ACT I.

WELL, you tell me love has made a a progreſs in both their boſoms; but ſay, Trim, how does my brother Toby ſtand the aſſaults of the widow Wadman?

An't pleaſe your honor, he has capitula⯑ted—the Captain has taken in love, as he has taken in every thing elſe—he has taken it in like a lamb.

And the Widow Wadman, I aſſure you, Sir, is as far gone as the Captain—poor gentle⯑woman! ſhe has taken in love like a lamb too.

Then muſt we purſue our ſcheme—You muſt continue, Trim, to keep the Captain's flame alive, and you, Suſan, muſt lay freſh fuel upon [2] the widow's fire; this peace, Trim, will break my poor brother's heart, unleſs we get employ⯑ment for his mind, I have philoſophiz'd with him in vain—nothing but love can ſoothe him—Love, Trim—mark Suſannah—Love is a paſſion derived from heaven.

Yes, your honor, and it repleniſhes the earth.

Where is my brother?

An't pleaſe your honor, he's gone over to the Inn, to viſit poor Lieutenant Lefevre.

Then I'll go to him—Trim, drink ſuc⯑ceſs to the Captain.

If the widow gets this brother of mine, ſhe gets an invaluable treaſure, he has'nt a heart to hurt a fly—Go, ſays he, one day to an overgrown one, which he had caught as it buzz'd about his noſe, and torment⯑ed him cruelly, poor devil, I'll not hurt a hair of thy head. Go, ſaid he, lifting up the ſaſh, the world is wide enough for thee and me.—It was a leſſon which might ſerve governors and parents better than a whole volume on the ſubject of hu⯑manity

My maſter, his honor the captain, and your maſter his worſhip, Mr. Shandy, could not be match'd in a day's march, Suſan;—good hearts! when the unfortunate claim aſſiſtance, they fling down their money with that ſpirited jerk of an ho⯑neſt welcome with which generous ſouls only are able to fling down money;—For each man's ſor⯑row they have a tear, for each man's need they have a ſhilling—may heaven ever bleſs them both.

La! Mr. Trim, I thought as how you gen⯑tlemen of the army never pray'd.

It is not half an hour, Suſan, ſince I heard Lieutenant Lefevre, a ſoldier, and a brave [3] ſoldier pray devoutly; a ſoldier, Suſan, prays as often of his own accord as a parſon; and when he's fighting for his king, and for his country, and for his own life, and for his honor too, he has the moſt reaſon to pray to heaven, of any man in the world.

Very true, Mr. Trim.

But when a ſoldier, my dear girl, has been ſtanding twelve hours in the trenches—

A great while to ſtand indeed, Mr. Trim.

Up to his knees in cold water, or engag'd in long and dangerous marches, harraſs'd in his rear to-day, harraſſing others to-morrow;—de⯑tach'd here,

countermanded there

reſting this night per⯑haps upon his arms—beat up the next in his ſhirt —benumb'd in his joints, without ſtraw in his tent to kneel on, he muſt ſay his prayers how and when he can.

And it's my opinion when a ſoldier gets time to pray, he prays as heartily as any parſon of them all, though not with ſo much fuſs and hy⯑pocriſy.

Don't ſay that, Suſan; heaven only knows who is hypocrite and who is not; at the great and general review of all, and not till then, it will be ſeen who have deſerted from their duty in this world, and who have ſtood to their poſts, and we ſhall be advanced accordingly

And it will never be enquired whether we were flaunting fine ladies, or humble ſervant maids.

No, ſweet Suſan, nor whether we did our duty in a red coat or a black one.—But to buſineſs, Suſan, the Captain is certainly ſmitten, [4] what marks of love have you perceived in the widow.

Why ſhe nightly reads over her marriage-ſettlement, and every time ſhe reads, cries for her firſt huſband—a ſtrong ſign that ſhe's thinking of a ſecond.—But do you know the marks of love, Mr. Trim.

