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.

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.
