 chapters 1 to 6 of Tristram Shandy volume 4 this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Martin Gheeson. The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy gentlemen volume 4 last volume by Lawrence Stern Chapter 1 Now I hate to hear a person, especially if he be a traveller, complain that we do not get on so fast in France as we do in England. Whereas we get on much faster consideratis considerandis thereby always meaning that if you weigh their vehicles with the mountains of baggage which you lay both before and behind upon them and then consider their puny horses with the very little they give them. It is a wonder they get on at all. Their suffering is most un-christian and it is evident thereupon to me that a French post-horse would not know what in the world to do was it not for the two words. And In which there is as much sustenance as if you give him a peck of corn. Now as these words cost nothing I long from my soul to tell the reader what they are. But here is the question. They must be told him plainly and with the most distinct articulation or it will answer no end. And yet to do it in that plain way, though their reverences may laugh at it in the bedchamber, for well I what they will abuse it in the parlour. For which cause I have been volving and revolving in my fancy some time, but to no purpose. By what clean device or facet contrivance I might so modulate them that whilst I satisfy that ear which the reader chooses to lend me, I might not dissatisfy the other which he keeps to himself. My ink burns my finger to try and when I have, it will have a worse consequence. It will burn, I fear, my paper. No, I dare not. But if you wish to know how the abes of Andouille and a novice of her convent got over the difficulty, only first wishing myself all imaginable success, I'll tell you without the least scruple. CHAPTER 2 The abes of Andouille, which if you look into the large set of provincial maps now publishing at Paris, you will find situated amongst the hills which divide Burgundy from Savoy. Being in danger of an ankylosis or stiff joint, the synovia of her knee becoming hard by long mattins, and having tried every remedy, first prayers and thanksgiving, then invocations to all the saints in heaven promiscuously, then particularly to every saint who had ever had a stiff leg before her, then touching it with all the relics of the convent, principally with the thighbone of the man of Lystra who had been impotent from his youth, then wrapping it up in her veil when she went to bed, then crosswise her rosary. Then bringing into her aid the secular arm and anointing it with oils and hot fat of animals, then treating it with emollient and resolving fomentations, then with poultices of marshmallows, mallows, bonus enricus, white lilies and fenugreek, then taking the woods. I mean the smoke of them, holding her scapulary across her lap, then decoctions of wild chicory, watercresses, chervil, sweet sicily, and cochlearia. And nothing all this while answering was prevailed on at last to try the hot baths of Bourbon. So having first obtained leave of the visitor general to take care of her existence, she ordered all to be got ready for her journey. A novice of the convent of about seventeen who had been troubled with a whitlow in her middle finger by sticking it constantly into the abbesses, cast poultices, etc. had gained such an interest that overlooking a sciatical old nun who might have been set up forever by the hot baths of Bourbon, Margarita, the little novice, was elected as the companion of the journey. An old Kalesh belonging to the abbess, lined with green frieze, was ordered to be drawn out into the sun. The gardener of the convent, being chosen mulleteer, led out the two old mules to clip the hair from the rampents of their tails. Whilst a couple of lay sisters were busied, the one in Darning the lining, and the other in sewing on the shreds of yellow binding, which the teeth of time had unraveled. The undergardner dressed the mulleteer's hat in hot wine-leaves, and a tailor sat musically at it in a shed over against the convent, in assorting four dozen of bells for the harness, whistling to each bell as he tied it on with a thong. The carpenter and the smith of Andruyer held a council of wheels, and by seven the morning after all looked spruce, and was ready at the gate of the convent for the hot baths of Bourbon. Two rows of the unfortunate stood ready there an hour before. The abyss of Andruyer, supported by Margarita the novice, advanced slowly to the calèche, both clad in white, with their black rosaries hanging at their breasts. There was a simple solemnity in the contrast. They entered the calèche, the nuns in the same uniform sweet emblem of innocence, each occupied a window, and as the abyss and Margarita looked up, each, the sciatical poor nun accepted, each streamed out the end of her veil in the air, then kissed the lily-hand which let it go. The good abyss and Margarita laid their hands saint-wise upon their breasts, looked up to heaven, then to them, and looked, God bless you, dear sisters. I declare I am interested in this story, and wish I had been there. The gardener, whom I shall now call the mulitia, was a little hearty, broad-set, good-natured, chattering, toping kind of a fellow, who troubled his head very little with the hows and whens of life. So had mortgaged a month of his conventical wages in a brachio, or leaven casque of wine, which he had disposed behind the calèche, with a large, russet-coloured riding-coat over it, to guard it from the sun. And as the weather was hot, and he not a-niggered of his labours, walking ten times more than he rode, he found more occasions than those of nature to fall back to the rear of his carriage, till, by frequent coming and going, it had so happened that all his wine had leaked out at the legal vent of the brachio, before one-half of the journey was finished. Man is a creature born to habitudes. The day had been sultry. The evening was delicious. The wine was generous. The Burgundian hill on which it grew was steep. A little tempting bush over the door of a cool cottage at the foot of it hung vibrating in full harmony with the passions. A gentle air rustled distinctly through the leaves. Come, come, thrusty mulitia, come in! The mulitia was a son of Adam. I need not say a word more. He gave the mules each of them a sound lash, and looking in the abesses and margaritas' faces, as he did it, as much as to say, here I am, he gave a second good crack, as much as to say to his mules, get on! So, slinking behind, he entered the little inn at the foot of the hill. The mulitia, as I told you, was a little joyous, chapping fellow, who thought not of tomorrow, nor of what had gone before, or what was to follow it, provided he got but his scantling of Burgundy, and a little chit-chat along with it. So, entering into a long conversation, as how he was chief gardener to the convent of Andouille, et cetera, et cetera, and out of friendship for the abess and mademoiselle margarita, who was only in her novitiate. He had come along with them from the confines of Savoy, et cetera, et cetera, and how she had got a white swelling by her devotions, and what a nation of herbs he had procured to mollify her humours, et cetera, et cetera, and that if the waters of Bourbon did not mend that leg, she might as well be lame of both, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. He so contrived his story as absolutely to forget the heroine of it, and with her the little novice, and what was a more ticklish point to be forgot than both, the two mules, who, being creatures that take