The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy [87]
uncle foreseeing moreover that it would but perpetuate the memory of the Corporal's misfortune--he changed his mind for that of the marquis d'Hopital's invention, which the younger Bernouilli has so well and learnedly described, as your worships may see--Act. Erud. Lips. an. 1695--to these a lead weight is an eternal balance, and keeps watch as well as a couple of centinels, inasmuch as the construction of them was a curve line approximating to a cycloid--if not a cycloid itself.
My uncle Toby understood the nature of a parabola as well as any man in England--but was not quite such a master of the cycloid;--he talked however about it every day--the bridge went not forwards.--We'll ask somebody about it, cried my uncle Toby to Trim.
Chapter 2.XIX.
When Trim came in and told my father, that Dr. Slop was in the kitchen, and busy in making a bridge--my uncle Toby--the affair of the jack-boots having just then raised a train of military ideas in his brain--took it instantly for granted that Dr. Slop was making a model of the marquis d'Hopital's bridge.--'tis very obliging in him, quoth my uncle Toby;--pray give my humble service to Dr. Slop, Trim, and tell him I thank him heartily.
Had my uncle Toby's head been a Savoyard's box, and my father peeping in all the time at one end of it--it could not have given him a more distinct conception of the operations of my uncle Toby's imagination, than what he had; so, notwithstanding the catapulta and battering-ram, and his bitter imprecation about them, he was just beginning to triumph--
When Trim's answer, in an instant, tore the laurel from his brows, and twisted it to pieces.
Chapter 2.XX.
--This unfortunate draw-bridge of yours, quoth my father--God bless your honour, cried Trim, 'tis a bridge for master's nose.--In bringing him into the world with his vile instruments, he has crushed his nose, Susannah says, as flat as a pancake to his face, and he is making a false bridge with a piece of cotton and a thin piece of whalebone out of Susannah's stays, to raise it up.
--Lead me, brother Toby, cried my father, to my room this instant.
Chapter 2.XXI.
From the first moment I sat down to write my life for the amusement of the world, and my opinions for its instruction, has a cloud insensibly been gathering over my father.--A tide of little evils and distresses has been setting in against him.--Not one thing, as he observed himself, has gone right: and now is the storm thicken'd and going to break, and pour down full upon his head.
I enter upon this part of my story in the most pensive and melancholy frame of mind that ever sympathetic breast was touched with.--My nerves relax as I tell it.--Every line I write, I feel an abatement of the quickness of my pulse, and of that careless alacrity with it, which every day of my life prompts me to say and write a thousand things I should not--And this moment that I last dipp'd my pen into my ink, I could not help taking notice what a cautious air of sad composure and solemnity there appear'd in my manner of doing it.--Lord! how different from the rash jerks and hair-brain'd squirts thou art wont, Tristram, to transact it with in other humours-- dropping thy pen--spurting thy ink about thy table and thy books--as if thy pen and thy ink, thy books and furniture cost thee nothing!
Chapter 2.XXII.
--I won't 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.'
The moment my father got up into his chamber, he threw himself prostrate across his bed in the wildest disorder imaginable, but at the same time in the most lamentable attitude of a man borne down with sorrows, that ever the eye of pity dropp'd a tear for.--The palm of his right hand, as he fell upon the bed, receiving his forehead, and covering the greatest part of both his eyes, gently sunk down with his head (his elbow giving way backwards) till his nose touch'd the quilt;--his left arm
My uncle Toby understood the nature of a parabola as well as any man in England--but was not quite such a master of the cycloid;--he talked however about it every day--the bridge went not forwards.--We'll ask somebody about it, cried my uncle Toby to Trim.
Chapter 2.XIX.
When Trim came in and told my father, that Dr. Slop was in the kitchen, and busy in making a bridge--my uncle Toby--the affair of the jack-boots having just then raised a train of military ideas in his brain--took it instantly for granted that Dr. Slop was making a model of the marquis d'Hopital's bridge.--'tis very obliging in him, quoth my uncle Toby;--pray give my humble service to Dr. Slop, Trim, and tell him I thank him heartily.
Had my uncle Toby's head been a Savoyard's box, and my father peeping in all the time at one end of it--it could not have given him a more distinct conception of the operations of my uncle Toby's imagination, than what he had; so, notwithstanding the catapulta and battering-ram, and his bitter imprecation about them, he was just beginning to triumph--
When Trim's answer, in an instant, tore the laurel from his brows, and twisted it to pieces.
Chapter 2.XX.
--This unfortunate draw-bridge of yours, quoth my father--God bless your honour, cried Trim, 'tis a bridge for master's nose.--In bringing him into the world with his vile instruments, he has crushed his nose, Susannah says, as flat as a pancake to his face, and he is making a false bridge with a piece of cotton and a thin piece of whalebone out of Susannah's stays, to raise it up.
--Lead me, brother Toby, cried my father, to my room this instant.
Chapter 2.XXI.
From the first moment I sat down to write my life for the amusement of the world, and my opinions for its instruction, has a cloud insensibly been gathering over my father.--A tide of little evils and distresses has been setting in against him.--Not one thing, as he observed himself, has gone right: and now is the storm thicken'd and going to break, and pour down full upon his head.
I enter upon this part of my story in the most pensive and melancholy frame of mind that ever sympathetic breast was touched with.--My nerves relax as I tell it.--Every line I write, I feel an abatement of the quickness of my pulse, and of that careless alacrity with it, which every day of my life prompts me to say and write a thousand things I should not--And this moment that I last dipp'd my pen into my ink, I could not help taking notice what a cautious air of sad composure and solemnity there appear'd in my manner of doing it.--Lord! how different from the rash jerks and hair-brain'd squirts thou art wont, Tristram, to transact it with in other humours-- dropping thy pen--spurting thy ink about thy table and thy books--as if thy pen and thy ink, thy books and furniture cost thee nothing!
Chapter 2.XXII.
--I won't 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.'
The moment my father got up into his chamber, he threw himself prostrate across his bed in the wildest disorder imaginable, but at the same time in the most lamentable attitude of a man borne down with sorrows, that ever the eye of pity dropp'd a tear for.--The palm of his right hand, as he fell upon the bed, receiving his forehead, and covering the greatest part of both his eyes, gently sunk down with his head (his elbow giving way backwards) till his nose touch'd the quilt;--his left arm