Know them, I have felt them, Suſannah,

But ſay, what doſt thou think of love thyſelf, my girl?

I can tell you what it is through the whole alphabet; parſon Yorick taught me. You muſt give me the letter, Mr. Trim, juſt as you give the word of command—begin with A.

Very well;—now mind the word—take care.

A!

Agitation.

B!

Bewitching.

C!

Charming.

D!

Delightful, or dev'liſh, which you pleaſe; in ſhort, Love is the moſt E—extravagant, F— funny, G—giggliſh, H—humorous, I—intereſting, K—O there is no key to it!

What no key to love, Suſannah? O there is a key!—Well, go on.—

Love is the moſt L—longing, M—miſ⯑guiding, N—natural, O—the O expreſſes its own meaning, its the ſame with the heigh-ho!

P—pleaſant, Q.—quarrelſome, R—rapturous— but here comes Obadiah, ſo the next time we [5] meet, I'll give you the S, T, U, W, X, Y, and Z, of love.

With the et caetera, I hope, Suſan—for the et caetera is worth the whole alphabet.

Alas! alas! Corporal! as ſure as I'm alive, the poor Lieutenant at the inn will die—and yet he was better this morning.

Alas!

What is this morning, or any other morning, to the time preſent?—Are we not here now—

and are we not gone in a moment?

O yes, gone in a moment.

I own, that ſince the morning it is not long till now, it is nothing; but to thoſe, Oba⯑diah, who know not what death is, and what havoc and deſtruction he can make before a man can wheel about,

it is a whole age.

How learnedly the Corporal preaches.

O Obadiah! O Suſannah! it would make a good natur'd man's heart bleed, to con⯑ſider, how many a brave upright fellow hath been laid low ſince that time—Truſt me, Suſan, before that time comes again, many a bright eye will be dim.

Yes, Mr. Trim, many a bright eye will be dim.

Are we not like the flower of the field?

Yes, we are like the flowers of the field.

Is not all fleſh graſs?

Yes—all fleſh is graſs.

'Tis clay, 'tis dirt—

—What is the fineſt face that a man ever look'd on?

I could hear Trim talk for ever.

What is the fineſt face

What is it but corruption?

—Out of doors I value not death at all, not this—

—Let him not take me cowardly, what is he? a pull of a trigger, a puſh of a bayonet. The beſt way is to ſtand up to him, the man who flies, is in ten times more danger, than he who marches up to his jaws. I have look'd him an hundred times in his face.— Death is nothing in the field.

But he's woundedly frightful in the houſe.

For my part, I think it's moſt natural to meet him in bed.

And could I eſcape him in bed, by creeping into the worſt calf-ſkin that ever was made into a knapſack, I'd do it there—but that is nature.

Well, I muſt go ſee after the ſick cow, tho' I could hear the corporal for ever.

There's Captain Shandy fears not death, he fears only what every honeſt man fears—doing a wrong thing. He's as kind an officer as ever ſtepp'd before a platoon, and would march up to the muzzle of a cannon, tho' there were a light⯑ed match at the touch-hole. He'll take care of Lefevre's ſon—I'd ſerve him to the day of my death for love.

And I'd ſooner be his ſervant for ſeven pounds a year, than ſerve other people for eight.

Thank thee for thy twenty ſhillings a year, as much, Suſan, as if thou putteſt the mo⯑ney into my own pocket. I muſt kiſs thee for it, Suſan.

Suſay! Suſan! Suſannah! you are call'd for here, call'd for there, call'd for every where! there's miſtreſs taken woundedly▪ ill, Jane is ſent for the midwife, and Jerry for Mrs. Wadman, and I muſt gallop for Dr. Slop—But what beaſt ſhall I take? The coach-horſe wants a ſhoe.

Don't take him, poor creature.

The Scotch horſe is gall'd, and can't bear a ſaddle upon his back.

Take Patriot, Obadiah.

