, yet the abstract of Socrates's oration, which my father was
giving my uncle Toby, was not altogether new to her.--She listened to
it with composed intelligence, and would have done so to the end of the
chapter, had not my father plunged (which he had no occasion to have
done) into that part of the pleading where the great philosopher
reckons up his connections, his alliances, and children; but renounces
a security to be so won by working upon the passions of his judges.--'I
have friends--I have relations,--I have three desolate children,'--says
Socrates.--

--Then, cried my mother, opening the door,--you have one more, Mr.
Shandy, than I know of.

By heaven! I have one less,--said my father, getting up and walking out
of the room.

Chapter 3.XIV.

--They are Socrates's children, said my uncle Toby. He has been dead a
hundred years ago, replied my mother.

My uncle Toby was no chronologer--so not caring to advance one step but
upon safe ground, he laid down his pipe deliberately upon the table, and
rising up, and taking my mother most kindly by the hand, without saying
another word, either good or bad, to her, he led her out after my
father, that he might finish the ecclaircissement himself.

Chapter 3.XV.

Had this volume been a farce, which, unless every one's life and
opinions are to be looked upon as a farce as well as mine, I see no
reason to suppose--the last chapter, Sir, had finished the first act of
it, and then this chapter must have set off thus.

Ptr...r...r...ing--twing--twang--prut--trut--'tis a cursed
bad fiddle.--Do you know whether my fiddle's in tune or
no?--trut...prut.. .--They should be fifths.--'Tis wickedly
strung--tr...a.e.i.o.u.-twang.--The bridge is a mile too high, and the
sound post absolutely down,--else--trut...prut--hark! tis not so bad
a tone.--Diddle diddle, diddle diddle, diddle diddle, dum. There is
nothing in playing before good judges,--but there's a man there--no--not
him with the bundle under his arm--the grave man in black.--'Sdeath! not
the gentleman with the sword on.--Sir, I had rather play a Caprichio
to Calliope herself, than draw my bow across my fiddle before that
very man; and yet I'll stake my Cremona to a Jew's trump, which is the
greatest musical odds that ever were laid, that I will this moment stop
three hundred and fifty leagues out of tune upon my fiddle, without
punishing one single nerve that belongs to him--Twaddle diddle, tweddle
diddle,--twi