sigh in his bed for a whole month together, as he did for lieutenant _Le Fever._ An’ please your honour, do not sigh so piteously, I would say to him as I laid besides him. I cannot help it, _Trim_, my master would say,—’tis so melancholy an accident—I cannot get it off my heart.—Your honour fears not death yourself.—I hope, _Trim_, I fear nothing, he would say, but the doing a wrong thing.——Well, he would add, whatever betides, I will take care of _Le Fever_’s boy.—And with that, like a quieting draught, his honour would fall asleep.

I like to hear _Trim_’s stories about the captain, said _Susannah._—He is a kindly-hearted gentleman, said _Obadiah_, as ever lived.—Aye, and as brave a one too, said the corporal, as ever stept before a platoon.—There never was a better officer in the king’s army,—or a better man in God’s world; for he would march up to the mouth of a cannon, though he saw the lighted match at the very touch-hole,—and yet, for all that, he has a heart as soft as a child for other people.——He would not hurt a chicken.——I would sooner, quoth _Jonathan_, drive such a gentleman for seven pounds a year—than some for eight.—Thank thee, _Jonathan!_ for thy twenty shillings,—as much, _Jonathan_, said the corporal, shaking him by the hand, as if thou hadst put the money into my own pocket.——I would serve him to the day of my death out of love. He is a friend and a brother to me,—and could I be sure my poor brother _Tom_ was dead,—continued the corporal, taking out his handkerchief,—was I worth ten thousand pounds, I would leave every shilling of it to the captain.——_Trim_ could not refrain from tears at this testamentary proof he gave of his affection to his master.——The whole kitchen was affected.—Do tell us the story of the poor lieutenant, said _Susannah._——With all my heart, answered the corporal.

_Susannah_, the cook, _Jonathan_, _Obadiah_, and corporal _Trim_, formed a circle about the fire; and as soon as the scullion had shut the kitchen door,—the corporal begun.

C H A P. XI

I AM a _Turk_ if I had not as much forgot my mother, as if Nature had plaistered me up, and set me down naked upon the banks of the river _Nile_, without one.——Your most obedient servant, Madam—I’ve cost you a great deal of trouble,—I wish it may answer;—but you have left a crack in my back,—and here’s a great piece fallen off here before,—and what must I do with this foot?——I shall never reach _England_ with it.

For my own part, I never wonder at any thing;—and so often has my judgment deceived me in my life, that I always suspect it, right or wrong,—at least I am seldom hot upon cold subjects. For all this, I reverence truth as much as any body; and when it has slipped us, if a man will but take me by the hand, and go quietly and search for it, as for a thing we have both lost, and can neither of us do well without,—I’ll go to the world’s end with him:——But I hate disputes,—and therefore (bating religious points, or such as touch society) I would almost subscribe to any thing which does not choak me in the first passage, rather than be drawn into one——But I cannot bear suffocation,——and bad smells worst of all.——For which reasons, I resolved from the beginning, That if ever the army of martyrs was to be augmented,—or a new-one raised,—I would have no hand in it, one way or t’other.

C H A P. XII

——BUT to return to my mother.

My uncle _Toby_’s opinion, Madam, “that there could be no harm in _Cornelius Gallus_, the _Roman_ prætor’s lying with his wife;”——or rather the last word of that opinion,—(for it was all my mother heard of it) caught hold of her by the weak part of the whole sex:——You shall not mistake me,—I mean her curiosity,—she instantly concluded herself the subject of the conversation, and with that prepossession upon her fancy, you will readily conceive every word my father said, was accommodated either to herself, or her family concerns.

——Pray, Madam, in what street does the lady live, who would not have done the same?

From the strange mode of _Cornelius_’s death, my father had made a transition to that of _Socrates_, and was giving my uncle _Toby_ an abstract of his pleading before his judges;——’twas irresistible:——not the oration of _Socrates_,—but my father’s temptation to it.——He had wrote the Life of _Socrates_[23] himself the year before he left off trade, which, I fear, was the means of hastening him out of it;——so that no one was able to set out with so full a sail, and in so swelling a tide of heroic loftiness upon the occasion, as my father was. Not a period in _Socrates_’s oration, which closed with a shorter word than _transmigration_, or _annihilation_,—or a worse thought in the middle of it than _to be—or not to be_,—the entering upon a new and untried state of things,—or, upon a long, a profound and peaceful sleep, without dreams, without disturbance?——_That we and our children were born to die,—but neither of us born to be slaves._——No—there I mistake; that was part of _Eleazer_’s oration, as recorded by _Josephus (de Bell. Judaic)_——_Eleazer_ owns he had it from the philosophers of _India;_ in all likelihood _Alexander_ the Great, in his irruption into _India_, after he had over-run _Persia_, amongst the many things he stole,—stole that sentiment also; by which means it was carried, if not all the way by himself (for we all know he died at _Babylon_), at least by some of his maroders, into _Greece_,—from _Greece_ it got to _Rome_,—from _Rome_ to _France_,—and from _France_ to _England:_——So things come round.——