Patriot! ah Suſan! no—poor Patriot's ſold! Well, I'll e'en borrow the miller's cart-horſe, or walk, for better to walk thro' thick and thin all the days of a man's life, than to ride a poor unſhod devil, or a devil with a gall'd back, that muſt feel pain every inch of the road—But I forgot, maſter's returned from the inn, and would ſpeak with you, Mr. Trim.

Farewell, Suſan, when the widow comes remember your maſter's inſtructions—Suſan, we muſt all marry.

Well, 'tis twenty to one but miſtreſs dies this bout—poor gentlewoman, ſhe has always had a hard time, and ſhe has as good cloaths as any lady in the county, and maſter would give them all to me no doubt.

Coming! Her green ſattin is vaſtly pretty, green becomes my complexion, yes, I was always fond of a green gown,

why coming! then her red damaſk ſtands an end,

coming! and ſhe has an [8] orange tawny armozine, a white padua, and a yellow luteſtring, beſides a world of linen, bed⯑gowns, laces, and comfortable under-petticoats.

Why Suſan, Suſan, they are calling for you all over the houſe—away, my girl, away.

Should the Lieutenant die, Trim, 'twould go to my brother's heart, ſo let's purſue our ſcheme againſt him and the widow with all expedition.

And pleaſe your honor, I fear I ſhall want ſpirits.

Nay, Trim, never be grave—gravity is an errant ſcoundrel, and of the moſt dangerous kind too—becauſe a ſly one; more honeſt, well meaning people are bubbled out of their goods and monies by gravity in a twelve-month, than by poc⯑ket picking and ſhop-lifting in ſeven years. Here comes my brother, I'll ſtep into the library to overlook my catalogue of chriſtian names, but will come out if I ſee occaſion.

I have ſeen the Lieutenant, Trim, he is the ſame Lefevre who ſerv'd at Angus's at Breda, and whoſe wife was unfortunately kill'd by a muſket ball, as ſhe lay in his arms in his tent.

I remember the ſtory an't pleaſe your honor.

Then well may the poor Lieutenant remember it—when you waited on the Lieute⯑nant, and made him an offer of my ſervices, did [9] you offer him my purſe?—Sickneſs and travel⯑ling are both expenſive, and thou knoweſt he was a poor Lieutenant, with a ſon to ſubſiſt as well as himſelf out of his pay—Thou ſhould'ſt have made him an offer of my purſe, becauſe if he ſtood in need, Trim, thou knoweſt he had been as welcome to it as myſelf.

Your honor knows I had no orders.

True,

thou had'ſt not orders, and thou did'ſt very right, Trim, as a ſoldier, but very ill as a man.

Then when thou offeredſt whatever was in my houſe, thou ſhould'ſt have offered him my houſe too.

A ſick brother officer ſhould have the beſt quarters, Trim, and what with my care, and thy care, and the old woman's care, and his boy's care, we might recruit him again, and ſet him on his legs.

In a fortnight or three weeks he might march.

Shandy, peeping. Precious ſouls! what are their two noddles together about?

He will never march, an't pleaſe your honor, in this world.

He will march.

A'nt pleaſe your honor, he will never march but to the grave.

He ſhall march to his regiment.

He cannot ſtand it, your honor.

He ſhall be ſupported.

He will drop at laſt, and what will be⯑come of his boy?

He ſhall not drop.

Ah, well aday! do what we can for him, the poor ſoul will die.

He ſhall not die by—heaven!

Don't ſwear, your honor.

Your hand, brother—the accuſing ſpirit which flew up to heaven's chancery with thy oath, bluſh'd as he gave it in, and the recording angel, as he wrote it down, dropp'd a tear upon the word, that blotted it out for ever.—But conſider, dear Toby, all muſt die! monarchs, princes, dance in the ſame ring with us.

Has the widow been here, Trim?

Kingdoms and provinces, towns and cities, have they not their period? when thoſe principles and powers which firſt put them to⯑gether—

Brother brother,

I hope you except this country from your principles and powers, there was no princi⯑ple in the powers which oppoſe her, and ſhe has now principle and power ſufficient within herſelf, to keep her firm upon her own broad baſis.

