---- ----And a chapter it shall have, and a devil of a one too--so look to yourselves.
'Tis either _Plato_, or _Plutarch_, or _Seneca_, or _Xenophon_, or _Epictetus_, or _Theophrastus_, or _Lucian_--or some one perhaps of later date--either _Cardan_, or _Budus_, or _Petrarch_, or _Stella_--or possibly it may be some divine or father of the church, St. _Austin_, or St. _Cyprian_, or _Barnard_, who affirms that it is an irresistible and natural passion to weep for the loss of our friends or children--and _Seneca_ (I'm positive) tells us somewhere, that such griefs evacuate themselves best by that particular channel --And accordingly we find, that _David_ wept for his son _Absalom_--_Adrian_ for his _Antinous_--_Niobe_ for her children, and that _Apollodorus_ and _Crito_ both shed tears for _Socrates_ before his death.
My father managed his affliction otherwise; and indeed differently from most men either ancient or modern; for he neither wept it away, as the _Hebrews_ and the _Romans_--or slept it off, as the _Laplanders_--or hanged it, as the _English_, or drowned it, as the _Germans_--nor did he curse it, or damn it, or excommunicate it, or rhyme it, or lillabullero it.----
----He got rid of it, however.
Will your worships give me leave to squeeze in a story between these two pages?
When _Tully_ was bereft of his dear daughter _Tullia_, at first he laid it to his heart, --he listened to the voice of nature, and modulated his own unto it. --O my _Tullia!_ my daughter! my child! --still, still, still, --'twas O my _Tullia!_--my _Tullia!_ Methinks I see my _Tullia_, I hear my _Tullia_, I talk with my _Tullia_. --But as soon as he began to look into the stores of philosophy, and consider how many excellent things might be said upon the occasion--nobody upon earth can conceive, says the great orator, how happy, how joyful it made me.
My father was as proud of his eloquence as MARCUS TULLIUS CICERO could be for his life, and, for aught I am convinced of to the contrary at present, with as much reason: it was indeed his strength--and his weakness too. ----His strength--for he was by nature eloquent; and his weakness--for he was hourly a dupe to it; and, provided an occasion in life would but permit him to shew his talents, or say either a wise thing, a witty, or a shrewd one--(bating the case of a systematic misfortune)--he had all he wanted. --A blessing which tied up my father's tongue, and a misfortune which let it loose with a good grace, were pretty equal: sometimes, indeed, the misfortune was the better of the two; for instance, where the pleasure of the harangue was as _ten_, and the pain of the misfortune but as _five_--my father gained half in half, and consequently was as well again off, as if it had never befallen him.
This clue will unravel what otherwise would seem very inconsistent in my father's domestic character; and it is this, that, in the provocations arising from the neglects and blunders of servants, or other mishaps unavoidable in a family, his anger or rather the duration of it, eternally ran counter to all conjecture.
My father had a favourite little mare, which he had consigned over to a most beautiful Arabian horse, in order to have a pad out of her for his own riding: he was sanguine in all his projects; so talked about his pad every day with as absolute a security, as if it had been reared, broke, --and bridled and saddled at his door ready for mounting. By some neglect or other in _Obadiah_, it so fell out, that my father's expectations were answered with nothing better than a mule, and as ugly a beast of the kind as ever was produced.
My mother and my uncle _Toby_ expected my father would be the death of _Obadiah_--and that there never would be an end of the disaster. ----See here! you rascal, cried my father, pointing to the mule, what you have done! ----It was not me, said _Obadiah_. ----How do I know that? replied my father.
Triumph swam in my father's eyes, at the repartee--the _Attic_ salt brought water into them--and so _Obadiah_ heard no more about it.
Now let us go back to my brother's death.
Philosophy has a fine saying for everything. --For _Death_ it has an entire set; the misery was, they all at once rushed into my father's head, that 'twas difficult to string them together, so as to make anything of a consistent show out of them. --He took them as they came.
"'Tis an inevitable chance--the first statute in _Magna Charta_--it is an everlasting act of parliament, my dear brother, ----_All must die._
"If my son could not have died, it had been matter of wonder, --not that he is dead.
"Monarchs and princes dance in the same ring with us.
"--_To die_, is the great debt and tribute due unto nature: tombs and monuments, which should perpetuate our memories, pay it themselves; and the proudest pyramid of them all, which wealth and science have erected, has lost its apex, and stands obtruncated in the traveller's horizon." (My father found he got great ease, and went on)-- "Kingdoms and provinces, and towns and cities, have they not their periods? and when those principles and powers, which at first cemented and put them together, have performed their several evolutions, they fall back." --Brother _Shandy_, said my uncle _Toby_, laying down his pipe at the word _evolutions_ --Revolutions, I meant, quoth my father, --by heaven! I meant revolutions, brother _Toby_--evolutions is nonsense. ----'Tis not nonsense, --said my uncle _Toby_. ----But is it not nonsense to break the thread of such a discourse upon such an occasion? cried my father--do not--dear _Toby_, continued he, taking him by the hand, do not--do not, I beseech thee, interrupt me at this crisis. ----My uncle _Toby_ put his pipe into his mouth.
"Where is _Troy_ and _Mycen_, and _Thebes_ and _Delos_, and _Persepolis_ and _Agrigentum?_" --continued my father, taking up his book of post-cards, which he had laid down. --"What is become, brother _Toby_, of _Nineveh_ and _Babylon_, of _Cizicum_ and _Mitylen?_ The fairest towns that ever the sun rose upon, are now no more; the names only are left, and those (for many of them are wrong spelt) are falling themselves by piece-meals to decay, and in length of time will be forgotten, and involved with everything in a perpetual night: the world itself, brother _Toby_, must--must come to an end.
"Returning out of _Asia_, when I sailed from _gina_ towards _Megara_," (_when can this have been? thought my uncle Toby_) "I began to view the country round about. _gina_ was behind me, _Megara_ was before, _Pyrus_ on the right hand, _Corinth_ on the left. --What flourishing towns now prostrate upon the earth! Alas! alas! said I to myself, that man should disturb his soul for the loss of a child, when so much as this lies awfully buried in his presence ----Remember, said I to myself again--remember thou art a man."--
Now my uncle _Toby_ knew not that this last paragraph was an extract of _Servius Sulpicius's_ consolatory letter to _Tully_. --He had as little skill, honest man, in the fragments, as he had in the whole pieces of antiquity. --And as my father, whilst he was concerned in the _Turkey_ trade, had been three or four different times in the _Levant_, in one of which he had staid a whole year and an half at _Zant_, my uncle _Toby_ naturally concluded, that, in some one of these periods, he had taken a trip across the _Archipelago_ into _Asia_; and that all this sailing affair with _gina_ behind, and _Megara_ before, and _Pyrus_ on the right hand, &c., &c., was nothing more than the true course of my father's voyage and reflections. --'Twas certainly in his _manner_, and many an undertaking critic would have built two stories higher upon worse foundations. --And pray, brother, quoth my uncle _Toby_, laying the end of his pipe upon my father's hand in a kindly way of interruption--but waiting till he finished the account--what year of our Lord was this? --'Twas no year of our Lord, replied my father. --That's impossible, cried my uncle _Toby_. --Simpleton! said my father, --'twas forty years before Christ was born.
My uncle _Toby_ had but two things for it; either to suppose his brother to be the wandering _Jew_, or that his misfortunes had disordered his brain. --"May the Lord God of heaven and earth protect him and restore him," said my uncle _Toby_, praying silently for my father, and with tears in his eyes.
--My father placed the tears to a proper account, and went on with his harangue with great spirit.
"There is not such great odds, brother _Toby_, betwixt good and evil, as the world imagines"----(this way of setting off, by the bye, was not likely to cure my uncle _Toby's_ suspicions.)---- "Labour, sorrow, grief, sickness, want, and woe, are the sauces of life." --Much good may it do them--said my uncle _Toby_ to himself.------
"My son is dead! --so much the better; --'tis a shame in such a tempest to have but one anchor."
"But he is gone for ever from us! --be it so. He is got from under the hands of his barber before he was bald--he is but risen from a feast before he was surfeited--from a banquet before he had got drunken."
"The _Thracians_ wept when a child was born"--(and we were very near it, quoth my uncle _Toby_)-- "and feasted and made merry when a man went out of the world; and with reason. ----Death opens the gate of fame, and shuts the gate of envy after it, --it unlooses the chain of the captive, and puts the bondsman's task into another man's hands."
"Shew me the man, who knows what life is, who dreads it, and I'll shew thee a prisoner who dreads his liberty."
Is it not better, my dear brother _Toby_, (for mark--our appetites are but diseases)--is it not better not to hunger at all, than to eat? --not to thirst, than to take physic to cure it?
Is it not better to be freed from cares and agues, from love and melancholy, and the other hot and cold fits of life, than, like a galled traveller, who comes weary to his inn, to be bound to begin his journey afresh?
There is no terrour, brother _Toby_, in its looks, but what it borrows from groans and convulsions--and the blowing of noses and the wiping away of tears with the bottoms of curtains, in a dying man's room. --Strip it of these, what is it? --'Tis better in battle than in bed, said my uncle _Toby_. --Take away its herses, its mutes, and its mourning, --its plumes, scutcheons, and other mechanic aids --What is it? ----_Better in battle!_ continued my father, smiling, for he had absolutely forgot my brother _Bobby_--'tis terrible no way--for consider, brother _Toby_, --when we _are_--death is _not_; --and when death _is_--we are _not_. My uncle _Toby_ laid down his pipe to consider the proposition; my father's eloquence was too rapid to stay for any man--away it went, --and hurried my uncle _Toby's_ ideas along with it.----
For this reason, continued my father, 'tis worthy to recollect how little alteration, in great men, the approaches of death have made. --_Vespasian_ died in a jest upon his close-stool--_Galba_ with a sentence--_Septimus Severus_ in a dispatch--_Tiberius_ in dissimulation, and _Csar Augustus_ in a compliment. --I hope 'twas a sincere one--quoth my uncle _Toby_.
--'Twas to his wife, --said my father.