advantage of the world, inasmuch as their parents took it of them, and they not being in a condition to return the obligation downwards, as men and women and beasts are, they do it sideways, and long ways, and back ways, and uphill and downhill, and which way they can. Philosophers, with all their ethics, have never considered this rightly. How should the poor mulleteer, then in his cups, consider it at all? He did not in the least. It is time we do. Let us leave him then in the vortex of his element, the happiest and most thoughtless of mortal men, and for a moment let us look after the mules, the abes, and margarita. By virtue of the mulleteer's two last strokes, the mules had gone quietly on, following their own consciences up the hill, till they had conquered about one half of it, when the elder of them, a shrewd crafty old devil, at the turn of an angle, giving a side glance, and no mulleteer behind them. By my fig, said she, swearing, I'll go no farther. And if I do, replied the other, they shall make a drum of my hide. And so, with one consent, they stopped, thus, per three. Get on with you, said the abes. Cried margarita. Shored the abes. Hooved margarita, passing up her sweet lips, betwixt a hoot and a whistle. Dump. Obstreparated the abes of Andriye with the end of her gold-headed cane against the bottom of the caleche. The old mule let a fffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff. Chapter four. "'We are ruined and undone, my child,' said the abes to Margarita. "'We shall be here all night, we shall be plundered, we shall be ravished.' "'We shall be ravished,' said Margarita, ashore as a gun. "'Sancta Maria!' cried the abes, forgetting the ooo. Why was I governed by this wicked, stiff joint? Why did I leave the convent of Andrie? And why didst thou not suffer thy servant to go unpolluted to her tomb? "'Oh, my finger, my finger!' cried the novice, catching fire at the word savant. Why was I not content to put it here or there, anywhere, rather than be in this strait?' "'Straight,' said the abes, "'straight,' said the novice, for terror had struck their understandings. The one knew not what she said, the other what she answered. "'Oh, my virginity, virginity,' cried the abes, "'initi, initi,' said the novice, sobbing. Chapter five.' "'My dear mother,' quoth the novice, coming a little to herself, "'there are two certain words, which I have been told will force any arse, or ass, or mule, to go up a hill, whether he will or no. Be he never so obstinate, or ill-willed, the moment he ears them uttered, he obeys.' "'They are words magic,' cried the abes, in the utmost horror. "'No,' replied Margarita calmly. "'But they are words sinful.' "'What are they?' quoth the abes, interrupting her. "'They are sinful in the first degree,' answered Margarita. "'They are mortal. "'And if we are ravished, and die unabsolved of them, we shall both. "'But you may pronounce them to me,' quoth the abes of Andouille. "'They cannot, my dear mother,' said the novice, "'be pronounced at all. "'They will make all the blood in one's body fly up into one's face. "'But you may whisper them in my ear,' quoth the abes. "'Heaven, hathst thou no guardian angel to delicate to the inn at the bottom of the hill? "'Was there no generous and friendly spirit unemployed, "'no agent in nature, by some monetary shivering, creeping along the artery which led to his heart, "'to rouse the mulleteer from his banquet? "'No sweet minstrelsy, to bring back the fair idea of the abes and Margarita, "'with their black rosaries. "'Rouse, rouse. "'But it is too late, the horrid words are pronounced this moment. "'And how to tell them, ye who can speak of everything existing with unpolluted lips, "'instruct me, guide me.'" Chapter 6 All sins whatever, quoth the abes, turning casuist in the distress they were under, are held by the confessor of our convent to be either mortal or venial. There is no further division. Now a venial sin being the slightest and least of all sins, being halved, by taking either only the half of it and leaving the rest, or by taking it all and amicably halving it be twist yourself and another person, in course becomes diluted into no sin at all. Now I see no sin in saying, a hundred times together, nor is there any turpitude in pronouncing the syllable wear it from our matins to our vespers. Therefore my dear daughter continued the abes of andruye, I will say boo, and thou shalt say guh, and then alternately, as there is no more sin in foo than in boo, thou shalt say foo, and I will come in like fa sol la remute at our complains with dach. And accordingly the abes giving the pitch note, set off thus, boo, guh, boo, guh, boo, guh, boo, guh, boo, guh, boo, guh, boo. The two mules acknowledged the notes by a mutual lash of their tails, but it went no further. "'Til answer by and by,' said the novice. Boonkar, boonkar, boonkar, boonkar, boonkar, boonkar, boonkar, boonkar, boonkar, boonkar, quicker still,' cried Bargarita. Boonkar, boonkar, boonkar, boonkar, boonkar, boonkar, hew, hew, hew, hew, hew, hew, hew, quicker still," cried Margarita. Boonkar, boonkar, boonkar, boonkar, boonkar, boonkar, boonkar, quicker still. "'God, please save me,' said the abes. "'They do not understand us,' cried Margarita. But the devil does," said the abbess of Andouille, end of chapter 6, recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmere Surrey, chapter 7-10 of Tristram Shandy, volume 4. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Martin Geeson The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, gentlemen. Volume 4, Last Volume, by Lawrence Stern Chapter 7 What a tract of country have I run! How many degrees nearer to the warm sun am I advanced? And how many fair and goodly cities have I seen, during the time you have been reading and reflecting, madame, upon this story? There's Fontainebleau, and Saint, and Joigny, and Ozer, and Dijon, the capital of Burgundy, and Chalon, and Macon, the capital of the Maconese, and a score more upon the road to Lyon. And now I have run them over. I might as well talk to you of so many market towns in the moon, as tell you one word about them. It will be this chapter at the least, if not both this and the next, entirely lost. Do what I will. Why, it is a strange story, Tristram. Alas, madame! Had it been upon some melancholy lecture of the cross, the peace of meekness, or the contentment of resignation, I had not been incommodated, or had I thought of writing it upon the purer abstractions of the soul. And that food of wisdom, and holiness, and contemplation, upon which the spirit of man, when separated from the body, is to subsist forever. You would have come with a better appetite from it. I wish I never had wrote it, but as I never blot anything out, let us use some honest means to get it out of our heads directly. Pray, reach me my fool's cap. I fear you sit upon it, madame. It is under the cushion. I'll put it on. Bless me, you have had it upon your head this half hour. There then let it stay, with a faradittle die, and a faradittle die, and high dumb die dumb fiddle dumb see. And now, madame, we may venture, I hope, a little to go on. Chapter 8 All you need say of Fontainebleau, in case you are asked, is that it stands about 40 miles south something, from Paris, in the middle of a large forest, that there is something great in it, that the king goes there once every two or three years, with his whole court, for the pleasure of the chase. And that during that carnival of sporting, any English gentleman of fashion, you need not forget yourself, may be accommodated with a nag or two, to partake of the sport, taking care