Yes, an't pleaſe your honor, and having juſtice on her ſide, ſhe's able to drive France and Spain and—and the devil if he ſhould join them, out of the field.

The approaches of death, Toby, make but little alteration in a great man—Veſpaſian died in a jeſt, Galba with a ſentence, Septimus Severus with a diſpatch, Tiberius with diſſimula⯑tion, and Caeſar Auguſtus with a compliment.

I hope your honor, it was a ſincere one.

It was to his wife, Trim—but laſtly comes the anecdote, which, like the gilded dome, [11] crowns in all—never did man receive ſuch ſevere laſhes as Cornelius Gallus.

The greateſt number of laſhes I ever ſaw given, was to a grenadier in Mackay's regiment.

O heav'ns! he was innocent, yet he was flogg'd to death's door, they had better ſhot him outright, as he begg'd, and he'd have gone to heaven directly.

It was a misfortune, great as ever the eye of pity dropp'd a tear on—it would be a pity, Trim, thou ſhould'ſt ever feel ſorrows of thy own, thou feel'ſt ſo tenderly for others—But whilſt thy maſter has a ſhilling, thou ſhalt not aſk elſewhere for a penny.

Scoundrel, I wiſh you hang'd, I wiſh you ſhot.

This curſing, Dr. Slop, is no more than ſparrow ſhot fired again a baſtion. Our armies ſwore terribly in Flanders, Doctor, but nothing to this—My heart would not let me curſe the de⯑vil with ſo much bitterneſs.

The devil's damn'd already to all eter⯑nity.

Poor devil,

I'm ſorry for him!

That raſcal, Obadiah, has injur'd me.

No, Doctor, I would not injure a toad from my heart, and I's no raſcal, and I ſcorn a lie—I met Mr. Doctor, an't pleaſe you, coming ſlowly along, waddling thro' the dirt, at a duck's gait, upon his little poney, the poor beaſt ſcarce able to ſet foot to ground under its heavy burden, for the Doctor is a mortal load of human fleſh, as you mon ſee—he! he! he!

Who do you laugh at, Sirrah? I was com⯑ing to pay my devoirs to the widow Wadman, not knowing of your lady's alarm, when this fellow came poſting down the narrow lane, at a mon⯑ſtrous and tremendous rate, mounted on a huge cart horſe, prick'd into a full gallop.

It was the miller's old troop horſe, and 'tis as good natur'd a beaſt—

As yourſelf, Sirrah,—you came ſplaſh⯑ing and plunging like a devil thro' thick and thin, a phenomenon with a vortex of mud and water round its axis—What muſt be my terror and hy⯑drophobia, when advancing warily in an ambling motion, this Obadiah and his miller's troop horſe, turns a corner furious, pop full upon me.

But, Doctor, you were in fault, for you looked round when I cried out to you to hold the pummel of the ſaddle, and in looking round you let go your whip, and attempting to ſave your whip, you loſt your ſeat.

And when the Doctor loſt his ſeat, he loſt his preſence of mind.

And before I was near him, your honor, he fell from his poney, for all the world like a pack of wool, quite at his eaſe, with the broader part of him ſunk in the mud twelve inches.

You're an ill-manner'd knave.

Nay, as to my manners, did'nt I pull off my hat twice, once when your worſhip was falling,

and again when I ſaw you in the mud?

My poor miſtreſs is ready to faint! and the drops are ſpilt, and the bottle of julip is broken, the nurſe has cut her arm, and the mid⯑wife [13] has fall'n upon the fender, and bruis'd her hip.

If the midwife's hip be bruis'd, it is fitting I ſhould go look at it.

No, Doctor, I requeſt your immediate attendance on Mrs. Shandy—Obadiah will pull off your boots, and ſupply you with a pair of ſlip⯑pers.

And had I my will, Obadiah ſhould be ſupplied with a halter.

