The life and opinions of Tristram Shandy, gentleman
DIJON the capital of _Burgundy_, and CHALLON, and _Mâcon_ the capital
of the _Maconese_, and a score more upon the road to LYONS——and now I
have run them over——I might as well talk to you of so many market towns
in the moon, as tell you one word about them: it will be this chapter
at the least, if not both this and the next entirely lost, do what I
will——
—Why, ’tis a strange story! _Tristram._
——Alas! Madam,
had it been upon some melancholy lecture of the cross—the peace of
meekness, or the contentment of resignation——I had not been incommoded:
or had I thought of writing it upon the purer abstractions of the soul,
and that food of wisdom and holiness and contemplation, upon which the
spirit of man (when separated from the body) is to subsist for
ever——You would have come with a better appetite from it——
——I wish I never had wrote it: but as I never blot any thing out——let
us use some honest means to get it out of our heads directly.
——Pray reach me my fool’s cap——I fear you sit upon it, Madam——’tis
under the cushion——I’ll put it on——
Bless me! you have had it upon your head this half hour.——There then
let it stay, with a
Fa-ra diddle di
and a fa-ri diddle d
and a high-dum—dye-dum
fiddle - - - dumb - c.
And now, Madam, we may venture, I hope a little to go on.
C H A P. VIII
——All you need say of _Fontainbleau_ (in case you are ask’d) is, that
it stands about forty miles (south something) from _Paris_, in the
middle of a large forest_—_That there is something great in it_—_That
the king goes there once every two or three years, with his whole
court, for the pleasure of the chace—and that, during that carnival of
sporting, any _English_ gentleman of fashion (you need not forget
yourself) may be accommodated with a nag or two, to partake of the
sport, taking care only not to out-gallop the king——
Though there are two reasons why you need not talk loud of this to
every one.
First, Because ’twill make the said nags the harder to be got; and
Secondly, ’Tis not a word of it true.——_Allons!_
As for SENS——you may dispatch—in a word——“_’Tis an archiepiscopal
see._”
——For JOIGNY—the less, I think, one says of it the better.
But for AUXERRE—I could go on for ever: for in my _grand tour_ through
_Europe_, in which, after all, my father (not caring to trust me with
any one) attended me himself, with my uncle _Toby_, and _Trim_, and
_Obadiah_, and indeed most of the family, except my mother, who being
taken up with a project of knitting my father a pair of large worsted
breeches—(the thing is common sense)—and she not caring to be put out
of her way, she staid at home, at SHANDY HALL, to keep things right
during the expedition; in which, I say, my father stopping us two days
at _Auxerre_, and his researches being ever of such a nature, that they
would have found fruit even in a desert——he has left me enough to say
upon AUXERRE: in short, wherever my father went——but ’twas more
remarkably so, in this journey through _France_ and _Italy_, than in
any other stages of his life—his road seemed to lie so much on one side
of that, wherein all other travellers have gone before him—he saw kings
and courts and silks of all colours, in such strange lights——and his
remarks and reasonings upon the characters, the manners, and customs of
the countries we pass’d over, were so opposite to those of all other
mortal men, particularly those of my uncle _Toby_ and _Trim_—(to say
nothing of myself)—and to crown all—the occurrences and scrapes which
we were perpetually meeting and getting into, in consequence of his
systems and opiniotry—they were of so odd, so mix’d and tragi-comical a
contexture—That the whole put together, it appears of so different a
shade and tint from any tour of _Europe_, which was ever executed—that
I will venture to pronounce—the fault must be mine and mine only—if it
be not read by all travellers and travel-readers, till travelling is no
more,—or which comes to the same point—till the world, finally, takes
it into its head to stand still.——
——But this rich bale is not to be open’d now; except a small thread or
two of it, merely to unravel the mystery of my father’s stay at
AUXERRE.
——As I have mentioned it—’tis too slight to be kept suspended; and when
’tis wove in, there is an end of it.