only not to out-gallop the king. Though there are two reasons why you need not talk loud of this to everyone. First, because it will make the said nags the harder to be got. And secondly, it is not a word of it true, along. As for some, you may dispatch in a word, it is an archie-episcopal sea. For joigne, the less I think one says of it, the better. But for Oseur, I could go on forever. For in my grand tour through Europe, in which, after all, my father, not caring to trust me with any one, attended me himself with my uncle Toby and Trim and Obadiah, and indeed most of the family, except my mother, who being taken up with a project of knitting my father a pair of large, worsted britches, the thing is common sense, and she not caring to be put out of her way, she stayed at home at Shandy Hall to keep things right during the expedition. In which I say my father stopping us two days at Oseur, and his research is being ever of such a nature that they would have found fruit even in a desert, he has left me enough to say upon Oseur. In short, wherever my father went, but it was more remarkably so in this journey through France and Italy than in any other stages of his life. His road seemed to lie so much on one side of that wherein all other travellers have gone before him. He saw kings and courts and silks of all colours in such strange lights, and his remarks and reasonings upon the characters, the manners and customs of the countries we passed over, were so opposite to those of all other mortal men, particularly those of my uncle Toby and Trim, to say nothing of myself, and to crown all the occurrences and scrapes which we were perpetually meeting and getting into, in consequence of his systems and opinionary. They were so odd, so mixed and tragicomical a contexture, that the whole put together it appears of so different a shade and tint from any tour of Europe which was ever executed, that I will venture to pronounce the fault must be mine and mine only, if it be not read by all travellers and travel readers till travelling is no more, or which comes to the same point till the world finally takes it into its head to stand still. But this rich bale is not to be opened now, except a small thread or two of it, merely to unravel the mystery of my father's stay at Ozer. As I have mentioned it, it is too slight to be kept suspended, and when it is woven there is an end of it. We'll go, brother Toby, said my father, whilst dinner is coddling to the Abbey of Saint-Germain, if it be only to see those bodies of which Monsieur Siquea has given such a recommendation. I'll go see anybody, quote my uncle Toby, for he was all compliance through every step of the journey. Defend me, said my father, they are all mummies. Then one need not shave, quote my uncle Toby. Shave, no! cried my father, we'll be more like relations to go with our beards on. So out we salad, the corporal lending his master his arm, and bringing up the rear to the Abbey of Saint-Germain. Everything is very fine and very rich, and very superb, and very magnificent, said my father, addressing himself to the sacristan, who was a younger brother of the order of Benedictines. But our curiosity has led us to see the bodies of which Monsieur Siquea has given the world so exact a description. The sacristan made a bow, and lighting a torch first, which he had always in the vestry ready for the purpose, he led us into the tomb of Saint-Hereibald. This, said the sacristan, laying his hand upon the tomb, was a renowned Prince of the House of Bavaria, who under the successive reigns of Charlemagne, Louis le Débonair and Charles the Bald, bore a great sway in the government, and had a principal hand in bringing everything into order and discipline. Then he has been as great, said my uncle, in the field, as in the cabinet. I dare say he has been a gallant soldier. He was a monk, said the sacristan. My uncle Toby and Trim sought comfort in each other's faces, but found it not. My father clapped both his hands upon his cot piece, which was the way he had when anything hugely tickled him. For though he hated a monk, and the very smell of a monk worse than all the devils in hell, yet the shot hitting my uncle Toby and Trim so much harder than him, it was a relative triumph, and put him into the gayest humour in the world. And pray, what do you call this gentle, then? Quoth my father, rather sportingly. This tomb, said the young Benedictine, looking downwards, contains the bones of Saint Maxima, who came from Ravenna on purpose to touch the body. Of Saint Maxima, said my father, popping in with his saint before him. They were two of the greatest saints in the whole martyrology, added my father. Excuse me, said the sacristan, to us to touch the bones of Saint Germain, the builder of the abbey. And what did she get by it? said my uncle Toby. What does any woman get by it? said my father. Martyrdom! replied the young Benedictine, making a bow down to the ground, and uttering the word with so humble but decisive accadence, it disarmed my father for a moment. It is supposed, continued the Benedictine, that Saint Maxima has lain in this tomb four hundred years, and two hundred before her canonisation. It is but a slow rise, brother Toby, quote my father, in this self-same army of martyrs. A desperate, slow one, and please your honour, said Trim, unless one could purchase. I should rather sell out entirely, quote my uncle Toby. I am pretty much of your opinion, brother Toby, said my father. Poor Saint Maxima, said my uncle Toby low to himself, as we turned from her tomb. She was one of the fairest and most beautiful ladies, either of Italy or France, continued the sacristan. But who the deuce has got lain down here besides her? Quote my father, pointing with his cane to a large tomb, as we walked on. It is Saint Optat, sir, answered the sacristan. And properly Saint Optat placed, said my father. And what is Saint Optat's story? continued he. Saint Optat, replied the sacristan, was a bishop. I thought so by heaven, cried my father, interrupting him. Saint Optat, how should Saint Optat fail? So snatching out his pocket-book, and the young benedictine holding him the torch, as he wrote, he set it down as a new prop to his system of Christian names. And I will be bold to say, so disinterested was he in the search of truth, that had he found a treasure in Saint Optat's tomb, it would not have made him half so rich. T'was as successful a short visit as ever was paid to the dead. And so highly was his fancy pleased with all that had passed in it, that he determined at once to stay another day in Auxerre. I'll see the rest of these good gentry tomorrow, said my father, as we crossed over the square. Hmm, and while you are paying that visit, brother Shandy, quotes my uncle Toby, the corporal and I will mount the ramparts. Hmm, chapter nine. Now this is the most puzzled skein of all, for in this last chapter, as far at least as it has helped me through Auxerre, I have been getting forwards in two different journeys together, and with the same dash of the pen, for I have got entirely out of Auxerre in this journey which I am writing now, and am got halfway out of Auxerre in that which I shall write hereafter. There is but a certain degree of perfection in everything, and by pushing at something beyond that, I have brought myself into such a situation as no traveller ever stood before me. For I am this moment walking across the marketplace of Auxerre with my father and my uncle Toby in our way back to dinner, and I am this moment also entering Lyon with my post-shares broke into a thousand pieces. And I am moreover this moment in a handsome