Trim ran down and brought up his Master’s supper,—to no purpose:——Trim’s plan of operation ran so in my uncle Toby’s head, he could not taste it.—Trim, quoth my uncle Toby, get me to bed;—’twas all one.—Corporal Trim’s description had fired his imagination,—my uncle Toby could not shut his eyes.––The more he consider’d it, the more bewitching the scene appeared to him;—so that, two full hours before day-light, he had come to a final determination, and had concerted the whole plan of his and Corporal Trim’s decampment.
My uncle Toby had a little neat country-house of his own, in the village where my father’s estate lay at Shandy, which had been left him by an old uncle, with a small estate of about one hundred pounds a-year. Behind this house, and contiguous to it, was a kitchen-garden of about half an acre;—and at the bottom of the garden, and cut off from it by a tall yew hedge, was a bowling-green,14 containing just about as much ground as Corporal Trim wished for;—so that as Trim uttered the words, “A rood and a half of ground to do what they would with:”——This identical bowling-green instantly presented itself, and became curiously painted, all at once, upon the retina15 of my uncle Toby’s fancy;——which was the physical cause of making him change colour, or at least, of heightening his blush to that immoderate degree I spoke of.
Never did lover post down to a belov’d mistress with more heat and expectation, than my uncle Toby did, to enjoy this self-same thing in private;—I say in private;—for it was sheltered from the house, as I told you, by a tall yew hedge, and was covered on the other three sides, from mortal sight, by rough holly and thickset flowering shrubs;—so that the idea of not being seen, did not a little contribute to the idea of pleasure preconceived in my uncle Toby’s mind.—Vain thought! however thick it was planted about,——or private so ever it might seem,—to think, dear uncle Toby, of enjoying a thing which took up a whole rood and a half of ground,—and not have it known!
How my uncle Toby and Corporal Trim managed this matter,—with the history of their campaigns, which were no way barren of events,—may make no uninteresting under-plot in the epitasis16 and working up of this drama.—At present the scene must drop,—and change for the parlour fire-side.
CHAP. VI.
———What can they be doing, brother? said my father.—I think, replied my uncle Toby,—taking, as I told you, his pipe from his mouth, and striking the ashes out of it as he began his sentence;––––I think, replied he,—it would not be amiss, brother, if we rung the bell.
Pray, what’s all that racket over our heads, Obadiah? —quoth my father;—my brother and I can scarce hear ourselves speak.
Sir, answer’d Obadiah, making a bow towards his left shoulder,—my Mistress is taken very badly;—and where’s Susannah running down the garden there, as if they were going to ravish her.1——Sir, she is running the shortest cut into the town, replied Obadiah, to fetch the old midwife.——Then saddle a horse, quoth my father, and do you go directly for Dr. Slop, the man-midwife, with all our services,—and let him know your Mistress is fallen into labour,—and that I desire he will return with you with all speed.
It is very strange, says my father, addressing himself to my uncle Toby, as Obadiah shut the door,—as there is so expert an operator as Dr. Slop so near––-that my wife should persist to the very last in this obstinate humour of hers, in trusting the life of my child, who has had one misfortune already, to the ignorance of an old woman;——and not only the life of my child, brother,—but her own life, and with it the lives of all the children I might, peradventure, have be got out of her hereafter.
Mayhap, brother, replied my uncle Toby, my sister does it to save the expence:—A pudding’s end,2—replied my father,—the Doctor must be paid the same for inaction as action,—if not better,—to keep him in temper.
—Then it can be out of nothing in the whole world, quoth my uncle Toby, in the simplicity of his heart,—but Modesty:—My sister, I dare say, added he, does not care to let a man come so near her* * * *.3 I will not say whether my uncle Toby had compleated the sentence or not;—’tis for his advantage to suppose he had,—as, I think, he could have added no ONE WORD which would have improved it.
