32 
of conversation. There is a total absence of story, plot, or incident, 
and it matters little whether you read from the end to the begin- 
ning, or from the beginning to the end of the book. It is from 
their amusing and discursive talk alone that you are left to form 
your opinion of Uncle Toby and Mr. Shandy, of Dr. Slop and 
Corporal Trim. Really the work should rather be classified with 
the immortal series of essays in which Addison gives us the vision 
of Sir Roger de Coverley, than with such books as “Tom Jones” 
or “Vanity Fair.” Sterne’s fame is due not to any constructive 
power as a story-teller, but to his humour and his sentiment, or, to 
speak more accurately, to a humour which, occasionally coarse, is 
frequently mixed with a strain of tenderness which leaves the* 
sensitive reader in doubt whether he is expected to laugh or to cry. 
The recording angel’s tear dropped upon the record of Uncle Toby’s 
oath ; the starling in its cage crying, “I can’t get out, I can’t get 
out ;” the fly which tormented Uncle Toby till he caught it and 
put it out of the window carefully, saying, “the world is large 
enough for thee and for me”—are all famous and hackneyed 
instances of the humorous-pathetic style in which Sterne excels, 
The recording angel’s tear is a rather daring experiment, but the 
passage which leads up to it, where Uncle Toby and his servant 
Trim, both equally bent on saving the life of poor Le Fevre, take 
opposing views as to his chances of recovery—is a fair specimen 
of Sterne’s method. 
*¢¢A sick brother officer should have the best of quarters, Trim ; and if we 
had him with us we could tend and look to him. Thou art an excellent nurse 
thyself, Trim ; and what with thy care of him and the old woman’s and his 
boy’s and mine together, we might recruit him again at once and set him on his 
legs. In a fortnight or three weeks,’ added my Uncle Toby smiling, ‘he might 
march.’ ‘He will never march, an’ please your honour, in this world,’ said 
the Corporal. ‘He will march,’ said my Uncle Toby, rising up from the side 
of the bed with one shoe off. ‘An’ please your honour,’ said the Corporal, ‘he 
will never march but to his grave.’ ‘He shall march,’ said my Uncle Toby, 
marching the foot which had a shoe on, though without advancing an inch, ‘he 
shall march to his regiment.’ ‘He cannot stand it,’ said the Corporal. ‘He 
shall be supported,’ said my Uncle Toby. ‘He'll drop at last,’ said the 
Corporal, ‘and what will become of his boy?’ ‘He shall not drop,’ said my 
Uncle Toby firmly. ‘Ah, well-a-day, do what we can for him,’ said Trim, 