pavilion built by Pringelo, the same Don Pringelo, the celebrated Spanish architect of whom my cousin Anthony has made such honourable mention in a scolium to the tale inscribed to his name, Vidae page 129, small edition, upon the banks of the Garonne, which Monsieur Slignac has lent me, and where I now sit rhapsodising all these affairs, let me collect myself and pursue my journey. Chapter 10 I am glad of it, said I, settling the account with myself as I walked into Lyon, my shares being all laid higgledy-piggledy with my baggage in a cart which was moving slowly before me. I am heartily glad, said I, that this all broke to pieces, for now I can go directly by water to Avignon, which will carry me on a hundred and twenty miles of my journey, and not cost me seven levers. And from thence continued I, bringing forwards the account, I can hire a couple of mules, or asses, if I like, for nobody knows me, and cross the plains of Languedoc for almost nothing. I shall gain four hundred levers by the misfortune, clear into my purse, and pleasure, worth, worth, double the money by it. With what velocity continued I, clapping my two hands together, shall I fly down the rapid Rhone, with the vivare on my right hand, and Dauphini on my left, scarce seeing the ancient cities of Vienne, Valence, and Vivière. What a flame it will rekindle in the lamp to snatch such a blushing grape from the ermitage, and coutre-tis, as I shoot by the foot of them. And what a fresh spring in the blood to be holed upon the banks, advancing and retiring, the castles of romance, where courteous nights have willowme rescued the distressed, and see vertiginous, the rocks, the mountains, the cataracts, and all the hurry which nature is in with all her great works about her. As I went on thus, me thought my shares, the wreck of which looked stately enough at the first, insensibly grew less and less in its size. The freshness of the painting was no more, the gilding lost its luster, and the whole affair appeared so poor in my eyes, so sorry, so contemptible, and in a word, so much worse than the abyss of Andouille's itself, that I was just opening my mouth to give it to the devil, when a pert, vamping shares undertaker, stepping nimbly across the street, demanded if monsieur would have his shares refitted. No, no, said I, shaking my head sideways. Would monsieur choose to sell it, rejoined the undertaker. With all my soul, said I, the iron work is worth forty leave, and the glasses worth forty more, and the leather you may take to live on. What a mine of wealth, quote I, as he counted me the money, as this post-shares brought me in. And this is my usual method of bookkeeping, at least with the disasters of life, making a penny of every one of them as they happen to me. Do, my dear Jenny, tell the world for me how I behaved under one, the most oppressive of its kind, which could befall me as a man, proud as he ought to be of his manhood. Tis enough, saidst thou, coming close up to me, as I stood with my gutters in my hand, reflecting upon what had not passed. Tis enough, Tristram, and I am satisfied, saidst thou, whispering these words in my ear. Any other man would have sunk down to the centre. Everything is good for something, quote I. I'll go into Wales for six weeks, and drink goats' way, and I'll gain seven years longer life for the accident. For which reason I think myself inexcusable for blaming fortune so often as I have done, for pelting me all my life long, like an ungracious duchess, as I called her, with so many small evils? Surely if I have any cause to be angry with her, tis that she has not sent me great ones. A score of good, cursed, bouncing, losses would have been as good as a pension to me. One of a hundred a year or so is all I wish. I would not be at the plague of paying land tax. For a larger end of chapter 10. Recording by Martin Geesham in Hazelmere Surrey. Chapters 11 to 13 of Tristram Shandy, volume 4. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Martin Geesham. The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentlemen, Volume 4, Last Volume, by Lawrence Stern. Chapter 11 to those who call vexations vexations, as knowing what they are, there could not be a greater than to be the best part of a day at Lyon, the most opulent and flourishing city in France, enriched with the most fragments of antiquity, and not be able to see it. To be withheld upon any account must be a vexation, but to be withheld by a vexation must certainly be what philosophy justly calls vexation upon vexation. I had got my two dishes of milk coffee, which by the buy is excellently good for a consumption, but you must boil the milk and coffee together, otherwise it is only coffee and milk, and as it was no more than eight in the morning, and the boat did not go off till noon, I had time to see enough of Lyon, to tire the patience of all the friends I had in the world with it. I will take a walk to the cathedral, said I, looking at my list, and see the wonderful mechanism of this great clock of Lypius of Basel, in the first place. Now, of all things in the world, I understand the least of mechanism. I have neither genius, or taste, or fancy, and have a brain so entirely untapped for everything of that kind, that I solemnly declare I was never yet able to comprehend the principles of motion of a squirrel cage, or a common knife grinder's wheel, though I have many an hour of my life locked up with great devotion at the one, and stood by with as much patience as any Christian ever could do at the other. I'll go see the surprising movements of this great clock, said I, the very fast thing I do, and then I will pay a visit to the great library of the Jesuits, and procure, if possible, a sight of the thirty volumes of the general history of China, wrote not in the Tatarian, but in the Chinese language, and in the Chinese character, too. Now, I almost know as little of the Chinese language as I do of the mechanism of Lypius's clockwork. So why these should have jostled themselves into the two first articles of my list? I leave to the curious as a problem of nature. I own it looks like one of her ladyships obliquities, and they who court her are interested in finding out her humour as much as I. When these curiosities are seen, quote I, half addressing myself to my valed place, who stood behind me, it will be no hurt if we go to the church of Saint Irenaeus, and to see the pillar to which Christ was tied, and after that the house where Pontius Pilate lived, was at Zenecht town, said the valed place, at Vien. I am glad of it, said I, rising briskly from my chair, and walking across the room with strides twice as long as my usual pace, for so much the sooner shall I be at the tomb of the two lovers. What was the cause of this movement, and why I took such long strides in uttering this? I might leave to the curious too, but as no principle of clockwork is concerned in it, till be as well for the reader if I explain it myself. Chapter 12 Oh, there is a sweet era in the life of man, when the brain being tender and fibrillous, and more like pap than anything else, a story read of two fond lovers separated from each other by cruel parents, and by still more cruel destiny. Amandus he, Amanda she, each ignorant of the other's course, he east, she west. Amandus taken captive by the Turks, and carried to the emperor of Morocco's court, where the princess of Morocco falling in love with him keeps him 20 years in prison for the love of his Amanda. She, Amanda, all the time wandering barefoot, and with dishevelled hair, all rocks and mountains inquiring for Amandus. Amandus, Amandus, making every hill and valley