The life and opinions of Tristram Shandy, gentleman
Now the steeple of _Strasburg_ being the biggest and the tallest
church-steeple to be seen in the whole world, the Anti-nosarians denied
that a nose of 575 geometrical feet in length could be worn, at least
by a middle-siz’d man——The Popish doctors swore it could—The _Lutheran_
doctors said No;—it could not.
This at once started a new dispute, which they pursued a great way,
upon the extent and limitation of the moral and natural attributes of
God—That controversy led them naturally into _Thomas Aquinas_, and
_Thomas Aquinas_ to the devil.
The stranger’s nose was no more heard of in the dispute—it just served
as a frigate to launch them into the gulph of school-divinity——and then
they all sailed before the wind.
Heat is in proportion to the want of true knowledge.
The controversy about the attributes, &c. instead of cooling, on the
contrary had inflamed the _Strasburgers_ imaginations to a most
inordinate degree——The less they understood of the matter the greater
was their wonder about it—they were left in all the distresses of
desire unsatisfied——saw their doctors, the _Parchmentarians_, the
_Brassarians_, the _Turpentarians_, on one side—the Popish doctors on
the other, like _Pantagruel_ and his companions in quest of the oracle
of the bottle, all embarked out of sight.
——The poor _Strasburgers_ left upon the beach!
——What was to be done?—No delay—the uproar increased——every one in
disorder——the city gates set open.——
Unfortunate _Strasbergers!_ was there in the store-house of nature——was
there in the lumber-rooms of learning——was there in the great arsenal
of chance, one single engine left undrawn forth to torture your
curiosities, and stretch your desires, which was not pointed by the
hand of Fate to play upon your hearts?——I dip not my pen into my ink to
excuse the surrender of yourselves—’tis to write your panegyrick. Shew
me a city so macerated with expectation——who neither eat, or drank, or
slept, or prayed, or hearkened to the calls either of religion or
nature, for seven-and-twenty days together, who could have held out one
day longer.
On the twenty-eighth the courteous stranger had promised to return to
_Strasburg._
Seven thousand coaches (_Slawkenbergius_ must certainly have made some
mistake in his numeral characters) 7000 coaches——15000 single-horse
chairs—20000 waggons, crowded as full as they could all hold with
senators, counsellors, syndicks—beguines, widows, wives, virgins,
canons, concubines, all in their coaches—The abbess of _Quedlingberg_,
with the prioress, the deaness and sub-chantress, leading the
procession in one coach, and the dean of _Strasburg_, with the four
great dignitaries of his chapter, on her left-hand—the rest following
higglety-pigglety as they could; some on horseback——some on foot——some
led——some driven——some down the _Rhine_——some this way——some that——all
set out at sun-rise to meet the courteous stranger on the road.
Haste we now towards the catastrophe of my tale——I say _Catastrophe_
(cries _Slawkenbergius_) inasmuch as a tale, with parts rightly
disposed, not only rejoiceth (_gaudet_) in the _Catastrophe_ and
_Peripeitia_ of a DRAMA, but rejoiceth moreover in all the essential
and integrant parts of it——it has its _Protasis, Epitasis, Catastasis_,
its _Catastrophe_ or _Peripeitia_ growing one out of the other in it,
in the order _Aristotle_ first planted them——without which a tale had
better never be told at all, says _Slawkenbergius_, but be kept to a
man’s self.
In all my ten tales, in all my ten decades, have I _Slawkenbergius_
tied down every tale of them as tightly to this rule, as I have done
this of the stranger and his nose.
——From his first parley with the centinel, to his leaving the city of
_Strasburg_, after pulling off his crimson-sattin pair of breeches, is
the _Protasis_ or first entrance——where the characters of the _Personæ
Dramatis_ are just touched in, and the subject slightly begun.
The _Epitasis_, wherein the action is more fully entered upon and
heightened, till it arrives at its state or height called the
_Catastasis_, and which usually takes up the 2d and 3d act, is included
within that busy period of my tale, betwixt the first night’s uproar
about the nose, to the conclusion of the trumpeter’s wife’s lectures
upon it in the middle of the grand parade: and from the first embarking
of the learned in the dispute—to the doctors finally sailing away, and
leaving the _Strasburgers_ upon the beach in distress, is the
_Catastasis_ or the ripening of the incidents and passions for their
bursting forth in the fifth act.
This commences with the setting out of the _Strasburgers_ in the
_Frankfort_ road, and terminates in unwinding the labyrinth and
bringing the hero out of a state of agitation (as _Aristotle_ calls it)
to a state of rest and quietness.
This, says _Hafen Slawkenbergius_, constitutes the _Catastrophe_ or
_Peripeitia_ of my tale—and that is the part of it I am going to
relate.
We left the stranger behind the curtain asleep——he enters now upon the
stage.
—What dost thou prick up thy ears at?—’tis nothing but a man upon a
horse——was the last word the stranger uttered to his mule. It was not
proper then to tell the reader, that the mule took his master’s word
for it; and without any more _ifs_ or _ands_, let the traveller and his
horse pass by.
The traveller was hastening with all diligence to get to _Strasburg_
that night. What a fool am I, said the traveller to himself, when he
had rode about a league farther, to think of getting into _Strasburg_
this night.—_Strasburg!_——the great _Strasburg!_——_Strasburg_, the
capital of all _Alsatia!_ _Strasburg_, an imperial city! _Strasburg_, a
sovereign state! _Strasburg_, garrisoned with five thousand of the best
troops in all the world!—Alas! if I was at the gates of _Strasburg_
this moment, I could not gain admittance into it for a ducat—nay a
ducat and half—’tis too much—better go back to the last inn I have
passed——than lie I know not where——or give I know not what. The
traveller, as he made these reflections in his mind, turned his horse’s
head about, and three minutes after the stranger had been conducted
into his chamber, he arrived at the same inn.
