leaky vessel, Susannah, added my father;
canst thou carry Trismegistus in thy head, the length of the gallery
without scattering?--Can I? cried Susannah, shutting the door in a
huff.--If she can, I'll be shot, said my father, bouncing out of bed in
the dark, and groping for his breeches.

Susannah ran with all speed along the gallery.

My father made all possible speed to find his breeches.

Susannah got the start, and kept it--'Tis Tris--something, cried
Susannah--There is no christian-name in the world, said the curate,
beginning with Tris--but Tristram. Then 'tis Tristram-gistus, quoth
Susannah.

--There is no gistus to it, noodle!--'tis my own name, replied the
curate, dipping his hand, as he spoke, into the bason--Tristram! said
he, &c. &c. &c. &c.--so Tristram was I called, and Tristram shall I be
to the day of my death.

My father followed Susannah, with his night-gown across his arm, with
nothing more than his breeches on, fastened through haste with but a
single button, and that button through haste thrust only half into the
button-hole.

--She has not forgot the name, cried my father, half opening the
door?--No, no, said the curate, with a tone of intelligence.--And the
child is better, cried Susannah.--And how does your mistress? As well,
said Susannah, as can be expected.--Pish! said my father, the button
of his breeches slipping out of the button-hole--So that whether the
interjection was levelled at Susannah, or the button-hole--whether Pish
was an interjection of contempt or an interjection of modesty, is a
doubt, and must be a doubt till I shall have time to write the three
following favourite chapters, that is, my chapter of chamber-maids, my
chapter of pishes, and my chapter of button-holes.

All the light I am able to give the reader at present is this, that
the moment my father cried Pish! he whisk'd himself about--and with his
breeches held up by one hand, and his night-gown thrown across the arm
of the other, he turned along the gallery to bed, something slower than
he came.

Chapter 2.L.

I wish I could write a chapter upon sleep.

A fitter occasion could never have presented itself, than what this
moment offers, when all the curtains of the family are drawn--the
candles put out--and no creature's eyes are open but a single one, for
the other has been shut these twenty years, of my mother's nurse.

It is a fine subject.

And yet, as fine as it is, I would undertake to write a