By land carriage, I can conceive no other way.——

By water the sentiment might easily have come down the _Ganges_ into the _Sinus Gangeticus_, or _Bay of Bengal_, and so into the _Indian Sea;_ and following the course of trade (the way from _India_ by the _Cape of Good Hope_ being then unknown), might be carried with other drugs and spices up the _Red Sea_ to _Joddah_, the port of _Mekka_, or else to _Tor_ or _Sues_, towns at the bottom of the gulf; and from thence by karrawans to _Coptos_, but three days journey distant, so down the _Nile_ directly to _Alexandria_, where the SENTIMENT would be landed at the very foot of the great stair-case of the _Alexandrian_ library,——and from that store-house it would be fetched.——Bless me! what a trade was driven by the learned in those days!

[23] This book my father would never consent to publish; ’tis in manuscript, with some other tracts of his, in the family, all, or most of which will be printed in due time.

C H A P. XIII

——NOW my father had a way, a little like that of _Job_’s (in case there ever was such a man——if not, there’s an end of the matter.——

Though, by the bye, because your learned men find some difficulty in fixing the precise æra in which so great a man lived;—whether, for instance, before or after the patriarchs, &c.——to vote, therefore, that he never lived at all, is a little cruel,—’tis not doing as they would be done by,—happen that as it may)——My father, I say, had a way, when things went extremely wrong with him, especially upon the first sally of his impatience,—of wondering why he was begot,—wishing himself dead;—sometimes worse:——And when the provocation ran high, and grief touched his lips with more than ordinary powers—Sir, you scarce could have distinguished him from _Socrates_ himself.——Every word would breathe the sentiments of a soul disdaining life, and careless about all its issues; for which reason, though my mother was a woman of no deep reading, yet the abstract of _Socrates_’s oration, which my father was giving my uncle _Toby_, was not altogether new to her.—She listened to it with composed intelligence, and would have done so to the end of the chapter, had not my father plunged (which he had no occasion to have done) into that part of the pleading where the great philosopher reckons up his connections, his alliances, and children; but renounces a security to be so won by working upon the passions of his judges.—“I have friends—I have relations,—I have three desolate children,”—says _Socrates._—

——Then, cried my mother, opening the door,——you have one more, Mr. _Shandy_, than I know of.

By heaven! I have one less,—said my father, getting up and walking out of the room.

C H A P. XIV

——THEY are _Socrates_’s children, said my uncle _Toby._ He has been dead a hundred years ago, replied my mother.

My uncle _Toby_ was no chronologer—so not caring to advance one step but upon safe ground, he laid down his pipe deliberately upon the table, and rising up, and taking my mother most kindly by the hand, without saying another word, either good or bad, to her, he led her out after my father, that he might finish the ecclaircissement himself.

C H A P. XV

HAD this volume been a farce, which, unless every one’s life and opinions are to be looked upon as a farce as well as mine, I see no reason to suppose—the last chapter, Sir, had finished the first act of it, and then this chapter must have set off thus.

Pt . . . r . . . r . . . ing—twing—twang—prut—trut——’tis a cursed bad fiddle.—Do you know whether my fiddle’s in tune or no?—trut . . . prut. . — They should be _fifths._——’Tis wickedly strung—tr . . . a . e . i . o . u .-twang.—The bridge is a mile too high, and the sound post absolutely down,—else—trut . . prut—hark! tis not so bad a tone.—Diddle diddle, diddle diddle, diddle diddle, dum. There is nothing in playing before good judges,—but there’s a man there—no—not him with the bundle under his arm—the grave man in black.—’Sdeath! not the gentleman with the sword on.—Sir, I had rather play a _Caprichio_ to _Calliope_ herself, than draw my bow across my fiddle before that very man; and yet I’ll stake my _Cremona_ to a _Jew_’s trump, which is the greatest musical odds that ever were laid, that I will this moment stop three hundred and fifty leagues out of tune upon my fiddle, without punishing one single nerve that belongs to him—Twaddle diddle, tweddle diddle,—twiddle diddle,—twoddle diddle,—twuddle diddle,——prut trut—krish—krash—krush.—I’ve undone you, Sir,—but you see he’s no worse,—and was _Apollo_ to take his fiddle after me, he can make him no better.