And a chapter it shall have, and a devil of a one too - so look out.
'Tis either Plato, or Plutarch, or Seneca, or Xenophon - or perhaps Cardan or Petrarch or Stella - or possibly it may be some church father, St. Austin or St. Cyprian, who affirms that it is an irresistible and natural passion to weep for the loss of our friends or children. And so we find that David wept for his son Absalom, Adrian for his Antinous, Niobe for her children, and Apollodorus shed tears for Socrates.
My father managed his affliction differently from most men; for he neither wept it away, or slept it off, as the Laplanders do, or hanged it, like the English; nor did he curse it, or damn it, or rhyme it, or lillabullero it.
He got rid of it, however.
Will your worships allow me to squeeze in a story?
When Tully was bereft of his dear daughter Tullia, at first he took it to heart, grieving, 'O my Tullia! my child! Methinks I see her, I hear her, I talk with my Tullia.'
But when he began to look into the stores of philosophy, and realise how many excellent things might be said upon the occasion - 'nobody can conceive,' says the great orator, 'how happy and joyful it made me.'
My father was proud of his eloquence, and with reason: it was indeed his strength - and his weakness too, for if an occasion would permit him to say either a wise thing, a witty, or a shrewd one - he had all he wanted. A blessing which tied up my father's tongue, and a misfortune which let it loose, were pretty equal: sometimes, indeed, the misfortune was the better. For instance, if the pleasure of the harangue was 10 and the pain of the misfortune only 5, my father gained from it.
This clue will unravel what otherwise would seem very inconsistent in my father's character; that when provoked by the blunders of servants and other family mishaps, his anger, or rather the duration of it, ran contrary to all conjecture.
My father had a favourite little mare, which he had bred with a most beautiful Arabian horse, in order to have a foal out of her for his own riding: he talked about this foal every day as if it had already been reared, broke, and saddled. By some neglect or other in Obadiah, it so fell out that my father's expectations were answered with nothing better than a mule, and as ugly a beast as ever was produced.
My mother and my uncle Toby expected my father would be the death of Obadiah - and that there would never be an end of it.
'See here! you rascal,' cried my father, pointing to the mule, 'what you have done!'
'It was not me,' said Obadiah.
'How do I know that?' replied my father.
Triumph swam in my father's eyes at this repartee - and so Obadiah heard no more about it.
Now let us go back to my brother's death.
Philosophy has a fine saying for everything. - For Death it has an entire set; the trouble was, they all rushed at once into my father's head, so that 'twas difficult to set them in order. - He took them as they came.
''Tis inevitable - the first statute in Magna Carta - it is an everlasting act of parliament, my dear brother. All must die.
'If my son could not have died, that would have been a matter of wonder.
'Monarchs and princes dance in the same ring with us.
'To die is the great debt and tribute due unto nature: tombs and monuments pay it; the proudest pyramid of all has lost its apex, and stands obtruncated in the traveller's horizon.' (My father found he got great ease, and went on.)
'Kingdoms, towns and cities, have they not their ends? and when those powers, which at first cemented them together, have performed their evolutions, they fall back.'
'Brother Shandy,' said my uncle Toby, laying down his pipe.
'Revolutions, I meant,' quoth my father, 'evolutions is nonsense.'
''Tis not nonsense,' said my uncle Toby.
'But is it not nonsense to break the thread of such a discourse upon such an occasion?' cried my father. '-Do not, dear Toby, I beseech thee, interrupt me at this crisis.'
My uncle put his pipe into his mouth.
'Where is Troy and Mycenae, and Thebes and Delos?' continued my father. 'What is become of Nineveh and Babylon? The fairest towns that ever the sun rose upon, are now no more; the names only are left, and those in time will be forgotten, and lost in a perpetual night: the world itself, brother Toby, must come to an end.
'Returning out of Asia, when I sailed from Aegina towards Megara,' ('when can this have been?' thought my uncle Toby) 'I began to view the country round about. Aegina was behind me, Megara was before, Piraeus on the right hand, Corinth on the left. What flourishing towns, now prostrate upon the earth! Alas! said I to myself, that man should disturb his soul for the loss of a child, when all this lies buried - remember, said I - remember thou art a man.'
Now my uncle Toby did not know that this last paragraph was an extract of Sulpicius's letter to Tully. And as my father, when he did business in the Turkey trade, had been three or four times in the Levant, and had once stayed a whole year and an half, my uncle Toby naturally concluded that, in one of these visits, he had taken a trip into Asia; and that all this sailing affair with Aegina behind, and Megara before, &c., &c., was nothing more than the course of my father's voyage.
'Pray, brother,' quoth my uncle in a kindly way, 'what year of our Lord was this?'
''Twas no year of our Lord,' replied my father.
'That's impossible,' cried my uncle Toby.
'Simpleton!' said my father, ''twas forty years before Christ was born.'
My uncle Toby had only two things for it; either to suppose his brother to be the wandering Jew, or that his misfortunes had disordered his brain.
'May the Lord God protect and restore him,' said he silently, with tears in his eyes.
My father placed the tears to a proper account, and went on with spirit.
'There is not such great odds, brother Toby, betwixt good and evil, as the world imagines.' (This, by the bye, was not likely to cure my uncle Toby's suspicions.) 'Labour, sorrow, grief, sickness and woe, are the sauces of life.
'My son is dead! - so much the better; 'tis a shame in such a tempest to have but one anchor.
'But he is gone for ever from us! - be it so. He is got from under the hands of his barber before he was bald - he is but risen from a feast before he was surfeited. The Thracians wept when a child was born' ('and we were very near it,' quoth my uncle Toby) '-and feasted and made merry when a man died. For death opens the gate of fame, and shuts the gate of envy; it unlooses the captive's chain.
'Show me the man who dreads death, and I'll show thee a prisoner who dreads liberty.
'Is it not better, my dear brother Toby, not to hunger at all, than to eat?
'Is it not better to be freed from cares and melancholy, than be like a traveller, who comes weary to his inn, only to have to start his journey afresh?
'There is no terror, brother Toby, in death's looks, except what it borrows from groans and convulsions, and the wiping away of tears with the bottoms of curtains, in a dying man's room. Strip it of these, and what is it?'
''Tis better in battle than in bed,' said my uncle Toby.
'Better in battle!' continued my father, smiling, for he had absolutely forgot my brother Bobby. ''Tis not terrible - for when we are, death is not; and when death is, we are not.'
My uncle Toby laid down his pipe to consider this.
'For this reason,' continued my father, ''tis worthy to recollect how little change, in great men, the approaches of death have made. Vespasian died in a jest; Galba with a sentence - Tiberius in concealment, and Augustus in a compliment.'
'I hope 'twas a sincere one,' quoth my uncle Toby.
''Twas to his wife,' said my father.