to echo back his name. Amandus, Amandus, at every town and city sitting down for lawn at the gate, has Amandus, as my Amandus entered, till, going round and round and round the world, chance unexpected bringing them at the same moment of the night, though by different ways to the gate of Lyon, their native city, and each in well-known accents calling out aloud, is Amandus, is my Amanda, still alive. They fly into each other's arms, and both drop down dead for joy. There is a soft era in every gentle mortal's life, where such a story affords more papulum to the brain than all the thrusts and crusts and crusts of antiquity, which travellers can cook up for it. It was all that stuck on the right side of the calendar in my own of what Spawn and others in their accounts of Lyon had strained into it, and finding moreover, in some itinerary, but in what, God knows, that sacred to the fidelity of Amandus and Amanda, a tomb was built without the gates, where to this hour lovers called upon them to attest their truths. I never could get into a scrape of that kind in my life, but this tomb of the lovers would, somehow or other, come in at the close. Nay, such a kind of empire had it established over me, that I could seldom think or speak of Lyon, and sometimes not so much as see even a Lyon west cut, but this remnant of antiquity would present itself to my fancy. And I have often said, in my wild way of running on, though I fear with some irreverence, I thought this shrine neglected as it was, as valuable as that of Mecca, and so little short, except in wealth, of the Santa Casa itself, that some time or other I would go a pilgrimage, though I had no other business at Lyon, on purpose to pay it a visit. In my list, therefore, of Videndar at Lyon, this, though last, was not, you see, least. So, taking a dozen or two of longer strides than usual, crossed my room. Just whilst it passed my brain, I walked down calmly into the basqueur in order to sally forth, and having called for my bill. As it was uncertain whether I should return to my inn, I had paid it, had moreover given the maid ten sews, and was just receiving the dernier compliement of Monsieur Leblanc for a pleasant voyage down the Rhone, when I was stopped at the gate. Chapter 13. Twis by a poor ass, who had just turned in with a couple of large panniers upon his back, to collect eliamosinary turnip-tops and cabbage-leaves, and stood dubious, with his two forefeet on the inside of the threshold, and with his two hinda-feet towards the street, as not knowing very well whether he was to go in or no. Now, tis an animal, be in what hurry I may, I cannot bear to strike. There is a patient endurance of sufferings, wrote so unaffectedly in his looks and carriage, which pleads so mightily for him, that it always disarms me, and to that degree that I do not like to speak unkindly to him. On the contrary, meet him where I will, whether in town or country, in cart or under panniers, whether in liberty or bondage, I have ever something civil to say to him on my part. And as one word begets another, if he has as little to do as I, I generally fall into conversation with him, and surely never is my imagination so busy as in framing his responses from the etchings of his countenance. And where those carry me not deep enough, in flying from my own heart into his, and seeing what is natural for an ass to think, as well as a man upon the occasion. In truth, it is the only creature of all the classes of beings below me with whom I can do this. For parrots, jackdaws, etc., I never exchange a word with them, nor with the apes, etc., or pretty near the same reason. They act by rote, as the others speak by it, and equally make me silent. Nay, my dog and my cat, though I value them both, and for my dog he would speak if he could. Yet somehow or other they neither of them possess the talents for conversation. I can make nothing of a discourse with them, beyond the proposition, the reply, and rejoinder, which terminated my father's and my mother's conversations in his beds of justice. And those uttered, there's an end of the dialogue. But with an ass I can commune forever. Come, honesty, said I, seeing it was impracticable to pass betwixt him and the gate, art thou for coming in or going out? The ass twisted his head round to look up the street. Well, replied I, we'll wait a minute for thy driver. He turned his head thoughtful about, and looked wistfully the opposite way. I understand thee perfectly, answered I, if thou takest a wrong step in this affair, he will cudgel thee to death. Well, a minute is but a minute, and if it saves a fellow creature a-drubbing, it shall not be set down as ill-spent. He was eating the stem of an artichoke as this discourse went on, and in the little pee-vish contentions of nature betwixt hunger and unsavouriness, had dropped it out of his mouth half a dozen times, and picked it up again. God help thee, Jack, said I, thou hast a bitter breakfast on'd, and many a bitter day's labour, and many a bitter blow I fear for its wages. Tis all, all bitterness to thee, whatever life is to others. And now thy mouth, if one knew the truth of it, is as bitter I dare say as soot, for he had cast aside the stem, and thou hast not a friend perhaps in all this world that will give thee a macaroon. In saying this I pulled out a paper of him, which I had just purchased, and gave him one. And at this moment that I am telling it, my heart smites me, that there was more of pleasantry in the conceit of seeing how an ass would eat a macaroon, than of benevolence in giving him one, which presided in the act. When the ass had eaten his macaroon I pressed him to come in. The poor beast was heavy loaded, his legs seemed to tremble under him. He hung rather backwards, and as I pulled at his halter it broke short in my hand. He looked up pensive in my face. Don't thrash me with it, but if you will you may. If I do, said I, I'll be damned. The word was but one half of it pronounced, like the abes of Audrey Yeas, so there was no sin in it, when a person coming in let fall a thundering bastinado upon the poor devil's cropper, which put an end to the ceremony. Out upon it cried I, but the interjection was equivocal, and I think wrong placed too, for the end of an osia which had started out from the contextual of the ass's pannier had caught hold of my bridge's pocket, as he rushed by me, and rent it in the most disastrous direction you can imagine, so that the out upon it, in my opinion, should have come in here. But this I leave to be settled by the reviewers of my bridge's, which I have brought over along with me for that purpose. End of Chapter 13. Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmere Surrey. Chapters 14-20 of Tristram Shandy. Volume 4. