No ----I think, I said, I would write two volumes every year, provided the vile cough which then tormented me, and which to this hour I dread worse than the devil, would but give me leave--and in another place--(but where, I can't recollect now) speaking of my book as a _machine_, and laying my pen and ruler down cross-wise upon the table, in order to gain the greater credit to it --I swore it should be kept a going at that rate these forty years, if it pleased but the fountain of life to bless me so long with health and good spirits.
Now as for my spirits, little have I to lay to their charge--nay so very little (unless the mounting me upon a long stick and playing the fool with me nineteen hours out of the twenty-four, be accusations) that on the contrary, I have much--much to thank 'em for: cheerily have ye made me tread the path of life with all the burthens of it (except its cares) upon my back; in no one moment of my existence, that I remember, have ye once deserted me, or tinged the objects which came in my way, either with sable, or with a sickly green; in dangers ye gilded my horizon with hope, and when DEATH himself knocked at my door--ye bad him come again; and in so gay a tone of careless indifference did ye do it, that he doubted of his commission----
"--There must certainly be some mistake in this matter," quoth he.
Now there is nothing in this world I abominate worse, than to be interrupted in a story----and I was that moment telling _Eugenius_ a most tawdry one in my way, of a nun who fancied herself a shell-fish, and of a monk damn'd for eating a muscle, and was shewing him the grounds and justice of the procedure----
"--Did ever so grave a personage get into so vile a scrape?" quoth Death. Thou hast had a narrow escape, _Tristram_, said _Eugenius_, taking hold of my hand as I finished my story----
But there is no _living_, _Eugenius_, replied I, at this rate; for as this _son of a whore_ has found out my lodgings----

No - I think, I said, I would write two volumes every year, provided the vile cough which then tormented me, and which I dread worse than the devil, would allow me - and in another place (but where, I can't recollect now) I swore it should be kept going at that rate these forty years, if I were blessed so long with health and good spirits.
Now as for my spirits, apart from playing the fool with me nineteen hours out of the twenty-four, I have much to thank 'em for. Cheerily have ye made me tread the path of life with all its burdens upon my back; ye have never once deserted me. In dangers ye gilded my horizon with hope, and when Death himself knocked at my door - ye bade him come again, in so gay and careless a tone that he doubted his mission-
'There must certainly be some mistake,' quoth he.
Now there is nothing in this world I hate worse, than to be interrupted in a story - and I was that moment telling Eugenius a most tawdry one, of a nun who fancied herself a shell-fish, and of a monk damned for eating a mussel, and was showing him the justice of the procedure-
'Did ever so grave a person get into so vile a scrape?' quoth Death.
'Thou hast had a narrow escape, Tristram,' said Eugenius, taking my hand as I finished my story.
'But there is no living, Eugenius,' replied I, 'now that this son of a whore has found out my lodgings. 