I am convinc'd, Toby, that Mrs. Shandy will have a boy.

The widow Wadman, brother, is before my eyes day and night.

My ſon's name ſhall be Triſmegiſtus.

Who's there?

It is nothing, an't pleaſe your honor, but two mortars.

They ſhan't make a clatter with their mortars here—If Dr. Slop has any drugs to pound, let him do it in the kitchen.

May it pleaſe your honor, they are two mortar pieces for a ſiege, which I have been making

out of a pair of jack boots, which Obadiah told me, your honor had left off wearing.

By heav'n! I have not one appointment belonging to me, which I ſet ſo much ſtore by, as I do by theſe jack-boots.— They were our grandfather's, Toby, they were hereditary.

Then I fear, Trim has cut off the entail.

Cut off the tail!—no, pleaſe your honor,

I have only cut off the top.

I hate perpetuities as much as any man alive, Toby; but theſe boots were worn by Sir Roger Shandy, at the battle of Marſton Moor— I would not have taken ten pounds for them.

I'll pay you the money, brother, with all my heart.

Trim, ſtep into the kitchen, and enquire how things go on up ſtairs,

Brother Toby, you care not what money you throw away, provided it is upon a ſiege—Dear Toby, theſe military operations are above your ſtrength, and will in the end quite ruin and make a beggar of you.—What's your modern artillery, to the bat⯑tering rams of the ancients, to the catapulta—

An't pleaſe your honor, there is no one ſoul in the kitchen, except Dr. Slop.

Some retrogade planet is hanging over this houſe of mine, turning every thing out of its place—I thought the Doctor had been with Mrs. Shandy! what can he be puzzling about in the kitchen?

He's buzy, an't pleaſe your honor, in making a bridge.

It's very obliging in him—Pray give my humble ſervice to Dr. Slop, and tell him I thank him heartily—He's making his bridge, I ſuppoſe, after the model of the Marquis de Hoſpitals.

Heaven bleſs your honor! it's a bridge for young maſter's noſe.—

Confuſion!

Madam has got a ſon, but Dr. Slop, as Suſan told me on the ſtair head, has cruſh'd his noſe as flat as a pancake, and is making a falſe [15] bridge with a piece of cotton, and a bit of whale⯑bone to raiſe it up.

Lead me, brother Toby, lead me to my room this inſtant.

Keep up your ſpirits—Meet me preſently in the bowling-green with the mortars, Trim..

Cruſh'd his noſe! O heaven—O unfortu⯑nate mutilated child.

ACT II.

AND are you convinc'd, Suſan, that Capt. Shandy intends paying his ad⯑dreſſes to me?

No, Madam, the Captain is as mild as new milk, and Trim ſays, he loves you better than gun-powder, yet indeed, Madam, he is ſo modeſt a gentleman, that you muſt c [...]urt him.

And you'll ſound the Corporal upon what I have ſpoken to you, you know the Captain has been wounded, and one would not wiſh to turn nurſe, and marry a patient—Here comes the Corporal, ſo remember your buſineſs.

Yes, I'll diſcover every thing for this poor widow, I'll ſerve her, for ſhe has really made me a genteel preſent—perhaps this is her laſt ſtake, ſo I'll cut the cards cautiouſly, and who knows but hearts may turn up trumps.

La, Mr. Trim, is it true that the Captain can never recover his wound?—Dr. Slop ſays he cannot.

Upon my life, Suſan, the Doctor's in⯑ſinuations are as falſe as hell—but why do'ſt thou aſk? thou art good and modeſt by nature, and ſo generous a girl, thou would'ſt not wound an inſect, much leſs the honor of ſo [17] worthy and gallant a ſoul as my maſter—Thou haſt been ſet on and deluded, Suſan, as is often a woman's caſe, to pleaſe others more than them⯑ſelves, whoſe ſuſpicion has miſled thee—Tell me, for by my Montero cap I love thee.

