Now, my dear brother, said my father, replacing his forefinger, as he was coming closer to the point — had my child arrived safe into the world, unmartyr’d in that precious part of him — fanciful and extravagant as I may appear to the world in my opinion of christian names, and of that magic bias which good or bad names irresistibly impress upon our characters and conducts — Heaven is witness! that in the warmest transports of my wishes for the prosperity of my child, I never once wished to crown his head with more glory and honour than what GEORGE or EDWARD would have spread around it.
But alas! continued my father, as the greatest evil has befallen him — I must counteract and undo it with the greatest good.
He shall be christened Trismegistus, brother.
I wish it may answer — replied my uncle Toby, rising up.
CHAPTER IX
What a chapter of chances, said my father, turning himself about upon the first landing, as he and my uncle Toby were going downstairs — what a long chapter of chances do the events of this world lay open to us! Take pen and ink in hand, brother Toby, and calculate it fairly — I know no more of calculation than this balluster, said my uncle Toby (striking short of it with his crutch, and hitting my father a desperate blow souse upon his shin-bone)— ’Twas a hundred to one — cried my uncle Toby — I thought, quoth my father (rubbing his shin), you had known nothing of calculations, brother Toby. ’Tis a mere chance, said my uncle Toby. — Then it adds one to the chapter — replied my father.
The double success of my father’s repartees tickled off the pain of his shin at once — it was well it so fell out — (chance! again) — or the world to this day had never known the subject of my father’s calculation — to guess it — there was no chance — What a lucky chapter of chances has this turned out! for it has saved me the trouble of writing one express, and in truth I have enough already upon my hands without it. — Have not I promised the world a chapter of knots? two chapters upon the right and the wrong end of a woman? a chapter upon whiskers? a chapter upon wishes? — a chapter of noses? — No, I have done that — a chapter upon my uncle Toby’s modesty? to say nothing of a chapter upon chapters, which I will finish before I sleep — by my great-grandfather’s whiskers, I shall never get half of ‘em through this year.
Take pen and ink in hand, and calculate it fairly, brother Toby, said my father, and it will turn out a million to one, that of all the parts of the body, the edge of the forceps should have the ill luck just to fall upon and break down that one part, which should break down the fortunes of our house with it.
It might have been worse, replied my uncle Toby. — I don’t comprehend, said my father. — Suppose the hip had presented, replied my uncle Toby, as Dr. Slop foreboded.
My father reflected half a minute — looked down — touched the middle of his forehead slightly with his finger —
— True, said he.
CHAPTER X
Is it not a shame to make two chapters of what passed in going down one pair of stairs? for we are got no farther yet than to the first landing, and there are fifteen more steps down to the bottom; and for aught I know, as my father and my uncle Toby are in a talking humour, there may be as many chapters as steps: — let that be as it will, Sir, I can no more help it than my destiny: — A sudden impulse comes across me — drop the curtain, Shandy — I drop it — Strike a line here across the paper, Tristram — I strike it — and hey for a new chapter.
The deuce of any other rule have I to govern myself by in this affair — and if I had one — as I do all things out of all rule — I would twist it and tear it to pieces, and throw it into the fire when I had done — Am I warm? I am, and the cause demands it — a pretty story! is a man to follow rules — or rules to follow him?
Now this, you must know, being my chapter upon chapters, which I promised to write before I went to sleep, I thought it meet to ease my conscience entirely before I laid down, by telling the world all I knew about the matter at once: Is not this ten times better than to set out dogmatically with a sententious parade of wisdom, and telling the world a story of a roasted horse — that chapters relieve the mind — that they assist — or impose upon the imagination — and that in a work of this dramatic cast they are as necessary as the shifting of scenes — with fifty other cold conceits, enough to extinguish the fire which roasted him? — O! but to understand this, which is a puff at the fire of Diana’s temple — you must read Longinus — read away — if you are not a jot the wiser by reading him the first time over — never fear — read him again — Avicenna and Licetus read Aristotle’s metaphysicks forty times through apiece, and never understood a single word. — But mark the consequence — Avicenna turned out a desperate writer at all kinds of writing — for he wrote books de omni scribili; and for Licetus (Fortunio) though all the world knows he was born a fœtus, of no more than five inches and a half in length, yet he grew to that astonishing height in literature, as to write a book with a title as long as himself — the learned know I mean his Gonopsychanthropologia, upon the origin of the human soul.
