The life and opinions of Tristram Shandy, gentleman

so fair, so quick- witted and amiable a maid; and better fate did _Maria_ deserve, than to have her Banns forbid, by the intrigues of the curate of the parish who published them—— He was going on, when _Maria_, who had made a short pause, put the pipe to her mouth, and began the air again——they were the same notes;——yet were ten times sweeter: It is the evening service to the Virgin, said the young man——but who has taught her to play it—or how she came by her pipe, no one knows; we think that heaven has assisted her in both; for ever since she has been unsettled in her mind, it seems her only consolation——she has never once had the pipe out of her hand, but plays that _service_ upon it almost night and day. The postillion delivered this with so much discretion and natural eloquence, that I could not help decyphering something in his face above his condition, and should have sifted out his history, had not poor _Maria_ taken such full possession of me. We had got up by this time almost to the bank where _Maria_ was sitting: she was in a thin white jacket, with her hair, all but two tresses, drawn up into a silk-net, with a few olive leaves twisted a little fantastically on one side——she was beautiful; and if ever I felt the full force of an honest heart-ache, it was the moment I saw her—— ——God help her! poor damsel! above a hundred masses, said the postillion, have been said in the several parish churches and convents around, for her,——but without effect; we have still hopes, as she is sensible for short intervals, that the Virgin at last will restore her to herself; but her parents, who know her best, are hopeless upon that score, and think her senses are lost for ever. As the postillion spoke this, MARIA made a cadence so melancholy, so tender and querulous, that I sprung out of the chaise to help her, and found myself sitting betwixt her and her goat before I relapsed from my enthusiasm. MARIA look’d wistfully for some time at me, and then at her goat——and then at me——and then at her goat again, and so on, alternately—— ——Well, _Maria_, said I softly——What resemblance do you find? I do entreat the candid reader to believe me, that it was from the humblest conviction of what a _Beast_ man is,——that I asked the question; and that I would not have let fallen an unseasonable pleasantry in the venerable presence of Misery, to be entitled to all the wit that ever _Rabelais_ scatter’d——and yet I own my heart smote me, and that I so smarted at the very idea of it, that I swore I would set up for Wisdom, and utter grave sentences the rest of my days——and never——never attempt again to commit mirth with man, woman, or child, the longest day I had to live. As for writing nonsense to them——I believe there was a reserve—but that I leave to the world. Adieu, _Maria!_—adieu, poor hapless damsel!——some time, but not now, I may hear thy sorrows from thy own lips——but I was deceived; for that moment she took her pipe and told me such a tale of woe with it, that I rose up, and with broken and irregular steps walk’d softly to my chaise. ——What an excellent inn at _Moulins!_ [44] He lost his hand at the battle of _Lepanto._ C H A P. LXXXIV WHEN we have got to the end of this chapter (but not before) we must all turn back to the two blank chapters, on the account of which my honour has lain bleeding this half hour——I stop it, by pulling off one of my yellow slippers and throwing it with all my violence to the opposite side of my room, with a declaration at the heel of it—— ——That whatever resemblance it may bear to half the chapters which are written in the world, or for aught I know may be now writing in it—that it was as casual as the foam of _Zeuxis_ his horse; besides, I look upon a chapter which has _only nothing in it_, with respect; and considering what worse things there are in the world——That it is no way a proper subject for satire—— ——Why then was it left so? And here without staying for my reply, shall I be called as many blockheads, numsculs, doddypoles, dunderheads, ninny-hammers, goosecaps, joltheads, nincompoops, and sh- -t-a-beds——and other unsavoury appellations, as ever the cake-bakers of _Lernè_ cast in the teeth of King _Garangantan_’s shepherds——And I’ll let them do it, as _Bridget_ said, as much as they please; for how was it possible they should foresee the necessity I was under of writing the 84th chapter of my book, before the 77th, &c? ——So I don’t take it amiss——All I wish is, that it may be a lesson to the world, “_to let people tell their stories their own way._” The Seventy-seventh Chapter AS Mrs. _Bridget_ opened the door before the corporal had well given the rap, the interval betwixt that and my uncle _Toby_’s introduction into the parlour, was so short, that Mrs. _Wadman_ had but just time to get from behind the curtain——lay a Bible upon the table, and advance a step or two towards the door to receive him. My uncle _Toby_ saluted Mrs. _Wadman_, after the manner in which women were saluted by men in the year of our Lord God one thousand seven hundred and thirteen——then facing about, he march’d up abreast with her to the sopha, and in three plain words——though not before he was sat down——nor after he was sat down——but as he was sitting down, told her, “_he was in love_”——so that my uncle _Toby_ strained himself more in the declaration than he needed. Mrs. _Wadman_ naturally looked down, upon a slit she had been darning up in her apron, in expectation every moment, that my uncle _Toby_ would go on; but having no talents for amplification, and Love moreover of all others being a subject of which he was the least a master——When he had told Mrs. _Wadman_ once that he loved her, he let it alone, and left the matter to work after its own way. My father was always in raptures with this system