I know there are readers in the world, as well as many other good people in it, who are no readers at all, who find themselves ill at ease, unless they are let into the whole secret from first to last, of everything which concerns you.
It is in pure compliance with this humour of theirs, and from a backwardness in my nature to disappoint any one soul living, that I have been so very particular already. As my life and opinions are likely to make some noise in the world, and, if I conjecture right, will take in all ranks, professions, and denominations of men whatever, --be no less read than the _Pilgrim's Progress_ itself--and in the end, prove the very thing which _Montaigne_ dreaded his Essays should turn out, that is, a book for a parlour-window; --I find it necessary to consult every one a little in his turn; and therefore must beg pardon for going on a little farther in the same way: For which cause, right glad I am, that I have begun the history of myself in the way I have done; and that I am able to go on, tracing everything in it, as _Horace_ says, _ab Ovo_.
_Horace_, I know, does not recommend this fashion altogether: But that gentleman is speaking only of an epic poem or a tragedy; --(I forget which), --besides, if it was not so, I should beg Mr. _Horace's_ pardon; --for in writing what I have set about, I shall confine myself neither to his rules, nor to any man's rules that ever lived.
To such, however, as do not choose to go so far back into these things, I can give no better advice, than that they skip over the remaining part of this chapter; for I declare before-hand, 'tis wrote only for the curious and inquisitive.
------------Shut the door. -------------------------------------- I was begot in the night, betwixt the first _Sunday_ and the first _Monday_ in the month of _March_, in the year of our Lord one thousand seven hundred and eighteen. I am positive I was. --But how I came to be so very particular in my account of a thing which happened before I was born, is owing to another small anecdote known only in our own family, but now made publick for the better clearing up this point.
My father, you must know, who was originally a _Turkey_ merchant, but had left off business for some years, in order to retire to, and die upon, his paternal estate in the county of ------, was, I believe, one of the most regular men in everything he did, whether 'twas matter of business, or matter of amusement, that ever lived. As a small specimen of this extreme exactness of his, to which he was in truth a slave, --he had made it a rule for many years of his life, --on the first _Sunday-night_ of every month throughout the whole year, --as certain as ever the _Sunday-night_ came, ----to wind up a large house-clock, which we had standing on the back-stairs head, with his own hands: --And being somewhere between fifty and sixty years of age at the time I have been speaking of, --he had likewise gradually brought some other little family concernments to the same period, in order, as he would often say to my uncle _Toby_, to get them all out of the way at one time, and be no more plagued and pestered with them the rest of the month.
It was attended but with one misfortune, which, in a great measure, fell upon myself, and the effects of which I fear I shall carry with me to my grave; namely, that from an unhappy association of ideas, which have no connection in nature, it so fell out at length, that my poor mother could never hear the said clock wound up, ----but the thoughts of some other things unavoidably popped into her head--and _vice vers_: ----Which strange combination of ideas, the sagacious _Locke_, who certainly understood the nature of these things better than most men, affirms to have produced more wry actions than all other sources of prejudice whatsoever.
But this by the bye.
Now it appears by a memorandum in my father's pocket-book, which now lies upon the table, "That on _Lady-day_, which was on the 25th of the same month in which I date my geniture, ----my father set out upon his journey to _London_, with my eldest brother _Bobby_, to fix him at _Westminster_ school;" and, as it appears from the same authority, "That he did not get down to his wife and family till the _second week_ in _May_ following," --it brings the thing almost to a certainty. However, what follows in the beginning of the next chapter, puts it beyond all possibility of doubt.
------But pray, Sir, What was your father doing all _December_, _January_, and _February?_ ----Why, Madam, --he was all that time afflicted with a Sciatica.
I know there are readers who find themselves ill at ease unless they are let into the whole secret, from first to last, of everything which concerns you.
It is in order not to disappoint them that I have been so very particular already. As my life and opinions are likely to make some noise in the world, and will be no less read than the Pilgrim's Progress itself, I must beg pardon for going on a little further in the same way. Right glad I am, that I have begun the history of myself like this; tracing everything, as Horace says, ab Ovo, or from the Egg.
Horace, I know, does not recommend this fashion altogether: but he is speaking of an epic poem or a tragedy (I forget which); - besides, begging Mr. Horace's pardon, I shall confine myself neither to his rules, nor to any other man's.
To those, however, who do not choose to go so far back, I can only advise that they skip over the rest of this chapter; for 'tis wrote only for the curious and inquisitive.
------Shut the door. -----
I was begot in the night betwixt the first Sunday and the first Monday of March, 1718. I am positive I was, owing to another small anecdote known only in our family, but now made public to clear up this point.
My father, you must know, who was originally a Turkey merchant trading with the Levant, had left off business for some years, in order to retire to his estate in the country.
He was, I believe, one of the most regular men that ever lived in everything he did, whether business, or amusement. For example, he had made it a rule for many years, on the first Sunday-night of every month, to wind up a large clock which we had standing on the back-stairs. And being somewhere between fifty and sixty years of age at the time, he had likewise gradually brought some other little marital concerns to the same day - in order, as he would often say to my uncle Toby, to get them all out of the way at the same time, and be no more plagued and pestered with them the rest of the month.
The arrangement brought with it one misfortune, the effects of which I fear I shall carry with me to my grave; namely, that from an unhappy association of ideas, at length my poor mother could never hear the said clock being wound up, without the thoughts of some other things unavoidably popping into her head - and vice versa.
Now it appears by a memorandum in my father's pocket-book, which now lies upon the table, that on the 25th of the month in which I was conceived, my father set out to London with my elder brother Bobby, to fix him at Westminster school; and, as it appears from the same book that he did not return to his wife and family till the second week in May, it makes the thing almost certain. However, what follows in the beginning of the next chapter, puts it beyond all doubt.
- But pray, Sir, What was your father doing all December, January, and February?
- Why, Madam, he was all that time afflicted with a Sciatica.
Book 1 - Chapter 4