Do you really love me? To be ſure, you ſoldiers are the cleaneſt, neateſt, uprighteſt men—and indeed Mr. Trim, I always liked you, and will tell you the truth—I was ſet on to make my enquiries by the widow Wadman—Here comes the Captain.

Well, Suſan, meet me preſently at the fortifications, and I'll ſhew you our new Dutch bridge.

I ſhall not fail—but you men are not to be truſted.

Nay, 'tis you women are not to be truſted—Always changing your appearances, and, conſidering the changes of life, there is no anſwering for one of you a moment—Some grow out like pumkins, and loſe their ſhape—Others go off like flowers, and loſe their beauty—Nay, ſweet Suſan, how many go off like huſſeys, and loſe themſelves?

I believe, your honor, I am going to ſay a fooliſh kind of a thing for a ſoldier.

A ſoldier, Trim, is no more exempt from ſaying fooliſh things, than a man of let⯑ters.

But a ſoldier, your honor, does not ſay fooliſh things ſo often as a man of letters—Since the peace, your honor, I have never once whiſtled, [18] nor laughed, nor cried, nor talk'd of paſt done deeds, nor told your honor a good nor a bad ſtory.

I have remark'd it, Trim.

Then ſince the war is over, your honor, we ſhould look for other employment—We have wounded the widow Wadman, and I believe, your honor, ſhe has returned the fire.

She has attacked my breaſt works from the battery of her eyes, and has left a ball here.

Your honor muſt attack her in return— ſhe can no more ſtand a ſiege than ſhe can fly— we'll get your honor's regimentals bruſhed up, and I'll put your ramilie wig in pipes.

And get ſome chalk for my ſword.

It will be in your honor's way—but when your honor is ſhaved, and your clean ſhirt on, and every thing ready for the attack, we will match up to the widow, as boldly as to the face of a baſtion.

I declare, Corporal, I'd rather march up to the edge of a Trench—

A Trench, your honor! a woman is quite a different thing—But I muſt retire, your honor, for here comes the widow, running down the gallery like one bewitched—We ſhould never have fallen in love but for the peace.

I am half diſtracted, Capt. Shandy, a mote or ſand, or ſomething has got into this [19] eye of mine—For pity's ſweet ſake, look at it.

I proteſt, Madam, I can ſee nothing—

Nothing can I ſee, but the eye itſelf.

Is it not in the white, Captain, look into it again?

As I am a ſoldier, Mrs. Wadman, it is in vain, I have reconnoitered every corner, and can ſee nothing, Widow—but fire!—fire!— ſhooting from every part.

It is eaſy now—well, the eye is the moſt tender part about us—and the moſt orna⯑mental.

And the moſt dangerous, Madam—an eye is for all the world, in this reſpect, ex⯑actly like a cannon, that it is not ſo much the eye nor the cannon themſelves, as it is the car⯑riage of the eye and the carriage of the cannon, by which both the one and the other are enabled to do ſo much execution—

Then there are many kinds of eyes—

Yes, widow, and many kinds of can⯑non.

The rolling eye—

And the battering cannon.

The commanding eye—

And the field piece.

The languiſhing eye—

And the howitzer.

The forbidding eye—

And the horn petard.

The imperious eye—

Of all eyes, good Heaven! defend me from the imperious one—There are more evils in ſuch an eye, widow, than in a whole train of ar⯑tillery [20] —

O give me, Mrs. Wadman, an eye full of gentle ſalutations and ſoft notes, whiſpering like the laſt low accents of a dying ſaint.

I ſee, Captain, you are acquainted with the ſoft paſſions of love as well as the hor⯑rors of war—

War, Madam! What is war? But get⯑ting together a number of quiet and harmleſs people with ſwords in their hands, to keep the turbulent and ambitious within bounds—It is one thing to gather laurels, it is another to ſcat⯑ter cypreſs.

