The life and opinions of Tristram Shandy, gentleman

of her convent got over the difficulty (only first wishing myself all imaginable success)—I’ll tell you without the least scruple. C H A P. II THE abbess of _Andoüillets_, which if you look into the large set of provincial maps now publishing at _Paris_, you will find situated amongst the hills which divide _Burgundy_ from _Savoy_, being in danger of an _Anchylosis_ or stiff joint (the _sinovia_ of her knee becoming hard by long matins), and having tried every remedy——first, prayers and thanksgiving; then invocations to all the saints in heaven promiscuously——then particularly to every saint who had ever had a stiff leg before her——then touching it with all the reliques of the convent, principally with the thigh-bone of the man of _Lystra_, who had been impotent from his youth——then wrapping it up in her veil when she went to bed—then cross-wise her rosary—then bringing in to her aid the secular arm, and anointing it with oils and hot fat of animals——then treating it with emollient and resolving fomentations——then with poultices of marsh-mallows, mallows, bonus Henricus, white lillies and fenugreek—then taking the woods, I mean the smoak of ’em, holding her scapulary across her lap——then decoctions of wild chicory, water-cresses, chervil, sweet cecily and cochlearia——and nothing all this while answering, was prevailed on at last to try the hot-baths of _Bourbon_——so having first obtained leave of the visitor-general to take care of her existence—she ordered all to be got ready for her journey: a novice of the convent of about seventeen, who had been troubled with a whitloe in her middle finger, by sticking it constantly into the abbess’s cast poultices, &c.—had gained such an interest, that overlooking a sciatical old nun, who might have been set up for ever by the hot-baths of _Bourbon, Margarita_, the little novice, was elected as the companion of the journey. An old calesh, belonging to the abbesse, lined with green frize, was ordered to be drawn out into the sun—the gardener of the convent being chosen muleteer, led out the two old mules, to clip the hair from the rump- ends of their tails, whilst a couple of lay-sisters were busied, the one in darning the lining, and the other in sewing on the shreds of yellow binding, which the teeth of time had unravelled——the under-gardener dress’d the muleteer’s hat in hot wine-lees——and a taylor sat musically at it, in a shed over-against the convent, in assorting four dozen of bells for the harness, whistling to each bell, as he tied it on with a thong.—— ——The carpenter and the smith of _Andoüillets_ held a council of wheels; and by seven, the morning after, all look’d spruce, and was ready at the gate of the convent for the hot-baths of _Bourbon_—two rows of the unfortunate stood ready there an hour before. The abbess of _Andoüillets_, supported by _Margarita_ the novice, advanced slowly to the calesh, both clad in white, with their black rosaries hanging at their breasts—— ——There was a simple solemnity in the contrast: they entered the calesh; the nuns in the same uniform, sweet emblem of innocence, each occupied a window, and as the abbess and _Margarita_ look’d up—each (the sciatical poor nun excepted)—each stream’d out the end of her veil in the air—then kiss’d the lilly hand which let it go: the good abbess and _Margarita_ laid their hands saint-wise upon their breasts—look’d up to heaven—then to them—and look’d “God bless you, dear sisters.” I declare I am interested in this story, and wish I had been there. The gardener, whom I shall now call the muleteer, was a little, hearty, broad-set, good-natured, chattering, toping kind of a fellow, who troubled his head very little with the _hows_ and _whens_ of life; so had mortgaged a month of his conventical wages in a borrachio, or leathern cask of wine, which he had disposed behind the calesh, with a large russet-coloured riding-coat over it, to guard it from the sun; and as the weather was hot, and he not a niggard of his labours, walking ten times more than he rode—he found more occasions than those of nature, to fall back to the rear of his carriage; till by frequent coming and going, it had so happen’d, that all his wine had leak’d out at the legal vent of the borrachio, before one half of the journey was finish’d. Man is a creature born to habitudes. The day had been sultry—the evening was delicious—the wine was generous—the _Burgundian_ hill on which it grew was steep—a little tempting bush over the door of a cool cottage at the foot of it, hung vibrating in full harmony with the passions—a gentle air rustled distinctly through the leaves—“Come—come, thirsty muleteer,—come in.” —The muleteer was a son of _Adam_, I need not say a word more. He gave the mules, each of ’em, a sound lash, and looking in the abbess’s and _Margarita_’s faces (as he did it)—as much as to say “here I am”—he gave a second good crack—as much as to say to his mules, “get on”——so slinking behind, he enter’d the little inn at the foot of the hill. The muleteer, as I told you, was a little, joyous, chirping fellow, who thought not of to-morrow, nor of what had gone before, or what was to follow it, provided he got but his scantling of Burgundy, and a little chit-chat along with it; so entering into a long conversation, as how he was chief gardener to the convent of _Andoüillets_, &c. &c. and out of friendship for the abbess and Mademoiselle _Margarita_, who was only in her noviciate, he had come along with them from the confines of _Savoy_, &c. &c.—and as how she had got a white swelling by her devotions—and what a nation of herbs he had procured to mollify her humours, &c. &c. and that if the waters of _Bourbon_ did not mend that leg—she might as well be lame of both—&c. &c. &c.