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ther with a mixed motion betwixt acci- dent and anger, he had set out. When the letter was brought into the parlour, which contained the news of my brother's death, my father had got forwards again upon his journey to with- in a stride of the compasses of the very same stage of Nevers. -- By your leave, Mons. Sanson, cried my father, striking the point of his compasses through Ne- vers into the table, -- and nodding to my uncle Toby, to see what was in the letter, -- twice of one night is too much for an English gentleman and his son, Mons. Sanson, to be turned back from so lousy a town as Nevers, -- what think'st thou, Toby, added my father in a sprightly tone. -- Unless it be a garrison town, said my uncle Toby, -- for then -- I shall be a fool, said |
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said my father, smiling to himself, as long as I live. -- So giving a second nod -- and keeping his compasses still upon Nevers with one hand, and holding his book of the post-roads in the other -- half calculating and half listening, he leaned forwards upon the table with both elbows, as my uncle Toby hummed over the letter. --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- he's gone ! said my uncle Toby. -- Where -- Who ? cried my father. -- My nephew, said my uncle Toby. ---- What -- without leave -- without money ---- without governor ? cried my father in amazement. No : -- he is dead, my dear brother, quoth my uncle Toby. -- Without being ill ? cried my father again. -- I dare say not, said my uncle Toby, in a low voice, and fetch- ing a deep sigh from the bottom of his C 3 heart, |
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heart, he has been ill enough, poor lad ! I'll answer for him -- for he is dead. When Agrippina was told of her son's death, Tacitus informs us, that not being able to moderate the violence of her passions, she abruptly broke off her work -- My father stuck his compasses into Nevers, but so much the faster. -- What contrarieties ! his, indeed, was matter of calculation -- Agrippina's must have been quite a different affair ; who else could pretend to reason from history ? How my father went on, in my opi- nion, deserves a chapter to itself. -- ------ ------ And a chapter it shall have, and a devil of a one too -- so look to yourselves. 'Tis either Plato, or Plutarch, or Sene- ca, or Xenophon, or Epictetus, or Theo- phrastus, |
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phrastus, or Lucian -- or some one per- haps of later date -- either Cardan, or Bu- dæus, 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 irresis- table 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 accord- ingly we find, that David wept for his son Absalom -- Adrian for his Antinous -- Niobe for her children, and that Apollo- dorus and Crito both shed tears for Socra- tes before his death. My father managed his affliction other- wise ; 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 Lap- landers -- or hang'd it, as the English, or drowned it, as the Germans -- nor did he C 4 curse |
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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 -- no body upon earth can conceive, says the great orator, how hap- py, how joyful it made me. My father was as proud of his elo- quence as MARCUS TULLIUS CICERO could |
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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 systematick misfortune) -- he had all he wanted. -- A blessing which tied up my father's tongue, and a misfortune which set it loose with a good grace, were pretty equal : sometimes, indeed, the misfor- tune was the better of the two ; for in- stance, where the pleasure of the harangue was as ten, and the pain of the misfor- tune but as five -- my father gained half in half, and consequently was as well again off, as it never had befallen him. This clue will unravel, what otherwise would seem very inconsistent in my fa- ther's |
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ther's domestick character ; and it is this, that in the provocations arising from the neglects and blunders of servants, or o- ther mishaps unavoidable in a family, his anger, or rather the duration of it, eter- nally 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 talk- ed about his pad every day with as abso- lute a security, as if it had been reared, broke, -- and bridled and saddled at his door ready for mounting. By some neg- lect or other in Obadiah, it so fell out, that my father's expectations were an- swered with nothing better than a mule, and as ugly a beast of the kind as ever was produced. My mother and my uncle Toby expect- ed my father would be the death of Oba- diah |
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diah -- 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 wa- ter 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 every thing. -- 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 any thing of a consistent show out of them. -- He took them as they came. ``'Tis an inevitable chance -- the first `` statute in Magnâ Chartâ -- it is an ever- ``lasting |
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`` lasting act of parliament, my dear bro- `` ther, -- 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 tri- `` bute due unto nature : tombs and mo- `` numents, 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 `` evo- |
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`` evolutions, they fall back.'' -- Brother Shandy, said my uncle Toby, laying down his pipe at the word evolutions -- Revolu- tions, 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, conti- nued 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 Mycenæ, and `` Thebes and Delos, and Persepolis, and `` Agrigentum'' -- continued my father, taking up his book of post-roads, which he had laid down. -- `` What is become, `` brother Toby, of Nineveh and Babylon, `` of Cizicum and Mitylenæ ? The fairest `` towns that ever the sun rose upon, are `` now no more : the names only are left, `` and |
