Then, Mons. le Premier, said the king, by ——— we’ll go to war with ’em.
CHAP. XXII.
ALIBEIT, gentle reader, I have lusted earnestly, and endeavoured carefully (according to the measure of such slender skill as God has vouchsafed me, and as convenient leisure from other occasions of needful profit and healthful pastime have permitted) that these little books, which I here put into thy hands, might stand instead of many bigger books—yet have I carried myself towards thee in such fanciful guise of careless disport,1 that right sore am I ashamed now to entreat thy lenity seriously—in beseeching thee to believe it of me, that in the story of my father and his christen-names,—I had no thoughts of treading upon Francis the First—nor in the affair of the nose—upon Francis the Ninth2—nor in the character of my uncle Toby —of characterizing the militiating spirits of my country—the wound upon his groin, is a wound to every comparison of that kind,—nor by Trim,—that I meant the duke of Ormond 3—or that my book is wrote against predestination, or free will, or taxes—If ’tis wrote against any thing,——’tis wrote, an’ please your worships, against the spleen; in order, by a more frequent and a more convulsive elevation and depression of the diaphragm, and the succussations of the intercostal and abdominal muscles in laughter, to drive the gall and other bitter juices from the gall bladder, liver and sweet-bread of his majesty’s subjects, with all the inimicitious passions which belong to them, down into their duodenums.4
CHAP. XXIII.
—BUT can the thing be undone, Yorick? said my father—for in my opinion, continued he, it cannot. I am a vile canonist, replied Yorick —but of all evils, holding suspense to be the most tormenting, we shall at least know the worst of this matter. I hate these great dinners1—said my father—The size of the dinner is not the point, answered Yorick —we want, Mr. Shandy, to dive into the bottom of this doubt, whether the name can be changed or not—and as the beards of so many commissaries, officials, advocates, proctors, registers, and of the most able of our school-divines, and others, are all to meet in the middle of one table, and Didius has so pressingly invited you,—–who in your distress would miss such an occasion? All that is requisite, continued Yorick, is to apprize Didius, and let him manage a conversation after dinner so as to introduce the subject—Then my brother Toby, cried my father, clapping his two hands together, shall go with us.
—Let my old tye wig, quoth my uncle Toby, and my laced regimentals, be hung to the fire all night, Trim.
XXV.
——No doubt, Sir—there is a whole chapter wanting here—and a chasm of ten pages1 made in the book by it—but the book-binder is neither a fool, or a knave, or a puppy—nor is the book a jot more imperfect, (at least upon that score)— but, on the contrary, the book is more perfect and complete by wanting the chapter, than having it, as I shall demonstrate to your reverences in this manner—I question first by the bye, whether the same experiment might not be made as successfully upon sundry other chapters——but there is no end, an’ please your reverences, in trying experiments upon chapters—we have had enough of it—So there’s an end of that matter.
But before I begin my demonstration, let me only tell you, that the chapter which I have torn out, and which otherwise you would all have been reading just now, instead of this,—was the description of my father’s, my uncle Toby’s, Trim’s, and Obadiah’s setting out and journeying to the visitations at * * * *.
We’ll go in the coach, said my father—Prithee, have the arms been altered, Obadiah? —It would have made my story much better, to have begun with telling you, that at the time my mother’s arms were added to the Shandy’s, when the coach was repainted upon my father’s marriage, it had so fallen out, that the coach-painter, whether by performing all his works with the left-hand, like Turpilius the Roman, or Hans Holbein of Basil 2—or whether ’twas more from the blunder of his head than hand—or whether, lastly, it was from the sinister turn, which every thing relating to our family was apt to take—It so fell out, however, to our reproach, that instead of the bend dexter,3 which since Harry the Eighth’s reign was honestly our due——a bend sinister, by some of these fatalities, had been drawn quite across the field of the Shandy-arms. ’Tis scarce credible that the mind of so wise a man as my father was, could be so much incommoded with so small a matter. The word coach—let it be whose it would—or coach-man, or coach-horse, or coach-hire, could never be named in the family, but he constantly complained of carrying this vile mark of Illegitimacy upon the door of his own; he never once was able to step into the coach, or out of it, without turning round to take a view of the arms, and making a vow at the same time, that it was the last time he would ever set his foot in it again, till the bend-sinister was taken out—but like the affair of the hinge, it was one of the many things which the Destinies had set down in their books—ever to be grumbled at (and in wiser families than ours)—but never to be mended.
