The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman - Laurence Sterne [130]
Was every day of my life to be as busy a day as this,—and to take up,—truce—
I will not finish that sentence till I have made an observation upon the strange state of affairs between the reader and myself, just as things stand at present—an observation never applicable before to any one biographical writer since the creation of the world, but to myself—and I believe will never hold good to any other, until its final destruction——and therefore, for the very novelty of it alone, it must be worth your worships attending to.
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 day’s 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—was every day of my life to be as busy a day as this—And why not?—and the transactions and opinions of it to take up as much description—And for what reason should they be cut short? as at this rate I should just live 364 times faster than I should write—It must follow, an’ please your worships, that the more I write, the more I shall have to write—and consequently, the more your worships read, the more your worships will have to read.
Will this be good for your worships eyes?
It will do well for mine; and, was it not that my OPINIONS will be the death of me, I perceive I shall lead a fine life of it out of this self-same life of mine; or, in other words, shall lead a couple of fine lives together.
As for the proposal of twelve volumes a year, or a volume a month, it no way alters my prospect—write as I will, and rush as I may into the middle of things, as Horace advises,3—I shall never overtake myself—whipp’d and driven to the last pinch, at the worst I shall have one day the start of my pen—and one day is enough for two volumes—and two volumes will be enough for one year.—
Heaven prosper the manufacturers of paper under this propitious reign, which is now open’d to us,4—as I trust its providence will prosper every thing else in it that is taken in hand.—
As for the propagation of Geese—I give myself no concern—Nature is all bountiful—I shall never want tools to work with.
—So then, friend! you have got my father and my uncle Toby off the stairs, and seen them to bed?—And how did you manage it?—You dropp’d a curtain at the stairs foot—I thought you had no other way for it—Here’s a crown for your trouble.
CHAP. XIV
—Then reach me my breeches off the chair, said my father to Susannah—There is not a moment’s time to dress you, Sir, cried Susannah—the child is as black in the face as my—As your, what? said my father, for like all orators, he was a dear searcher into comparisons—Bless me, Sir, said Susannah, the child’s in a fit—And where’s Mr. Yorick—Never where he should be, said Susannah, but his curate’s in the dressingroom, with the child upon his arm, waiting for the name——and my mistress bid me run as fast as I could to know, as captain Shandy is the godfather, whether it should not be called after him.
Were one sure, said my father to himself, scratching his eye-brow, that the child was expiring, one might as well compliment my brother Toby as not—and ’twould be a pity, in such a case, to throw away so great a name as Trismegistus upon him—But he may recover.
No, no,—said my father to Susannah; I’ll get up——There is no time, cried Susannah, the child’s as black as my shoe. Trismegistus, said my father—But stay—thou art a leaky vessel, Susannah, added my father; canst thou carry Trismegistus in thy head, the length of the gallery without scattering—Can I? cried Susannah, shutting the door in a huff—If she