The first thing which entered my father's head, after affairs were a little settled in the family, and _Susannah_ had got possession of my mother's green sattin night-gown, --was to sit down coolly, after the example of _Xenophon_, and write a TRISTRA-pdia, or system of education for me; collecting first for that purpose his own scattered thoughts, counsels, and notions; and binding them together, so as to form an INSTITUTE for the government of my childhood and adolescence. I was my father's last stake--he had lost my brother _Bobby_ entirely, --he had lost, by his own computation, full three-fourths of me--that is, he had been unfortunate in his three first great casts for me--my geniture, nose, and name, --there was but this one left; and accordingly my father gave himself up to it with as much devotion as ever my uncle _Toby_ had done to his doctrine of projectils. --The difference between them was, that my uncle _Toby_ drew his whole knowledge of projectils from _Nicholas Tartaglia_ --My father spun his, every thread of it, out of his own brain, --or reeled and cross-twisted what all other spinners and spinsters had spun before him, that 'twas pretty near the same torture to him.
In about three years, or something more, my father had got advanced almost into the middle of his work. --Like all other writers, he met with disappointments. --He imagined he should be able to bring whatever he had to say, into so small a compass, that when it was finished and bound, it might be rolled up in my mother's hussive. --Matter grows under our hands. --Let no man say, --"Come --I'll write a duodecimo."
My father gave himself up to it, however, with the most painful diligence, proceeding step by step in every line, with the same kind of caution and circumspection (though I cannot say upon quite so religious a principle) as was used by _John de la Casse_, the lord archbishop of _Benevento_, in compassing his _Galatea_; in which his Grace of _Benevento_ spent near forty years of his life; and when the thing came out, it was not of above half the size or the thickness of a _Rider's_ Almanack. --How the holy man managed the affair, unless he spent the greatest part of his time in combing his whiskers, or playing at _primero_ with his chaplain, --would pose any mortal not let into the true secret; --and therefore 'tis worth explaining to the world, was it only for the encouragement of those few in it, who write not so much to be fed--as to be famous.
I own had _John de la Casse_, the archbishop of _Benevento_, for whose memory (notwithstanding his _Galatea_) I retain the highest veneration, --had he been, Sir, a slender clerk--of dull wit--slow parts--costive head, and so forth, --he and his _Galatea_ might have jogged on together to the age of _Methuselah_ for me, --the phnomenon had not been worth a parenthesis.--
But the reverse of this was the truth: _John de la Casse_ was a genius of fine parts and fertile fancy; and yet with all these advantages of nature, which should have pricked him forwards with his _Galatea_, he lay under an impuissance at the same time of advancing above a line and a half in the compass of a whole summer's day: this disability in his Grace arose from an opinion he was afflicted with, --which opinion was this, --_viz._ that whenever a Christian was writing a book (not for his private amusement, but) where his intent and purpose was, _bon fide_, to print and publish it to the world, his first thoughts were always the temptations of the evil one. --This was the state of ordinary writers: but when a personage of venerable character and high station, either in church or state, once turned author, --he maintained, that from the very moment he took pen in hand--all the devils in hell broke out of their holes to cajole him. --'Twas Term-time with them, --every thought, first and last, was captious; --how specious and good soever, --'twas all one; --in whatever form or colour it presented itself to the imagination, --'twas still a stroke of one or other of 'em levell'd at him, and was to be fenced off. --So that the life of a writer, whatever he might fancy to the contrary, was not so much a state of _composition_, as a state of _warfare_; and his probation in it, precisely that of any other man militant upon earth, --both depending alike, not half so much upon the degrees of his WIT--as his RESISTANCE.
My father was hugely pleased with this theory of _John de la Casse_, archbishop of _Benevento_; and (had it not cramped him a little in his creed) I believe would have given ten of the best acres in the _Shandy_ estate, to have been the broacher of it. --How far my father actually believed in the devil, will be seen, when I come to speak of my father's religious notions, in the progress of this work: 'tis enough to say here, as he could not have the honour of it, in the literal sense of the doctrine--he took up with the allegory of it; and would often say, especially when his pen was a little retrograde, there was as much good meaning, truth, and knowledge, couched under the veil of _John de la Casse's_ parabolical representation, --as was to be found in any one poetic fiction or mystic record of antiquity. --Prejudice of education, he would say, _is the devil_, --and the multitudes of them which we suck in with our mother's milk--_are the devil and all_. ----We are haunted with them, brother _Toby_, in all our lucubrations and researches; and was a man fool enough to submit tamely to what they obtruded upon him, --what would his book be? Nothing, --he would add, throwing his pen away with a vengeance, --nothing but a farrago of the clack of nurses, and of the nonsense of the old women (of both sexes) throughout the kingdom.
