“A large volume of adventures may be grasped within this little span of life, by him who interests his heart in everything.”
—A man my good Sir, has seldom an
offer of kindness to make to a woman, but she has a presentiment of it
some moments before.—
Nature arms her with it, said I, for immediate preservation.—But I think,
said she, looking in my face, I had no evil to apprehend,—and, to deal
frankly with you, had determined to accept it.—If I had—(she stopped a
moment)—I believe your good will would have drawn a story from me, which
would have made pity the only dangerous thing in the journey.
In saying this, she suffered me to kiss her hand twice, and with a look
of sensibility mixed with concern, she got out of the chaise,—and bid
adieu.
IN THE STREET.
CALAIS.
I NEVER finished a twelve guinea bargain so expeditiously in my life: my
time seemed heavy, upon the loss of the lady, and knowing every moment of
it would be as two, till I put myself into motion,—I ordered post horses
directly, and walked towards the hotel.
Lord! said I, hearing the town clock strike four, and recollecting that I
had been little more than a single hour in Calais,—
—What a large volume of adventures may be grasped within this little span
of life by him who interests his heart in every thing, and who, having
eyes to see what time and chance are perpetually holding out to him as he
journeyeth on his way, misses nothing he can _fairly_ lay his hands on!
—If this won’t turn out something,—another will;—no matter,—’tis an assay
upon human nature—I get my labour for my pains,—’tis enough;—the pleasure
of the experiment has kept my senses and the best part of my blood awake,
and laid the gross to sleep.
I pity the man who can travel from Dan to Beersheba, and cry, ’Tis all
barren;—and so it is: and so is all the world to him who will not
cultivate the fruits it offers. I declare, said I, clapping my hands
cheerily together, that were I in a desert, I would find out wherewith in
it to call forth my affections:—if I could not do better, I would fasten
them upon some sweet myrtle, or seek some melancholy cypress to connect
myself to;—I would court their shade, and greet them kindly for their
protection.—I would cut my name upon them, and swear they were the
loveliest trees throughout the desert: if their leaves wither’d, I would
teach myself to mourn; and, when they rejoiced, I would rejoice along
with them.
“I am persuaded that every time a man smiles - but much more so when he laughs - it adds something to this fragment of life”
If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
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Title: The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman
Author: Laurence Sterne
Release date: October 1, 1997 [eBook #1079]
Most recently updated: October 27, 2021
Language: English
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY, GENTLEMAN ***
THE
LIFE AND OPINIONS
OF
TRISTRAM SHANDY,
GENTLEMAN
by Laurence Sterne
Contents
Volume I.
Volume II.
Volume III.
Volume IV.
Laurence Sterne
Ταράσσει τοὺς Ἀνθρώπους οὐ τὰ Πράγματα,
Ἀλλὰ τὰ περὶ τῶν Πραγμάτων Δόγματα.
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
M r. P I T T.
S I R,
NEVER poor Wight of a Dedicator had less hopes from his Dedication,
than I have from this of mine; for it is written in a bye corner of the
kingdom, and in a retir’d thatch’d house, where I live in a constant
endeavour to fence against the infirmities of ill health, and other
evils of life, by mirth; being firmly persuaded that every time a man
smiles,——but much more so, when he laughs, it adds something to this
Fragment of Life.
I humbly beg, Sir, that you will honour this book, by taking it—(not
under your Protection,—it must protect itself, but)—into the country
with you; where, if I am ever told, it has made you smile; or can
conceive it has beguiled you of one moment’s pain—I shall think myself
as happy as a minister of state;——perhaps much happier than any one
(one only excepted) that I have read or heard of.
_I am, GREAT SIR,
(and, what is more to your Honour)
I am, GOOD SIR,
Your Well-wisher, and
most humble Fellow-subject_,
T H E A U T H O R.
THE
LIFE and OPINIONS
OF
TRISTRAM SHANDY, Gent.
C H A P. I
I WISH either my father or my mother, or indeed both of them, as they
were in duty both equally bound to it, had minded what they were about
when they begot me; had they duly consider’d how much depended upon
what they were then doing;—that not only the production of a rational
Being was concerned in it, but that possibly the happy formation and
temperature of his body, perhaps his genius and the very cast of his
mind;—and, for aught they knew to the contrary, even the fortunes of
his whole house might take their turn from the humours and dispositions
which were then uppermost;—Had they duly weighed and considered all
this, and proceeded accordingly,—I am verily persuaded I should have
made a quite different figure in the world, from that in which the
reader is likely to see me.
“Writing, when properly managed, (as you may be sure I think mine is) is but a different name for conversation”
Slop_ but the week
before, that my mother was at her full reckoning; and as the doctor had
heard nothing since, ’twas natural and very political too in him, to
have taken a ride to _Shandy-Hall_, as he did, merely to see how
matters went on.