So much for my chapter upon chapters, which I hold to be the best chapter in my whole work; and take my word, whoever reads it, is full as well employed, as in picking straws.
[Footnote 4.6: Ce Fœtus n’étoit pas plus grand que la paume de la main; mais son pere l’ayant éxaminé en qualité de Médecin, & ayant trouvé que c’etoit quâlque chose de plus qu’un Embryon, le fit transporter tout vivant à Rapallo, ou il le fit voir à Jerôme Bardi & à d’autres Médecins du lieu. On trouva qu’il ne lui manquoit rien d’essentiel à la vie; & son pere pour faire voir un essai de son experience, entreprit d’achever l’ouvrage de la Nature, & de travailler à la formation de l’Enfant avec le même artifice que celui dont on se sert pour faire écclorre les Poulets en Egypte. Il instruisit une Nourisse de tout ce qu’elle avoit à faire, & ayant fait mettre son fils dans un pour proprement accommodé, il reussit à l’élever & à lui faire prendre ses accroissemens necessaires, par l’uniformité d’une chaleur étrangere mesurée éxactement sur les dégrés d’un Thermométre, ou d’un autre instrument équivalent. (Vide Mich. Giustinian, ne gli Scritt. Liguri à Cart. 223. 488.)
On auroit toujours été très satisfait de l’industrie d’un pere si experimenté dans l’Art de la Generation, quand il n’auroit pû prolonger la vie à son fils que pour quelques mois, ou pour peu d’années.
Mais quand on se represente que l’Enfant a vecu près de quatre-vingts ans, & qu’il a composé quatre-vingts Ouvrages differents tous fruits d’une longue lecture — il faut convenir que tout ce qui est incroyable n’est pas toujours faux, & que la Vraisemblance n’est pas toujours du côté de la Verité.
Il n’avoit que dix neuf ans lorsqu’il composa
Gonopsychanthropologia de Origine Animæ humanæ.
(Les Enfans celebres, revûs & corrigés par M. de la Monnoye de
l’Academie Françoise.)]
CHAPTER XI
We shall bring all things to rights, said my father, setting his foot upon the first step from the landing. — This Trismegistus, continued my father, drawing his leg back and turning to my uncle Toby — was the greatest (Toby) of all earthly beings — he was the greatest king — the greatest law-giver — the greatest philosopher — and the greatest priest — and engineer — said my uncle Toby.
— In course, said my father.
CHAPTER XII
— And how does your mistress? cried my father, taking the same step over again from the landing, and calling to Susannah, whom he saw passing by the foot of the stairs with a huge pincushion in her hand — how does your mistress? As well, said Susannah, tripping by, but without looking up, as can be expected. — What a fool am I! said my father, drawing his leg back again — let things be as they will, brother Toby, ’tis ever the precise answer — And how is the child, pray? — No answer. And where is Dr. Slop? added my father, raising his voice aloud, and looking over the ballusters — Susannah was out of hearing.
Of
all the riddles of a married life, said my father, crossing the landing in order to set his back against the wall, whilst he propounded it to my uncle Toby — of all the puzzling riddles, said he, in a marriage state, — of which you may trust me, brother Toby, there are more asses loads than all Job’s stock of asses could have carried — there is not one that has more intricacies in it than this — that from the very moment the mistress of the house is brought to bed, every female in it, from my lady’s gentlewoman down to the cinder-wench, becomes an inch taller for it; and give themselves more airs upon that single inch, than all their other inches put together.