of my uncle _Toby_’s, as he falsely called it, and would often say, that could his brother _Toby_ to his processe have added but a pipe of tobacco——he had wherewithal to have found his way, if there was faith in a _Spanish_ proverb, towards the hearts of half the women upon the globe. My uncle _Toby_ never understood what my father meant; nor will I presume to extract more from it, than a condemnation of an error which the bulk of the world lie under——but the _French_, every one of ’em to a man, who believe in it, almost as much as the REAL PRESENCE, “_That talking of love, is making it._” ——I would as soon set about making a black-pudding by the same receipt. Let us go on: Mrs. _Wadman_ sat in expectation my uncle _Toby_ would do so, to almost the first pulsation of that minute, wherein silence on one side or the other, generally becomes indecent: so edging herself a little more towards him, and raising up her eyes, sub blushing, as she did it——she took up the gauntlet——or the discourse (if you like it better) and communed with my uncle _Toby_, thus: The cares and disquietudes of the marriage state, quoth Mrs. _Wadman_, are very great. I suppose so—said my uncle _Toby:_ and therefore when a person, continued Mrs. _Wadman_, is so much at his ease as you are—so happy, captain _Shandy_, in yourself, your friends and your amusements—I wonder, what reasons can incline you to the state—— ——They are written, quoth my uncle _Toby_, in the Common-Prayer Book. Thus far my uncle _Toby_ went on warily, and kept within his depth, leaving Mrs. _Wadman_ to sail upon the gulph as she pleased. ——As for children—said Mrs. _Wadman_—though a principal end perhaps of the institution, and the natural wish, I suppose, of every parent—yet do not we all find, they are certain sorrows, and very uncertain comforts? and what is there, dear sir, to pay one for the heart-achs—what compensation for the many tender and disquieting apprehensions of a suffering and defenceless mother who brings them into life? I declare, said my uncle _Toby_, smit with pity, I know of none; unless it be the pleasure which it has pleased God—— A fiddlestick! quoth she. Chapter the Seventy-eighth NOW there are such an infinitude of notes, tunes, cants, chants, airs, looks, and accents with which the word _fiddlestick_ may be pronounced in all such causes as this, every one of ’em impressing a sense and meaning as different from the other, as _dirt_ from _cleanliness_—That Casuists (for it is an affair of conscience on that score) reckon up no less than fourteen thousand in which you may do either right or wrong. Mrs. _Wadman_ hit upon the _fiddlestick_, which summoned up all my uncle _Toby_’s modest blood into his cheeks—so feeling within himself that he had somehow or other got beyond his depth, he stopt short; and without entering further either into the pains or pleasures of matrimony, he laid his hand upon his heart, and made an offer to take them as they were, and share them along with her. When my uncle _Toby_ had said this, he did not care to say it again; so casting his eye upon the Bible which Mrs. _Wadman_ had laid upon the table, he took it up; and popping, dear soul! upon a passage in it, of all others the most interesting to him—which was the siege of _Jericho_—he set himself to read it over—leaving his proposal of marriage, as he had done his declaration of love, to work with her after its own way. Now it wrought neither as an astringent or a loosener; nor like opium, or bark, or mercury, or buckthorn, or any one drug which nature had bestowed upon the world—in short, it work’d not at all in her; and the cause of that was, that there was something working there before——Babbler that I am! I have anticipated what it was a dozen times; but there is fire still in the subject——allons. C H A P. LXXXV IT is natural for a perfect stranger who is going from _London_ to _Edinburgh_, to enquire before he sets out, how many miles to _York;_ which is about the half way——nor does any body wonder, if he goes on and asks about the corporation, &c. - - It was just as natural for Mrs. _Wadman_, whose first husband was all his time afflicted with a Sciatica, to wish to know how far from the hip to the groin; and how far she was likely to suffer more or less in her feelings, in the one case than in the other. She had accordingly read _Drake_’s anatomy from one end to the other. She had peeped into _Wharton_ upon the brain, and borrowed[45] _Graaf_ upon the bones and muscles; but could make nothing of it. She had reason’d likewise from her own powers——laid down theorems——drawn consequences, and come to no conclusion. To clear up all, she had twice asked Doctor _Slop_, “if poor captain _Shandy_ was ever likely to recover of his wound——?” ——He is recovered, Doctor _Slop_ would say—— What! quite? Quite: madam—— But what do you mean by a recovery? Mrs. _Wadman_ would say. Doctor _Slop_ was the worst man alive at definitions; and so Mrs. _Wadman_ could get no knowledge: in short, there was no way to extract it, but from my uncle _Toby_ himself. There is an accent of humanity in an enquiry of this kind which lulls SUSPICION to rest——and I am half persuaded the serpent got pretty near it, in his discourse with Eve; for the propensity in the sex to be deceived could not be so great, that she should have boldness to hold chat with the devil, without it——But there is an accent of humanity——how shall I describe it?—’tis an accent which covers the part with a garment, and gives the enquirer a right to be as particular with it, as your body-surgeon. “——Was it without remission?— “——Was it more tolerable in bed? “——Could he lie on both sides alike with it? “——Was he able to mount a horse? “——Was motion bad for it?’ _et cætera_, were so tenderly spoke to, and so directed towards my uncle _Toby_’s heart, that every item of them