----I'll put him, however, into breeches, said my father, --let the world say what it will.

'I'll put him, however, into breeches,' said my father, 'let the world say what it will.'


----And the story too--if you please: for though I have all along been hastening towards this part of it, with so much earnest desire, as well knowing it to be the choicest morsel of what I had to offer to the world, yet now that I am got to it, any one is welcome to take my pen, and go on with the story for me that will --I see the difficulties of the descriptions I'm going to give--and feel my want of powers.
It is one comfort at least to me, that I lost some fourscore ounces of blood this week in a most uncritical fever which attacked me at the beginning of this chapter; so that I have still some hopes remaining, it may be more in the serous or globular parts of the blood, than in the subtile _aura_ of the brain----be it which it will--an Invocation can do no hurt----and I leave the affair entirely to the _invoked_, to inspire or to inject me according as he sees good.
THE INVOCATION
Gentle Spirit of sweetest humour, who erst did sit upon the easy pen of my beloved CERVANTES; Thou who glided'st daily through his lattice, and turned'st the twilight of his prison into noonday brightness by thy presence----tinged'st his little urn of water with heaven-sent nectar, and all the time he wrote of _Sancho_ and his master, didst cast thy mystic mantle o'er his wither'd stump,[9.1] and wide extended it to all the evils of his life------
----Turn in hither, I beseech thee! ----behold these breeches! ----they are all I have in the world----that piteous rent was given them at _Lyons_------
My shirts! see what a deadly schism has happen'd amongst 'em--for the laps are in _Lombardy_, and the rest of 'em here --I never had but six, and a cunning gypsey of a laundress at _Milan_ cut me off the _fore_-laps of five --To do her justice, she did it with some consideration--for I was returning out of _Italy_.
And yet, notwithstanding all this, and a pistol tinderbox which was moreover filch'd from me at _Sienna_, and twice that I pay'd five Pauls for two hard eggs, once at _Raddicoffini_, and a second time at _Capua_ --I do not think a journey through _France_ and _Italy_, provided a man keeps his temper all the way, so bad a thing as some people would make you believe: there must be _ups_ and _downs_, or how the duce should we get into vallies where Nature spreads so many tables of entertainment. --'Tis nonsense to imagine they will lend you their voitures to be shaken to pieces for nothing; and unless you pay twelve sous for greasing your wheels, how should the poor peasant get butter to his bread? --We really expect too much--and for the livre or two above par for your suppers and bed--at the most they are but one shilling and ninepence halfpenny----who would embroil their philosophy for it? for heaven's and for your own sake, pay it----pay it with both hands open, rather than leave _Disappointment_ sitting drooping upon the eye of your fair Hostess and her Damsels in the gateway, at your departure----and besides, my dear Sir, you get a sisterly kiss of each of 'em worth a pound----at least I did----
----For my uncle _Toby's_ amours running all the way in my head, they had the same effect upon me as if they had been my own ----I was in the most perfect state of bounty and good-will; and felt the kindliest harmony vibrating within me, with every oscillation of the chaise alike; so that whether the roads were rough or smooth, it made no difference; everything I saw or had to do with, touch'd upon some secret spring either of sentiment or rapture.
----They were the sweetest notes I ever heard; and I instantly let down the fore-glass to hear them more distinctly----'Tis _Maria_; said the postillion, observing I was listening ----Poor _Maria_, continued he (leaning his body on one side to let me see her, for he was in a line betwixt us), is sitting upon a bank playing her vespers upon her pipe, with her little goat beside her.
The young fellow utter'd this with an accent and a look so perfectly in tune to a feeling heart, that I instantly made a vow, I would give him a four-and-twenty sous piece, when I got to _Moulins_----
------And who is _poor Maria?_ said I.
The love and piety of all the villages around us; said the postillion----it is but three years ago, that the sun did not shine upon so fair, so quick-witted and amiable a maid; and better fate did _Maria_ deserve, than to have her Banns forbid, by the intrigues of the curate of the parish who published them----
He was going on, when _Maria_, who had made a short pause, put the pipe to her mouth, and began the air again----they were the same notes; ----yet were ten times sweeter: It is the evening service to the Virgin, said the young man----but who has taught her to play it--or how she came by her pipe, no one knows; we think that heaven has assisted her in both; for ever since she has been unsettled in her mind, it seems her only consolation----she has never once had the pipe out of her hand, but plays that _service_ upon it almost night and day.
The postillion delivered this with so much discretion and natural eloquence, that I could not help decyphering something in his face above his condition, and should have sifted out his history, had not poor _Maria_ taken such full possession of me.
We had got up by this time almost to the bank where _Maria_ was sitting: she was in a thin white jacket, with her hair, all but two tresses, drawn up into a silk-net, with a few olive leaves twisted a little fantastically on one side----she was beautiful; and if ever I felt the full force of an honest heart-ache, it was the moment I saw her----
----God help her! poor damsel! above a hundred masses, said the postillion, have been said in the several parish churches and convents around, for her, ----but without effect; we have still hopes, as she is sensible for short intervals, that the Virgin at last will restore her to herself; but her parents, who know her best, are hopeless upon that score, and think her senses are lost for ever.
As the postillion spoke this, MARIA made a cadence so melancholy, so tender and querulous, that I sprung out of the chaise to help her, and found myself sitting betwixt her and her goat before I relapsed from my enthusiasm.
MARIA look'd wistfully for some time at me, and then at her goat----and then at me----and then at her goat again, and so on, alternately----
----Well, _Maria_, said I softly ----What resemblance do you find?
I do entreat the candid reader to believe me, that it was from the humblest conviction of what a _Beast_ man is, ----that I asked the question; and that I would not have let fallen an unseasonable pleasantry in the venerable presence of Misery, to be entitled to all the wit that ever _Rabelais_ scatter'd----and yet I own my heart smote me, and that I so smarted at the very idea of it, that I swore I would set up for Wisdom, and utter grave sentences the rest of my days----and never----never attempt again to commit mirth with man, woman, or child, the longest day I had to live.
As for writing nonsense to them ----I believe, there was a reserve--but that I leave to the world.
Adieu, _Maria!_--adieu, poor hapless damsel! ----some time, but not _now_, I may hear thy sorrows from thy own lips----but I was deceived; for that moment she took her pipe and told me such a tale of woe with it, that I rose up, and with broken and irregular steps walk'd softly to my chaise.
------What an excellent inn at _Moulins!_
[Footnote 9.1: He lost his hand at the battle of _Lepanto_.]