Stop, Captain—You are ſo gallant, ſo ardent, I wonder a gentleman of your figure could ſo long have lived comfortably alone, with⯑out a boſom to reſt your head on, or truſt your cares to. But then that dreadful wound—where did you receive it, Captain?

You ſhall ſee, Madam, the very ſpot where I—

Juſt here, Madam, before the gate of St. Nicholas, in one of the traverſes of the French, oppoſite to the ſalient angle of the demi baſtion of St. Roch—I ſup⯑poſe you underſtand the geography of the place.

A fig for the geography—We were ſpeaking of love and matrimony.

But muſt poſtpone the converſation, ſweet widow, for here comes my brother.

What an interruption!

Well, Captain, I ſhall take a view of your fortifications, as ſoon as I pay a ſhort viſit to poor Mrs. Shandy.

Hem—

We ſhould be overſet and torn to pieces an hundred times a day, brother Toby, was it not for a ſecret ſpring within us—

Which ſpring I take to be religion.

Will that ſet my boy's noſe on.

Religion, brother, makes every thing ſtrait.

Since the greateſt evil has befallen him, I muſt counteract and undo it with the greateſt good—His name ſhall ſave him—He ſhall be baptized Triſmegiſtus.

I wiſh his long name may anſwer for his ſhort noſe.

It is a name will bring all things to rights. This Triſmegiſtus was the greateſt of all earthly beings—He was the greateſt king, the greateſt philoſopher, the greateſt prieſt—

And engineer, I ſuppoſe.

No doubt, brother, he was an engineer, as he was a prieſt.

The child is dying, Sir, dying—but the curate is in the dreſſing room, waiting for the name.

How!

He's as black in the face as my—

What—

Why my ſhoe.

He is to be called Triſmegiſtus.

Can'ſt thou carry Triſmegiſtus in thy head acroſs the gallery without forgetting.

Can I!—Triſ—triſ—triſ—giſtus—giſtus.

Of all the puzzling riddles in the mar⯑ried ſtate, brother Toby, there is not one that has more intricacies in it than this—That from the moment the miſtreſs of the houſe is brought to bed, every female in it, from the lady's gentle⯑woman down to the cinder wench, become an inch taller, and give themſelves more airs on that ſingle inch, than on all their other inches put to⯑gether—Now we'll go ſee Triſmegiſtus▪

The child is chriſtened, and pleaſe your honor—

And Suſannah has not forgot the name.

What's the matter, Suſan?

No body is in fault but Mr. Yorick's cu⯑rate—I ran all the way calling over the name, and told him it was Triſtramgiſtus

She did, indeed▪ your honor.

He called me noodle, and ſaid there was no giſtus in it, and chriſtened my young maſter, Triſtram, which he ſaid was his own name.

Retire—

fire! fury! women! and wind!—Unhappy Triſtram—Child of decripitude—What misfortune or diſaſter in [23] the book of amylratic evils, which could un⯑mechanize thy frame, which has not fallen upon thy head?

It was all owing, an't pleaſe your honor, to Suſan's miſtake—it was her error, not a fault.

Trim, thou wer't ever a friend to the diſtreſſed—And a true friend, for thou haſt aſ⯑ſiſted them behind their backs—I have left, Trim, my Bowling-green brother—I have left him a penſion! he always obeyed orders, whether from his officer or from Heaven.

Had Count Solmes done the ſame at the battle of Steenkirk, Trim, it would have ſaved thee from having been run over by the dragoons.

Sav'd me! your honor, it would have ſaved five battalions!

Trim's right! perfectly right!

Count Solmes ſhould have ſent up the foot, not the horſe—We would have fired with them muzzle to muzzle for their lives—

O Triſtram!

The French, brother; had the advantage of a wood; and give them a moment's time to re⯑trench themſelves, they are a nation will pop, and pop at you for ever—There is no way but to march cooly up to them, receive their fire, and fall upon them—

Pell, mell—

Ding dong—

Horſe and foot—

Helter ſkelter—

Right and left—

Front and flank—

Sword in hand—

Blood and 'ouns—

Huzza!—huzza!