——We have bacon in the house, said the host, and bread——and till eleven
o’clock this night had three eggs in it——but a stranger, who arrived an
hour ago, has had them dressed into an omelet, and we have nothing.——
Alas! said the traveller, harassed as I am, I want nothing but a
bed.——I have one as soft as is in _Alsatia_, said the host.
——The stranger, continued he, should have slept in it, for ’tis my best
bed, but upon the score of his nose.——He has got a defluxion, said the
traveller.——Not that I know, cried the host.——But ’tis a camp-bed, and
_Jacinta_, said he, looking towards the maid, imagined there was not
room in it to turn his nose in.——Why so? cried the traveller, starting
back.—It is so long a nose, replied the host.——The traveller fixed his
eyes upon _Jacinta_, then upon the ground—kneeled upon his right
knee—had just got his hand laid upon his breast——Trifle not with my
anxiety, said he rising up again.——’Tis no trifle, said _Jacinta_, ’tis
the most glorious nose!——The traveller fell upon his knee again—laid
his hand upon his breast—then, said he, looking up to heaven, thou hast
conducted me to the end of my pilgrimage—’Tis _Diego._
The traveller was the brother of the _Julia_, so often invoked that
night by the stranger as he rode from _Strasburg_ upon his mule; and
was come, on her part, in quest of him. He had accompanied his sister
from _Valadolid_ across the _Pyrenean_ mountains through _France_, and
had many an entangled skein to wind off in pursuit of him through the
many meanders and abrupt turnings of a lover’s thorny tracks.
——_Julia_ had sunk under it——and had not been able to go a step farther
than to _Lyons_, where, with the many disquietudes of a tender heart,
which all talk of——but few feel—she sicken’d, but had just strength to
write a letter to _Diego_; and having conjured her brother never to see
her face till he had found him out, and put the letter into his hands,
_Julia_ took to her bed.
_Fernandez_ (for that was her brother’s name)——tho’ the camp-bed was as
soft as any one in _Alsace_, yet he could not shut his eyes in it.——As
soon as it was day he rose, and hearing _Diego_ was risen too, he
entered his chamber, and discharged his sister’s commission.
The letter was as follows:
“Seig. DIEGO,
“Whether my suspicions of your nose were justly excited or not——’tis
not now to inquire—it is enough I have not had firmness to put them to
farther tryal.
“How could I know so little of myself, when I sent my _Duenna_ to
forbid your coming more under my lattice? or how could I know so little
of you, _Diego_, as to imagine you would not have staid one day in
_Valadolid_ to have given ease to my doubts?—Was I to be abandoned,
_Diego_, because I was deceived? or was it kind to take me at my word,
whether my suspicions were just or no, and leave me, as you did, a prey
to much uncertainty and sorrow?
“In what manner _Julia_ has resented this——my brother, when he puts
this letter into your hands, will tell you; He will tell you in how few
moments she repented of the rash message she had sent you——in what
frantic haste she flew to her lattice, and how many days and nights
together she leaned immoveably upon her elbow, looking through it
towards the way which _Diego_ was wont to come.
“He will tell you, when she heard of your departure—how her spirits
deserted her——how her heart sicken’d——how piteously she mourned——how
low she hung her head. O _Diego!_ how many weary steps has my brother’s
pity led me by the hand languishing to trace out yours; how far has
desire carried me beyond strength——and how oft have I fainted by the
way, and sunk into his arms, with only power to cry out—O my _Diego!_
“If the gentleness of your carriage has not belied your heart, you will
fly to me, almost as fast as you fled from me—haste as you will——you
will arrive but to see me expire.——’Tis a bitter draught, _Diego_, but
oh! ’tis embittered still more by dying _un_———”
She could proceed no farther.
_Slawkenbergius_ supposes the word intended was unconvinced, but her
strength would not enable her to finish her letter.
The heart of the courteous _Diego_ over-flowed as he read the
letter——he ordered his mule forthwith and _Fernandez_’s horse to be
saddled; and as no vent in prose is equal to that of poetry in such
conflicts——chance, which as often directs us to remedies as to
_diseases_, having thrown a piece of charcoal into the window——_Diego_
availed himself of it, and whilst the hostler was getting ready his
mule, he eased his mind against the wall as follows.
O D E.
_Harsh and untuneful are the notes of love_,
_Unless my_ Julia _strikes the key_,
_Her hand alone can touch the part_,
_Whose dulcet movement charms the heart_,
_And governs all the man with sympathetick sway._
2d.
_O_ Julia!
The lines were very natural——for they were nothing at all to the
purpose, says _Slawkenbergius_, and ’tis a pity there were no more of
them; but whether it was that Seig. _Diego_ was slow in composing
verses—or the hostler quick in saddling mules——is not averred; certain
it was, that _Diego_’s mule and _Fernandez_’s horse were ready at the
door of the inn, before _Diego_ was ready for his second stanza; so
without staying to finish his ode, they both mounted, sallied forth,
passed the _Rhine_, traversed _Alsace_, shaped their course towards
_Lyons_, and before the _Strasburgers_ and the abbess of _Quedlingberg_
had set out on their cavalcade, had _Fernandez, Diego_, and his
_Julia_, crossed the _Pyrenean_ mountains, and got safe to _Valadolid._