ddle diddle,--twoddle diddle,--twuddle diddle,--prut
trut--krish--krash--krush.--I've undone you, Sir,--but you see he's no
worse,--and was Apollo to take his fiddle after me, he can make him no
better.

Diddle diddle, diddle diddle, diddle diddle--hum--dum--drum.

--Your worships and your reverences love music--and God has made
you all with good ears--and some of you play delightfully
yourselves--trut-prut,--prut-trut.

O! there is--whom I could sit and hear whole days,--whose talents lie
in making what he fiddles to be felt,--who inspires me with his joys and
hopes, and puts the most hidden springs of my heart into motion.--If you
would borrow five guineas of me, Sir,--which is generally ten guineas
more than I have to spare--or you Messrs. Apothecary and Taylor, want
your bills paying,--that's your time.

Chapter 3.XVI.

The first thing which entered my father's head, after affairs were
a little settled in the family, and Susanna had got possession of my
mother's green sattin night-gown,--was to sit down coolly, after the
example of Xenophon, and write a Tristra-paedia, or system of education
for me; collecting first for that purpose his own scattered thoughts,
counsels, and notions; and binding them together, so as to form an
Institute for the government of my childhood and adolescence. I was
my father's last stake--he had lost my brother Bobby entirely,--he had
lost, by his own computation, full three-fourths of me--that is, he had
been unfortunate in his three first great casts for me--my geniture,
nose, and name,--there was but this one left; and accordingly my father
gave himself up to it with as much devotion as ever my uncle Toby had
done to his doctrine of projectils.--The difference between them was,
that my uncle Toby drew his whole knowledge of projectils from Nicholas
Tartaglia--My father spun his, every thread of it, out of his own
brain,--or reeled and cross-twisted what all other spinners and
spinsters had spun before him, that 'twas pretty near the same torture
to him.

In about three years, or something more, my father had got advanced
almost into the middle of his work.--Like all other writers, he met with
disappointments.--He imagined he should be able to bring whatever he had
to say, into so small a compass, that when it was finished and bound,
it might be rolled up in my mother's hussive.--Matter grows under our
hands.--Let no man say,--'Come--I'll write a duodecimo.'

My father gave