—He so contrived his story, as absolutely to forget the heroine of it—and with her the little novice, and what was a more ticklish point to be forgot than both—the two mules; who being creatures that take advantage of the world, inasmuch as their parents took it of them—and they not being in a condition to return the obligation _downwards_ (as men and women and beasts are)—they do it side-ways, and long-ways, and back-ways—and up hill, and down hill, and which way they can.——Philosophers, with all their ethicks, have never considered this rightly—how should the poor muleteer, then in his cups, consider it at all? he did not in the least—’tis time we do; let us leave him then in the vortex of his element, the happiest and most thoughtless of mortal men—and for a moment let us look after the mules, the abbess, and _Margarita._ By virtue of the muleteer’s two last strokes the mules had gone quietly on, following their own consciences up the hill, till they had conquer’d about one half of it; when the elder of them, a shrewd crafty old devil, at the turn of an angle, giving a side glance, and no muleteer behind them,—— By my fig! said she, swearing, I’ll go no further——And if I do, replied the other, they shall make a drum of my hide.—— And so with one consent they stopp’d thus—— C H A P. III ——Get on with you, said the abbess. ——Wh - - - - - ysh——ysh——cried _Margarita._ Sh - - - a——shu - u——shu - - u—sh - - aw——shaw’d the abbess. ——Whu—v—w—whew—w—w—whuv’d _Margarita_, pursing up her sweet lips betwixt a hoot and a whistle. Thump—thump—thump—obstreperated the abbess of _Andoüillets_ with the end of her gold-headed cane against the bottom of the calesh—— The old mule let a f— C H A P. IV WE are ruin’d and undone, my child, said the abbess to _Margarita_,——we shall be here all night——we shall be plunder’d——we shall be ravished—— ——We shall be ravish’d, said _Margarita_, as sure as a gun. _Sancta Maria!_ cried the abbess (forgetting the _O!_)—why was I govern’d by this wicked stiff joint? why did I leave the convent of _Andoüillets?_ and why didst thou not suffer thy servant to go unpolluted to her tomb? O my finger! my finger! cried the novice, catching fire at the word _servant_—why was I not content to put it here, or there, any where rather than be in this strait? Strait! said the abbess. Strait——said the novice; for terror had struck their understandings——the one knew not what she said——the other what she answer’d. O my virginity! virginity! cried the abbess. ——inity!——inity! said the novice, sobbing. C H A P. V MY dear mother, quoth the novice, coming a little to herself,—there are two certain words, which I have been told will force any horse, or ass, or mule, to go up a hill whether he will or no; be he never so obstinate or ill-will’d, the moment he hears them utter’d, he obeys. They are words magic! cried the abbess in the utmost horror—No; replied _Margarita_ calmly—but they are words sinful—What are they? quoth the abbess, interrupting her: They are sinful in the first degree, answered _Margarita_,—they are mortal—and if we are ravished and die unabsolved of them, we shall both——but you may pronounce them to me, quoth the abbess of _Andoüillets_——They cannot, my dear mother, said the novice, be pronounced at all; they will make all the blood in one’s body fly up into one’s face—But you may whisper them in my ear, quoth the abbess. Heaven! hadst thou no guardian angel to delegate to the inn at the bottom of the hill? was there no generous and friendly spirit unemployed——no agent in nature, by some monitory shivering, creeping along the artery which led to his heart, to rouse the muleteer from his banquet?——no sweet minstrelsy to bring back the fair idea of the abbess and _Margarita_, with their black rosaries! Rouse! rouse!——but ’tis too late—the horrid words are pronounced this moment—— ——and how to tell them—Ye, who can speak of every thing existing, with unpolluted lips—instruct me——guide me—— C H A P. VI ALL sins whatever, quoth the abbess, turning casuist in the distress they were under, are held by the confessor of our convent to be either mortal or venial: there is no further division. Now a venial sin being the slightest and least of all sins—being halved—by taking either only the half of it, and leaving the rest—or, by taking it all, and amicably halving it betwixt yourself and another person—in course becomes diluted into no sin at all. Now I see no sin in saying, _bou, bou, bou, bou, bou_, a hundred times together; nor is there any turpitude in pronouncing the syllable _ger, ger, ger, ger, ger_, were it from our matins to our vespers: Therefore, my dear daughter, continued the abbess of _Andoüillets_—I will say _bou_, and thou shalt say _ger;_ and then alternately, as there is no more sin in _fou_ than in _bou_—Thou shalt say _fou_—and I will come in (like fa, sol, la, re, mi, ut, at our complines) with _ter._ And accordingly the abbess, giving the pitch note, set off thus: Abbess, ) Bou - - bou - - bou - - _Margarita_,) ——ger, - - ger, - - ger. _Margarita_,) Fou...fou...fou.. Abbess, ) —ter, - - ter, - - ter. The two mules acknowledged the notes by a mutual lash of their tails; but it went no further——’Twill answer by an’ by, said the novice. Abbess, ) Bou. bou. bou. bou. bou. bou. Margarita,) —ger, ger, ger, ger, ger, ger. Quicker still, cried _Margarita._ Fou, fou, fou, fou, fou, fou, fou, fou, fou. Quicker still, cried _Margarita._ Bou, bou, bou, bou, bou, bou, bou, bou, bou. Quicker still—God preserve me; said the abbess—They do not understand us, cried _Margarita_—But the Devil does, said the abbess of _Andoüillets._ C H A P. VII WHAT a tract of country have I run!—how many degrees nearer to the warm sun am I advanced, and how many fair and goodly cities have I seen, during the time you have been reading and reflecting, Madam, upon this story! There’s FONTAINBLEAU, and SENS, and JOIGNY, and AUXERRE, and