Complete Works of Laurence Sterne

by Laurence Sterne

  I have the highest idea of the spiritual and refined sentiments of this reverend gentleman, from this single stroke in his character, which I think comes up to any of the honest refinements of the peerless knight of La Mancha, whom, by the bye, with all his follies, I love more, and would actually have gone farther to have paid a visit to, than the greatest hero of antiquity.

  But this is not the moral of my story: The thing I had in view was to shew the temper of the world in the whole of this affair. — For you must know, that so long as this explanation would have done the parson credit, — the devil a soul could find it out, — I suppose his enemies would not, and that his friends could not. — But no sooner did he bestir himself in behalf of the midwife, and pay the expences of the ordinary’s licence to set her up, — but the whole secret came out; every horse he had lost, and two horses more than ever he had lost, with all the circumstances of their destruction, were known and distinctly remembered. — The story ran like wild-fire— “The parson had a returning fit of pride which had just seized him; and he was going to be well mounted once again in his life; and if it was so, ’twas plain as the sun at noon-day, he would pocket the expence of the licence, ten times told, the very first year: — So that every body was left to judge what were his views in this act of charity.”

  What were his views in this, and in every other action of his life, — or rather what were the opinions which floated in the brains of other people concerning it, was a thought which too much floated in his own, and too often broke in upon his rest, when he should have been sound asleep.

  About ten years ago this gentleman had the good fortune to be made entirely easy upon that score, — it being just so long since he left his parish, — and the whole world at the same time behind him, — and stands accountable to a Judge of whom he will have no cause to complain.

  But there is a fatality attends the actions of some men: Order them as they will, they pass thro’ a certain medium, which so twists and refracts them from their true directions — that, with all the titles to praise which a rectitude of heart can give, the doers of them are nevertheless forced to live and die without it.

  Of the truth of which, this gentleman was a painful example. — But to know by what means this came to pass, — and to make that knowledge of use to you, I insist upon it that you read the two following chapters, which contain such a sketch of his life and conversation, as will carry its moral along with it. — When this is done, if nothing stops us in our way, we will go on with the midwife.

  CHAPTER XI

  Yorick was this parson’s name, and, what is very remarkable in it (as appears from a most ancient account of the family, wrote upon strong vellum, and now in perfect preservation) it had been exactly so spelt for near, — I was within an ace of saying nine hundred years; — but I would not shake my credit in telling an improbable truth, however indisputable in itself; — and therefore I shall content myself with only saying — It had been exactly so spelt, without the least variation or transposition of a single letter, for I do not know how long; which is more than I would venture to say of one half of the best surnames in the kingdom; which, in a course of years, have generally undergone as many chops and changes as their owners. — Has this been owing to the pride, or to the shame of the respective proprietors? — In honest truth, I think sometimes to the one, and sometimes to the other, just as the temptation has wrought. But a villainous affair it is, and will one day so blend and confound us altogether, that no one shall be able to stand up and swear, “That his own great grandfather was the man who did either this or that.”

  This evil had been sufficiently fenced against by the prudent care of the Yorick’s family, and their religious preservation of these records I quote, which do farther inform us, That the family was originally of Danish extraction, and had been transplanted into England as early as in the reign of Horwendillus, king of Denmark, in whose court, it seems, an ancestor of this Mr. Yorick’s, and from whom he was lineally descended, held a considerable post to the day of his death. Of what nature this considerable post was, this record saith not; — It only adds, That, for near two centuries, it had been totally abolished, as altogether unnecessary, not only in that court, but in every other court of the Christian world.

  It has often come into my head, that this post could be no other than that of the king’s chief Jester; — and that Hamlet’s Yorick, in our Shakespeare, many of whose plays, you know, are founded upon authenticated facts, was certainly the very man.

  I have not the time to look into Saxo-Grammaticus’s Danish history, to know the certainty of this; — but if you have leisure, and can easily get at the book, you may do it full as well yourself.

