The life and opinions of Tristram Shandy, gentleman
to men, as well as the ground they tread on——it had all along most
shamefully been overlook’d; and to speak the truth of it, had suffered
so much by it, that it would have made any man’s heart have bled
(_Obadiah_ said) who understood the value of the land, to have rode
over it, and only seen the condition it was in.
However, as neither the purchasing this tract of ground—nor indeed the
placing of it where it lay, were either of them, properly speaking, of
my father’s doing——he had never thought himself any way concerned in
the affair——till the fifteen years before, when the breaking out of
that cursed law-suit mentioned above (and which had arose about its
boundaries)——which being altogether my father’s own act and deed, it
naturally awakened every other argument in its favour, and upon summing
them all up together, he saw, not merely in interest, but in honour, he
was bound to do something for it——and that now or never was the time.
I think there must certainly have been a mixture of ill-luck in it,
that the reasons on both sides should happen to be so equally balanced
by each other; for though my father weigh’d them in all humours and
conditions——spent many an anxious hour in the most profound and
abstracted meditation upon what was best to be done—reading books of
farming one day——books of travels another——laying aside all passion
whatever—viewing the arguments on both sides in all their lights and
circumstances—communing every day with my uncle _Toby_—arguing with
_Yorick_, and talking over the whole affair of the _Ox-moor_ with
_Obadiah_——yet nothing in all that time appeared so strongly in behalf
of the one, which was not either strictly applicable to the other, or
at least so far counterbalanced by some consideration of equal weight,
as to keep the scales even.
For to be sure, with proper helps, in the hands of some people, tho’
the _Ox-moor_ would undoubtedly have made a different appearance in the
world from what it did, or ever could do in the condition it lay——yet
every tittle of this was true, with regard to my brother _Bobby_——let
_Obadiah_ say what he would.——
In point of interest——the contest, I own, at first sight, did not
appear so undecisive betwixt them; for whenever my father took pen and
ink in hand, and set about calculating the simple expence of paring and
burning, and fencing in the _Ox-moor_, &c. &c.—with the certain profit
it would bring him in return——the latter turned out so prodigiously in
his way of working the account, that you would have sworn the _Ox-moor_
would have carried all before it. For it was plain he should reap a
hundred lasts of rape, at twenty pounds a last, the very first
year——besides an excellent crop of wheat the year following——and the
year after that, to speak within bounds, a hundred——but in all
likelihood, a hundred and fifty——if not two hundred quarters of pease
and beans——besides potatoes without end.——But then, to think he was all
this while breeding up my brother, like a hog to eat them——knocked all
on the head again, and generally left the old gentleman in such a state
of suspense——that, as he often declared to my uncle _Toby_——he knew no
more than his heels what to do.
No body, but he who has felt it, can conceive what a plaguing thing it
is to have a man’s mind torn asunder by two projects of equal strength,
both obstinately pulling in a contrary direction at the same time: for
to say nothing of the havock, which by a certain consequence is
unavoidably made by it all over the finer system of the nerves, which
you know convey the animal spirits and more subtle juices from the
heart to the head, and so on——it is not to be told in what a degree
such a wayward kind of friction works upon the more gross and solid
parts, wasting the fat and impairing the strength of a man every time
as it goes backwards and forwards.
My father had certainly sunk under this evil, as certainly as he had
done under that of my CHRISTIAN NAME——had he not been rescued out of
it, as he was out of that, by a fresh evil——the misfortune of my
brother _Bobby_’s death.
What is the life of man! Is it not to shift from side to side?——from
sorrow to sorrow?——to button up one cause of vexation——and unbutton
another?
C H A P. LXVII
FROM this moment I am to be considered as heir-apparent to the _Shandy_
family——and it is from this point properly, that the story of my LIFE
and my OPINIONS sets out. With all my hurry and precipitation, I have
but been clearing the ground to raise the building——and such a building
do I foresee it will turn out, as never was planned, and as never was
executed since _Adam._ In less than five minutes I shall have thrown my
pen into the fire, and the little drop of thick ink which is left
remaining at the bottom of my ink-horn, after it—I have but half a
score things to do in the time——I have a thing to name——a thing to
lament——a thing to hope——a thing to promise, and a thing to threaten—I
have a thing to suppose—a thing to declare——a thing to conceal——a thing
to choose, and a thing to pray for——This chapter, therefore, I _name_
the chapter of THINGS——and my next chapter to it, that is, the first
chapter of my next volume, if I live, shall be my chapter upon
WHISKERS, in order to keep up some sort of connection in my works.
