——There is no _gistus_ to it, noodle!—’tis my own name, replied the curate, dipping his hand, as he spoke, into the bason—_Tristram!_ said he, &c. &c. &c. &c.—so _Tristram_ was I called, and _Tristram_ shall I be to the day of my death.
My father followed _Susannah_, with his night-gown across his arm, with nothing more than his breeches on, fastened through haste with but a single button, and that button through haste thrust only half into the button-hole.
——She has not forgot the name, cried my father, half opening the door?——No, no, said the curate, with a tone of intelligence.——And the child is better, cried _Susannah._——And how does your mistress? As well, said _Susannah_, as can be expected.—Pish! said my father, the button of his breeches slipping out of the button-hole—So that whether the interjection was levelled at _Susannah_, or the button-hole—whether Pish was an interjection of contempt or an interjection of modesty, is a doubt, and must be a doubt till I shall have time to write the three following favourite chapters, that is, my chapter of _chamber-maids_, my chapter of _pishes_, and my chapter of _button-holes._
All the light I am able to give the reader at present is this, that the moment my father cried Pish! he whisk’d himself about—and with his breeches held up by one hand, and his night-gown thrown across the arm of the other, he turned along the gallery to bed, something slower than he came.
C H A P. L
I WISH I could write a chapter upon sleep.
A fitter occasion could never have presented itself, than what this moment offers, when all the curtains of the family are drawn—the candles put out—and no creature’s eyes are open but a single one, for the other has been shut these twenty years, of my mother’s nurse.
It is a fine subject.
And yet, as fine as it is, I would undertake to write a dozen chapters upon button-holes, both quicker and with more fame, than a single chapter upon this.
Button-holes! there is something lively in the very idea of ’em——and trust me, when I get amongst ’em——You gentry with great beards——look as grave as you will——I’ll make merry work with my button-holes—I shall have ’em all to myself—’tis a maiden subject—I shall run foul of no man’s wisdom or fine sayings in it.
But for sleep—I know I shall make nothing of it before I begin—I am no dab at your fine sayings in the first place—and in the next, I cannot for my soul set a grave face upon a bad matter, and tell the world—’tis the refuge of the unfortunate—the enfranchisement of the prisoner—the downy lap of the hopeless, the weary, and the broken-hearted; nor could I set out with a lye in my mouth, by affirming, that of all the soft and delicious functions of our nature, by which the great Author of it, in his bounty, has been pleased to recompence the sufferings wherewith his justice and his good pleasure has wearied us——that this is the chiefest (I know pleasures worth ten of it); or what a happiness it is to man, when the anxieties and passions of the day are over, and he lies down upon his back, that his soul shall be so seated within him, that whichever way she turns her eyes, the heavens shall look calm and sweet above her—no desire—or fear—or doubt that troubles the air, nor any difficulty past, present, or to come, that the imagination may not pass over without offence, in that sweet secession.
“God’s blessing,” said _Sancho Pança_, “be upon the man who first invented this self-same thing called sleep—it covers a man all over like a cloak.”
Now there is more to me in this, and it speaks warmer to my heart and affections, than all the dissertations squeez’d out of the heads of the learned together upon the subject.
—Not that I altogether disapprove of what _Montaigne_ advances upon it—’tis admirable in its way—(I quote by memory.)
The world enjoys other pleasures, says he, as they do that of sleep, without tasting or feeling it as it slips and passes by.—We should study and ruminate upon it, in order to render proper thanks to him who grants it to us.—For this end I cause myself to be disturbed in my sleep, that I may the better and more sensibly relish it.——And yet I see few, says he again, who live with less sleep, when need requires; my body is capable of a firm, but not of a violent and sudden agitation—I evade of late all violent exercises——I am never weary with walking——but from my youth, I never looked to ride upon pavements. I love to lie hard and alone, and even without my wife——This last word may stagger the faith of the world——but remember, “La Vraisemblance’ (as _Bayle_ says in the affair of _Liceti_) ’est pas toujours du Côté de la Verité.” And so much for sleep.
C H A P. LI
IF my wife will but venture him—brother _Toby, Trismegistus_ shall be dress’d and brought down to us, whilst you and I are getting our breakfasts together.——
——Go, tell _Susannah, Obadiah_, to step here.