- And the story too if you please: for though I have all along been hastening earnestly towards this part of it, knowing it to be the choicest morsel I had to offer to the world, yet now that I am got to it, anyone who wishes is welcome to take my pen, and go on with the story. I foresee the difficulties of description - and feel my want of powers.
It is one comfort at least to me, that I lost some fourscore ounces of blood this week in a fever which attacked me at the beginning of this chapter; so that I hope it may be more in the globular parts of the blood, rather than in the subtle aura of the brain - whichever it is, an Invocation can do no hurt.
THE INVOCATION
Gentle Spirit of sweetest humour, who formerly did sit upon the easy pen of my beloved Cervantes; thou who glided'st daily through his window, and turned the twilight of his prison into noonday brightness by thy presence - tinged his little urn of water with heaven-sent nectar, and all the time he wrote of Sancho and his master, didst cast thy mystic mantle o'er the evils of his life-
- Turn hither, I beseech thee! behold these breeches! - they are all I have in the world - that piteous rent was given them at Lyons-
My shirts! see what a deadly schism has happened amongst 'em - for the tails are in Lombardy, and the rest of 'em here - I only had six, and a cunning gypsy of a laundress at Milan cut off the tails of five.
And yet, despite all this, and a pistol tinderbox which was filched from me at Sienna, and twice that I paid five Pauls for two hard eggs, once at Raddicoffini, and a second time at Capua - I do not think a journey through France and Italy, provided a man keeps his temper all the way, is so bad a thing as some people would make you believe.
- 'Tis nonsense to imagine they will lend you their carriages to be shaken to pieces for nothing; and unless you pay twelve sous for greasing your wheels, how should the poor peasant get butter for his bread? - We really expect too much - and as for the livre or two above par for your suppers and bed - at the most they are but one shilling and ninepence halfpenny - why quibble? for heaven's sake, pay it, rather than disappoint your fair Hostess and her Damsels - and besides, my dear Sir, on your departure you get a sisterly kiss of each of 'em worth a pound - at least I did.
- For my uncle Toby's amours running in my head had the same effect upon me as if they had been my own. - I was in the most perfect state of good-will; and felt the kindliest harmony vibrating within me with every oscillation of the chaise; so that whether the roads were rough or smooth, everything I saw touched upon some secret spring of sentiment or rapture.
- They were the sweetest notes I ever heard; and I instantly let down the window to hear them more distinctly.
''Tis Maria,' said the postillion; 'Poor Maria is sitting upon a bank playing her vespers upon her pipe, with her little goat beside her.'
The young fellow uttered this so feelingly that I instantly made a vow to give him a four-and-twenty sous piece, when I got to Moulins.
'And who is poor Maria?' said I.
'The love and piety of all the villages around us;' said the postilion. - 'Just three years ago, the sun did not shine upon so fair, so quick-witted and amiable a maid; and Maria deserved a better fate than to have her marriage banns forbid, by the intrigues of the curate who published them.'
Here Maria, who had made a short pause, put the pipe to her mouth, and began the tune again - they were the same notes, yet ten times sweeter.
'It is the evening service to the Virgin,' said the young man, 'but who has taught her to play it, no one knows; we think that heaven has assisted her; for ever since she has been unsettled in her mind, it seems her only consolation. She has never once had the pipe out of her hand, but plays that service night and day.'
The postillion delivered this with so much eloquence, that I could not help seeing something in his face above his position, and should have sifted out his history, had not poor Maria taken such full possession of me.
We had by this time almost reached the bank where Maria was sitting: she wore her hair drawn up into a silk-net, with a few olive leaves twisted a little fantastically on one side. - She was beautiful; and if ever I felt the full force of an honest heart-ache, it was the moment I saw her-
'God help her! poor damsel!' said the postilion. 'A hundred masses have been said in the churches and convents for her - but without effect; we have still hopes, as she is sensible for short intervals, that the Virgin will restore her to herself. But her parents, who know her best, have no hope, and think her senses are lost for ever.'
As the postillion spoke this, Maria made a cadence so melancholy, so tender, that I sprung out of the chaise to help her, and found myself sitting betwixt her and her goat.
Maria looked wistfully for some time at me, and then at her goat - and then at me - and then at her goat again.
'Well, Maria,' said I softly, 'what resemblance do you find?'
I do entreat the reader to believe that it was from the humblest conviction of what a Beast man is, that I asked the question. I would never have made a witticism in the presence of Misery - and I so smarted at the very idea of it, that I swore I would utter grave sentences the rest of my days - and never attempt again to commit mirth with man, woman, or child, in my life.
As for writing nonsense - that I leave to the world.
Adieu, Maria, poor hapless damsel! - some time, I thought, I may hear thy sorrows from thy own lips - but I was deceived; for she took her pipe and played such a tale of woe with it, that I rose up, and with broken steps walked softly to my chaise.
- What an excellent inn at Moulins!


I told the Christian reader ----I say _Christian_----hoping he is one----and if he is not, I am sorry for it----and only beg he will consider the matter with himself, and not lay the blame entirely upon this book----
I told him, Sir----for in good truth, when a man is telling a story in the strange way I do mine, he is obliged continually to be going backwards and forwards to keep all tight together in the reader's fancy----which, for my own part, if I did not take heed to do more than at first, there is so much unfixed and equivocal matter starting up, with so many breaks and gaps in it, --and so little service do the stars afford, which, nevertheless, I hang up in some of the darkest passages, knowing that the world is apt to lose its way, with all the lights the sun itself at noon-day can give it----and now you see, I am lost myself!------
----But 'tis my father's fault; and whenever my brains come to be dissected, you will perceive, without spectacles, that he has left a large uneven thread, as you sometimes see in an unsaleable piece of cambrick, running along the whole length of the web, and so untowardly, you cannot so much as cut out a * *, (here I hang up a couple of lights again)----or a fillet, or a thumb-stall, but it is seen or felt.------
_Quanto id diligentius in liberis procreandis cavendum_, sayeth _Cardan_. All which being considered, and that you see 'tis morally impracticable for me to wind this round to where I set out------
I begin the chapter over again.

I told the Christian reader - hoping he is Christian; - if he is not, I am sorry for it, and beg he will consider the matter, and not lay the blame entirely upon this book-
I told him, Sir - for in truth, when a man is telling a story in the strange way I do mine, he is obliged continually to be going backwards and forwards to keep all tight together in the reader's fancy - which if I did not take heed to do more than at first, there is so much unfixed and equivocal matter starting up, with so many breaks and gaps, and so little service do the stars afford, which, nevertheless, I hang up in some of the darkest passages, knowing that the world is apt to lose its way, with all the light the noon-day sun can give it - and now you see, I am lost myself!
But 'tis my father's fault; and whenever my brains come to be dissected, you will perceive that he has left a large uneven thread running along the whole length of the web, so that you cannot cut out a * * (there I hang up a couple of lights again) without it being seen or felt.
You see 'tis morally impracticable for me to wind this round to where I set out-
I begin the chapter over again.


----And here is the _Maes_--and this is the _Sambre_; said the corporal, pointing with his right hand extended a little towards the map and his left upon Mrs. _Bridget's_ shoulder----but not the shoulder next him--and this, said he, is the town of _Namur_--and this the citadel--and there lay the _French_--and here lay his honour and myself----and in this cursed trench, Mrs. _Bridget_, quoth the corporal, taking her by the hand, did he receive the wound which crush'd him so miserably _here_. ----In pronouncing which, he slightly press'd the back of her hand towards the part he felt for----and let it fall.
We thought, Mr. _Trim_, it had been more in the middle, ----said Mrs. _Bridget_----
That would have undone us for ever--said the corporal.
----And left my poor mistress undone too, said _Bridget_.
The corporal made no reply to the repartee, but by giving Mrs. _Bridget_ a kiss.
Come--come--said _Bridget_--holding the palm of her left hand parallel to the plane of the horizon, and sliding the fingers of the other over it, in a way which could not have been done, had there been the least wart or protuberance----'Tis every syllable of it false, cried the corporal, before she had half finished the sentence----
--I know it to be fact, said _Bridget_, from credible witnesses.
------Upon my honour, said the corporal, laying his hand upon his heart and blushing, as he spoke, with honest resentment--'tis a story, Mrs. _Bridget_, as false as hell ----Not, said _Bridget_, interrupting him, that either I or my mistress care a halfpenny about it, whether 'tis so or no------only that when one is married, one would chuse to have such a thing by one at least----
It was somewhat unfortunate for Mrs. _Bridget_, that she had begun the attack with her manual exercise; for the corporal instantly * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *.

'And here is the Maes - and this is the Sambre;' said the corporal, pointing with his right hand extended towards the map and his left round Mrs. Bridget's shoulder. 'And this,' said he, 'is the town of Namur - and here lay his honour and myself - and in this cursed trench, Mrs. Bridget,' quoth the corporal, taking her by the hand, 'did he receive the wound which crushed him so miserably here.'
- In pronouncing which, he slightly pressed the back of her hand towards the part - and let it fall.
'We thought, Mr. Trim, it had been more in the middle,' said Mrs. Bridget.
'That would have undone us for ever,' said the corporal.
'And my poor mistress too,' said Bridget.
The corporal made no reply, but by giving Bridget a kiss.
'Come - come,' said Bridget, sliding one hand over the other, in a way that could not be done were there the slightest wart or protuberance.
''Tis every syllable of it false,' cried the corporal, before she had half finished.
'I know it to be fact,' said Bridget, 'from witnesses.'
'Upon my honour,' said the corporal, blushing with honest resentment, ''tis a story, Mrs. Bridget, as false as hell-'
'Not,' said Bridget, interrupting him, 'that either I or my mistress care a halfpenny about it - only that when one is married, one would choose to have such a thing by one at least-'
It was somewhat unfortunate for Mrs. Bridget, that she had begun the attack with her manual exercise; for the corporal instantly * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *.