  I had just time, in my travels through Denmark with Mr. Noddy’s eldest son, whom, in the year 1741, I accompanied as governor, riding along with him at a prodigious rate thro’ most parts of Europe, and of which original journey performed by us two, a most delectable narrative will be given in the progress of this work; I had just time, I say, and that was all, to prove the truth of an observation made by a long sojourner in that country; — namely, “That nature was neither very lavish, nor was she very stingy in her gifts of genius and capacity to its inhabitants; — but, like a discreet parent, was moderately kind to them all; observing such an equal tenor in the distribution of her favours, as to bring them, in those points, pretty near to a level with each other; so that you will meet with few instances in that kingdom of refined parts; but a great deal of good plain household understanding amongst all ranks of people, of which everybody has a share;” which is, I think, very right.

  With us, you see, the case is quite different: — we are all ups and downs in this matter; — you are a great genius; — or ’tis fifty to one, Sir, you are a great dunce and a blockhead; — not that there is a total want of intermediate steps, — no, — we are not so irregular as that comes to; — but the two extremes are more common, and in a greater degree in this unsettled island, where nature, in her gifts and dispositions of this kind, is most whimsical and capricious; fortune herself not being more so in the bequest of her goods and chattels than she.

  This is all that ever staggered my faith in regard to Yorick’s extraction, who, by what I can remember of him, and by all the accounts I could ever get of him, seemed not to have had one single drop of Danish blood in his whole crasis; in nine hundred years, it might possibly have all run out: — I will not philosophize one moment with you about it; for happen how it would, the fact was this: — That instead of that cold phlegm and exact regularity of sense and humours, you would have looked for, in one so extracted; — he was, on the contrary, as mercurial and sublimated a composition, — as heteroclite a creature in all his declensions; — with as much life and whim, and gaité de cœur about him, as the kindliest climate could have engendered and put together. With all this sail, poor Yorick carried not one ounce of ballast; he was utterly unpractised in the world; and, at the age of twenty-six, knew just about as well how to steer his course in it, as a romping, unsuspicious girl of thirteen: So that upon his first setting out, the brisk gale of his spirits, as you will imagine, ran him foul ten times in a day of somebody’s tackling; and as the grave and more slow-paced were oftenest in his way, — you may likewise imagine, ’twas with such he had generally the ill luck to get the most entangled. For aught I know there might be some mixture of unlucky wit at the bottom of such Fracas: — For, to speak the truth, Yorick had an invincible dislike and opposition in his nature to gravity; — not to gravity as such; — for where gravity was wanted, he would be the most grave or serious of mortal men for days and weeks together; — but he was an enemy to the affectation of it, and declared open war against it, only as it appeared a cloak for ignorance, or for folly: and then, whenever it fell in his way, however sheltered and protected, he seldom gave it much quarter.

  Sometimes, in his wild way of talking, he would say that Gravity was an errant scoundrel, and he would add, — of the most dangerous kind too, —
because a sly one; and that he verily believed, more honest, well-meaning people were bubbled out of their goods and money by it in one twelve-month, than by pocket-picking and shop-lifting in seven. In the naked temper which a merry heart discovered, he would say, there was no danger, — but to itself: — whereas the very essence of gravity was design, and consequently deceit;— ’twas a taught trick to gain credit of the world for more sense and knowledge than a man was worth; and that, with all its pretensions, — it was no better, but often worse, than what a French wit had long ago defined it, — viz. A mysterious carriage of the body to cover the defects of the mind; — which definition of gravity, Yorick, with great imprudence, would say, deserved to be wrote in letters of gold.

