ON the fifth day of _November_, 1718, which to the æra fixed on, was as
near nine kalendar months as any husband could in reason have
expected,—was I _Tristram Shandy_, Gentleman, brought forth into this
scurvy and disastrous world of ours.—I wish I had been born in the
Moon, or in any of the planets, (except _Jupiter_ or _Saturn_, because
I never could bear cold weather) for it could not well have fared worse
with me in any of them (though I will not answer for _Venus_) than it
has in this vile, dirty planet of ours,—which, o’ my conscience, with
reverence be it spoken, I take to be made up of the shreds and
clippings of the rest;——not but the planet is well enough, provided a
man could be born in it to a great title or to a great estate; or could
any how contrive to be called up to public charges, and employments of
dignity or power;——but that is not my case;——and therefore every man
will speak of the fair as his own market has gone in it;———for which
cause I affirm it over again to be one of the vilest worlds that ever
was made;—for I can truly say, that from the first hour I drew my
breath in it, to this, that I can now scarce draw it at all, for an
asthma I got in scating against the wind in _Flanders;_—I have been the
continual sport of what the world calls Fortune; and though I will not
wrong her by saying, She has ever made me feel the weight of any great
or signal evil;——yet with all the good temper in the world I affirm it
of her, that in every stage of my life, and at every turn and corner
where she could get fairly at me, the ungracious duchess has pelted me
with a set of as pitiful misadventures and cross accidents as ever
small HERO sustained.