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Martin Geeson. The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy. Gentlemen. Volume 4. Last Volume. By Lawrence Stern. Chapter 14. When all was set to rights, I came downstairs again into the basqueur, with my valet de place, in order to sally out towards the tomb of the two lovers, etc., and was a second time stopped at the gate, not by the ass, but by the person who struck him, and who, by that time, had taken possession, as is not uncommon after a defeat, of the very spot of ground where the ass stood. It was a commissary sent to me from the post office, with a re-script in his hand, for the payment of some six-leave was odd-sues. Upon what account, said I? Tis upon the part of the king replied the commissary, heaving up both his shoulders. My good friend, quote I, as sure as I am I, and you are you. And who are you? said he. Don't puzzle me, said I. Chapter 15. But it is an indubitable verity, continued I, addressing myself to the commissary, changing only the form of my asseparation, that I owe the king of France nothing but my good will, for he is a very honest man, and I wish him all health and pastime in the world. Pardonez-moi, replied the commissary. You are indebted to him six-leave four-sues, for the next post from hence to Saint-Fon, in your route to Avignon, which being a post royale, you pay double for the arses and postillian, otherwise to have amounted to no more than three-leave or two-sues. But I don't go by land, said I. You may, if you please, replied the commissary. Your most obedient servant, said I, making him a low bow. The commissary, with all the sincerity of grave good-breeding, made me one as low again. I never was more disconcerted with a bow in my life. The devil take the serious character of these people, quote I, aside. They understand no more of irony than this. The comparison was standing close by with his panniers, but something sealed up my lips. I could not pronounce the name. Sir, said I, collecting myself, it is not my intention to take post. But you may, said he, persisting in his first reply, you may take post if you choose. And I may take salt to my pickled herring, said I, if I choose. But I do not choose. But you must pay for it whether you do or no. I, for the salt, said I, I know. And for the post, too, added he, defend me, cried I. I travel by water. I am going down the road, this very afternoon. My baggage is in the boat, and I have actually paid nine levres for my passage. Oh, said Tudigal, it is all one, said he. But, dear, what, pay for the way I go, and for the way I do not go? Said Tudigal, replied the commissary. The devil it is, said I, but I will go to ten thousand Bastilles first. Oh, England, England, thou land of liberty, and climate of good sense, thou tenderest of mothers, and gentlest of nurses, cried I, kneeling upon one knee, as I was beginning my apostrophe. When the director of Madame Leblanc's conscience, coming in at that instant, and seeing a person in black, with a face as pale as ashes, at his devotions, looking still paler by the contrast and distress of his drapery, asked if I stood in want of the aides of the church, I go by water, said I, and here's another will be for making me pay for going by oil. As I perceived the commissary of the post office would have his six levres for sewers, I had nothing else for it but to say some smart thing upon the occasion, worth the money, and so I set off thus. And pray, Mr. Commissary, by what law of courtesy is a defenseless stranger to be used just the reverse from what you use a Frenchman in this matter? By no means, said he, Excuse me, said I, for you have begun, sir, with first tearing off my britches, and now you want my pocket. Whereas had you first taken my pocket, as you do with your own people, and then left me bare-assed after, I had been a beast to have complained. As it is, tis contrary to the law of nature, tis contrary to reason, tis contrary to the gospel. But not to this, said he, putting a printed paper into my hand. Par le roi. Tis a pithy prolegominon, quoth I, and so read on. By all which it appears, quoth I, having read it over a little too rapidly, but if a man sets out in a post-shares from Paris, he must go on travelling in one all the days of his life, or pay for it. Excuse me, said the Commissary, the spirit of the ordonnance is this, that if you set out with an intention of running post from Paris to Avignon, etc., you shall not change that intention or mode of travelling without first satisfying the fermier for two posts further than the place you repent at. And tis founded, continued he, upon this, that the revenues are not to fall short through your fickleness. Oh, by heavens, cried I, if fickleness is taxable in France, we have nothing to do but to make the best piece with you we can. And so the piece was made. And if it is a bad one, as Tristram Shandy laid the cornerstone of it, nobody but Tristram Shandy ought to be hanged. Chapter 17 Though I was sensible, I had said as many clever things to the Commissary as came to six levers for sews, yet I was determined to note down the imposition amongst my remarks before I retired from the place. So putting my hand into my coat pocket for my remarks, which by the by may be a caution to travellers to take a little more care of their remarks for the future, my remarks were stolen. Never did sorry traveller make such a bother and racket about his remarks, as I did about mine, upon the occasion. Heaven, earth, sea, fire, cried I, calling in everything to my aid but what I should. My remarks are stolen. What shall I do? Mr. Commissary, pray did I drop any remarks as I stood besides you. You tarped a good many very singular ones, replied he. Said I, those were but a few not worth above six levers to sews, but these are a large parcel. He shook his head. Mr. Leblanc, madame Leblanc, did you see any papers of mine? You made of the house, run upstairs. François ran up after her. I must have my remarks. They were the best remarks, cried I, that ever were made. The wisest, the wittiest. What shall I do? Which way shall I turn myself? Sancho Pantha, when he lost his ass's furniture, did not exclaim more bitterly. Chapter 18 When the first transport was over, and the registers of the brain were beginning to get a little out of the confusion into which this jumble of cross accidents had cast them, it then presently occurred to me that I had left my remarks in the pocket of the shares, and that in selling my shares I had sold my remarks along with it to the shares' vampire. I leave this void space, that the reader may swear into it any oath that he is most accustomed to. For my own part, if ever I swore a whole oath into a vacancy in my life, I think it was into that, said I. And so my remarks through France, which were as full of wit as an egg is full of meat, and as well worth four hundred guineas as the said egg is worth a penny, have I been selling here to a shares' vampire for four Louis d'Arc, and giving him a post shares by heaven worth six into the bargain? Had it been to Dodsley or Beckett or any creditable bookseller who was either leaving off business, or wanted a post shares, or who was beginning it and wanted my remarks, and two or three guineas along with them, I could have borne it. But to a shares' vampire, show me to him this moment, François, said I. The valet de place put on his hat, and led the way, and I pulled off mine, as I passed the commissary, and followed him. Chapter 19 We arrived at the shares' vampire's house. Both the house and the shop were shut up. It was the 8th of September, the nativity of the blessed Virgin Mary, Mother of God. The whole world was gone out of may-polling, frisking here, capering there. Nobody cared a button for me or my remarks. So I sat me down upon a bench by the door, philosophating upon my condition. By a better fate than usually attends me, I had not waited half an hour, when the mistress came in to take the papillotes from off her hair, before she went to the may-polls. The French women by the by love may-polls à la folie. That is, as much as their matins. Given but a may-poll, whether in May, June, July, or September, they never count the times. Down it goes, tis meat, drink, washing, and lodging to them. And had we but the policy, and please your worships, as would is a little scarce in France, to send them but plenty of may-polls. The women would set them up, and when they had done, they would dance round them, and the men for company, till