----Bonjour! ----good morrow! ----so you have got your cloak on betimes! ----but 'tis a cold morning, and you judge the matter rightly----'tis better to be well mounted, than go o' foot----and obstructions in the glands are dangerous ----And how goes it with thy concubine--thy wife, --and thy little ones o' both sides? and when did you hear from the old gentleman and lady--your sister, aunt, uncle, and cousins ----I hope they have got better of their colds, coughs, claps, toothaches, fevers, stranguries, sciaticas, swellings, and sore eyes.
----What a devil of an apothecary! to take so much blood--give such a vile purge--puke--poultice--plaister--night-draught--clyster--blister? ----And why so many grains of calomel? santa Maria! and such a dose of opium! periclitating, pardi! the whole family of ye, from head to tail ----By my great-aunt _Dinah's_ old black velvet mask! I think there was no occasion for it.
Now this being a little bald about the chin, by frequently putting off and on, _before_ she was got with child by the coachman--not one of our family would wear it after. To cover the MASK afresh, was more than the mask was worth----and to wear a mask which was bald, or which could be half seen through, was as bad as having no mask at all----
This is the reason, may it please your reverences, that in all our numerous family, for these four generations, we count no more than one archbishop, a _Welch_ judge, some three or four aldermen, and a single mountebank----
In the sixteenth century, we boast of no less than a dozen alchymists.

- Bonjour! - good morrow! so you have got your cloak on! but 'tis a cold morning - and how goes it with thy concubine, thy wife, and thy little ones o' both sides? and when did you hear from your sister, aunt, uncle, and cousins? - I hope they have got better of their colds, coughs, claps, toothaches, fevers, sciaticas, swellings, and sore eyes.
- What a devil of an apothecary! to take so much blood - give such a vile purge - poultice - plaster - clyster - blister! And why so much calomel? and such a dose of opium! - By my great-aunt Dinah's old black velvet mask! I think there was no need for it.
Now this Mask being a little bald about the chin, by frequent putting off and on, before she was got with child by the coachman - not one of our family would wear it after. To mend the Mask, was more than the mask was worth - and to wear a bald mask was as bad as having no mask at all.
This is the reason, may it please your reverences, that in all our numerous family, for four generations, we count no more than one archbishop, a Welsh judge, three or four aldermen, and a single mountebank-
In the sixteenth century, we boast of no less than a dozen alchemists.


------My young master in _London_ is dead! said _Obadiah_.--
------A green sattin night-gown of my mother's which had been twice scoured, was the first idea which _Obadiah's_ exclamation brought into _Susannah's_ head. --Well might _Locke_ write a chapter upon the imperfection of words. --Then, quoth _Susannah_, we must all go into mourning. --But note a second time: the word _mourning_, notwithstanding _Susannah_ made use of it herself--failed also of doing its office; it excited not one single idea, tinged either with grey or black, --all was green. ----The green sattin night-gown hung there still.
--O! 'twill be the death of my poor mistress, cried _Susannah_. --My mother's whole wardrobe followed. --What a procession! her red damask, --her orange tawney, --her white and yellow lutestrings, --her brown taffata, --her bone-laced caps, her bed-gowns, and comfortable under-petticoats. --Not a rag was left behind. --"_No, --she will never look up again_," said _Susannah_.
We had a fat, foolish scullion--my father, I think, kept her for her simplicity; --she had been all autumn struggling with a dropsy. --He is dead, said _Obadiah_, --he is certainly dead! --So am not I, said the foolish scullion.
----Here is sad news, _Trim_, cried _Susannah_, wiping her eyes as _Trim_ stepp'd into the kitchen, --master _Bobby_ is dead and _buried_--the funeral was an interpolation of _Susannah's_--we shall have all to go into mourning, said _Susannah_.
I hope not, said _Trim_. --You hope not! cried _Susannah_ earnestly. --The mourning ran not in _Trim's_ head, whatever it did in _Susannah's_. --I hope--said _Trim_, explaining himself, I hope in God the news is not true. --I heard the letter read with my own ears, answered _Obadiah_; and we shall have a terrible piece of work of it in stubbing the Ox-moor. --Oh! he's dead, said _Susannah_. --As sure, said the scullion, as I'm alive.
I lament for him from my heart and my soul, said _Trim_, fetching a sigh. --Poor creature! --poor boy! --poor gentleman.
--He was alive last _Whitsontide!_ said the coachman. --_Whitsontide!_ alas! cried _Trim_, extending his right arm, and falling instantly into the same attitude in which he read the sermon, --what is _Whitsontide_, _Jonathan_ (for that was the coachman's name), or _Shrovetide_, or any tide or time past, to this? Are we not here now, continued the corporal (striking the end of his stick perpendicularly upon the floor, so as to give an idea of health and stability)--and are we not--(dropping his hat upon the ground) gone! in a moment! --'Twas infinitely striking! _Susannah_ burst into a flood of tears. --We are not stocks and stones. --_Jonathan_, _Obadiah_, the cook-maid, all melted. --The foolish fat scullion herself, who was scouring a fish-kettle upon her knees, was rous'd with it. --The whole kitchen crowded about the corporal.
Now, as I perceive plainly, that the preservation of our constitution in church and state, --and possibly the preservation of the whole world--or what is the same thing, the distribution and balance of its property and power, may in time to come depend greatly upon the right understanding of this stroke of the corporal's eloquence --I do demand your attention--your worships and reverences, for any ten pages together, take them where you will in any other part of the work, shall sleep for it at your ease.
I said, "we were not stocks and stones"--'tis very well. I should have added, nor are we angels, I wish we were, --but men clothed with bodies, and governed by our imaginations; --and what a junketing piece of work of it there is, betwixt these and our seven senses, especially some of them, for my own part, I own it, I am ashamed to confess. Let it suffice to affirm, that of all the senses, the eye (for I absolutely deny the touch, though most of your _Barbati_, I know, are for it) has the quickest commerce with the soul, --gives a smarter stroke, and leaves something more inexpressible upon the fancy, than words can either convey--or sometimes, get rid of.
--I've gone a little about--no matter, 'tis for health--let us only carry it back in our mind to the mortality of _Trim's_ hat. --"Are we not here now, --and gone in a moment?" --There was nothing in the sentence--'twas one of your self-evident truths we have the advantage of hearing every day; and if _Trim_ had not trusted more to his hat than his head--he had made nothing at all of it.
------"Are we not here now;" continued the corporal, "and are we not"--(dropping his hat plump upon the ground--and pausing, before he pronounced the word)-- "gone! in a moment?" The descent of the hat was as if a heavy lump of clay had been kneeded into the crown of it. ----Nothing could have expressed the sentiment of mortality, of which it was the type and fore-runner, like it, --his hand seemed to vanish from under it, --it fell dead, --the corporal's eye fixed upon it, as upon a corpse, --and _Susannah_ burst into a flood of tears.
Now --Ten thousand, and ten thousand times ten thousand (for matter and motion are infinite) are the ways by which a hat may be dropped upon the ground, without any effect. ----Had he flung it, or thrown it, or cast it, or skimmed it, or squirted it, or let it slip or fall in any possible direction under heaven, --or in the best direction that could be given to it, --had he dropped it like a goose--like a puppy--like an ass--or in doing it, or even after he had done, had he looked like a fool--like a ninny--like a nincompoop--it had fail'd, and the effect upon the heart had been lost.
Ye who govern this mighty world and its mighty concerns with the _engines_ of eloquence, --who heat it, and cool it, and melt it, and mollify it, ----and then harden it again to _your purpose_----
Ye who wind and turn the passions with this great windlass, and, having done it, lead the owners of them, whither ye think meet--
Ye, lastly, who drive----and why not, Ye also who are driven, like turkeys to market with a stick and a red clout--meditate--meditate, I beseech you, upon _Trim's_ hat.