If, on the contrary, my uncle Toby had not fully arrived at his period’s end,—then the world stands indebted to the sudden snapping of my father’s tobacco-pipe, for one of the neatest examples of that ornamental figure in oratory, which Rhetoricians stile the Aposiopesis.4—Just heaven! how does the Poco piu and the Poco meno 5 of the Italian artists;—the insensible more or less, determine the precise line of beauty in the sentence, as well as in the statue! How do the slight touches of the chisel, the pencil, the pen, the fiddle-stick, et cætera,6—give the true swell, which gives the true pleasure!—O my countrymen!—be nice;—be cautious of your language;—— and never, O! never let it be forgotten upon what small particles your eloquence and your fame depend.
——“My sister, mayhap, quoth my uncle Toby, does not choose to let a man come so near her* * * *” Make this dash, ——’tis an Aposiopesis.—Take the dash away, and write Backside,—’tis Bawdy.—Scratch Backside out, and put Cover’d-way in,—’tis a Metaphor;—and, I dare say, as fortification ran so much in my uncle Toby’s head, that if he had been left to have added one word to the sentence,—that word was it.
But whether that was the case or not the case;—or whether the snapping of my father’s tobacco-pipe so critically, happened thro’ accident or anger,—will be seen in due time.
CHAP. VII.
THO’ my father was a good natural philosopher,1——yet he was something of a moral philosopher too; for which reason, when his tobacco-pipe snapp’d short in the middle,—— he had nothing to do,—as such,—but to have taken hold of the two pieces, and thrown them gently upon the back of the fire.— He did no such thing;—he threw them with all the violence in the world;—and, to give the action still more emphasis,––he started up upon both his legs to do it.
This look’d something like heat;—and the manner of his reply to what my uncle Toby was saying prov’d it was so.
—“Not choose, quoth my father, (repeating my uncle Toby’s words) to let a man come so near her——” By heaven, brother Toby! you would try the patience of a Job;—and I think I have the plagues of one already, without it.——Why?——Where? ——Wherein?——Wherefore?—Upon what account, replied my uncle Toby, in the utmost astonishment.——To think, said my father, of a man living to your age, brother, and knowing so little about women!—I know nothing at all about them,— replied my uncle Toby; and I think, continued he, that the shock I received the year after the demolition of Dunkirk,2 in my affair with widow Wadman;—which shock you know I should not have received, but from my total ignorance of the sex,––-has given me just cause to say, That I neither know, nor do pretend to know, any thing about ’em, or their concerns either.—— Methinks, brother, replied my father, you might, at least, know so much as the right end of a woman from the wrong.
It is said in Aristotle’s Master-Piece,3 “That when a man doth think of any thing which is past,––-he looketh down upon the ground;––-but that when he thinketh of something which is to come, he looketh up towards the heavens.”
My uncle Toby, I suppose, thought of neither,––-for he look’d horizontally.––––Right end,––-quoth my uncle Toby, muttering the two words low to himself, and fixing his two eyes insensibly as he muttered them, upon a small crevice, form’d by a bad joint in the chimney-piece.—Right end of a woman!——I declare, quoth my uncle, I know no more which it is, than the man in the moon;––and if I was to think, continued my uncle Toby, (keeping his eye still fix’d upon the bad joint) this month together, I am sure I should not be able to find it out.
Then brother Toby, replied my father, I will tell you.
Every thing in this world, continued my father, (filling a fresh pipe)––––every thing in this earthly world, my dear brother Toby, has two handles;––not always, quoth my uncle Toby;––
-at least, replied my father, every one has two hands,––––which comes to the same thing.––––Now, if a man was to sit down coolly, and consider within himself the make, the shape, the construction, com-at-ability, and convenience of all the parts which constitute the whole of that animal, call’d Woman, and compare them analogically—I never understood rightly the meaning of that word,––-quoth my uncle Toby.——ANALOGY,4 replied my father, is the certain relation and agreement, which different— Here a Devil of a rap at the door snapp’d my father’s definition (like his tobacco-pipe) in two,––-and, at the same time, crushed the head of as notable and curious a dissertation as ever was engendered in the womb of speculation;—it was some months before my father could get an opportunity to be safely deliver’d of it:—And, at this hour, it is a thing full as problematical as the subject of the dissertation itself,––(considering the confusion and distresses of our domestick misadventures, which are now coming thick one upon the back of another) whether I shall be able to find a place for it in the third volume or not.