But my father’s mind took unfortunately a wrong turn in the
investigation; running, like the hypercritick’s, altogether upon the
ringing of the bell and the rap upon the door,—measuring their
distance, and keeping his mind so intent upon the operation, as to have
power to think of nothing else,——common-place infirmity of the greatest
mathematicians! working with might and main at the demonstration, and
so wasting all their strength upon it, that they have none left in them
to draw the corollary, to do good with.
The ringing of the bell, and the rap upon the door, struck likewise
strong upon the sensorium of my uncle _Toby_,—but it excited a very
different train of thoughts;—the two irreconcileable pulsations
instantly brought _Stevinus_, the great engineer, along with them, into
my uncle _Toby_’s mind. What business _Stevinus_ had in this affair,—is
the greatest problem of all:——It shall be solved,—but not in the next
chapter.
C H A P. XXXVI
WRITING, when properly managed (as you may be sure I think mine is) is
but a different name for conversation. As no one, who knows what he is
about in good company, would venture to talk all;——so no author, who
understands the just boundaries of decorum and good-breeding, would
presume to think all: The truest respect which you can pay to the
reader’s understanding, is to halve this matter amicably, and leave him
something to imagine, in his turn, as well as yourself.
For my own part, I am eternally paying him compliments of this kind,
and do all that lies in my power to keep his imagination as busy as my
own.
’Tis his turn now;—I have given an ample description of Dr. _Slop_’s
sad overthrow, and of his sad appearance in the back-parlour;—his
imagination must now go on with it for a while.
Let the reader imagine then, that Dr. _Slop_ has told his tale—and in
what words, and with what aggravations, his fancy chooses;—Let him
suppose, that _Obadiah_ has told his tale also, and with such rueful
looks of affected concern, as he thinks best will contrast the two
figures as they stand by each other.
“For every ten jokes, thou hast got a hundred enemies”
—and if the subject was started in the fields,—with
a hop, skip, and a jump at the end of it; but if close pent up in the
social chimney-corner, where the culprit was barricado’d in, with a
table and a couple of arm-chairs, and could not so readily fly off in a
tangent,—_Eugenius_ would then go on with his lecture upon discretion
in words to this purpose, though somewhat better put together.
Trust me, dear _Yorick_, this unwary pleasantry of thine will sooner or
later bring thee into scrapes and difficulties, which no after-wit can
extricate thee out of.——In these sallies, too oft, I see, it happens,
that a person laughed at, considers himself in the light of a person
injured, with all the rights of such a situation belonging to him; and
when thou viewest him in that light too, and reckons up his friends,
his family, his kindred and allies,——and musters up with them the many
recruits which will list under him from a sense of common danger;—’tis
no extravagant arithmetic to say, that for every ten jokes,—thou hast
got an hundred enemies; and till thou hast gone on, and raised a swarm
of wasps about thine ears, and art half stung to death by them, thou
wilt never be convinced it is so.
I cannot suspect it in the man whom I esteem, that there is the least
spur from spleen or malevolence of intent in these sallies—I believe
and know them to be truly honest and sportive:—But consider, my dear
lad, that fools cannot distinguish this,—and that knaves will not: and
thou knowest not what it is, either to provoke the one, or to make
merry with the other:——whenever they associate for mutual defence,
depend upon it, they will carry on the war in such a manner against
thee, my dear friend, as to make thee heartily sick of it, and of thy
life too.
Revenge from some baneful corner shall level a tale of dishonour at
thee, which no innocence of heart or integrity of conduct shall set
right.——The fortunes of thy house shall totter,—thy character, which
led the way to them, shall bleed on every side of it,—thy faith
questioned,—thy works belied,—thy wit forgotten,—thy learning trampled
on.
“The desire of knowledge, like the thirst for riches, increases ever with the acquisition of it.”
XXVIII
WHEN my uncle _Toby_ got his map of _Namur_ to his mind, he began
immediately to apply himself, and with the utmost diligence, to the
study of it; for nothing being of more importance to him than his
recovery, and his recovery depending, as you have read, upon the
passions and affections of his mind, it behoved him to take the nicest
care to make himself so far master of his subject, as to be able to
talk upon it without emotion.
In a fortnight’s close and painful application, which, by the bye, did
my uncle _Toby_’s wound, upon his groin, no good,—he was enabled, by
the help of some marginal documents at the feet of the elephant,
together with _Gobesius_’s military architecture and pyroballogy,
translated from the _Flemish_, to form his discourse with passable
perspicuity; and before he was two full months gone,—he was right
eloquent upon it, and could make not only the attack of the advanced
counterscarp with great order;—but having, by that time, gone much
deeper into the art, than what his first motive made necessary, my
uncle _Toby_ was able to cross the _Maes_ and _Sambre_; make diversions
as far as _Vauban_’s line, the abbey of _Salsines_, &c. and give his
visitors as distinct a history of each of their attacks, as of that of
the gate of _St. Nicolas_, where he had the honour to receive his
wound.
But desire of knowledge, like the thirst of riches, increases ever with
the acquisition of it. The more my uncle _Toby_ pored over his map, the
more he took a liking to it!—by the same process and electrical
assimilation, as I told you, through which I ween the souls of
connoisseurs themselves, by long friction and incumbition, have the
happiness, at length, to get all
be-virtu’d—be-pictured,—be-butterflied, and be-fiddled.