'My young master in London is dead!' said Obadiah.
A green satin night-gown of my mother's, which had been twice cleaned, was the first idea which Obadiah's exclamation brought into Susannah's head. - Well might Locke write a chapter upon the imperfection of words.
'Then,' quoth Susannah, 'we must all go into mourning.'
But note: the word mourning excited in Susannah's mind not one single idea tinged with grey or black. - All was the green of a green satin night-gown.
'O! 'twill be the death of my poor mistress,' cried Susannah. - My mother's whole wardrobe followed. What a procession! her red damask, her yellow lutestrings, her brown taffeta, her laced caps and bed-gowns and under-petticoats. Not a rag was left behind. 'No, she will never look up again,' said Susannah.
We had a fat, foolish scullery-maid who had been all autumn struggling with a dropsy.
'He is dead!' said Obadiah.
'So am not I,' said the foolish scullery-maid.
'Here is sad news, Trim,' cried Susannah, wiping her eyes as Trim entered the kitchen. 'Master Bobby is dead and buried' - the funeral was an invention of Susannah's - 'and we shall all have to go into mourning.'
'I hope that the news is not true,' said Trim.
'I heard the letter read with my own ears,' answered Obadiah.
'Oh! he's dead,' said Susannah.
'As sure,' said the scullery-maid, 'as I'm alive.'
'I lament for him from my heart and soul,' said Trim, with a sigh. 'Poor boy!'
'He was alive last Whitsuntide!' said Jonathan the coachman.
'Whitsuntide! alas!' cried Trim, extending his right arm, and falling instantly into the same attitude in which he read the sermon. 'What is Whitsuntide, Jonathan, or any tide or time, to this? Are we not here now,' he continued (striking his stick upon the floor) - 'and are we not' (dropping his hat upon the ground) 'gone! in a moment!'
Susannah burst into a flood of tears.
'We are not stocks and stones,' said Trim.
Jonathan, Obadiah and the cook-maid all melted. Even the foolish scullery-maid, who was scouring a fish-kettle, was roused. The whole kitchen crowded about the corporal.
Now, as I see that the preservation of our church and state - and possibly the distribution of property and power in the whole world - may in future depend upon the right understanding of the corporal's eloquence - I demand your attention, your worships.
I said, 'we were not stocks and stones.' I should have added, nor are we angels, but men clothed with bodies, and governed by our imaginations; and what a junketing piece of work there is between these and our seven senses, especially some of my own, I am ashamed to confess. Let it suffice to say the eye has the quickest commerce with the soul, - gives a smarter stroke, and leaves more upon the fancy than words can convey.
-I've gone a little astray - no matter, let us now go back to the mortality of Trim's hat. 'Are we not here now, and gone in a moment?'
There was nothing in the sentence that we do not hear every day; and without the hat, Trim would have made nothing of it.
'Are we not here now;' said he, 'and are we not' (dropping his hat plump upon the ground) 'gone! in a moment?'
The hat descended as if it held a lump of clay. Nothing could have expressed the sentiment of mortality like it; - it fell dead. The corporal's eye fixed upon it, as upon a corpse, and Susannah burst into tears.
Now - a hat may be dropped in ten thousand ways, without any effect. Had he flung it, or thrown it, or skimmed it, or had he dropped it like a goose - like a nincompoop - it would have failed, and its effect have been lost.
Ye who govern this mighty world with the engines of eloquence - who heat it, and cool it, and melt it, and mollify it-
Ye who wind and turn the passions with this great windlass-
Ye who drive - and why not Ye also who are driven, like turkeys to market with a stick - meditate, I beseech you, upon Trim's hat.


The description of the siege of _Jericho_ itself, could not have engaged the attention of my uncle _Toby_ more powerfully than the last chapter; --his eyes were fixed upon my father throughout it; --he never mentioned radical heat and radical moisture, but my uncle _Toby_ took his pipe out of his mouth, and shook his head; and as soon as the chapter was finished, he beckoned to the corporal to come close to his chair, to ask him the following question, --_aside_. ---- * * * * * * * * * It was at the siege of _Limerick_, an' please your honour, replied the corporal, making a bow.
The poor fellow and I, quoth my uncle _Toby_, addressing himself to my father, were scarce able to crawl out of our tents, at the time the siege of _Limerick_ was raised, upon the very account you mention. ----Now what can have got into that precious noddle of thine, my dear brother _Toby?_ cried my father, mentally. ----By Heaven! continued he, communing still with himself, it would puzzle an _dipus_ to bring it in point.----
I believe, an' please your honour, quoth the corporal, that if it had not been for the quantity of brandy we set fire to every night, and the claret and cinnamon with which I plyed your honour off; --And the geneva, _Trim_, added my uncle _Toby_, which did us more good than all ----I verily believe, continued the corporal, we had both, an' please your honour, left our lives in the trenches, and been buried in them too. ----The noblest grave, corporal! cried my uncle _Toby_, his eyes sparkling as he spoke, that a soldier could wish to lie down in. ----But a pitiful death for him! an' please your honour, replied the corporal.
All this was as much _Arabick_ to my father, as the rites of the _Colchi_ and _Troglodites_ had been before to my uncle _Toby_; my father could not determine whether he was to frown or to smile.----
My uncle _Toby_, turning to _Yorick_, resumed the case at _Limerick_, more intelligibly than he had begun it, --and so settled the point for my father at once.

The description of the siege of Jericho itself could not have held the attention of my uncle Toby more powerfully than the last chapter. His eyes were fixed upon my father throughout it; whenever he mentioned radical heat and radical moisture, my uncle took his pipe out of his mouth, and shook his head; and as soon as the chapter was finished, he beckoned to the corporal, to ask him the following question, (aside) - * * * * * * * * *?
'It was at the siege of Limerick, your honour,' replied the corporal.
'The poor fellow and I,' quoth my uncle Toby to my father, 'were scarce able to crawl out of our tents, when the siege of Limerick was raised, for the very reason you mention.'
'Now what can have got into that precious noddle of thine, my dear brother?' cried my father, mentally.
'I believe,' quoth the corporal, 'that if it had not been for the quantity of brandy we set fire to every night, and the claret and cinnamon which I gave your honour-'
'-And the Geneva gin, Trim,' added my uncle Toby, 'which did us more good than all-'
'-I verily believe, your honour,' continued the corporal, 'we would both have died in the trenches, and been buried there.'
'The noblest grave a soldier could wish for, corporal!' cried my uncle Toby, his eyes sparkling.
'But a pitiful death!' replied the corporal.
All this was as much Arabic to my father; he did not know whether to frown or smile.
My uncle Toby, turning to Yorick, began the account of Limerick, and settled the point for my father at once.


All which being considered, and that Death moreover might be much nearer me than I imagined ----I wish I was at _Abbeville_, quoth I, were it only to see how they card and spin----so off we set.
[7.1]_de Montreuil Nampont - poste et demi_ _de Nampont_ Bernay - - - poste de Bernay Nouvion - - - poste de Nouvion ABBEVILLE - - poste
----but the carders and spinners were all gone to bed.
[Footnote 7.1: Vid. Book of French post roads, page 36, edition of 1762.]

All which being considered, and because Death might be much nearer to me than I imagined - 'I wish I was at Abbeville,' quoth I, 'if only to see how they card and spin' - so off we set.
From Montreuil to Nampont - from Nampont to Bernay - from Bernay to Nouvion - from Nouvion to Abbeville-
- but the carders and spinners were all gone to bed.


My father put on his spectacles--looked, --took them off, --put them into the case--all in less than a statutable minute; and without opening his lips, turned about and walked precipitately down stairs: my mother imagined he had stepped down for lint and basilicon; but seeing him return with a couple of folios under his arm, and _Obadiah_ following him with a large reading-desk, she took it for granted 'twas an herbal, and so drew him a chair to the bedside, that he might consult upon the case at his ease.
----If it be but right done, --said my father, turning to the _Section--de sede vel subjecto circumcisionis_, ----for he had brought up _Spenser de Legibus Hebrorum Ritualibus_--and _Maimonides_, in order to confront and examine us altogether.--
----If it be but right done, quoth he: --only tell us, cried my mother, interrupting him, what herbs? ----For that, replied my father, you must send for Dr. _Slop_.
My mother went down, and my father went on, reading the section as follows,
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ------Very well, --said my father, * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * --nay, if it has that convenience----and so without stopping a moment to settle it first in his mind, whether the _Jews_ had it from the _Egyptians_, or the _Egyptians_ from the _Jews_, --he rose up, and rubbing his forehead two or three times across with the palm of his hand, in the manner we rub out the footsteps of care, when evil has trod lighter upon us than we foreboded, --he shut the book, and walked down stairs. --Nay, said he, mentioning the name of a different great nation upon every step as he set his foot upon it--if the EGYPTIANS, --the SYRIANS, --the PHOENICIANS, --the ARABIANS, --the CAPPADOCIANS, ----if the COLCHI, and TROGLODYTES did it----if SOLON and PYTHAGORAS submitted, --what is TRISTRAM? ----Who am I, that I should fret or fume one moment about the matter?