Diddle diddle, diddle diddle, diddle diddle—hum—dum—drum.

—Your worships and your reverences love music—and God has made you all with good ears—and some of you play delightfully yourselves—trut-prut,—prut-trut.

O! there is—whom I could sit and hear whole days,—whose talents lie in making what he fiddles to be felt,—who inspires me with his joys and hopes, and puts the most hidden springs of my heart into motion.—If you would borrow five guineas of me, Sir,—which is generally ten guineas more than I have to spare—or you Messrs. Apothecary and Taylor, want your bills paying,—that’s your time.

C H A P. XVI

THE first thing which entered my father’s head, after affairs were a little settled in the family, and _Susanna_ had got possession of my mother’s green sattin night-gown,—was to sit down coolly, after the example of _Xenophon_, and write a TRISTRA-_pædia_, or system of education for me; collecting first for that purpose his own scattered thoughts, counsels, and notions; and binding them together, so as to form an INSTITUTE for the government of my childhood and adolescence. I was my father’s last stake—he had lost my brother _Bobby_ entirely,—he had lost, by his own computation, full three-fourths of me—that is, he had been unfortunate in his three first great casts for me—my geniture, nose, and name,—there was but this one left; and accordingly my father gave himself up to it with as much devotion as ever my uncle _Toby_ had done to his doctrine of projectils.—The difference between them was, that my uncle _Toby_ drew his whole knowledge of projectils from _Nicholas Tartaglia_—My father spun his, every thread of it, out of his own brain,—or reeled and cross-twisted what all other spinners and spinsters had spun before him, that ’twas pretty near the same torture to him.

In about three years, or something more, my father had got advanced almost into the middle of his work.—Like all other writers, he met with disappointments.—He imagined he should be able to bring whatever he had to say, into so small a compass, that when it was finished and bound, it might be rolled up in my mother’s hussive.—Matter grows under our hands.—Let no man say,—“Come—I’ll write a duodecimo.”

My father gave himself up to it, however, with the most painful diligence, proceeding step by step in every line, with the same kind of caution and circumspection (though I cannot say upon quite so religious a principle) as was used by _John de la Casse_, the lord archbishop of _Benevento_, in compassing his _Galatea;_ in which his Grace of _Benevento_ spent near forty years of his life; and when the thing came out, it was not of above half the size or the thickness of a _Rider_’s Almanack.—How the holy man managed the affair, unless he spent the greatest part of his time in combing his whiskers, or playing at _primero_ with his chaplain,—would pose any mortal not let into the true secret;—and therefore ’tis worth explaining to the world, was it only for the encouragement of those few in it, who write not so much to be fed—as to be famous.

I own had _John de la Casse_, the archbishop of _Benevento_, for whose memory (notwithstanding his _Galatea_,) I retain the highest veneration,—had he been, Sir, a slender clerk—of dull wit—slow parts—costive head, and so forth,—he and his _Galatea_ might have jogged on together to the age of _Methuselah_ for me,—the phænomenon had not been worth a parenthesis.—

But the reverse of this was the truth: _John de la Casse_ was a genius of fine parts and fertile fancy; and yet with all these great advantages of nature, which should have pricked him forwards with his _Galatea_, he lay under an impuissance at the same time of advancing above a line and a half in the compass of a whole summer’s day: this disability in his Grace arose from an opinion he was afflicted with,—which opinion was this,—_viz._ that whenever a Christian was writing a book (not for his private amusement, but) where his intent and purpose was, _bonâ fide_, to print and publish it to the world, his first thoughts were always the temptations of the evil one.—This was the state of ordinary writers: but when a personage of venerable character and high station, either in church or state, once turned author,—he maintained, that from the very moment he took pen in hand—all the devils in hell broke out of their holes to cajole him.—’Twas Term-time with them,—every thought, first and last, was captious;—how specious and good soever,—’twas all one;—in whatever form or colour it presented itself to the imagination,—’twas still a stroke of one or other of ’em levell’d at him, and was to be fenced off.—So that the life of a writer, whatever he might fancy to the contrary, was not so much a state of _composition_, as a state of _warfare;_ and his probation in it, precisely that of any other man militant upon earth,—both depending alike, not half so much upon the degrees of his wit—as his RESISTANCE.

