I wish my uncle _Toby_ had been a water-drinker; for then the thing had been accounted for, That the first moment Widow _Wadman_ saw him, she felt something stirring within her in his favour --Something! --something.
--Something perhaps more than friendship--less than love--something--no matter what--no matter where --I would not give a single hair off my mule's tail, and be obliged to pluck it off myself (indeed the villain has not many to spare, and is not a little vicious into the bargain), to be let by your worships into the secret----
But the truth is, my uncle _Toby_ was not a water-drinker; he drank it neither pure nor mix'd, or any how, or any where, except fortuitously upon some advanced posts, where better liquor was not to be had----or during the time he was under cure; when the surgeon telling him it would extend the fibres, and bring them sooner into contact----my uncle _Toby_ drank it for quietness sake.
Now as all the world knows, that no effect in nature can be produced without a cause, and as it is as well known, that my uncle _Toby_ was neither a weaver--a gardener, or a gladiator----unless as a captain, you will needs have him one--but then he was only a captain of foot--and besides, the whole is an equivocation ----There is nothing left for us to suppose, but that my uncle _Toby's_ leg----but that will avail us little in the present hypothesis, unless it had proceeded from some ailment _in the foot_--whereas his leg was not emaciated from any disorder in his foot--for my uncle _Toby's_ leg was not emaciated at all. It was a little stiff and awkward, from a total disuse of it, for the three years he lay confined at my father's house in town; but it was plump and muscular, and in all other respects as good and promising a leg as the other.
I declare, I do not recollect any one opinion or passage of my life, where my understanding was more at a loss to make ends meet, and torture the chapter I had been writing, to the service of the chapter following it, than in the present case: one would think I took a pleasure in running into difficulties of this kind, merely to make fresh experiments of getting out of 'em ----Inconsiderate soul that thou art! What! are not the unavoidable distresses with which, as an author and a man, thou art hemm'd in on every side of thee----are they, _Tristram_, not sufficient, but thou must entangle thyself still more?
Is it not enough that thou art in debt, and that thou hast ten cart-loads of thy fifth and sixth volumes[8.3] still--still unsold, and art almost at thy wit's ends, how to get them off thy hands?

I wish my uncle Toby had been a water-drinker; for that would have accounted for Widow Wadman feeling something stirring within her in his favour, the first time she saw him. - Something! something.
- Something perhaps more than friendship - less than love - something - no matter what - no matter where-
But the truth is, my uncle Toby was not a water-drinker; he drank it neither pure nor mixed, except where better drink was not to be had - or while he was under cure. When the surgeon told him it would extend the fibres, and mend them sooner - my uncle Toby drank it for quietness sake.
Now as no effect in nature can be produced without a cause, and as my uncle Toby was neither a weaver, a gardener, or a gladiator - unless by that you mean a captain of foot - we can only suppose that my uncle Toby's leg - but that will not aid us in this hypothesis, unless it proceeded from some ailment in the foot, which it did not - for my uncle Toby's leg was not emaciated at all. It was a little stiff and awkward, from total disuse for the three years he lay confined at my father's house; but it was plump and muscular, and in all other respects as good a leg as the other.
I declare, I do not recollect any time of my life, where my understanding was more at a loss how to torture the chapter I had been writing, to the service of the chapter following it, than in this present case. One would think I enjoyed running into difficulties of this kind, merely to make fresh experiments in getting out of them.
- Are the distresses of an author not sufficient, Tristram, but thou must entangle thyself still more?
Is it not enough that thou art in debt, and that thou hast ten cart-loads of thy fifth and sixth volumes still unsold, and art almost at thy wit's ends, how to get them off thy hands?
