The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman Laurence Sterne (short novels to read .txt) 📖

into a tassel beyond the knot, hung the corporal’s stick⁠⸺⁠My uncle Toby carried his cane like a pike.

⸺⁠It looks well at least; quoth my father to himself.

III

My uncle Toby turn’d his head more than once behind him, to see how he was supported by the corporal; and the corporal as oft as he did it, gave a slight flourish with his stick⁠—but not vapouringly; and with the sweetest accent of most respectful encouragement, bid his honour “never fear.”

Now my uncle Toby did fear; and grievously too; he knew not (as my father had reproach’d him) so much as the right end of a Woman from the wrong, and therefore was never altogether at his ease near any one of them⁠⸺⁠unless in sorrow or distress; then infinite was his pity; nor would the most courteous knight of romance have gone further, at least upon one leg, to have wiped away a tear from a woman’s eye; and yet excepting once that he was beguiled into it by Mrs. Wadman, he had never looked stedfastly into one; and would often tell my father in the simplicity of his heart, that it was almost (if not about) as bad as talking bawdy.⁠⸺⁠

⸺⁠And suppose it is? my father would say.

IV

She cannot, quoth my uncle Toby, halting, when they had march’d up to within twenty paces of Mrs. Wadman’s door⁠—she cannot, corporal, take it amiss.⁠⸺⁠

⸺⁠She will take it, an’ please your honour, said the corporal, just as the Jew’s widow at Lisbon took it of my brother Tom.⁠⸺⁠

⸺⁠And how was that? quoth my uncle Toby, facing quite about to the corporal.

Your honour, replied the corporal, knows of Tom’s misfortunes; but this affair has nothing to do with them any further than this, That if Tom had not married the widow⁠⸺⁠or had it pleased God after their marriage, that they had but put pork into their sausages, the honest soul had never been taken out of his warm bed, and dragg’d to the inquisition⁠⸺’Tis a cursed place⁠—added the corporal, shaking his head,⁠—when once a poor creature is in, he is in, an’ please your honour, forever.

’Tis very true; said my uncle Toby, looking gravely at Mrs. Wadman’s house, as he spoke.

Nothing, continued the corporal, can be so sad as confinement for life⁠—or so sweet, an’ please your honour, as liberty.

Nothing, Trim⁠⸺⁠said my uncle Toby, musing⁠⸺⁠

Whilst a man is free,⁠—cried the corporal, giving a flourish with his stick thus⁠⸺⁠

A thousand of my father’s most subtle syllogisms could not have said more for celibacy.

My uncle Toby look’d earnestly towards his cottage and his bowling-green.

The corporal had unwarily conjured up the Spirit of calculation with his wand; and he had nothing to do, but to conjure him down again with his story, and in this form of Exorcism, most un-ecclesiastically did the corporal do it.

V

As Tom’s place, an’ please your honour, was easy⁠—and the weather warm⁠—it put him upon thinking seriously of settling himself in the world; and as it fell out about that time, that a Jew who kept a sausage shop in the same street, had the ill luck to die of a strangury, and leave his widow in possession of a rousing trade⁠⸺⁠Tom thought (as everybody in Lisbon was doing the best he could devise for himself) there could be no harm in offering her his service to carry it on: so without any introduction to the widow, except that of buying a pound of sausages at her shop⁠—Tom set out⁠—counting the matter thus within himself, as he walk’d along; that let the worst come of it that could, he should at least get a pound of sausages for their worth⁠—but, if things went well, he should be set up; inasmuch as he should get not only a pound of sausages⁠—but a wife and⁠—a sausage shop, an’ please your honour, into the bargain.

Every servant in the family, from high to low, wish’d Tom success; and I can fancy, an’ please your honour, I see him this moment with his white dimity waistcoat and breeches, and hat a little o’ one side, passing jollily along the street, swinging his stick, with a smile and a chearful word for everybody he met:⁠⸺⁠But alas! Tom! thou smilest no more, cried the corporal, looking on one side of him upon the ground, as if he apostrophised him in his dungeon.

Poor fellow! said my uncle Toby, feelingly.

He was an honest, lighthearted lad, an’ please your honour, as ever blood warm’d⁠⸺⁠

⸺⁠Then he resembled thee, Trim, said my uncle Toby, rapidly.

The corporal blush’d down to his fingers ends⁠—a tear of sentimental bashfulness⁠—another of gratitude to my uncle Toby⁠—and a tear of sorrow for his brother’s misfortunes, started into his eye, and ran sweetly down his cheek together; my uncle Toby’s kindled as one lamp does at another; and taking hold of the breast of Trim’s coat (which had been that of Le Fever’s) as if to ease his lame leg, but in reality to gratify a finer feeling⁠⸺⁠he stood silent for a minute and a half; at the end of which he took his hand away, and the corporal making a bow, went on with his story of his brother and the Jew’s widow.

VI

When Tom, an’ please your honour, got to the shop, there was nobody in it, but a poor negro girl, with a bunch of white feathers slightly tied to the end of a long cane, flapping away flies⁠—not killing them.⁠⸺’Tis a pretty picture! said my uncle Toby⁠—she had suffered persecution, Trim, and had learnt mercy⁠⸺⁠

⸺⁠She was good, an’ please your honour, from nature, as well as from hardships; and there are circumstances in the story of that poor friendless slut, that would melt a heart of stone, said Trim; and some dismal winter’s evening, when your honour is in the humour, they shall be told you with the rest of Tom’s story, for it makes a part of it⁠⸺⁠

Then do not