The life and opinions of Tristram Shandy, gentleman

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’elever & a 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 Puelques 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 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. C H A P. XLVI 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. C H A P. XLVII —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 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 / Deuce take ’em all—said my uncle _Toby_ and my father, each to himself. C H A P. XVLIII 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 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 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 third volume[14]—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 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 stair-foot—I thought you had no other way for it——Here’s a crown for your trouble. [14] According to the preceding Editions. C H A P. XLIX —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 eye-brow, 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. C H A P. L 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 recompence 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