My father put on his spectacles - looked - took them off, and without opening his lips, turned about and walked quickly down stairs. My mother imagined he had stepped down for a bandage and basilicon ointment; but seeing him return with a couple of tomes, and Obadiah following him with a large reading-desk, she assumed the books to be herbals, and drew him a chair to the bedside, so that he might consult on the case at his ease.
'If it be but right done,' said my father, turning to the Section de sede vel subjecto circumcisionis, - for he had brought up Spenser de Legibus Hebraeorum Ritualibus, and Maimonides.
'- Only tell us,' cried my mother, interrupting him, 'what herbs?'
'For that,' replied my father, 'you must send for Dr. Slop.'
My mother went down, and my father went on reading the section as follows:
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
'Very well,' said my father; * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * '- nay, if it has that convenience-' - and without stopping to decide whether the Jews had it from the Egyptians, or the Egyptians from the Jews, he rose; and rubbing his forehead as if rubbing out the footsteps of care, he shut the book, and walked down stairs.
'Nay,' said he, mentioning the name of a different great nation upon every step as he set his foot upon it - 'if the Egyptians, the Syrians, the Phoenicians, the Arabians, and the Cappadocians did it - if Solon and Pythagoras submitted - what is Tristram? who am I, to fret or fume about the matter?'


A delusive, delicious consultation or two of this kind, betwixt my uncle _Toby_ and _Trim_, upon the demolition of _Dunkirk_, --for a moment rallied back the ideas of those pleasures, which were slipping from under him: ----still--still all went on heavily----the magic left the mind the weaker --STILLNESS, with SILENCE at her back, entered the solitary parlour, and drew their gauzy mantle over my uncle _Toby's_ head; ----and LISTLESSNESS, with her lax fibre and undirected eye, sat quietly down beside him in his arm-chair. ----No longer _Amberg_ and _Rhinberg_, and _Limbourg_, and _Huy_, and _Bonn_, in one year, --and the prospect of _Landen_, and _Trerebach_, and _Drusen_, and _Dendermond_, the next, --hurried on the blood: --No longer did saps, and mines, and blinds, and gabions, and palisadoes, keep out this fair enemy of man's repose: ----No more could my uncle _Toby_, after passing the _French_ lines, as he eat his egg at supper, from thence break into the heart of _France_, --cross over the _Oyes_, and with all _Picardie_ open behind him, march up to the gates of _Paris_, and fall asleep with nothing but ideas of glory: ----No more was he to dream he had fixed the royal standard upon the tower of the _Bastile_, and awake with it streaming in his head.
----Softer visions, --gentler vibrations stole sweetly in upon his slumbers; --the trumpet of war fell out of his hands, --he took up the lute, sweet instrument! of all others the most delicate! the most difficult! ----how wilt thou touch it, my dear uncle _Toby?_

A delusive, delicious consultation or two of this kind, betwixt my uncle Toby and Trim, upon the demolition of Dunkirk, for a moment recalled the ideas of those pleasures which were slipping from under him.
Yet all went on heavily. Stillness and Silence entered the solitary parlour, and drew their gauzy mantle over my uncle Toby's head; and Listlessness sat quietly down beside him in his arm-chair.
No longer did Amberg and Rhinberg and Limbourg and the rest hurry on the blood. No longer did saps, and mines, and palisades, keep out this fair enemy of man's repose. No more could my uncle Toby, after passing the French lines, as he ate his egg at supper, then break into the heart of France, march up to the gates of Paris, and fall asleep with nothing but ideas of glory. No more could he dream that he had fixed the royal standard upon the tower of the Bastille, and awake with it streaming in his head.
-Softer visions - gentler vibrations - stole sweetly in upon his slumbers. The trumpet of war fell from his hands; he took up the lute, sweet instrument! of all the most delicate! the most difficult!
- How wilt thou touch it, my dear uncle Toby?


----I would be picquetted to death, cried the corporal, as he concluded _Susannah's_ story, before I would suffer the woman to come to any harm, --'twas my fault, an' please your honour, --not hers.
Corporal _Trim_, replied my uncle _Toby_, putting on his hat which lay upon the table, ----if anything can be said to be a fault, when the service absolutely requires it should be done, --'tis I certainly who deserve the blame, ----you obeyed your orders.
Had count _Solmes_, _Trim_, done the same at the battle of _Steenkirk_, said _Yorick_, drolling a little upon the corporal, who had been run over by a dragoon in the retreat, ----he had saved thee; ----Saved! cried _Trim_, interrupting _Yorick_, and finishing the sentence for him after his own fashion, ----he had saved five battalions, an' please your reverence, every soul of them: ----there was _Cutts's_--continued the corporal, clapping the forefinger of his right hand upon the thumb of his left, and counting round his hand, ----there was _Cutts's_, ----_Mackay's_, ----_Angus's_, ----_Graham's_, ----and _Leven's_, all cut to pieces; ----and so had the _English_ life-guards too, had it not been for some regiments upon the right, who marched up boldly to their relief, and received the enemy's fire in their faces, before any one of their own platoons discharged a musket, ----they'll go to heaven for it, --added _Trim_. --_Trim_ is right, said my uncle _Toby_, nodding to _Yorick_, ----he's perfectly right. What signified his marching the horse, continued the corporal, where the ground was so straight, that the _French_ had such a nation of hedges, and copses, and ditches, and fell'd trees laid this way and that to cover them; (as they always have). ----Count _Solmes_ should have sent us, ----we would have fired muzzle to muzzle with them for their lives. ----There was nothing to be done for the horse: ----he had his foot shot off however for his pains, continued the corporal, the very next campaign at _Landen_. --Poor _Trim_ got his wound there, quoth my uncle _Toby_. ----'Twas owing, an' please your honour, entirely to count _Solmes_, ----had he drubb'd them soundly at _Steenkirk_, they would not have fought us at _Landen_. ----Possibly not, ----_Trim_, said my uncle _Toby_; ----though if they have the advantage of a wood, or you give them a moment's time to intrench themselves, they are a nation which will pop and pop for ever at you. ----There is no way but to march coolly up to them, ----receive their fire, and fall in upon them, pell-mell ----Ding dong, added _Trim_. ----Horse and foot, said my uncle _Toby_. ----Helter skelter, said _Trim_. ----Right and left, cried my uncle _Toby_. ----Blood an' ounds, shouted the corporal; ----the battle raged, ----_Yorick_ drew his chair a little to one side for safety, and after a moment's pause, my uncle _Toby_ sinking his voice a note, --resumed the discourse as follows.

'I would be impaled on stakes,' cried the corporal, 'before I would allow the woman to come to any harm; 'twas my fault, your honour, not hers.'
'Corporal Trim,' replied my uncle Toby, ''tis I certainly who deserve the blame, - you obeyed your orders.'
'Had Count Solmes done the same at the battle of Steenkirk,' said Yorick to the corporal, who had been run over by a dragoon in the retreat, 'he would have saved thee.'
'Saved!' cried Trim; 'he would have saved five battalions, your reverence; there was Cutts's,' he continued counting on his fingers, 'Mackay's, Angus's, Graham's, and Leven's, all cut to pieces; and so would the English life-guards have been too, had it not been for some regiments upon the right, who marched up boldly to relieve them, and received the enemy's fire in their faces - they'll go to heaven for it.'
'Trim is right,' said my uncle Toby, nodding.
'What signified his marching the cavalry,' continued the corporal, 'where the ground was so straight, and the French had so many hedges, and copses, and ditches to cover them. - Count Solmes should have sent us; we would have fired muzzle to muzzle with them. He had his foot shot off however for his pains, the very next campaign at Landen.'
'Poor Trim got his wound there,' quoth my uncle Toby.
''Twas owing, your honour, entirely to Count Solmes - had he drubbed them soundly at Steenkirk, they would not have fought us at Landen.'
'Possibly not, Trim,' said my uncle Toby; 'though if you give them a moment's time to entrench themselves, they are a nation which will pop and pop for ever at you. There is no way but to march coolly up to them, - receive their fire, and fall upon them, pell-mell.'
'Ding dong,' added Trim.
'Horse and foot,' said my uncle.
'Helter skelter,' said Trim.
'Right and left,' cried my uncle Toby.
'Blood an' ounds,' shouted the corporal. The battle raged; Yorick drew his chair to one side for safety, and after a moment, my uncle Toby, sinking his voice, resumed as follows.