I think rather, replied my uncle Toby, that ’tis we who sink an inch lower. — If I meet but a woman with child — I do it.— ’Tis a heavy tax upon that half of our fellow-creatures, brother Shandy, said my uncle Toby— ’Tis a piteous burden upon ‘em, continued he, shaking his head — Yes, yes, ’tis a painful thing — said my father, shaking his head too — but certainly since shaking of heads came into fashion, never did two heads shake together, in concert, from two such different springs.
God bless } ‘em all — said my uncle Toby and my
Deuce take } father, each to himself.
CHAPTER XIII
Holla! — you, chairman! — here’s sixpence — do step into that bookseller’s shop, and call me a day-tall critick. I am very willing to give any one of ‘em a crown to help me with his tackling, to get my father and my uncle Toby off the stairs, and to put them to bed.
— ’Tis even high time; for except a short nap, which they both got whilst Trim was boring the jack-boots — and which, by the bye, did my father no sort of good, upon the score of the bad hinge — they have not else shut their eyes, since nine hours before the time that Dr. Slop was led into the back parlour in that dirty pickle by Obadiah.
Was every day of my life to be as busy a day as this — and to take up — Truce.
I will not finish that sentence till I have made an observation upon the strange state of affairs between the reader and myself, just as things stand at present — an observation never applicable before to any one biographical writer since the creation of the world, but to myself — and I believe, will never hold good to any other, until its final destruction — and therefore, for the very novelty of it alone, it must be worth your worships attending to.
I am this month one whole year older than I was this time twelve-month; and having got, as you perceive, almost into the middle of my fourth volume — and no farther than to my first day’s life— ’tis demonstrative that I have three hundred and sixty-four days more life to write just now, than when I first set out; so that instead of advancing, as a common writer, in my work with what I have been doing at it — on the contrary, I am just thrown so many volumes back — was every day of my life to be as busy a day as this — And why not? — and the transactions and opinions of it to take up as much description — And for what reason should they be cut short? as at this rate I should just live 364 times faster than I should write — It must follow, an’ please your worships, that the more I write, the more I shall have to write — and consequently, the more your worships read, the more your worships will have to read.
Will this be good for your worships’ eyes?
It will do well for mine; and, was it not that my OPINIONS will be the death of me, I perceive I shall lead a fine life of it out of this self-same life of mine; or, in other words, shall lead a couple of fine lives together.
As for the proposal of twelve volumes a year, or a volume a month, it no way alters my prospect — write as I will, and rush as I may into the middle of things, as Horace advises — I shall never overtake myself whipp’d and driven to the last pinch; at the worst I shall have one day the start of my pen — and one day is enough for two volumes — and two volumes will be enough for one year. —
Heaven prosper the manufacturers of paper under this propitious reign, which is now opened to us — as I trust its providence will prosper everything else in it that is taken in hand. —
As for the propagation of Geese — I give myself no concern — Nature is all bountiful — I shall never want tools to work with.
— So then, friend! you have got my father and my uncle Toby off the stairs, and seen them to bed? — And how did you manage it? — You dropp’d a curtain at the stair-foot — I thought you had no other way for it — Here’s a crown for your trouble.
[Footnote 4.7: According to the original Editions.]
CHAPTER XIV
— Then reach me my breeches off the chair, said my father to Susannah. — There is not a moment’s time to dress you, Sir, cried Susannah — the child is as black in the face as my — As your what? said my father, for like all orators, he was a dear searcher into comparisons. — Bless me, Sir, said Susannah, the child’s in a fit. — And where’s Mr. Yorick? — Never where he should be, said Susannah, but his curate’s in the dressing-room, with the child upon his arm, waiting for the name — and my mistress bid me run as fast as I could to know, as captain Shandy is the godfather, whether it should not be called after him.
Were one sure, said my father to himself, scratching his eyebrow, that the child was expiring, one might as well compliment my brother Toby as not — and it would be a pity, in such a case, to throw away so great a name as Trismegistus upon him — but he may recover.