CHAP. VIII.
IT is about an hour and a half’s tolerable good reading since my uncle Toby rung the bell,1 when Obadiah was order’d to saddle a horse, and go for Dr. Slop, the man-midwife;––-so that no one can say, with reason, that I have not allowed Obadiah time enough, poetically speaking, and considering the emergency too, both to go and come;––––tho’, morally and truly speaking, the man, perhaps, has scarce had time to get on his boots.
If the hypercritick will go upon this; and is resolved after all to take a pendulum, and measure the true distance betwixt the ringing of the bell and the rap at the door;—and, after finding it to be no more than two minutes, thirteen seconds, and three fifths,––––should take upon him to insult over me for such a breach in the unity, or rather probability, of time;2—I would remind him, that the idea of duration and of its simple modes, is got merely from the train and succession of our ideas,3––-and is the true scholastick pendulum,––––and by which, as a scholar, I will be tried in this matter,––––abjuring and detesting the jurisdiction of all other pendulums whatever.
I would, therefore, desire him to consider that it is but poor eight miles from Shandy-Hall to Dr. Slop, the man-midwife’s house;—and that whilst Obadiah has been going those said miles and back, I have brought my uncle Toby from Namur, quite across all Flanders, into England: ––-That I have had him ill upon my hands near four years;––-and have since travelled him and Corporal Trim, in a chariot and four, a journey of near two hundred miles down into Yorkshire;—all which put together, must have prepared the reader’s imagination for the enterance of Dr. Slop upon the stage,——as much, at least, (I hope) as a dance, a song, or a concerto between the acts.4
If my hyper critick is intractable,—alledging, that two minutes and thirteen seconds are no more than two minutes and thirteen seconds,––-when I have said all I can about them;——and that this plea, tho’ it might save me dramatically, will damn me biographically, rendering my book, from this very moment, a profess’d Romance, which, before, was a book apocryphal: ——If I am thus pressed—I then put an end to the whole objection and controversy about it all at once,––-by acquainting him, that Obadiah had not got above threescore yards from the stable-yard before he met with Dr. Slop;—and indeed he gave a dirty proof that he had met with him, and was within an ace of giving a tragical one too.
Imagine to yourself;——but this had better begin a new chapter.
CHAP. IX.
I Magine to yourself a little, squat, uncourtly figure of a Doctor Slop, of about four feet and a half perpendicular height,1 with a breadth of back, and a sesquipedality2 of belly, which might have done honour to a Serjeant in the Horse-Guards.
Such were the out-lines of Dr. Slop’s figure, which,—if you have read Hogarth’s analysis of beauty, and if you have not, I wish you would;—you must know, may as certainly be caracatur’d, and convey’d to the mind by three strokes3 as three hundred.
Imagine such a one,—for such, I say, were the out-lines of Dr. Slop’s figure, coming slowly along, foot by foot, waddling thro’ the dirt upon the vertebræ of a little diminutive pony,— of a pretty colour;––-but of strength,––-alack!——scarce able to have made an amble of it, under such a fardel,4 had the roads been in an ambling condition.––––They were not.——Imagine to yourself, Obadiah mounted upon a strong monster of a coach-horse, prick’d into a full gallop, and making all practicable speed the adverse way.
Pray, Sir, let me interest you a moment in this description.5
Had Dr. Slop beheld Obadiah a mile off, posting in a narrow lane directly towards him, at that monstrous rate,—splashing and plunging like a devil thro’ thick and thin, as he approach’d, would not such a phænomenon, with such a vortex of mud and water moving along with it, round its axis,—have been a subject of juster apprehension to Dr. Slop in his situation, than the worst of Whiston’s comets?6—To say nothing of the NUCLEUS; that is, of Obadiah and the coach-horse.—In my idea, the vortex alone of ’em was enough to have involved and carried, if not the Doctor, at least the Doctor’s pony quite away with it. What then do you think must the terror and hydrophobia7 of Dr. Slop have been, when you read, (which you are just going to do) that he was advancing thus warily along towards Shandy-Hall, and had approach’d to within sixty yards of it, and within five yards of a sudden turn, made by an acute angle of the garden wall,— and in the dirtiest part of a dirty lane,—when Obadiah and his coach-horse turn’d the corner, rapid, furious,––-pop,––-full upon him! ––––Nothing, I think, in nature, can be supposed more terrible, than such a Rencounter,––so imprompt!8 so ill prepared to stand the shock of it as Dr. Slop was!
What could Dr. Slop do?––-He cross’d himself ——Pugh! ––––but the Doctor, Sir, was a Papist.——No matter; he had better have kept hold of the pummel.—He had so;—nay, as it happen’d, he had better have done nothing at all;––-for in crossing himself he let go his whip,——and in attempting to save his whip betwixt his knee and his saddle’s skirt, as it slipp’d, he lost his stirrup,—in losing which, he lost his seat;——and in the multitude of all these losses, (which, by the bye, shews what little advantage there is in crossing) the unfortunate Doctor lost his presence of mind. So that, without waiting for Obadiah’s onset, he left his pony to its destiny, tumbling off it diagonally, something in the stile and manner of a pack of wool, and without any other consequence from the fall, save that of being left, (as it would have been) with the broadest part of him sunk about twelve inches deep in the mire.
Obadiah pull’d off his cap twice to Dr. Slop;——once as he was falling, ––––and then again when he saw him seated.––-Ill timed complaisance!——had not the fellow better have stopp’d his horse, and got off and help’d him?——Sir, he did all that his situation would allow;––-but the Momentum of the coach-horse was so great, that Obadiah could not do it all at once; ——he rode in a circle three times round Dr. Slop, before he could fully accomplish it any how;––-and at the last, when he did stop his beast, ’twas done with such an explosion of mud, that Obadiah had better have been a league off. In short, never was a Dr. Slop so beluted,9 and so transubstantiated, since that affair came into fashion.
CHAP. X.
WHEN Dr. Slop entered the back parlour, where my father and my uncle Toby were discoursing upon the nature of women,——it was hard to determine whether Dr. Slop’s figure, or Dr. Slop’s presence, occasioned more surprize to them; for as the accident happened so near the house, as not to make it worth while for Obadiah to remount him,–––– Obadiah had led him in as he was, unwiped, unappointed, unanealed, with all his stains and blotches on him.1——He stood like Hamlet’s ghost, motionless and speechless, for a full minute and a half, at the parlour door, (Obadiah still holding his hand) with all the majesty of mud.2 His hinder parts, upon which he had received his fall, totally besmear’d,––––and in every other part of him, blotched
over in such a manner with Obadiah’s explosion, that you would have sworn, (without mental reser-vation)3 that every grain of it had taken effect.
Here was a fair opportunity for my uncle Toby to have triumph’d over my father in his turn;––-for no mortal, who had beheld Dr. Slop in that pickle, could have dissented from so much, at least, of my uncle Toby’s opinion, “That mayhap his sister might not care to let such a Dr. Slop come so near her* * * *” But it was the Argumentum ad hominem;4 and if my uncle Toby was not very expert at it, you may think, he might not care to use it.—No; the reason was,—’twas not his nature to insult.
Dr. Slop’s presence, at that time, was no less problematical than the mode of it; tho’, it is certain, one moment’s reflection in my father might have solved it; for he had apprized Dr. Slop but the week before, that my mother was at her full reckoning; and as the Doctor had heard nothing since, ’twas natural and very political too in him, to have taken a ride to Shandy-Hall, as he did, merely to see how matters went on.