  But, in plain truth, he was a man unhackneyed and unpractised in the world, and was altogether as indiscreet and foolish on every other subject of discourse where policy is wont to impress restraint. Yorick had no impression but one, and that was what arose from the nature of the deed spoken of; which impression he would usually translate into plain English without any periphrasis; — and too oft without much distinction of either person, time, or place; — so that when mention was made of a pitiful or an ungenerous proceeding — he never gave himself a moment’s time to reflect who was the hero of the piece, — what his station, — or how far he had power to hurt him hereafter; — but if it was a dirty action, — without more ado, — The man was a dirty fellow, — and so on. — And as his comments had usually the ill fate to be terminated either in a bon mot, or to be enlivened throughout with some drollery or humour of expression, it gave wings to Yorick’s indiscretion. In a word, tho’ he never sought, yet, at the same time, as he seldom shunned occasions of saying what came uppermost, and without much ceremony; — he had but too many temptations in life, of scattering his wit and his humour, — his gibes and his jests about him. — They were not lost for want of gathering.

  What were the consequences, and what was Yorick’s catastrophe thereupon, you will read in the next chapter.

  CHAPTER XII

  The Mortgager and Mortgagée differ the one from the other, not more in length of purse, than the Jester and Jestée do, in that of memory. But in this the comparison between them runs, as the scholiasts call it, upon all-four; which, by the bye, is upon one or two legs more than some of the best of Homer’s can pretend to; — namely, That the one raises a sum, and the other a laugh at your expence, and thinks no more about it. Interest, however, still runs on in both cases; — the periodical or accidental payments of it, just serving to keep the memory of the affair alive; till, at length, in some evil hour, — pop comes the creditor upon each, and by demanding principal upon the spot, together with full interest to the very day, makes them both feel the full extent of their obligations.

  As the reader (for I hate your ifs) has a thorough knowledge of human nature, I need not say more to satisfy him, that my HERO could not go on at this rate without some slight experience of these incidental mementos. To speak the truth, he had wantonly involved himself in a multitude of small book-debts of this stamp, which, notwithstanding Eugenius’s frequent advice, he too much disregarded; thinking, that as not one of them was contracted thro’ any malignancy; — but, on the contrary, from an honesty of mind, and a mere jocundity of humour, they would all of them be cross’d out in course.

  Eugenius would never admit this; and would often tell him, that one day or other he would certainly be reckoned with; and he would often add, in an accent of sorrowful apprehension, — to the uttermost mite. To which Yorick, with his usual carelessness of heart, would as often answer with a pshaw! — and if the subject was started in the fields — with a hop, skip, and a jump at the end of it; but if close pent up in the social chimney-corner, where the culprit was barricado’d in, with a table and a couple of armchairs, and could not so readily fly off in a tangent, — Eugenius would then go on with his lecture upon discretion in words to this purpose, though somewhat better put together.

  Trust me, dear Yorick, this unwary pleasantry of thine will sooner or later bring thee into scrapes and difficulties, which no after-wit can extricate thee out of. — In these sallies, too oft, I see, it happens, that a person laughed at, considers himself in the light of a person injured, with all the rights of such a situation belonging to him; and when thou viewest him in that light too, and reckons up his friends, his family, his kindred and allies, — and musters up with them the many recruits which will list under him from a sense of common danger;— ’tis no extravagant arithmetick to say, that for every ten jokes, — thou hast got an hundred enemies; and till thou hast gone on, and raised a swarm of wasps about thine ears, and art half stung to death by them, thou wilt never be convinced it is so.

  I cannot suspect it in the man whom I esteem, that there is the least spur from spleen or malevolence of intent in these sallies — I believe and know them to be truly honest and sportive: — But consider, my dear lad, that fools cannot distinguish this, — and that knaves will not: and thou knowest not what it is, either to provoke the one, or to make merry with the other: — whenever they associate for mutual defence, depend upon it, they will carry on the war in such a manner against thee, my dear friend, as to make thee heartily sick of it, and of thy life too.

