we aim at, prose is the easiest of the two. Oh! my
friend! profit by these my instructions; think that you see me studying
for your advantage, my reverend locks over-shadowing my paper, my hands
trembling, and my tongue hanging out, a figure of esteem, affection and
veneration. By Heavens! Boswell! I love you more--But this, I think, may
be more conveniently expressed in rhyme

More than a herd of swine a kennel muddy,
More than a brilliant belle polemic study,
More than fat Falstaff lov'd a cup of sack,
More than a guilty criminal the rack,
More than attorneys love by cheats to thrive,
And more than witches to be burnt alive.

[Footnote 19: The first two volumes of Tristram Shandy were published
towards the end of 1759.--ED.]

I begin to be afraid that we shall not see you here this winter; which
will be a great loss to you. If ever you travel into foreign parts, as
Machiavel used to say, everybody abroad will require a description of
New-Tarbat[20] from you. That you may not appear totally ridiculous and
absurd, I shall send you some little account of it. Imagine then to
yourself what Thomson would call an interminable plain,[21] interspersed
in a lovely manner with beautiful green hills. The Seasons here are only
shifted by Summer and Spring. Winter with his fur cap and his cat-skin
gloves, was never seen in this charming retreat. The Castle is of Gothic
structure, awful and lofty: there are fifty bed-chambers in it, with
halls, saloons, and galleries without number. Mr. M----'s father, who
was a man of infinite humour, caused a magnificent lake to be made, just
before the entry of the house. His diversion was to peep out of his
window, and see the people who came to visit him, skipping through
it;--for there was no other passage--then he used to put on such huge
fires to dry their clothes, that there was no bearing them. He used to
declare, that he never thought a man good company till he was half
drown'd and half burnt; but if in any part of his life he had narrowly
escaped hanging (a thing not uncommon in the Highlands) he would
perfectly doat upon him, and whenever the story was told him, he was
ready to choke himself. But to return. Everything here is in the grand
and sublime style. But, alas! some envious magician, with his d----d
enchantments, has destroyed all these beauties. By his potent art, the
house with so many bed-chambers in it, cannot conveniently lodge above a
doze