The more my uncle _Toby_ drank of this sweet fountain of science, the
greater was the heat and impatience of his thirst, so that before the
first year of his confinement had well gone round, there was scarce a
fortified town in _Italy_ or _Flanders_, of which, by one means or
other, he had not procured a plan, reading over as he got them, and
carefully collating therewith the histories of their sieges, their
demolitions, their improvements, and new works, all which he would read
with that intense application and delight, that he would forget
himself, his wound, his confinement, his dinner.
In the second year my uncle _Toby_ purchased _Ramelli_ and _Cataneo_,
translated from the _Italian_;—likewise _Stevinus, Moralis_, the
Chevalier _de Ville, Lorini, Cochorn, Sheeter_, the Count _de Pagan_,
the Marshal _Vauban_, Mons.
What a large volume of adventures may be grasped within the span of his little life by him who interests his heart in everything.
—A man my good Sir, has seldom an
offer of kindness to make to a woman, but she has a presentiment of it
some moments before.—
Nature arms her with it, said I, for immediate preservation.—But I think,
said she, looking in my face, I had no evil to apprehend,—and, to deal
frankly with you, had determined to accept it.—If I had—(she stopped a
moment)—I believe your good will would have drawn a story from me, which
would have made pity the only dangerous thing in the journey.
In saying this, she suffered me to kiss her hand twice, and with a look
of sensibility mixed with concern, she got out of the chaise,—and bid
adieu.
IN THE STREET.
CALAIS.
I NEVER finished a twelve guinea bargain so expeditiously in my life: my
time seemed heavy, upon the loss of the lady, and knowing every moment of
it would be as two, till I put myself into motion,—I ordered post horses
directly, and walked towards the hotel.
Lord! said I, hearing the town clock strike four, and recollecting that I
had been little more than a single hour in Calais,—
—What a large volume of adventures may be grasped within this little span
of life by him who interests his heart in every thing, and who, having
eyes to see what time and chance are perpetually holding out to him as he
journeyeth on his way, misses nothing he can _fairly_ lay his hands on!
—If this won’t turn out something,—another will;—no matter,—’tis an assay
upon human nature—I get my labour for my pains,—’tis enough;—the pleasure
of the experiment has kept my senses and the best part of my blood awake,
and laid the gross to sleep.
I pity the man who can travel from Dan to Beersheba, and cry, ’Tis all
barren;—and so it is: and so is all the world to him who will not
cultivate the fruits it offers. I declare, said I, clapping my hands
cheerily together, that were I in a desert, I would find out wherewith in
it to call forth my affections:—if I could not do better, I would fasten
them upon some sweet myrtle, or seek some melancholy cypress to connect
myself to;—I would court their shade, and greet them kindly for their
protection.—I would cut my name upon them, and swear they were the
loveliest trees throughout the desert: if their leaves wither’d, I would
teach myself to mourn; and, when they rejoiced, I would rejoice along
with them.
“In solitude the mind gains strength and learns to lean upon itself.”
“I write the first sentence and trust in God for the next”
“You can always tell a real friend; when youve made a fool of yourself, he doesnt feel youve done a permanent job.”
If death, said my father, reasoning with himself, is nothing but the separation of the soul from the body;--and if it is true that people can walk about and do their business without brains,--then certes the soul does not inhabit there.
I have undertaken, you see, to write not only my life, but my opinions also; hoping and expecting that your knowledge of my character, and of what kind of a mortal I am, by the one, would give you a better relish for the other: As you proceed further with me, the slight acquaintance which is now beginning betwixt us, will grow into familiarity; and that, unless one of us is in fault, will terminate in friendship.
Digressions, incontestably, are the sunshine, the life, the soul of reading! Take them out and one cold eternal winter would reign in every page. Restore them to the writer - he steps forth like a bridegroom, bids them all-hail, brings in variety and forbids the appetite to fail.
We dont love people so much for the good they have done us, as for the good we have done them
—all I can say of the matter, is—That he has either a pumkin for his head—or a pippin for his heart,—and whenever he is dissected twill be found so.
—I wont go about to argue the point with you,—tis so,—and I am persuaded of it, madam, as much as can be, That both man and woman bear pain or sorrow, (and, for aught I know, pleasure too) best in a horizontal position.
I begin with writing the first sentence—and trusting to Almighty God for the second.
Trust that man in nothing who has not a conscience in everything.
I am this month one whole year older than I was this time twelve-month; and having got, as you perceive, almost into the middle of my fourth volume—and no farther than to my first days life—tis demonstrative that I have three hundred and sixty-four days more life to write just now, than when I first set out; so that instead of advancing, as a common writer, in my work with what I have been doing at it—on the contrary, I am just thrown so many volumes back—
It had ever, as I told the reader, been one of the singular blessings of my life, to be almost every hour of it miserably in love with some one....
Human nature is the same in all professions.
