What a mine of wealth, quoth I, as he counted me the money, has this post-chaise brought me in? And this is my usual method of book-keeping, at least with the disasters of life — making a penny of every one of ‘em as they happen to me —
— Do, my dear Jenny, tell the world for me, how I behaved under one, the most oppressive of its kind, which could befal me as a man, proud as he ought to be of his manhood —
’Tis enough, saidst thou, coming close up to me, as I stood with my garters in my hand, reflecting upon what had not pass’d— ’Tis enough, Tristram, and I am satisfied, saidst thou, whispering these words in my ear, * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *; — * * * * * * * * — any other man would have sunk down to the center —
— Everything is good for something, quoth I.
— I’ll go into Wales for six weeks, and drink goat’s whey — and I’ll gain seven years longer life for the accident. For which reason I think myself inexcusable, for blaming fortune so often as I have done, for pelting me all my life long, like an ungracious duchess, as I call’d her, with so many small evils: surely, if I have any cause to be angry with her, ’tis that she has not sent me great ones — a score of good cursed, bouncing losses, would have been as good as a pension to me.
— One of a hundred a year, or so, is all I wish — I would not be at the plague of paying land-tax for a larger.
CHAPTER XXX
To those who call vexations, VEXATIONS, as knowing what they are, there could not be a greater, than to be the best part of a day at Lyons, the most opulent and flourishing city in France, enriched with the most fragments of antiquity — and not be able to see it. To be withheld upon any account, must be a vexation; but to be withheld by a vexation — must certainly be, what philosophy justly calls
VEXATION
upon
VEXATION.
I had got my two dishes of milk coffee (which by the bye is excellently good for a consumption, but you must boil the milk and coffee together — otherwise ’tis only coffee and milk) — and as it was no more than eight in the morning, and the boat did not go off till noon, I had time to see enough of Lyons to tire the patience of all the friends I had in the world with it. I will take a walk to the cathedral, said I, looking at my list, and see the wonderful mechanism of this great clock of Lippius of Basil, in the first place —
Now, of all things in the world, I understand the least of mechanism — I have neither genius, or taste, or fancy — and have a brain so entirely unapt for everything of that kind, that I solemnly declare I was never yet able to comprehend the principles of motion of a squirrel cage, or a common knife-grinder’s wheel — tho’ I have many an hour of my life look’d up with great devotion at the one — and stood by with as much patience as any christian ever could do, at the other —
I’ll go see the surprising movements of this great clock, said I, the very first thing I do: and then I will pay a visit to the great library of the Jesuits, and procure, if possible, a sight of the thirty volumes of the general history of China, wrote (not in the Tartarean, but) in the Chinese language, and in the Chinese character too.
Now I almost know as little of the Chinese language, as I do of the mechanism of Lippius’s clock-work; so, why these should have jostled themselves into the two first articles of my list — I leave to the curious as a problem of Nature. I own it looks like one of her ladyship’s obliquities; and they who court her, are interested in finding out her humour as much as I.
When these curiosities are seen, quoth I, half addressing myself to my valet de place, who stood behind me— ‘twill be no hurt if we go to the church of St. Irenæus, and see the pillar to which Christ was tied — and after that, the house where Pontius Pilate lived— ’Twas at the next town, said the valet de place — at Vienne; I am glad of it, said I, rising briskly from my chair, and walking across the room with strides twice as long as my usual pace— “for so much the sooner shall I be at the Tomb of the two lovers.”
What was the cause of this movement, and why I took such long strides in uttering this — I might leave to the curious too; but as no principle of clock-work is concerned in it— ‘twill be as well for the reader if I explain it myself.
CHAPTER XXXI
O there is a sweet æra in the life of man, when (the brain being tender and fibrillous, and more like pap than anything else) — a story read of two fond lovers, separated from each other by cruel parents, and by still more cruel destiny —
Amandus — He
Amanda — She —
each ignorant of the other’s course,
He — east
She — west
Amandus taken captive by the Turks, and carried to the emperor of Morocco’s court, where the princess of Morocco falling in love with him, keeps him twenty years in prison for the love of his Amanda. —
She — (Amanda) all the time wandering barefoot, and with dishevell’d hair, o’er rocks and mountains, enquiring for Amandus! — Amandus! Amandus! — making every hill and valley to echo back his name —
Amandus! Amandus!
at every town and city, sitting down forlorn at the gate — Has Amandus! — has my Amandus enter’d? — till, — going round, and round, and round the world — chance unexpected bringing them at the same moment of the night, though by different ways, to the gate of Lyons, their native city, and each in well-known accents calling out aloud,
Is Amandus }
Is my Amanda } still alive?
they fly into each other’s arms, and both drop down dead for joy.
There is a soft æra in every gentle mortal’s life, where such a story affords more pabulum to the brain, than all the Frusts, and Crusts, and Rusts of antiquity, which travellers can cook up for it.
