I am this month one whole year older than I was this time twelve-month; and having got, as you perceive, almost into the middle of my fourth volume[7]—and no farther than to my first day’s life—’tis demonstrative that I have three hundred and sixty-four days more life to write just now, than when I first set out; so that instead of advancing, as a common writer, in my work with what I have been doing at it—on the contrary, I am just thrown so many volumes back—was every day of my life to be as busy a day as this—And why not?——and the transactions and opinions of it to take up as much description—And for what reason should they be cut short? as at this rate I should just live 364 times faster than I should write—It must follow, an’ please your worships, that the more I write, the more I shall have to write—and consequently, the more your worships read, the more your worships will have to read.
Will this be good for your worships’ eyes?
It will do well for mine; and, was it not that my Opinions will be the death of me, I perceive I shall lead a fine life of it out of this self-same life of mine; or, in other words, shall lead a couple of fine lives together.
As for the proposal of twelve volumes a year, or a volume a month, it no way alters my prospect—write as I will, and rush as I may into the middle of things, as Horace advises—I shall never overtake myself whipp’d and driven to the last pinch; at the worst I shall have one day the start of my pen—and one day is enough for two volumes——and two volumes will be enough for one year.—
Heaven prosper the manufacturers of paper under this propitious reign, which is now opened to us——as I trust its providence will prosper everything else in it that is taken in hand.——
As for the propagation of Geese—I give myself no concern—Nature is all bountiful—I shall never want tools to work with.
—So then, friend! you have got my father and my uncle Toby off the stairs, and seen them to bed?———And how did you manage it?——You dropp’d a curtain at the stair-foot—I thought you had no other way for it———Here’s a crown for your trouble.
[ CHAPTER XIV]
—Then reach me my breeches off the chair, said my father to Susannah.——There is not a moment’s time to dress you, Sir, cried Susannah—the child is as black in the face as my——As your what? said my father, for like all orators, he was a dear searcher into comparisons.—Bless me, Sir, said Susannah, the child’s in a fit.—And where’s Mr. Yorick?—Never where he should be, said Susannah, but his curate’s in the dressing-room, with the child upon his arm, waiting for the name—and my mistress bid me run as fast as I could to know, as captain Shandy is the godfather, whether it should not be called after him.
Were one sure, said my father to himself, scratching his eyebrow, that the child was expiring, one might as well compliment my brother Toby as not—and it would be a pity, in such a case, to throw away so great a name as Trismegistus upon him——but he may recover.