Heaven! how the battle rages! But is not a man's Hobby-horſe the tendereſt part about him—and why ſhould I hurt a brother's? I'll ſend the Widow Wadman to him this in⯑ſtant, ſhe muſt put an end to this brother's mili⯑tary frenzy—O Triſtram! Triſtram!

And ſo our fortifications are deſtroyed —Well I'll throw the implements into the bar⯑row and roll them off the field.

No, I'll do it before his honor riſes in the morning —He took pleaſure in them and to ſee them removed might give him pain—

La, Mr. Trim, what dreadful havoc you have made with your fortifications—

Here ſtood the baſtion, and here were the ravelins, and there lay the French—and here was the gate of St. Nicholas, where his ho⯑nor received his wound.—Thy crying, Suſan, hath made thee look charming—thou look'ſt like the moiſt eye of an April morn!

I do believe you love me, Trim—

Yes, and we'll marry, Suſan—We'll marry —The peace will make us all marry!— But here comes the Captain, ſo get behind the draw-bridge, and I will come to thee preſently, and tell thee a ſtory I promiſed—of the King of Bohemia and his ſeven caſtles.

Well, I'll wait, for I would not for the world be taken in confuſion by the Captain.

I think, an't pleaſe your honour, that the fortifications are almoſt deſtroyed, and the baſon is upon a level with the mole—

Then there is no further occaſion for our ſervices—But, Trim, the widow has promiſed to meet me here immediately.

Does ſhe know any thing of your ho⯑nor's being in love?

Heaven help her, no more than the child unborn.

Ah! your honor, ſhe does—I know women, and have obſerved the widow's buſh-firing from behind the yew hedge.—Well, I'll ſtand centinel behind the bridge, and give your honor notice if any one approaches

You ſee, Captain, I am punctual to my appointment—La! you can't think what I have [26] been meditating on—But what is your opinion, Captain Shandy? Are not the cares and anxiety of the marriage ſtate very great?

I ſuppoſe ſo—

You can have no inclination for chang⯑ing your ſtate;—Indeed I can ſee no reaſon for a man's marrying—

Then, madam, you'll ſee a very good reaſon written in the law of Moſes.

This intruſion, Dr. Slop,

Are not children the very end of the inſtitution.

A fiddle ſtick!

She wants you to marry her, Captain Shandy.

'Tis falſe

Mercy defend us!

Hem!

Hem!

Oh! Madam Lucretia, have we caught you.

I told you, Trim, that bed-cords would never be ſufficient to ſecure the bridge if attack⯑ed by cavalry.

It was a Dutch bridge, your honor, and ſo there was no depending on it.

He was ſhewing it to me, he! he! he!

And in the proof of its excellency and [27] ſtrength ſome how or other the captain's bridge has been broken down, he! he! he!

It was all a misfortune-ſhewing Suſan the ſpot where his honour got his wound, and going too near the edge of the foſſe—

You unfortunately ſlipped in—

And having Suſan under the arm.

He dragged me in after him, he! he! he!

By means of which, Suſan fell back⯑wards ſoſs againſt the bridge, and my foot get⯑ting into the curvette, I fell forward full againſt the bridge too.

And pray, pretty madam, how do you intend to repair your reputation?

Who dare injure her reputation?—She has a ſoldier to protect her—he who injures the character of a woman is a villain, and a coward in his heart.

That may be—but I'll make an inciſion in her character.

Widow, will you marry me?

Marry, brother!

Yes, I wiſh to marry the widow with all my heart.

And the widow has not the heart to re⯑fuſe you.

Your honour has carried the place by coup de main.

Thou art a true daughter of Eve—Well, Toby, thou wilt never lie diagonally in thy bed [28] again!

and ſince peace is now eſtabliſhed, I hope every unmarried man and ſingle woman will follow the example of you and the widow, and encreaſe the ſtrength of the nation by raiſing ſupplies for the next war.