— ’Twas all that stuck on the right side of the cullender in my own, of what Spon and others, in their accounts of Lyons, had strained into it; and finding, moreover, in some Itinerary, but in what God knows — That sacred to the fidelity of Amandus and Amanda, a tomb was built without the gates, where, to this hour, lovers called upon them to attest their truths — I never could get into a scrape of that kind in my life, but this tomb of the lovers would, somehow or other, come in at the close — nay such a kind of empire had it establish’d over me, that I could seldom think or speak of Lyons — and sometimes not so much as see even a Lyons-waistcoat, but this remnant of antiquity would present itself to my fancy; and I have often said in my wild way of running on — tho’ I fear with some irreverence— “I thought this shrine (neglected as it was) as valuable as that of Mecca, and so little short, except in wealth, of the Santa Casa itself, that some time or other, I would go a pilgrimage (though I had no other business at Lyons) on purpose to pay it a visit.”
In my list, therefore, of Videnda at Lyons, this, tho’ last, — was not, you see, least; so taking a dozen or two of longer strides than usual across my room, just whilst it passed my brain, I walked down calmly into the Basse Cour, in order to sally forth; and having called for my bill — as it was uncertain whether I should return to my inn, I had paid it — had moreover given the maid ten sous, and was just receiving the dernier compliments of Monsieur Le Blanc, for a pleasant voyage down the Rhône — when I was stopped at the gate —
CHAPTER XXXII
— ’Twas by a poor ass, who had just turned in with a couple of large panniers upon his back, to collect eleemosynary turnip-tops and cabbage-leaves; and stood dubious, with his two fore-feet on the inside of the threshold, and with his two hinder feet towards the street, as not knowing very well whether he was to go in or no.
Now, ’tis an animal (be in what hurry I may) I cannot bear to strike — there is a patient endurance of sufferings, wrote so unaffectedly in his looks and carriage, which pleads so mightily for him, that it always disarms me; and to that degree, that I do not like to speak unkindly to him: on the contrary, meet him where I will — whether in town or country — in cart or under panniers — whether in liberty or bondage — I have ever somethin
g civil to say to him on my part; and as one word begets another (if he has as little to do as I) — I generally fall into conversation with him; and surely never is my imagination so busy as in framing his responses from the etchings of his countenance — and where those carry me not deep enough — in flying from my own heart into his, and seeing what is natural for an ass to think — as well as a man, upon the occasion. In truth, it is the only creature of all the classes of beings below me, with whom I can do this: for parrots, jackdaws, &c. — I never exchange a word with them — nor with the apes, &c., for pretty near the same reason; they act by rote, as the others speak by it, and equally make me silent: nay my dog and my cat, though I value them both — (and for my dog he would speak if he could) — yet somehow or other, they neither of them possess the talents for conversation — I can make nothing of a discourse with them, beyond the proposition, the reply, and rejoinder, which terminated my father’s and my mother’s conversations, in his beds of justice — and those utter’d — there’s an end of the dialogue —
— But with an ass, I can commune for ever.
Come, Honesty! said I, — seeing it was impracticable to pass betwixt him and the gate — art thou for coming in, or going out?
The ass twisted his head round to look up the street —
Well — replied I — we’ll wait a minute for thy driver:
— He turned his head thoughtful about, and looked wistfully the opposite way —
I understand thee perfectly, answered I — If thou takest a wrong step in this affair, he will cudgel thee to death — Well! a minute is but a minute, and if it saves a fellow-creature a drubbing, it shall not be set down as ill spent.
He was eating the stem of an artichoke as this discourse went on, and in the little peevish contentions of nature betwixt hunger and unsavouriness, had dropt it out of his mouth half a dozen times, and pick’d it up again — God help thee, Jack! said I, thou hast a bitter breakfast on’t — and many a bitter day’s labour, — and many a bitter blow, I fear, for its wages— ’tis all — all bitterness to thee, whatever life is to others. — And now thy mouth, if one knew the truth of it, is as bitter, I dare say, as soot — (for he had cast aside the stem) and thou hast not a friend perhaps in all this world, that will give thee a macaroon. — In saying this, I pull’d out a paper of ‘em, which I had just purchased, and gave him one — and at this moment that I am telling it, my heart smites me, that there was more of pleasantry in the conceit, of seeing how an ass would eat a macaroon — than of benevolence in giving him one, which presided in the act.
When the ass had eaten his macaroon, I press’d him to come in — the poor beast was heavy loaded — his legs seem’d to tremble under him — he hung rather backwards, and as I pull’d at his halter, it broke short in my hand — he look’d up pensive in my face— “Don’t thrash me with it — but if you will, you may” — If I do, said I, I’ll be d — d.
The word was but one-half of it pronounced, like the abbess of Andoüillets’ — (so there was no sin in it) — when a person coming in, let fall a thundering bastinado upon the poor devil’s crupper, which put an end to the ceremony.