My father was hugely pleased with this theory of _John de la Casse_, archbishop of _Benevento;_ and (had it not cramped him a little in his creed) I believe would have given ten of the best acres in the _Shandy_ estate, to have been the broacher of it.—How far my father actually believed in the devil, will be seen, when I come to speak of my father’s religious notions, in the progress of this work: ’tis enough to say here, as he could not have the honour of it, in the literal sense of the doctrine—he took up with the allegory of it; and would often say, especially when his pen was a little retrograde, there was as much good meaning, truth, and knowledge, couched under the veil of _John de la Casse_’s parabolical representation,—as was to be found in any one poetic fiction or mystic record of antiquity.—Prejudice of education, he would say, _is the devil_,—and the multitudes of them which we suck in with our mother’s milk—_are the devil and all._——We are haunted with them, brother _Toby_, in all our lucubrations and researches; and was a man fool enough to submit tamely to what they obtruded upon him,—what would his book be? Nothing,—he would add, throwing his pen away with a vengeance,—nothing but a farrago of the clack of nurses, and of the nonsense of the old women (of both sexes) throughout the kingdom.

This is the best account I am determined to give of the slow progress my father made in his _Tristra-pædia;_ at which (as I said) he was three years, and something more, indefatigably at work, and, at last, had scarce completed, by this own reckoning, one half of his undertaking: the misfortune was, that I was all that time totally neglected and abandoned to my mother; and what was almost as bad, by the very delay, the first part of the work, upon which my father had spent the most of his pains, was rendered entirely useless,——every day a page or two became of no consequence.——

——Certainly it was ordained as a scourge upon the pride of human wisdom, That the wisest of us all should thus outwit ourselves, and eternally forego our purposes in the intemperate act of pursuing them.

In short my father was so long in all his acts of resistance,—or in other words,—he advanced so very slow with his work, and I began to live and get forwards at such a rate, that if an event had not happened,——which, when we get to it, if it can be told with decency, shall not be concealed a moment from the reader——I verily believe, I had put by my father, and left him drawing a sundial, for no better purpose than to be buried under ground.

C H A P. XVII

——’TWAS nothing,—I did not lose two drops of blood by it——’twas not worth calling in a surgeon, had he lived next door to us——thousands suffer by choice, what I did by accident.——Doctor _Slop_ made ten times more of it, than there was occasion:——some men rise, by the art of hanging great weights upon small wires,—and I am this day (_August_ the 10th, 1761) paying part of the price of this man’s reputation.——O ’twould provoke a stone, to see how things are carried on in this world!——The chamber-maid had left no ******* *** under the bed:——Cannot you contrive, master, quoth _Susannah_, lifting up the sash with one hand, as she spoke, and helping me up into the window-seat with the other,—cannot you manage, my dear, for a single time, to **** *** ** *** ****** ?

I was five years old.——_Susannah_ did not consider that nothing was well hung in our family,——so slap came the sash down like lightning upon us;—Nothing is left,—cried _Susannah_,—nothing is left—for me, but to run my country.——

My uncle _Toby_’s house was a much kinder sanctuary; and so _Susannah_ fled to it.

C H A P. XVIII

WHEN _Susannah_ told the corporal the misadventure of the sash, with all the circumstances which attended the _murder_ of me,—(as she called it,)—the blood forsook his cheeks,—all accessaries in murder being principals,—_Trim_’s conscience told him he was as much to blame as _Susannah_,—and if the doctrine had been true, my uncle _Toby_ had as much of the bloodshed to answer for to heaven, as either of ’em;—so that neither reason or instinct, separate or together, could possibly have guided _Susannah_’s steps to so proper an asylum. It is in vain to leave this to the Reader’s imagination:——to form any kind of hypothesis that will render these propositions feasible, he must cudgel his brains sore,—and to do it without,—he must have such brains as no reader ever had before him.—Why should I put them either to trial or to torture? ’Tis my own affair: I’ll explain it myself.

C H A P. XIX

’TIS a pity, _Trim_, said my uncle _Toby_, resting with his hand upon the corporal’s shoulder, as they both stood surveying their works,—that we have not a couple of field-pieces to mount in the gorge of that new redoubt;—’twould secure the lines all along there, and make the attack on that side quite complete:——get me a couple cast, _Trim._

Your honour shall have them, replied _Trim_, before tomorrow morning.