The anguish of my knee, continued the corporal, was excessive in itself; and the uneasiness of the cart, with the roughness of the roads, which were terribly cut up--making bad still worse--every step was death to me: so that with the loss of blood, and the want of care-taking of me, and a fever I felt coming on besides----(Poor soul! said my uncle _Toby_)----all together, an' please your honour, was more than I could sustain.
I was telling my sufferings to a young woman at a peasant's house, where our cart, which was the last of the line, had halted; they had help'd me in, and the young woman had taken a cordial out of her pocket and dropp'd it upon some sugar, and seeing it had cheer'd me, she had given it me a second and a third time ----So I was telling her, an' please your honour, the anguish I was in, and was saying it was so intolerable to me, that I had much rather lie down upon the bed, turning my face towards one which was in the corner of the room--and die, than go on----when, upon her attempting to lead me to it, I fainted away in her arms. She was a good soul! as your honour, said the corporal, wiping his eyes, will hear.
I thought _love_ had been a joyous thing, quoth my uncle _Toby_.
'Tis the most serious thing, an' please your honour (sometimes), that is in the world.
By the persuasion of the young woman, continued the corporal, the cart with the wounded men set off without me: she had assured them I should expire immediately if I was put into the cart. So when I came to myself ----I found myself in a still quiet cottage, with no one but the young woman, and the peasant and his wife. I was laid across the bed in the corner of the room, with my wounded leg upon a chair, and the young woman beside me, holding the corner of her handkerchief dipp'd in vinegar to my nose with one hand, and rubbing my temples with the other.
I took her at first for the daughter of the peasant (for it was no inn)--so had offer'd her a little purse with eighteen florins, which my poor brother _Tom_ (here _Trim_ wip'd his eyes) had sent me as a token, by a recruit, just before he set out for _Lisbon_.----
----I never told your honour that piteous story yet----here _Trim_ wiped his eyes a third time.
The young woman call'd the old man and his wife into the room, to show them the money, in order to gain me credit for a bed and what little necessaries I should want, till I should be in a condition to be got to the hospital ----Come then! said she, tying up the little purse --I'll be your banker--but as that office alone will not keep me employ'd, I'll be your nurse too.
I thought by her manner of speaking this, as well as by her dress, which I then began to consider more attentively----that the young woman could not be the daughter of the peasant.
She was in black down to her toes, with her hair conceal'd under a cambric border, laid close to her forehead: she was one of those kind of nuns, an' please your honour, of which, your honour knows, there are a good many in _Flanders_, which they let go loose ----By thy description, _Trim_, said my uncle _Toby_, I dare say she was a young _Beguine_, of which there are none to be found anywhere but in the _Spanish Netherlands_--except at _Amsterdam_----they differ from nuns in this, that they can quit their cloister if they choose to marry; they visit and take care of the sick by profession ----I had rather, for my own part, they did it out of good-nature.
----She often told me, quoth _Trim_, she did it for the love of Christ --I did not like it. ----I believe, _Trim_, we are both wrong, said my uncle _Toby_--we'll ask Mr. _Yorick_ about it to-night at my brother _Shandy's_----so put me in mind; added my uncle _Toby_.
The young _Beguine_, continued the corporal, had scarce given herself time to tell me "she would be my nurse," when she hastily turned about to begin the office of one, and prepare something for me----and in a short time--though I thought it a long one--she came back with flannels, &c. &c., and having fomented my knee soundly for a couple of hours, &c., and made me a thin bason of gruel for my supper--she wish'd me rest, and promised to be with me early in the morning. ----She wished me, an' please your honour, what was not to be had. My fever ran very high that night--her figure made sad disturbance within me --I was every moment cutting the world in two--to give her half of it--and every moment was I crying, That I had nothing but a knapsack and eighteen florins to share with her ----The whole night long was the fair _Beguine_, like an angel, close by my bedside, holding back the curtain and offering me cordials--and I was only awakened from my dream by her coming there at the hour promised, and giving them in reality. In truth, she was scarce ever from me; and so accustomed was I to receive life from her hands, that my heart sickened, and I lost colour when she left the room: and yet, continued the corporal (making one of the strangest reflections upon it in the world)----
----"_It was not love_"----for during the three weeks she was almost constantly with me, fomenting my knee with her hand, night and day --I can honestly say, an' please your honour--that * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * once.
That was very odd, _Trim_, quoth my uncle _Toby_.
I think so too--said Mrs. _Wadman_.
It never did, said the corporal.

'The anguish of my knee,' continued the corporal, 'was excessive; and the uneasiness of the cart on the rough roads made it still worse. Every step was death to me: so that with the loss of blood, and a fever besides, all together it was more than I could bear.
'Our cart halted at a peasants' house; they helped me in, and a young woman took a cordial from her pocket to give me. Seeing it cheered me, she gave it me a second and a third time.
'I told her of the anguish I was in, saying it was so intolerable to me, that I had much rather lie down and die, than go on - when, upon her attempting to lead me to the bed, I fainted away in her arms. She was a good soul! as your honour will hear,' said the corporal, wiping his eyes.
'I thought love was a joyous thing,' quoth my uncle Toby.
''Tis the most serious thing, your honour, (sometimes), in the world. The cart with the wounded men set off without me. So when I came round, I found myself in a quiet cottage, with no one but the young woman, and the peasant and his wife. I was laid across the bed in the corner, with my wounded leg upon a chair, and the young woman beside me, holding her handkerchief dipped in vinegar to my nose, and rubbing my temples.
'I took her at first for the peasant's daughter, so had offered her a little purse with eighteen florins, which my poor brother Tom had sent me, just before he set out for Lisbon. - I never told your honour that piteous story yet.' - Here Trim wiped his eyes again.
'The young woman called the old man and his wife into the room to show them the money,' he went on, 'in order to gain me credit for a bed and what necessaries I should want, till I could be got to the hospital. "Come then!" said she; "I'll be your banker - and I'll be your nurse too."
'I thought by her manner of speaking, as well as by her dress, that the young woman could not be the peasant's daughter. She was in black down to her toes, with her hair concealed under a cambric border: she was one of those kind of nuns, of which, your honour knows, there are a good many in Flanders.'
'By thy description, Trim,' said my uncle Toby, 'I dare say she was a young Beguine, who are found in the Spanish Netherlands. They differ from nuns in this, that they can quit their cloister if they choose to marry. They take care of the sick by profession - though I had rather they did it out of good-nature.'
'She often told me,' quoth Trim, 'she did it for the love of Christ. - I did not like it.'
'We'll ask Mr. Yorick about it to-night, at my brother Shandy's - so remind me,' said my uncle Toby.
'The young Beguine,' continued the corporal, 'having told me she would be my nurse, went to prepare something for me - and in a short time she came back with flannels, and having fomented my knee for a couple of hours, and made me a thin basin of gruel for my supper, she wished me rest, and promised to be with me early in the morning.
'I had little rest. My fever ran very high that night - I kept seeing her - I was every moment cutting the world in two, to give her half - and crying that I had nothing but a knapsack and eighteen florins to share with her. The whole night long, I dreamed the fair Beguine, like an angel, was close by my bedside, offering me cordials - and I was only awakened from my dreams by her coming as promised, and giving them in reality. She was scarce ever away from me; and so dependent on her was I, that my heart sickened when she left the room: and yet,' continued the corporal, making a strange observation-
'- it was not love - for during the three weeks she was almost constantly with me, fomenting my knee with her hand, night and day - I can honestly say, your honour, that * * * * * * * * * * * * * ,not once.'
'That was very odd, Trim,' quoth my uncle Toby.
'I think so too,' said Mrs. Wadman.
'It never did,' said the corporal.