“God’s blessing,” said _Sancho Pança_, “be upon the man who first invented this self-same thing called sleep—it covers a man all over like a cloak.” Now there is more to me in this, and it speaks warmer to my heart and affections, than all the dissertations squeez’d out of the heads of the learned together upon the subject. —Not that I altogether disapprove of what _Montaigne_ advances upon it—’tis admirable in its way—(I quote by memory.) The world enjoys other pleasures, says he, as they do that of sleep, without tasting or feeling it as it slips and passes by.—We should study and ruminate upon it, in order to render proper thanks to him who grants it to us.—For this end I cause myself to be disturbed in my sleep, that I may the better and more sensibly relish it.——And yet I see few, says he again, who live with less sleep, when need requires; my body is capable of a firm, but not of a violent and sudden agitation—I evade of late all violent exercises——I am never weary with walking——but from my youth, I never looked to ride upon pavements. I love to lie hard and alone, and even without my wife——This last word may stagger the faith of the world——but remember, “La Vraisemblance’ (as _Bayle_ says in the affair of _Liceti_) ’est pas toujours du Côté de la Verité.” And so much for sleep. C H A P. LI IF my wife will but venture him—brother _Toby, Trismegistus_ shall be dress’d and brought down to us, whilst you and I are getting our breakfasts together.—— ——Go, tell _Susannah, Obadiah_, to step here. She is run up stairs, answered _Obadiah_, this very instant, sobbing and crying, and wringing her hands as if her heart would break. We shall have a rare month of it, said my father, turning his head from _Obadiah_, and looking wistfully in my uncle _Toby_’s face for some time—we shall have a devilish month of it, brother _Toby_, said my father, setting his arms a’kimbo, and shaking his head; fire, water, women, wind—brother _Toby_!—’Tis some misfortune, quoth my uncle _Toby_.——That it is, cried my father—to have so many jarring elements breaking loose, and riding triumph in every corner of a gentleman’s house—Little boots it to the peace of a family, brother _Toby_, that you and I possess ourselves, and sit here silent and unmoved——whilst such a storm is whistling over our heads.—— And what’s the matter, _Susannah?_ They have called the child _Tristram_——and my mistress is just got out of an hysterick fit about it——No!——’tis not my fault, said _Susannah_—I told him it was _Tristram-gistus._ ——Make tea for yourself, brother _Toby_, said my father, taking down his hat——but how different from the sallies and agitations of voice and members which a common reader would imagine! —For he spake in the sweetest modulation—and took down his hat with the genteelest movement of limbs, that ever affliction harmonized and attuned together.