It was the joy of _Trim_’s heart, nor was his fertile head ever at a loss for expedients in doing it, to supply my uncle _Toby_ in his campaigns, with whatever his fancy called for; had it been his last crown, he would have sate down and hammered it into a paderero, to have prevented a single wish in his master. The corporal had already,—what with cutting off the ends of my uncle _Toby_’s spouts—hacking and chiseling up the sides of his leaden gutters,—melting down his pewter shaving-bason,—and going at last, like _Lewis_ the Fourteenth, on to the top of the church, for spare ends, &c.——he had that very campaign brought no less than eight new battering cannons, besides three demi-culverins, into the field; my uncle _Toby_’s demand for two more pieces for the redoubt, had set the corporal at work again; and no better resource offering, he had taken the two leaden weights from the nursery window: and as the sash pullies, when the lead was gone, were of no kind of use, he had taken them away also, to make a couple of wheels for one of their carriages.

He had dismantled every sash-window in my uncle _Toby_’s house long before, in the very same way,—though not always in the same order; for sometimes the pullies have been wanted, and not the lead,—so then he began with the pullies,—and the pullies being picked out, then the lead became useless,—and so the lead went to pot too.

——A great MORAL might be picked handsomely out of this, but I have not time—’tis enough to say, wherever the demolition began, ’twas equally fatal to the sash window.

C H A P. XX

THE corporal had not taken his measures so badly in this stroke of artilleryship, but that he might have kept the matter entirely to himself, and left _Susannah_ to have sustained the whole weight of the attack, as she could;—true courage is not content with coming off so.——The corporal, whether as general or comptroller of the train,—’twas no matter,——had done that, without which, as he imagined, the misfortune could never have happened,—_at least in_ Susannah_’s hands;_——How would your honours have behaved?——He determined at once, not to take shelter behind _Susannah_,—but to give it; and with this resolution upon his mind, he marched upright into the parlour, to lay the whole _manœuvre_ before my uncle _Toby._

My uncle _Toby_ had just then been giving _Yorick_ an account of the Battle of _Steenkirk_, and of the strange conduct of count _Solmes_ in ordering the foot to halt, and the horse to march where it could not act; which was directly contrary to the king’s commands, and proved the loss of the day.

There are incidents in some families so pat to the purpose of what is going to follow,—they are scarce exceeded by the invention of a dramatic writer;—I mean of ancient days.——

_Trim_, by the help of his fore-finger, laid flat upon the table, and the edge of his hand striking across it at right angles, made a shift to tell his story so, that priests and virgins might have listened to it;—and the story being told,—the dialogue went on as follows.

C H A P. XXI

——I would be picquetted to death, cried the corporal, as he concluded _Susannah_’s story, before I would suffer the woman to come to any harm,—’twas my fault, an’ please your honour,—not her’s.

Corporal _Trim_, replied my uncle _Toby_, putting on his hat which lay upon the table,——if any thing can be said to be a fault, when the service absolutely requires it should be done,—’tis I certainly who deserve the blame,—you obeyed your orders.

Had count _Solmes_, _Trim_, done the same at the battle of _Steenkirk_, said _Yorick_, drolling a little upon the corporal, who had been run over by a dragoon in the retreat,——he had saved thee;——Saved! cried _Trim_, interrupting _Yorick_, and finishing the sentence for him after his own fashion,——he had saved five battalions, an’ please your reverence, every soul of them:——there was _Cutt_ ’s,—continued the corporal, clapping the forefinger of his right hand upon the thumb of his left, and counting round his hand,——there was _Cutt _’s,——_Mackay _’s,——_Angus _’s,——_Graham _’s,——and _Leven _’s, all cut to pieces;——and so had the _English_ life-guards too, had it not been for some regiments upon the right, who marched up boldly to their relief, and received the enemy’s fire in their faces, before any one of their own platoons discharged a musket,——they’ll go to heaven for it,—added _Trim._—_Trim_ is right, said my uncle _Toby_, nodding to _Yorick_,——he’s perfectly right. What signified his marching the horse, continued the corporal, where the ground was so strait, that the _French_ had such a nation of hedges, and copses, and ditches, and fell’d trees laid this way and that to cover them (as they always have).——Count _Solmes_ should have sent us,——we would have fired muzzle to muzzle with them for their lives.——There was nothing to be done for the horse:——he had his foot shot off however for his pains, continued the corporal, the very next campaign at _Landen._—Poor _Trim_ got his wound there, quoth my uncle _Toby._——’Twas owing, an’ please your honour, entirely to count _Solmes_,——had he drubbed them soundly at _Steenkirk_, they would not have fought us at _Landen._——Possibly not,——_Trim_, said my uncle _Toby;_——though if they have the advantage of a wood, or you give them a moment’s time to intrench themselves, they are a nation which will pop and pop for ever at you.——There is no way but to march coolly up to them,——receive their fire, and fall in upon them, pell-mell——Ding dong, added _Trim._——Horse and foot, said my uncle _Toby._——Helter Skelter, said _Trim._——Right and left, cried my uncle _Toby._——Blood an’ ounds, shouted the corporal;——the battle raged,——_Yorick_ drew his chair a little to one side for safety, and after a moment’s pause, my uncle _Toby_ sinking his voice a note,—resumed the discourse as follows.