they were all blind. The wife of the chaise-vampire stepped in, I told you, to take the papillotes from off her hair. The toilette stands still for no man. So she jerked off her cap to begin with them as she opened the door, in doing which one of them fell upon the ground. I instantly saw it was my own writing. Oh, Seigneur, cried I, you have got all my remarks upon your head, madame. Oh, je suis bien mortifié, said she. It is well, thinks I, they have stuck there. For could they have gone deeper, they would have made such confusion in a French woman's noddle. She had better have gone with it unfrizzled to the day of eternity. Tundi said she. So, without any idea of the nature of my suffering, she took them from her curls, and put them grievely one by one into my hat. One was twisted this way, another twisted that. Ah, by my faith, and when they are published, quoth I, they will be worse twisted still. Chapter 20, and now for Lippias' clock, said I, with the air of a man who had got through all his difficulties. Nothing can prevent us seeing that, and the Chinese history, etc. Except the time, said François, for tis almost eleven. Then we must speed the faster, said I, striding it away to the cathedral. I cannot say in my heart that it gave me any concern in being told by one of the minor cannons, as I was entering the west door, that Lippias' great clock was all out of joints, and had not gone for some years. It will give me the more time, thought I, to peruse the Chinese history. And besides, I shall be able to give the world a better account of the clock in its decay, than I could have done in its floodishing condition. And so away I posted to the college of the Jesuits. Now it is with the project of getting a peep at the history of China in Chinese characters, as with many others I could mention, which strike the fancy only at a distance. For as I came nearer and nearer to the point, my blood cooled. The freak gradually went off, till at length I would not have given a cherry stone to have it gratified. The truth was, my time was short, and my heart was at the tomb of the lovers. I wished God, said I, as I got the wrapper in my hand, that the key of the library may be but lost. It fell out as well. For all the Jesuits had got the colic, and to that degree, as was never known in the memory of the oldest practitioner. End of chapter 20. Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey. Chapters 21 to 25 of Tristram Shandy, volume 4. This is a LibriVox recording, or LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Martin Giesen. The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, gentlemen, volume 4. Last volume, by Lawrence Stern. Chapter 21. As I knew the geography of the tomb of the lovers, as well as if I had lived 20 years in Lyon, namely that it was upon the turning of my right hand, just without the gate leading to the folk-brook de Vez, I dispatched Francois to the boat, that I might pay the homage I so long owed it, without a witness of my weakness. I walked with all imaginable joy towards the place. When I saw the gate which intercepted the tomb, my heart glowed within me. Tender and faithful spirits cried I, addressing myself to Amanda's and Amanda. Long, long have I tarried to drop this tear upon your tomb. I come, I come. When I came, there was no tomb to drop it upon. What would I have given for my uncle Toby to have whistled Lillabalero? Chapter 22. No matter how or in what mood, but I flew from the tomb of the lovers, or rather I did not fly from it, for there was no such thing existing. And just got time enough to the boat to save my passage, and ere I had sailed a hundred yards, the rhone and the sound met together, and carried me down merrily betwixt them. But I have described this voyage down the rhone before I made it. So now I am at Avignon, and as there is nothing to see but the old house in which the Duke of Ormond resided, and nothing to stop me but a short remark upon the place, in three minutes you will see me crossing the bridge upon a mule, with François upon a horse with my portmanteau behind him, and the owner of both, striding the way before us, with a long gun upon his shoulder and a sword under his arm. Lest per adventure we should run away with his cattle. Had you seen my bridges in entering Avignon, though you would have seen them better, I think, as I mounted, you would not have thought the precaution amiss, or found in your heart to have taken it in touchon. For my own part I took it most kindly, and determined to make him a present of them when we got to the end of our journey, for the trouble they had put him to of arming himself at all points against them. Before I go further, let me get rid of my remark upon Avignon, which is this, that I think it wrong, merely because a man's hat has been blown off his head by chance, the first night he comes to Avignon, that he should therefore say, Avignon is more subject to high winds than any town in all France. For which reason I laid no stress upon the accident till I had inquired of the master of the inn about it, who telling me seriously it was so. And hearing moreover the windiness of Avignon spoke of in the country about as a proverb, I set it down, merely to ask the learned what can be the cause, the consequence I saw, for they are all dukes, marquises, and counts, there, the dukes of Barron in all Avignon, so that there is scarce any talking to them on a windy day. Prithee, friend, said I, take hold of my mule for a moment, for I want to pull off one of my jack-putts, which hurt my heel. The man was standing quite idle at the door of the inn, and as I had taken it into my head he was some way concerned about the house or stable. I put the bridle into his hand, so begun with the boot. When I had finished the affair I turned about to take the mule from the man and thank him. But Monsieur Marquis had walked in. Chapter 23 I had now the whole south of France, from the banks of the Rhône to those of the Gahan, to traverse upon my mule at my own leisure. At my own leisure, for I had left death, the Lord knows, and he only, how far behind me. I have followed many a man through France, quoth he, but never at this metalsome rate. Still he followed, and still I fled him, but I fled him cheerfully. Still he pursued, but like one who pursued his prey without hope. As he lagged, every step he lost softened his looks. Why should I fly him at this rate? So notwithstanding all the commissary of the post-office had said, I changed the mode of my travelling once more, and after so precipitate and rattling a course as I had run, I flattered my fancy with thinking of my mule, and that I should traverse the rich planes of Languedoc upon his back as slowly as foot could fall. There is nothing more pleasing to a traveller, or to travel-writers, than a large, rich plane, especially if it is without great rivers or bridges, and presents nothing to the eye, but one unvaryed picture of plenty. For after they have once told you that it is delicious, or delightful, as the case happens, that the soil was grateful, and that nature pours out all her abundance, etc., they have then a large plane upon their hands, which they know not what to do with, and which is of little or no use to them, but to carry them to some town, and that town, perhaps of little more, but a new place to start from to the next plane, and so on. This is most terrible work, judge if I don't manage my planes better. Chapter 24 I had not gone above two leagues and a half before the man with his gun began to look at his priming. I had three several times loitered terribly behind, half a mile at least every