The thing I lament is, that things have crowded in so thick upon me,
that I have not been able to get into that part of my work, towards
which I have all the way looked forwards, with so much earnest desire;
and that is the Campaigns, but especially the amours of my uncle
_Toby_, the events of which are of so singular a nature, and so
Cervantick a cast, that if I can so manage it, as to convey but the
same impressions to every other brain, which the occurrences themselves
excite in my own—I will answer for it the book shall make its way in
the world, much better than its master has done before it.——Oh
_Tristram! Tristram!_ can this but be once brought about——the credit,
which will attend thee as an author, shall counterbalance the many
evils will have befallen thee as a man——thou wilt feast upon the
one——when thou hast lost all sense and remembrance of the other!——
No wonder I itch so much as I do, to get at these amours—They are the
choicest morsel of my whole story! and when I do get at ’em——assure
yourselves, good folks—(nor do I value whose squeamish stomach takes
offence at it) I shall not be at all nice in the choice of my
words!——and that’s the thing I have to _declare._——I shall never get
all through in five minutes, that I fear——and the thing I _hope_ is,
that your worships and reverences are not offended—if you are, depend
upon’t I’ll give you something, my good gentry, next year to be
offended at——that’s my dear _Jenny_’s way—but who my _Jenny_ is—and
which is the right and which the wrong end of a woman, is the thing to
be _concealed_—it shall be told you in the next chapter but one to my
chapter of Button-holes——and not one chapter before.
And now that you have just got to the end of these[21] three
volumes——the thing I have to _ask_ is, how you feel your heads? my own
akes dismally!——as for your healths, I know, they are much better.—True
_Shandeism_, think what you will against it, opens the heart and lungs,
and like all those affections which partake of its nature, it forces
the blood and other vital fluids of the body to run freely through its
channels, makes the wheel of life run long and cheerfully round.
Was I left, like _Sancho Pança_, to choose my kingdom, it should not be
maritime—or a kingdom of blacks to make a penny of;—no, it should be a
kingdom of hearty laughing subjects: And as the bilious and more
saturnine passions, by creating disorders in the blood and humours,
have as bad an influence, I see, upon the body politick as body
natural——and as nothing but a habit of virtue can fully govern those
passions, and subject them to reason——I should add to my prayer—that
God would give my subjects grace to be as WISE as they were MERRY; and
then should I be the happiest monarch, and they are the happiest people
under heaven.
And so with this moral for the present, may it please your worships and
your reverences, I take my leave of you till this time twelve-month,
when, (unless this vile cough kills me in the mean time) I’ll have
another pluck at your beards, and lay open a story to the world you
little dream of.
[21] According to the preceding Editions.
END OF THE SECOND VOLUME
Tristram Shandy
_Tristram Shandy_
THE
LIFE AND OPINIONS
OF
TRISTRAM SHANDY,
GENTLEMAN
———
Volume the Third
———
Dixero si quid fortè jocosius, hoc mihi juris
Cum venia dabis.—— HOR.
—Si quis calumnietur levius esse quam decet theologum, aut mordacius
quam deceat Christianum—non Ego, sed Democritus dixit.—
ERASMUS.
Si quis Clericus, aut Monachus, verba joculatoria, risum moventia,
sciebat, anathema esto. Second Council of CARTHAGE.
TO THE
RIGHT HONOURABLE
J O H N,
LORD VISCOUNT SPENCER
MY LORD,
I HUMBLY beg leave to offer you these two Volumes[22]; they are the
best my talents, with such bad health as I have, could produce:—had
Providence granted me a larger stock of either, they had been a much
more proper present to your Lordship.
I beg your Lordship will forgive me, if, at the same time I dedicate
this work to you, I join Lady SPENCER, in the liberty I take of
inscribing the story of _Le Fever_ to her name; for which I have no
other motive, which my heart has informed me of, but that the story is
a humane one.
I am,
MY LORD,
Your Lordship’s most devoted
and most humble Servant,
LAUR. STERNE.
[22] Volumes V. and VI. in the first Edition.
C H A P. I
IF it had not been for those two mettlesome tits, and that madcap of a
postillion who drove them from Stilton to Stamford, the thought had
never entered my head. He flew like lightning——there was a slope of
three miles and a half——we scarce touched the ground——the motion was
most rapid——most impetuous——’twas communicated to my brain—my heart
partook of it——“By the great God of day,” said I, looking towards the
sun, and thrusting my arm out of the fore-window of the chaise, as I
made my vow, “I will lock up my study-door the moment I get home, and
throw the key of it ninety feet below the surface of the earth, into
the draw-well at the back of my house.”
The London waggon confirmed me in my resolution; it hung tottering upon
the hill, scarce progressive, drag’d—drag’d up by eight _heavy
beasts_—“by main strength!——quoth I, nodding——but your betters draw the
same way——and something of every body’s!——O rare!”
Tell me, ye learned, shall we for ever be adding so much to the
_bulk_—so little to the _stock?_
Shall we for ever make new books, as apothecaries make new mixtures, by
pouring only out of one vessel into another?
Are we for ever to be twisting, and untwisting the same rope? for ever
in the same track—for ever at the same pace?
Shall we be destined to the days of eternity, on holy-days, as well as
working-days, to be shewing the _relicks of learning_, as monks do the
relicks of their saints—without working one—one single miracle with
them?
Who made Man, with powers which dart him from earth to heaven in a
moment—that great, that most excellent, and most noble creature of the
world—the _miracle_ of nature, as Zoroaster in his book ωεσι φυσεως
called him—the SHEKINAH of the divine presence, as Chrysostom——the
_image_ of God, as Moses——the _ray_ of divinity, as Plato—the _marvel_
of _marvels_, as Aristotle—to go sneaking on at this
pitiful—pimping——pettifogging rate?
I scorn to be as abusive as Horace upon the occasion——but if there is
no catachresis in the wish, and no sin in it, I wish from my soul, that