—Has the bend-sinister been brush’d out, I say? said my father—There has been nothing brush’d out, Sir, answered Obadiah, but the lining. We’ll go o’horse-back, said my father, turning to Yorick —Of all things in the world, except politicks, the clergy know the least of heraldry, said Yorick —No matter for that, cried my father—I should be sorry to appear with a blot in my escutcheon4 before them——Never mind the bend-sinister, said my uncle Toby, putting on his tye-wig—No, indeed, said my father,—you may go with my aunt Dinah to a visitation with a bend-sinister, if you think fit—My poor uncle Toby blush’d. My father was vexed at himself—No—my dear brother Toby, said my father, changing his tone—but the damp of the coach-lining about my loins, may give me the Sciatica again, as it did December, January, and February last winter— so if you please you shall ride my wife’s pad—and as you are to preach, Yorick, you had better make the best of your way before,— and leave me to take care of my brother Toby, and to follow at our own rates.
Now the chapter I was obliged to tear out, was the description of this cavalcade, in which corporal Trim and Obadiah, upon two coach-horses a-breast, led the way as slow as a patrole— whilst my uncle Toby, in his laced regimentals and tye-wig, kept his rank with my father, in deep roads and dissertations alternately upon the advantage of learning and arms, as each could get the start.
—But the painting of this journey, upon reviewing it, appears to be so much above the stile and manner of any thing else I have been able to paint in this book, that it could not have remained in it, without depreciating every other scene; and destroying at the same time that necessary equipoise and balance, (whether of good or bad) betwixt chapter and chapter, from whence the just proportions and harmony of the whole work results. For my own part, I am but just set up in the business, so know little about it—but, in my opinion, to write a book is for all the world like humming a song—be but in tune with yourself, madam, ’tis no matter how high or how low you take it.—
—This is the reason, may it please your reverences, that some of the lowest and flattest compositions pass off very well—(as Yorick told my uncle Toby one night) by siege5—My uncle Toby looked brisk at the sound of the word siege, but could make neither head or tail of it.
I’m to preach at court next Sunday, said Homenas6— run over my notes—so I humm’d over doctor Homenas’s notes— the modulation’s very well—’twill do, Homenas, if it holds on at this rate—so on I humm’d—and a tolerable tune I thought it was; and to this hour, may it please your reverences, had never found out how low, how flat, how spiritless and jejune it was, but that all of a sudden, up started an air in the middle of it, so fine, so rich, so heavenly—it carried my soul up with it into the other world; now had I, (as Montaigne complained7 in a parallel accident)—had I found the declivity easy, or the ascent accessible—certes I had been outwitted—Your notes, Homenas, I should have said, are good notes,—but it was so perpendicular a precipice—so wholly cut off from the rest of the work, that by the first note I humm’d, I found myself flying into the other world, and from then
ce discovered the vale from whence I came, so deep, so low, and dismal, that I shall never have the heart to descend into it again.
A dwarf who brings a standard along with him to measure his own size—take my word, is a dwarf in more articles than one—And so much for tearing out of chapters.
CHAP. XXVI.
—SEE if he is not cutting it all into slips, and giving them about him to light their pipes!1—’Tis abominable, answered Didms; it should not go unnoticed, said doctor Kysarcms2— he was of the Kysaraj of the low countries.
Methinks, said Didms, half rising from his chair, in order to remove a bottle and a tall decanter, which stood in a direct line betwixt him and Yorick— you might have spared this sarcastick stroke, and have hit upon a more proper place, Mr. Yorick— or at least upon a more proper occasion to have shewn your contempt of what we have been about: If the Sermon is of no better worth than to light pipes with—’twas certainly, Sir, not good enough to be preached before so learned a body; and if ’twas good enough to be preached before so learned a body— ’twas certainly, Sir, too good to light their pipes with afterwards.
—I have got him fast hung up, quoth Didms to himself, upon one of the two horns of my dilemma—let him get off as he can.