time, once in deep confidence with a drum maker who was making drums for the fares of Bocair and Tarascon. I did not understand the principles. The second time I cannot so properly say I stopped, for meeting a couple of Franciscans straightened more for time than myself, and not being able to get to the bottom of what I was about. I had turned back with them. The third was an affair of trade with a gossip for a hand-basket of Provence figs for four sews. This would have been transacted at once, but for a case of conscience at the close of it. For when the figs were paid for, it turned out that there were two dozen of eggs covered over with vine leaves at the bottom of the basket. As I had no intention of buying eggs, I made no sort of claim of them. As for the space they had occupied, what signified it, I had figs in now for my money. But it was my intention to have the basket. It was the gossip's intention to keep it, without which she could do nothing with her eggs. And unless I had the basket, I could do as little with my figs, which were too ripe already, and most of them burst at the side. This brought on a short contention, which terminated in sundry proposals what we should both do. How we disposed of our eggs and figs, I defy you, or the devil himself had he not been there, which I am persuaded he was, to form the least probable conjecture. You will read the whole of it, not this year, for I am hastening to the story of my Uncle Toby's Amores. But you will read it in the collection of those which have arose out of the journey across this plain, and which, therefore, I call my plain stories. How far my pen has been fatigued, like those of other travellers, in this journey of it over so barren a track the world must judge. But the traces of it, which are now all set to vibrating together this moment, tell me it is the most fruitful and busy period of my life. For as I had made no convention with my man with the gun, as to time, by stopping and talking to every soul I met, who was not in a full trot, joining all parties before me, waiting for every soul behind, hailing all those who were coming through crossroads, arresting all kinds of beggars, pilgrims, fiddlers, friars, not passing by a woman in a mulberry tree without commending her legs, and tempting her into conversation with a pinch of snuff. In short, by seizing every handle of what size or shape so-ever, which chance held out to me in this journey, I turned my plain into a city. I was always in company, and with great variety too, and as my mule loved society as much as myself, and had some proposals always on his part to offer to every beast he met, I am confident we could have passed through Palmael or St James's Street for a month together with fewer adventures, and seen less of human nature. Oh, there is that sprightly frankness which at once unpins every plat of a Languidocian's dress, that whatever is beneath it, it looks so like the simplicity which poets sing of in better days. I will delude my fancy, and believe it is so. It was in the road betwixt Nîme and Lunel, where there is the best muscato wine in all France, and which by the by belongs to the honest cannons of Montpellier, and foul before the man who has drunk it at their table, who grudges them a drop of it. The sun was set, they had done their work, the nymphs had tied up their hair of fresh, and the swains were preparing for a carousel. My mule made a dead point. It is the fife and taburin, said I, I am frightened to death, quote he. They are running at the ring of pleasure, said I, giving him a prick. By St. Bougar, and all the saints at the back side of the door of Pagatory, said he, making the same resolution with the Abaisse de Vendoyer, I'll not go a step farther. Tis very well, sir, said I. I never will argue a point with one of your family, as long as I live. So leaping off his back, and kicking off one boot into this ditch, and tether into that, I'll take a dance, said I, so stay you here. A sunburned daughter of labour rose up from the group to meet me, as I advanced towards them. Her hair, which was a dark chestnut approaching rather to a black, was tied up in a knot, all but a single tress. We want a cavalier, said she, holding out both her hands as if to offer them. And a cavalier ye shall have, said I, taking hold of both of them. Hadst thou, Nanette, been a raid like a duchess? But that curse it slid in thy petticoat! Nanette cared not for it. We could not have done without you, said she, letting go one hand, with self-taught politeness, leading me up with the other. A lame youth whom Apollo had recompensed with a pipe, and to which he had added a taboo-rin of his own accord, ran sweetly over the prelude, as he sat upon the bank. Tie me up this tress instantly, said Nanette, putting a piece of string into my hand. It taught me to forget I was a stranger. The whole knot fell down. We had been seven years acquainted. The youth struck the note upon the taboo-rin. His pipe followed, and off we bounded. The deuce take that slit. The sister of the youth, who had stolen her voice from heaven, sung alternately with her brother. It was a gas-goin round delay. Viva la joie! Vidant la tristesse. The nymphs joined in unison, and their swains an octave below them. I would have given a crown to have it sewed up. Nanette would not have given a sue. Viva la joie! Was in her lips. Viva la joie! Was in her eyes. A transient spark of amity shot across the space betwixt us. She looked amiable. Why could I not live and end my days thus? Just disposer of our joys and sorrows, cried I. Why could not a man sit down in the lap of content here, and dance, and sing, and say his prayers, and go to heaven with this nut-brown maid? Capriciously did she bend her head on one side, and dance up insidious. Then it's time to dance off, quoth I. So, changing only partners and tunes, I danced it away from Lünel to Montpellier, from thence to Pesknas, Bézier. I danced it along through Narbonne, Carcassonne, and Carcel-Naudery. Till at last I danced myself into Perbrilho's Pavilion, where, pulling out a paper of black lines, that I might go on straight forwards without digression or parenthesis in my Uncle Toby's Amores. I begun thus. Chapter 25. But softly, for in these sportive planes, and under this genial sun, where at this instant all flesh is running out, piping, fiddling, and dancing to the vintage, and every step that's taken, the judgment is surprised by the imagination. I defy, notwithstanding all that has been said upon straight lines, Vidae Vol. 3, in sundry pages of my book. I defy the best cabbage-planter that ever existed, whether he plants backwards or forwards, it makes little difference in the account, except that he will have more to answer for in the one case than in the other. I defy him to go on coolly, critically, and canonically, planting his cabbages one by one in straight lines and stoical distances, especially if slits in petticoats are unsewed up, without ever and non-straddling out, or sidling into some bastardly digression. In Friesland, Fogland, and some other lands I want of, it may be done. But in this clear climate of fantasy and perspiration, where every idea sensible and insensible gets vent, in this land my dear Eugenius, in this fertile land of chivalry and romance, where I now sit, unscrewing my inkhorn to write my Uncle Toby's amorse, and with all the meanders of Julia's track in quest of her Diego, in full view of my study window. If thou comest not and takest me by the hand, what a work it is likely to turn out. Let us begin it. End of chapters 21 to 25. Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey.