The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman

  CHAP. VII.

  WHEN I reflect, brother Toby, upon man; and take a view of that dark side of him which represents his life as open to so many causes of trouble—when I consider, brother Toby, how oft we eat the bread of affliction, and that we are born to it, as to the portion of our inheritance1—I was born to nothing, quoth my uncle Toby, interrupting my father—but my commission. Zooks!2 said my father, did not my uncle leave you a hundred and twenty pounds a year?—What could I have done without it? replied my uncle Toby.—That’s another concern, said my father testily—But I say, Toby, when one runs over the catalogue of all the cross reckonings and sorrowful items with which the heart of man is overcharged, ’tis wonderful by what hidden resources the mind is enabled to stand it out, and bear itself up, as it does against the impositions laid upon our nature.——’Tis by the assistance of Almighty God,3 cried my uncle Toby, looking up, and pressing the palms of his hands close together—’tis not from our own strength, brother Shandy —a sentinel in a wooden centry-box, might as well pretend to stand it out against a detachment of fifty men,— we are upheld by the grace and the assistance of the best of Beings.

  —That is cutting the knot,4 said my father, instead of untying it.—But give me leave to lead you, brother Toby, a little deeper into this mystery.

  With all my heart, replied my uncle Toby.

  My father instantly exchanged the attitude he was in, for that in which Socrates is so finely painted by Raffael in his school of Athens;5 which your connoisseurship knows is so exquisitely imagined, that even the particular manner of the reasoning of Socrates is expressed by it—for he holds the fore-finger of his left-hand between the fore-finger and the thumb of his right, and seems as if he was saying to the libertine he is reclaiming— “You grant me this—and this: and this, and this, I don’t ask of you—they follow of themselves in course.”

  So stood my father, holding fast his fore-finger betwixt his finger and his thumb, and reasoning with my uncle Toby as he sat in his old fringed chair, valanced around with party-coloured worsted bobs—O Garrick! 6 what a rich scene of this would thy exquisite powers make! and how gladly would I write such another to avail myself of thy immortality, and secure my own behind it.

  CHAP. VIII.

  THOUGH man is of all others the most curious vehicle, said my father, yet at the same time ’tis of so slight a frame and so totteringly put together, that the sudden jerks and hard jostlings it unavoidably meets with in this rugged journey, would overset and tear it to pieces a dozen times a day—was it not, brother Toby, that there is a secret spring within us1—Which spring, said my uncle Toby, I take to be Religion.—Will that set my child’s nose on? cried my father, letting go his finger, and striking one hand against the other—It makes every thing straight for us, answered my uncle Toby —Figuratively speaking, dear Toby, it may, for aught I know, said my father; but the spring I am speaking of, is that great and elastic power within us of counterbalancing evil, which like a secret spring in a well-ordered machine, though it can’t prevent the shock—at least it imposes upon our sense of it.

  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 irresistably 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 Edward2 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,3 brother.

  I wish it may answer—replied my uncle Toby, rising up.

  CHAP. IX.

  WHAT a chapter of chances, said my father, turning himself about upon the first landing, as he and my uncle Toby were going down stairs——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 calculations 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.—’Twas a meer 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 anew 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.

  CHAP. 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 duce 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 lay’d 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 horse1—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,2 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 3—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,4 read Aristotle’s metaphysicks forty times through a piece, 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;5 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.6

  CHAP. 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 lawgiver— the greatest philosopher—and the greatest priest——and engineer—said my uncle Toby.—

  —In course, said my father.

  CHAP. 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 pin-cushion 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 doctor 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 asses1 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, become saninch 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 father,

  Duce take } each to himself.

  CHAP. XIII.

  HOLLA!—you chairman!1—here’s sixpence—do step into that bookseller’s shop, and call me a day-tall 2 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 doctor 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 writer3 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,4—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 manufactures of paper under this propitious reign,5 which is now open’d to us,—as I trust its providence will prosper every thing 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 stairs foot—I thought you had no other way for it—Here’s a crown for your trouble.

  CHAP. 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 ’twould 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 artaleaky 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 Tris-tram-gistus, quoth Susannah.

  —There is no gistus to it, noodle!—’tismyown 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 butt
on 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 favorite 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, here turned along the gallery to bed, something slower than he came.

  CHAP. 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.