I have undergone such unspeakable torments, in bringing forth this sermon, quoth Yorick, upon this occasion,—that I declare, Didms, I would suffer martyrdom—and if it was possible my horse with me, a thousand times over, before I would sit down and make such another: I was delivered of it at the wrong end of me—it came from my head instead of my heart3— and it is for the pain it gave me, both in the writing and preaching of it, that I revenge myself of it, in this manner.—To preach, to shew the extent of our reading, or the subtleties of our wit—to parade it in the eyes of the vulgar with the beggarly accounts of a little learning, tinseled over with a few words which glitter, but convey little light and less warmth—is a dishonest use of the poor single half hour in a week which is put into our hands— ’Tis not preaching the gospel—but ourselves—For my own part, continued Yorick, I had rather direct five words point blank to the heart4—
As Yorick pronounced the word point blank, my uncle Toby rose up to say something upon projectiles——when a single word, and no more, uttered from the opposite side of the table, drew every one’s ears towards it—a word of all others in the dictionary the last in that place to be expected—a word I am ashamed to write—yet must be written—must be read;— illegal—uncanonical—guess ten thousand guesses, multiplied into themselves—rack—torture your invention for ever, you’re where you was—In short, I’ll tell it in the next chapter.
CHAP. XXVII.
ZOUNDS!;1———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————— Z——ds! cried Phutatorius,2 partly to himself—and yet high enough to be heard—and what seemed odd, ’twas uttered in a construction of look, and in a tone of voice, somewhat between that of a man in amazement, and of one in bodily pain.
One or two who had very nice ears, and could distinguish the expression and mixture of the two tones as plainly as a third or a fifth, or any other chord in musick—were the most puzzled and perplexed with it—the concord was good in itself—but then ’twas quite out of the key, and no way applicable to the subject started;—so that with all their knowledge, they could not tell what in the world to make of it.
Others who knew nothing of musical expression, and merely lent their ears to the plain import of the word, imagined that Phutatorius, who was somewhat of a cholerick spirit, was just going to snatch the cudgels out of Didius’s hands, in order to bemawl Yorick to some purpose—and that the desperate monosyllable Z——ds was the exordium to an oration, which, as they judged from the sample, presaged but a rough kind of handling of him; so that my uncle Toby’s good nature felt a pang for what Yorick was about to undergo. But seeing Phutatorius stop short, without any attempt or desire to go on—a third party began to suppose, that it was no more than an involuntary respiration, casually forming itself into the shape of a twelve-penny oath3—without the sin or substance of one.
Others, and especially one or two who sat next him, looked upon it on the contrary, as a real and substantial oath propensly formed against Yorick, to whom he was known to bear no good liking—which said oath, as my father philosophized upon it, actually lay fretting and fuming at that very time in the upper regions of Phutatorius’s purtenance; and so was naturally, and according to the due course of things, first squeezed out by the sudden influx of blood, which was driven into the right ventricle of Phutatorius’s heart, by the stroke of surprize which so strange a theory of preaching had excited.
How finely we argue upon mistaken facts!
There was not a soul busied in all these various reasonings upon the monosyllable which Phutatorius uttered,—who did not take this for granted, proceeding upon it as from an axiom, namely, that Phutatorius’s mind was intent upon the subject of debate which was arising between Didius and Yorick; and indeed as he looked first towards the one, and then towards the other, with the air of a man listening to what was going forwards,—who would not have thought the same? But the truth was, that Phutatorius knew not one word or one syllable of what was passing—but his whole thoughts and attention were taken up with a transaction which was going forwards at that very instant within the precincts of his own Galligaskins, and in a part of them, where of all others he stood most interested to watch accidents: So that notwithstanding he looked with all the attention in the world, and had gradually skrewed up every nerve and muscle in his face, to the utmost pitch the instrument would bear, in order, as it was thought, to give a sharp reply to Yorick, who sat over-against him—Yet I say, was Yorick never once in any one domicile of Phutatorius’s brain—but the true cause of his exclamation lay at least a yard below.4
This I will endeavour to explain to you with all imaginable decency.