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`` 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 `` every thing in a perpetual night : the `` world itself, brother Toby, must -- must `` come to an end. `` Returning out of Asia, when I sailed `` from Ægina towards Megara'' (when can this have been ? thought my uncle Toby) `` I began to view the country round `` about. Ægina was behind me, Me- `` gara was before, Pyræus on the right `` hand, Corinth on the left. -- What flou- `` rishing 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 |
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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 Turky trade, had been three or four different times in the Levant, in one of which he had staid a whole year and a 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 AEgina be- hind, and Megara before, and Pyræus 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 critick would have built two stories high- er upon worse foundations. -- And pray, brother, quoth my uncle Toby, laying the end of his pipe upon my father's hand in |
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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 for- ty 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 misfor- tunes 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 pro- per account, and went on with his ha- rangue with great spirit. `` There is not such great odds, bro- `` ther Toby, betwixt good and evil, as `` the world imagines'' ---- (this way of set- |
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setting off, by the bye, was not likely to cure my uncle Toby's suspicions. -- `` La- `` bour, 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 bet- `` ter; -- '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 be- `` fore 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. -- VOL. V. D `` Death |
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`` 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 physick 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 terror, brother Toby, in its looks, but what it borrows from groans and |
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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 proposi- tion ; my father's eloquence was too ra- pid to stay for any man -- away it went, -- and hurried my uncle Toby's ideas along with lt. ---- For this reason, continued my father, 'tis worthy to recollect, how little alte- ration in great men, the approaches of D 2 death |
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death have made. -- Vespasian died in a jest upon his close-stool -- Galba with a sentence -- Septimius Severus in a dispatch -- Tiberius in dissimulation, and Cæsar Augustus in a compliment. -- I hope, 'twas a sincere one -- quoth my uncle Toby. -- 'Twas to his wife, -- said my father. ---- And lastly -- for of all the choice anecdotes which history can produce of this matter, continued my father, -- this, like the gilded dome which covers in the fabrick, -- crowns all. -- 'Tis of Cornelius Gallus, the prætor -- which I dare say, brother Toby, you have read. -- I dare say I have not, replied my uncle. -- He died, said my father, as * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * -- And if it was with his wife, said my uncle Toby -- there could be no hurt in it. -- That's |
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-- That's more than I know -- replied my father. MY mother was going very ginger- ly in the dark along the passage which led to the parlour, as my uncle Toby pronounced the word wife. -- 'Tis a shrill, penetrating sound of itself, and O- badiah had helped it by leaving the door a little a-jar, so that my mother heard enough of it, to imagine herself the sub- ject of the conversation : so laying the edge of her finger across her two lips -- holding in her breath, and bending her head a little downwards, with a twist of her neck -- (not towards the door, but from it, by which means her ear was brought to the chink) -- she listened with all her powers : ---- the listening slave, with the Goddess of Silence at his back, could not have given a finer thought for an intaglio. D 3 In |
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In this attitude I am determined to let her stand for five minutes : till I bring up the affairs of the kitchen (as Rapin does those of the church) to the same period. THOUGH in one sense, our family was certainly a simple machine, as it consisted of a few wheels ; yet there was thus much to be said for it, that these wheels were set in motion by so many different springs, and acted one upon the other from such a variety of strange principles and impulses, ---- that though it was a simple machine, it had all the honour and advantages of a com- plex one, ---- and a number of as odd movements within it, as ever were be- held in the inside of a Dutch silk-mill. Amongst these there was one, I am going to speak of, in which, perhaps, it was |
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was not altogether so singular, as in many others ; and it was this, that whatever motion, debate, harangue, dialogue, pro- ject, or dissertation, was going forwards in the parlour, there was generally ano- ther at the same time, and upon the same subject, running parallel along with it in the kitchen. Now to bring this about, whenever an extraordinary message, or letter, was de- livered in the parlour, -- or a discourse suspended till a servant went out -- or the lines of discontent were observed to hang upon the brows of my father or mother -- or, in short, when any thing was sup- posed to be upon the tapis worth know- ing or listening to, 'twas the rule to leave the door, not absolutely shut, but some- what a-jar -- as it stands just now, -- which, under covert of the bad hinge, (and that possibly might be one of the many rea- sons why it was never mended) it was not difficult to manage ; by which means, D 4 in |