No, no, — said my father to Susannah, I’ll get up — There is no time, cried Susannah, the child’s as black as my shoe. Trismegistus, said my father — But stay — thou art a leaky vessel, Susannah, added my father; canst thou carry Trismegistus in thy head, the length of the gallery without scattering? — Can I? cried Susannah, shutting the door in a huff. — If she can, I’ll be shot, said my father, bouncing out of bed in the dark, and groping for his breeches.
Susannah ran with all speed along the gallery.
My father made all possible speed to find his breeches.
Susannah got the start, and kept it— ’Tis Tris — something, cried Susannah — There is no christian-name in the world, said the curate, beginning with Tris — but Tristram. Then ’tis Tristram-gistus, quoth Susannah.
— There is no gistus to it, noodle!— ’tis my own name, replied the curate, dipping his hand, as he spoke, into the bason — Tristram! said he, &c. &c. &c. &c., so Tristram was I called, and Tristram shall I be to the day of my death.
My father followed Susannah, with his night-gown across his arm, with nothing more than his breeches on, fastened through haste with but a single button, and that button through haste thrust only half into the button-hole.
— She has not forgot the name? cried my father, half opening the door. — No, no, said the curate, with a tone of intelligence. — And the child is better, cried Susannah. — And how does your mistress? As well, said Susannah, as can be expected. — Pish! said my father, the button of his breeches slipping out of the button-hole — So that whether the interjection was levelled at Susannah, or the button-hole — whether Pish was an interjection of contempt or an interjection of modesty, is a doubt, and must be a doubt till I shall have time to write the three following favourite chapters, that is, my chapter of chamber-maids, my chapter of pishes, and my chapter of button-holes.
All the light I am able to give the reader at present is this, that the moment my father cried Pish! he whisk’d himself about — and with his breeches held up by one hand, and his night-gown thrown across the arm of the other, he turned along the gallery to bed, something slower than he came.
CHAPTER XV
I wish I could write a chapter upon sleep.
A fitter occasion could never have presented itself, than what this moment offers, when all the curtains of the family are drawn — the candles put out — and no creature’s eyes are open but a single one, for the other has been shut these twenty years, of my mother’s nurse.
It is a fine subject!
And yet, as fine as it is, I would undertake to write a dozen chapters upon button-holes, both quicker and with more fame,
than a single chapter upon this.
Button-holes! there is something lively in the very idea of ‘em — and trust me, when I get amongst ‘em — You gentry with great beards — look as grave as you will — I’ll make merry work with my button-holes — I shall have ‘em all to myself— ’tis a maiden subject — I shall run foul of no man’s wisdom or fine sayings in it.
But for sleep — I know I shall make nothing of it before I begin — I am no dab at your fine sayings in the first place — and in the next, I cannot for my soul set a grave face upon a bad matter, and tell the world— ’tis the refuge of the unfortunate — the enfranchisement of the prisoner — the downy lap of the hopeless, the weary, and the broken-hearted; nor could I set out with a lye in my mouth, by affirming, that of all the soft and delicious functions of our nature, by which the great Author of it, in his bounty, has been pleased to recompense the sufferings wherewith his justice and his good pleasure has wearied us — that this is the chiefest (I know pleasures worth ten of it); or what a happiness it is to man, when the anxieties and passions of the day are over, and he lies down upon his back, that his soul shall be so seated within him, that whichever way she turns her eyes, the heavens shall look calm and sweet above her — no desire — or fear — or doubt that troubles the air, nor any difficulty past, present, or to come, that the imagination may not pass over without offence, in that sweet secession.
“God’s blessing,” said Sancho Pança, “be upon the man who first invented this self-same thing called sleep — it covers a man all over like a cloak.” Now there is more to me in this, and it speaks warmer to my heart and affections, than all the dissertations squeez’d out of the heads of the learned together upon the subject.
Complete Works of Laurence Sterne Page 32