  Revenge from some baneful corner shall level a tale of dishonour at thee, which no innocence of heart or integrity of conduct shall set right. — The fortunes of thy house shall totter, — thy character, which led the way to them, shall bleed on every side of it, — thy faith questioned, — thy works belied, — thy wit forgotten, — thy learning trampled on. To wind up the last scene of thy tragedy, CRUELTY and COWARDICE, twin ruffians, hired and set on by MALICE in the dark, shall strike together at all thy infirmities and mistakes: — The best of us, my dear lad, lie open there, — and trust me, — trust me, Yorick, when to gratify a private appetite, it is once resolved upon, that an innocent and an helpless creature shall be sacrificed, ’tis an easy matter to pick up sticks enough from any thicket where it has strayed, to make a fire to offer it up with.

  Yorick scarce ever heard this sad vaticination of his destiny read over to him, but with a fear stealing from his eye, and a promissory look attending it, that he was resolved, for the time to come, to ride his tit with more sobriety. — But, alas, too late! — a grand confederacy, with * * * * * and * * * * * at the head of it, was formed before the first prediction of it. — The whole plan of the attack, just as Eugenius had foreboded, was put in execution all at once, — with so little mercy on the side of the allies, — and so little suspicion in Yorick, of what was carrying on against him, — that when he thought, good easy man! full surely preferment was o’ ripening, — they had smote his root, and then he fell, as many a worthy man had fallen before him.

  Yorick, however, fought it out with all imaginable gallantry for some time; till, overpowered by numbers, and worn out at length by the calamities of the war, — but more so, by the ungenerous manner in which it was carried on, — he threw down the sword; and though he kept up his spirits in appearance to the last, he died, nevertheless, as was generally thought, quite broken-hearted.

  What inclined Eugenius to the same opinion was as follows:

  A few hours before Yorick breathed his last, Eugenius stept in with an intent to take his last sight and last farewell of him. Upon his drawing Yorick’s curtain, and asking how he felt himself, Yorick looking up in his face took hold of his hand, — and after thanking him for the many tokens of his friendship to him, for which, he said, if it was their fate to meet hereafter, — he would thank him again and again, — he told him, he was within a few hours of giving his enemies the slip for ever. — I hope not, answered Eugenius, with tears trickling down his cheeks, and with the tenderest tone that ever man spoke. — I hope not, Yorick, said he. — Yorick replied, with a look up, and a gentle squeeze of Eugenius’s hand, and that was all, — but it cut Eugenius to his heart, — Come — come, Yorick, quoth Eugenius, wiping his eyes, and summoning up the man within
him, — my dear lad, be comforted, — let not all thy spirits and fortitude forsake thee at this crisis when thou most wants them; — who knows what resources are in store, and what the power of God may yet do for thee? — Yorick laid his hand upon his heart, and gently shook his head; — For my part, continued Eugenius, crying bitterly as he uttered the words, — I declare I know not, Yorick, how to part with thee, and would gladly flatter my hopes, added Eugenius, chearing up his voice, that there is still enough left of thee to make a bishop, and that I may live to see it. — I beseech thee, Eugenius, quoth Yorick, taking off his night-cap as well as he could with his left hand, — his right being still grasped close in that of Eugenius, — I beseech thee to take a view of my head. — I see nothing that ails it, replied Eugenius. Then, alas! my friend, said Yorick, let me tell you, that ’tis so bruised and mis-shapened with the blows which * * * * * and * * * * *, and some others have so unhandsomely given me, in the dark, that I might say with Sancho Pança, that should I recover, and “Mitres thereupon be suffered to rain down from heaven as thick as hail, not one of them would fit it.” — Yorick’s last breath was hanging upon his trembling lips ready to depart as he uttered this: — yet still it was uttered with something of a Cervantick tone; — and as he spoke it, Eugenius could perceive a stream of lambent fire lighted up for a moment in his eyes; — faint picture of those flashes of his spirit, which (as Shakespeare said of his ancestor) were wont to set the table in a roar!

  Eugenius was convinced from this, that the heart of his friend was broke: he squeezed his hand, — and then walked softly out of the room, weeping as he walked. Yorick followed Eugenius with his eyes to the door, — he then closed them, — and never opened them more.

  He lies buried in the corner of his churchyard, in the parish of — ,