Out upon it!
cried I — but the interjection was equivocal — and, I think, wrong placed too — for the end of an osier which had started out from the contexture of the ass’s pannier, had caught hold of my breeches pocket, as he rush’d by me, and rent it in the most disastrous direction you can imagine — so that the
Out upon it! in my opinion, should have come in here — but this I leave to be settled by
THE REVIEWERS OF MY BREECHES,
which I have brought over along with me for that purpose.
CHAPTER XXXIII
When all was set to rights, I came down stairs again into the basse cour with my valet de place, in order to sally out towards the tomb of the two lovers, &c. — and was a second time stopp’d at the gate — not by the ass — but by the person who struck him; and who, by that time, had taken possession (as is not uncommon after a defeat) of the very spot of ground where the ass stood.
It was a commissary sent to me from the post-office, with a rescript in his hand for the payment of some six livres odd sous.
Upon what account? said I.— ’Tis upon the part of the king, replied the commissary, heaving up both his shoulders —
— My good friend, quoth I — as sure as I am I — and you are you —
— And who are you? said he. — Don’t puzzle me; said I.
CHAPTER XXXIV
— But it is an indubitable verity, continued I, addressing myself to the commissary, changing only the form of my asseveration — that I owe the king of France nothing but my good-will; for he is a very honest man, and I wish him all health and pastime in the world —
Pardonnez moi — replied the commissary, you are indebted to him six livres four sous, for the next post from hence to St. Fons, in your route to Avignon — which being a post royal, you pay double for the horses and postillion — otherwise ‘twould have amounted to no more than three livres two sous —
— But I don’t go by land; said I.
— You may if you please; replied the commissary —
Your most obedient servant — said I, making him a low bow —
The commissary, with all the sincerity of grave good breeding — made me one, as low again. — I never was more disconcerted with a bow in my life.
— The devil take the serious character of these people! quoth
I — (aside) they understand no more of IRONY than this —
The comparison was standing close by with his panniers — but something seal’d up my lips — I could not pronounce the name —
Sir, said I, collecting myself — it is not my intention to take post —
— But you may — said he, persisting in his first reply — you may take post if you chuse —
— And I may take salt to my pickled herring, said I, if I chuse —
— But I do not chuse —
— But you must pay for it, whether you do or no.
Aye! for the salt; said I (I know) —
— And for the post too; added he. Defend me! cried I —
I travel by water — I am going down the Rhône this very afternoon — my baggage is in the boat — and I have actually paid nine livres for my passage —
C’est tout egal— ’tis all one; said he.
Bon Dieu! what, pay for the way I go! and for the way I do not go!
— C’est tout egal; replied the commissary —
— The devil it is! said I — but I will go to ten thousand Bastiles first —
O England! England! thou land of liberty, and climate of good sense, thou tenderest of mothers — and gentlest of nurses, cried I, kneeling upon one knee, as I was beginning my apostrophe.
When the director of Madam Le Blanc’s conscience coming in at that instant, and seeing a person in black, with a face as pale as ashes, at his devotions — looking still paler by the contrast and distress of his drapery — ask’d, if I stood in want of the aids of the church —
I go by WATER — said I — and here’s another will be for making me pay for going by OIL.
CHAPTER XXXV
As I perceived the commissary of the post-office would have his six livres four sous, I had nothing else for it, but to say some smart thing upon the occasion, worth the money:
And so I set off thus: —
— And pray, Mr. Commissary, by what law of courtesy is a defenceless stranger to be used just the reverse from what you use a Frenchman in this matter?
By no means; said he.
Excuse me; said I — for you have begun, Sir, with first tearing off my breeches — and now you want my pocket —
Whereas — had you first taken my pocket, as you do with your own people — and then left me bare a— ‘d after — I had been a beast to have complain’d —
As it is —
— ’Tis contrary to the law of nature.
— ’Tis
contrary to reason.
— ’Tis contrary to the GOSPEL.
But not to this — said he — putting a printed paper into my hand,
PAR LE ROY.
— ’Tis a pithy prolegomenon, quoth I — and so read on —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —
— By all which it appears, quoth I, having read it over, a little too rapidly, that if a man sets out in a post-chaise from Paris — he must go on travelling in one, all the days of his life — or pay for it. — Excuse me, said the commissary, the spirit of the ordinance is this — That if you set out with an intention of running post from Paris to Avignon, &c., you shall not change that intention or mode of travelling, without first satisfying the fermiers for two posts further than the place you repent at — and ’tis founded, continued he, upon this, that the REVENUES are not to fall short through your fickleness —
— O by heavens! cried I — if fickleness is taxable in France — we have nothing to do but to make the best peace with you we can —
AND SO THE PEACE WAS MADE;
— And if it is a bad one — as Tristram Shandy laid the corner-stone of it — nobody but Tristram Shandy ought to be hanged.
CHAPTER XXXVI
Complete Works of Laurence Sterne Page 52