C H A P. XXII

KING _William_, said my uncle _Toby_, addressing himself to _Yorick_, was so terribly provoked at count _Solmes_ for disobeying his orders, that he would not suffer him to come into his presence for many months after.——I fear, answered _Yorick_, the squire will be as much provoked at the corporal, as the King at the count.——But ’twould be singularly hard in this case, continued be, if corporal _Trim_, who has behaved so diametrically opposite to count _Solmes_, should have the fate to be rewarded with the same disgrace:——too oft in this world, do things take that train.——I would spring a mine, cried my uncle _Toby_, rising up,——and blow up my fortifications, and my house with them, and we would perish under their ruins, ere I would stand by and see it.——_Trim_ directed a slight,——but a grateful bow towards his master,——and so the chapter ends.

C H A P. XXIII

——Then, _Yorick_, replied my uncle _Toby_, you and I will lead the way abreast,——and do you, corporal, follow a few paces behind us.——And _Susannah_, an’ please your honour, said _Trim_, shall be put in the rear.——’Twas an excellent disposition,—and in this order, without either drums beating, or colours flying, they marched slowly from my uncle _Toby_’s house to _Shandy-hall._

——I wish, said _Trim_, as they entered the door,—instead of the sash weights, I had cut off the church spout, as I once thought to have done.—You have cut off spouts enow, replied _Yorick._

C H A P. XXIV

As many pictures as have been given of my father, how like him soever in different airs and attitudes,—not one, or all of them, can ever help the reader to any kind of preconception of how my father would think, speak, or act, upon any untried occasion or occurrence of life.—There was that infinitude of oddities in him, and of chances along with it, by which handle he would take a thing,—it baffled, Sir, all calculations.——The truth was, his road lay so very far on one side, from that wherein most men travelled,—that every object before him presented a face and section of itself to his eye, altogether different from the plan and elevation of it seen by the rest of mankind.—In other words, ’twas a different object, and in course was differently considered:

This is the true reason, that my dear _Jenny_ and I, as well as all the world besides us, have such eternal squabbles about nothing.—She looks at her outside,—I, at her in—. How is it possible we should agree about her value?

C H A P. XXV

’TIS a point settled,—and I mention it for the comfort of _Confucius_,[24] who is apt to get entangled in telling a plain story—that provided he keeps along the line of his story,—he may go backwards and forwards as he will,—’tis still held to be no digression.

This being premised, I take the benefit of the _act of going backwards_ myself.

[24] Mr _Shandy_ is supposed to mean * * * * * * * * * * *, Esq; member for * * * * * *,——and not the _Chinese_ Legislator.

C H A P. XXVI

FIFTY thousand pannier loads of devils—(not of the Archbishop of _Benevento_’s—I mean of _Rabelais_’s devils), with their tails chopped off by their rumps, could not have made so diabolical a scream of it, as I did—when the accident befel me: it summoned up my mother instantly into the nursery,—so that _Susannah_ had but just time to make her escape down the back stairs, as my mother came up the fore.

Now, though I was old enough to have told the story myself,—and young enough, I hope, to have done it without malignity; yet _Susannah_, in passing by the kitchen, for fear of accidents, had left it in short-hand with the cook—the cook had told it with a commentary to _Jonathan_, and _Jonathan_ to _Obadiah;_ so that by the time my father had rung the bell half a dozen times, to know what was the matter above,—was _Obadiah_ enabled to give him a particular account of it, just as it had happened.—I thought as much, said my father, tucking up his night-gown;—and so walked up stairs.

One would imagine from this——(though for my own