You must be informed then, that Gastripheres,5 who had taken a turn into the kitchen a little before dinner, to see how things went on—observing a wicker-basket of fine chesnuts standing upon the dresser, had ordered that a hundred or two of them might be roasted and sent in, as soon as dinner was over— Gastripheres inforcing his orders about them, that Didius, but Phutatorius especially, were particularly fond of ’em.
About two minutes before the time that my uncle Toby interrupted Yorick’s harangue—Gastripheres’s chesnuts were brought in—and as Phutatorius’s fondness for ’em, was uppermost in the waiter’s head, he laid them directly before Phutatorius, wrapt up hot in a clean damask napkin.
Now whether it was physically impossible, with half a dozen hands all thrust into the napkin at a time—but that some one chesnut, of more life and rotundity than the rest, must be put in motion—it so fell out, however, that one was actually sent rolling off the table; and as Phutatorius sat straddling under— it fell perpendicularly into that particular aperture of Phutatorius’s breeches, for which, to the shame and indelicacy of our language be it spoke, there is no chaste word throughout all Johnson’s dictionary6—let it suffice to say—it was that particular aperture, which in all good societies, the laws of decorum do strictly require, like the temple of Janus 7 (in peace at least) to be universally shut up.
The neglect of this punctilio in Phutatorius (which by the bye should be a warning to all mankind) had opened a door to this accident.—
—Accident, I call it, in compliance to a received mode of speaking,—but in no opposition to the opinion either of Acrites or Mythogeras 8 in this matter; I know they were both prepossessed and fully persuaded of it—and are so to this hour, That ther
e was nothing of accident in the whole event—but that the chesnut’s taking that particular course, and in a manner of its own accord—and then falling with all its heat directly into that one particular place, and noother——was a real judgment upon Phutatorius, for that filthy and obscene treatise de Concubinis retinendis,9 which Phutatorius had published about twenty years ago—and was that identical week going to give the world a second edition of.
It is not my business to dip my pen in this controversy—— muchundoubtedly may be wrote on both side soft he question— all that concerns me as an historian, is to represent the matter of fact, and render it credible to the reader, that the hiatus in Phutatorius’s breeches was sufficiently wide to receive the chesnut;—and that the chesnut, some how or other, did fall perpendicularly and piping hot into it, without Phutatorius’s perceiving it, or any one else at that time.
The genial warmth which the chesnut imparted, was not undelectable for the first twenty or five and twenty seconds,— and did no more than gently solicit Phutatorius’s attention towards the part:—But the heat gradually increasing, and in a few seconds more getting beyond the point of all sober pleasure, and then advancing with all speed into the regions of pain,— the soul of Phutatorius, together with all his ideas, his thoughts, his attention, his imagination, judgment, resolution, deliberation, ratiocination, memory, fancy, with ten batallions of animal spirits, all tumultuously crouded down, through different defiles and circuits, to the place in danger, leaving all his upper regions, as you may imagine, as empty as my purse.
With the best intelligence which all these messengers could bring him back, Phutatorius was not able to dive into the secret of what was going forwards below, nor could he make any kind of conjecture, what the devil was the matter with it: However, as he knew not what the true cause might turn out, he deemed it most prudent, in the situation he was in at present, to bear it, if possible, like a stoick; which, with the help of some wry faces and compursions10 of the mouth, he had certainly accomplished, had his imagination continued neuter—but the sallies of the imagination are ungovernable in things of this kind—a thought instantly darted into his mind, that tho’ the anguish had the sensation of glowing heat—it might, notwithstanding that, be a bite as well as a burn; and if so, that possibly a Newt or an Asker,11 or some such detested reptile, had crept up, and was fastening his teeth—the horrid idea of which, with a fresh glow of pain arising that instant from the chesnut, seized Phutatorius with a sudden panick, and in the first terrifying disorder of the passion it threw him, as it has done the best generals upon earth, quite off his guard;—the effect of which was this, that he leapt incontinently up, uttering as he rose that interjection of surprise so much discanted upon, with the aposiopestick-break12 after it, marked thus, Z——ds—which, though not strictly canonical, was still as little as any man could have said upon the occasion;——and which, by the bye, whether canonical or not, Phutatorius could no more help than he could the cause of it.