She is run up stairs, answered _Obadiah_, this very instant, sobbing and crying, and wringing her hands as if her heart would break.
We shall have a rare month of it, said my father, turning his head from _Obadiah_, and looking wistfully in my uncle _Toby_’s face for some time—we shall have a devilish month of it, brother _Toby_, said my father, setting his arms a’kimbo, and shaking his head; fire, water, women, wind—brother _Toby_!—’Tis some misfortune, quoth my uncle _Toby_.——That it is, cried my father—to have so many jarring elements breaking loose, and riding triumph in every corner of a gentleman’s house—Little boots it to the peace of a family, brother _Toby_, that you and I possess ourselves, and sit here silent and unmoved——whilst such a storm is whistling over our heads.——
And what’s the matter, _Susannah?_ They have called the child _Tristram_——and my mistress is just got out of an hysterick fit about it——No!——’tis not my fault, said _Susannah_—I told him it was _Tristram-gistus._
——Make tea for yourself, brother _Toby_, said my father, taking down his hat——but how different from the sallies and agitations of voice and members which a common reader would imagine!
—For he spake in the sweetest modulation—and took down his hat with the genteelest movement of limbs, that ever affliction harmonized and attuned together.
——Go to the bowling-green for corporal _Trim_, said my uncle _Toby_, speaking to _Obadiah_, as soon as my father left the room.
C H A P. LII
WHEN the misfortune of my Nose fell so heavily upon my father’s head;—the reader remembers that he walked instantly up stairs, and cast himself down upon his bed; and from hence, unless he has a great insight into human nature, he will be apt to expect a rotation of the same ascending and descending movements from him, upon this misfortune of my NAME;—no.
The different weight, dear Sir——nay even the different package of two vexations of the same weight——makes a very wide difference in our manner of bearing and getting through with them.——It is not half an hour ago, when (in the great hurry and precipitation of a poor devil’s writing for daily bread) I threw a fair sheet, which I had just finished, and carefully wrote out, slap into the fire, instead of the foul one.
Instantly I snatch’d off my wig, and threw it perpendicularly, with all imaginable violence, up to the top of the room—indeed I caught it as it fell——but there was an end of the matter; nor do I think any think else in _Nature_ would have given such immediate ease: She, dear Goddess, by an instantaneous impulse, in all _provoking cases_, determines us to a sally of this or that member—or else she thrusts us into this or that place, or posture of body, we know not why——But mark, madam, we live amongst riddles and mysteries——the most obvious things, which come in our way, have dark sides, which the quickest sight cannot penetrate into; and even the clearest and most exalted understandings amongst us find ourselves puzzled and at a loss in almost every cranny of nature’s works: so that this, like a thousand other things, falls out for us in a way, which tho’ we cannot reason upon it—yet we find the good of it, may it please your reverences and your worships——and that’s enough for us.
Now, my father could not lie down with this affliction for his life——nor could he carry it up stairs like the other—he walked composedly out with it to the fish-pond.
Had my father leaned his head upon his hand, and reasoned an hour which way to have gone——reason, with all her force, could not have directed him to any think like it: there is something, Sir, in fish-ponds——but what it is, I leave to system-builders and fish-pond-diggers betwixt ’em to find out—but there is something, under the first disorderly transport of the humours, so unaccountably becalming in an orderly and a sober walk towards one of them, that I have often wondered that neither _Pythagoras_, nor _Plato_, nor _Solon_, nor _Lycurgus_, nor _Mahomet_, nor any one of your noted lawgivers, ever gave order about them.
C H A P. LIII
YOUR honour, said _Trim_, shutting the parlour-door before he began to speak, has heard, I imagine, of this unlucky accident——O yes, _Trim_, said my uncle _Toby_, and it gives me great concern.—I am heartily concerned too, but I hope your honour, replied _Trim_, will do me the justice to believe, that it was not in the least owing to me.——To thee—_Trim?_—cried my uncle _Toby_, looking kindly in his face——’twas _Susannah_’s and the curate’s folly betwixt them.——What business could they have together, an’ please your honour, in the garden?——In the gallery thou meanest, replied my uncle _Toby_.