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

close and painful application, which, by the by, 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, etc., 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 befiddled.

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. Blondel, with almost as many more books of military architecture, as Don Quixote was found to have of chivalry, when the curate and barber invaded his library.

Towards the beginning of the third year, which was in August, ninety-nine, my uncle Toby found it necessary to understand a little of projectiles:⁠—and having judged it best to draw his knowledge from the fountainhead, he began with N. Tartaglia, who it seems was the first man who detected the imposition of a cannonball’s doing all that mischief under the notion of a right line⁠—This N. Tartaglia proved to my uncle Toby to be an impossible thing.

⸺⁠Endless is the search of Truth.

No sooner was my uncle Toby satisfied which road the cannonball did not go, but he was insensibly led on, and resolved in his mind to enquire and find out which road the ball did go: For which purpose he was obliged to set off afresh with old Maltus, and studied him devoutly.⁠—He proceeded next to Galileo and Torricellius, wherein, by certain Geometrical rules, infallibly laid down, he found the precise part to be a Parabola⁠—or else an Hyperbola,⁠—and that the parameter, or latus rectum, of the conic section of the said path, was to the quantity and amplitude in a direct ratio, as the whole line to the sine of double the angle of incidence, formed by the breech upon an horizontal plane;⁠—and that the semiparameter,⁠⸺⁠stop! my dear uncle Toby⁠⸺⁠stop!⁠—go not one foot farther into this thorny and bewildered track,⁠—intricate are the steps! intricate are the mazes of this labyrinth! intricate are the troubles which the pursuit of this bewitching phantom Knowledge will bring upon thee.⁠—O my uncle;⁠—fly⁠—fly, fly from it as from a serpent.⁠⸺⁠Is it fit⁠⸺⁠good-natured man! thou should’st sit up, with the wound upon thy groin, whole nights baking thy blood with hectic watchings?⁠⸺⁠Alas! ’twill exasperate thy symptoms,⁠—check thy perspirations⁠—evaporate thy spirits⁠—waste thy animal strength,⁠—dry up thy radical moisture, bring thee into a costive habit of body,⁠⸺⁠impair thy health,⁠⸺⁠and hasten all the infirmities of thy old age.⁠⸺⁠O my uncle! my uncle Toby.

IV

I would not give a groat for that man’s knowledge in pencraft, who does not understand this,⁠⸺⁠That the best plain narrative in the world, tacked very close to the last spirited apostrophe to my uncle Toby⁠⸺⁠would have felt both cold and vapid upon the reader’s palate;⁠—therefore I forthwith put an end to the chapter, though I was in the middle of my story.

⸻Writers of my stamp have one principle in common with painters. Where an exact copying makes our pictures less striking, we choose the less evil; deeming it even more pardonable to trespass against truth, than beauty. This is to be understood cum grano salis; but be it as it will,⁠—as the parallel is made more for the sake of letting the apostrophe cool, than anything else,⁠—’tis not very material whether upon any other score the reader approves of it or not.

In the latter end of the third year, my uncle Toby perceiving that the parameter and semiparameter of the conic section angered his wound, he left off the study of projectiles in a kind of a huff, and betook himself to the practical part of fortification only; the pleasure of which, like a spring held back, returned upon him with redoubled force.

It was in this year that my uncle began to break in upon the daily regularity of a clean shirt,⁠⸺⁠to dismiss his barber unshaven,⁠⸺⁠and to allow his surgeon scarce time sufficient to dress his wound, concerning himself so little about it, as not to ask him once in seven times dressing, how it went on: when, lo!⁠—all of a sudden, for the change was quick as lightning, he began to sigh heavily for his recovery,⁠⸺⁠complained to my father, grew impatient with the surgeon:⁠⸺⁠and one morning, as he heard his foot coming upstairs, he shut up his books, and thrust aside his instruments,