This is the best account I am determined to give of the slow progress my father made in his _Tristra-pdia_; at which (as I said) he was three years, and something more, indefatigably at work, and, at last, had scarce completed, by his own reckoning, one half of his undertaking: the misfortune was, that I was all that time totally neglected and abandoned to my mother: and what was almost as bad, by the very delay, the first part of the work, upon which my father had spent the most of his pains, was rendered entirely useless, ----every day a page or two became of no consequence.----
----Certainly it was ordained as a scourge upon the pride of human wisdom, That the wisest of us all should thus outwit ourselves, and eternally forego our purposes, in the intemperate act of pursuing them.
In short, my father was so long in all his acts of resistance, --or in other words, --he advanced so very slow with his work, and I began to live and get forwards at such a rate, that if an event had not happened, ----which, when we get to it, if it can be told with decency, shall not be concealed a moment from the reader ----I verily believe, I had put by my father, and left him drawing a sun-dial, for no better purpose than to be buried underground.
The first thing which entered my father's head, after affairs were a little settled in the family, and Susannah had got possession of my mother's green satin night-gown - was to sit down coolly, after Xenophon's example, and write a Tristra-paedia, or system of education for me; collecting his scattered thoughts, and binding them together, so as to form an Institute for the government of my childhood and adolescence.
I was my father's last stake - he had lost my brother Bobby entirely; he had lost, he reckoned, full three-fourths of me - that is, he had been unfortunate in his three first great casts of the dice for me - my begetting, my nose, and my name - but there was this one left.
Accordingly my father gave himself up to it with as much devotion as ever my uncle Toby gave to his study of projectiles. The difference was, that my uncle Toby drew his knowledge of projectiles from Nicholas Tartaglia. My father spun his knowledge, every thread of it, out of his own brain - or reeled and twisted what all other spinners had spun before him, which was pretty near the same thing.
In about three years, my father had almost reached the middle of his work. Like all other writers, he met with disappointments. He imagined he should be able to fit whatever he had to say into so small a space that, when it was finished and bound, it might be rolled up in my mother's pocket-case. Matter grows under our hands.
My father gave himself up to it, however, with painful diligence, proceeding step by step with the same caution as was used by John de la Casse, the archbishop of Benevento, in writing his Galatea, on which he spent near forty years; and when the thing came out, it was only half the size of a Rider's Almanack. How he managed it, unless he spent most of his time combing his whiskers, or playing at cards with his chaplain, would puzzle anyone not let into the true secret; and therefore 'tis worth explaining to the world.
I admit, if John de la Casse, for whose memory (despite his Galatea) I retain the highest respect,- if he had been, Sir, a slender clerk of dull wit, he and his Galatea might have jogged on together to the age of Methuselah, and have not been worth a mention.
But John de la Casse was a genius of fertile fancy; yet with the natural advantages which should have spurred him on with his Galatea, he was incapable of writing more than a line and a half in a whole summer's day. This disability arose from his opinion that, whenever a Christian was writing a book with the intent of publishing it to the world, his first thoughts were always the temptations of the evil one.
And, he maintained, when a person of high character and status turned author, from the very moment he took pen in hand - all the devils in hell broke out of their holes to cajole him. Every thought, however it came to him, was a stroke of one or other of these devils. So that the life of a writer was not so much a state of composition, as a state of warfare; and his success, like a soldier's, depended not so much upon his Wit as his Resistance.
My father was hugely pleased with this theory of John de la Casse. - How far my father actually believed in the devil will be seen when I come to speak of his religious notions: 'tis enough to say here, that he took up the allegory of the doctrine, if not its literal sense; and would often say there was as much good truth in John de la Casse's description as was to be found in any poetic fiction or ancient record.
'Prejudice of education,' he would say, 'is the devil - and the multitudes of them which we suck in with our mother's milk are the devil and all. We are haunted with them, brother Toby, in all our researches; and if a man was fool enough to submit tamely to them, what would his book be? Nothing,' he would add, throwing his pen away, - 'nothing but a farrago of the clack of nurses, and of the nonsense of the old women (of both sexes) throughout the kingdom.'
This is the best account I can give of the slow progress my father made in his Tristra-paedia; at which (as I said) he was over three years at work, and had scarce completed one half. The misfortune was, that I was all that time totally neglected and abandoned to my mother: and what was almost as bad, by the very delay, the first part of the work was rendered entirely useless - every day a page or two became outdated.
- Certainly it was ordained as a scourge upon our pride, that the wisest of us should thus outwit ourselves, and eternally deny our purposes, in the intemperate act of pursuing them.
In short, my father advanced so very slow with his work, and I began to get forwards at such a rate, that, if an event had not happened - which, if it can be told with decency, shall not be concealed a moment from the reader - I believe I would have outgrown it.
Book 5 - Chapter 16