We’ll go, brother _Toby_, said my father, whilst dinner is coddling—to
the abbey of Saint _Germain_, if it be only to see these bodies, of
which Monsieur _Sequier_ has given such a recommendation.——I’ll go see
any body, quoth my uncle _Toby;_ for he was all compliance through
every step of the journey——Defend me! said my father—they are all
mummies——Then one need not shave; quoth my uncle _Toby_——Shave!
no—cried my father—’twill be more like relations to go with our beards
on—So out we sallied, the corporal lending his master his arm, and
bringing up the rear, to the abbey of Saint _Germain._
Every thing is very fine, and very rich, and very superb, and very
magnificent, said my father, addressing himself to the sacristan, who
was a younger brother of the order of _Benedictines_—but our curiosity
has led us to see the bodies, of which Monsieur _Sequier_ has given the
world so exact a description.—The sacristan made a bow, and lighting a
torch first, which he had always in the vestry ready for the purpose;
he led us into the tomb of St. _Heribald_——This, said the sacristan,
laying his hand upon the tomb, was a renowned prince of the house of
_Bavaria_, who under the successive reigns of _Charlemagne, Louis le
Debonnair_, and _Charles the Bald_, bore a great sway in the
government, and had a principal hand in bringing every thing into order
and discipline——
Then he has been as great, said my uncle, in the field, as in the
cabinet——I dare say he has been a gallant soldier——He was a monk—said
the sacristan.
My uncle _Toby_ and _Trim_ sought comfort in each other’s faces—but
found it not: my father clapped both his hands upon his cod-piece,
which was a way he had when any thing hugely tickled him: for though he
hated a monk and the very smell of a monk worse than all the devils in
hell——yet the shot hitting my uncle _Toby_ and _Trim_ so much harder
than him, ’twas a relative triumph; and put him into the gayest humour
in the world.
——And pray what do you call this gentleman? quoth my father, rather
sportingly: This tomb, said the young _Benedictine_, looking downwards,
contains the bones of Saint MAXIMA, who came from _Ravenna_ on purpose
to touch the body——
——Of Saint MAXIMUS, said my father, popping in with his saint before
him,—they were two of the greatest saints in the whole martyrology,
added my father——Excuse me, said the sacristan——’twas to touch the
bones of Saint _Germain_, the builder of the abbey——And what did she
get by it? said my uncle _Toby_——What does any woman get by it? said my
father——MARTYRDOME; replied the young _Benedictine_, making a bow down
to the ground, and uttering the word with so humble, but decisive a
cadence, it disarmed my father for a moment. ’Tis supposed, continued
the _Benedictine_, that St. _Maxima_ has lain in this tomb four hundred
years, and two hundred before her canonization——’Tis but a slow rise,
brother _Toby_, quoth my father, in this self-same army of martyrs.——A
desperate slow one, an’ please your honour, said _Trim_, unless one
could purchase——I should rather sell out entirely, quoth my uncle
_Toby_——I am pretty much of your opinion, brother _Toby_, said my
father.
——Poor St. _Maxima!_ said my uncle _Toby_ low to himself, as we turn’d
from her tomb: She was one of the fairest and most beautiful ladies
either of _Italy_ or _France_, continued the sacristan——But who the
duce has got lain down here, besides her? quoth my father, pointing
with his cane to a large tomb as we walked on——It is Saint _Optat_,
Sir, answered the sacristan——And properly is Saint _Optat_ plac’d! said
my father: And what is Saint _Optat_’s story? continued he. Saint
_Optat_, replied the sacristan, was a bishop——
——I thought so, by heaven! cried my father, interrupting him—Saint
_Optat!_——how should Saint _Optat_ fail? so snatching out his
pocket-book, and the young _Benedictine_ holding him the torch as he
wrote, he set it down as a new prop to his system of Christian names,
and I will be bold to say, so disinterested was he in the search of
truth, that had he found a treasure in Saint _Optat_’s tomb, it would
not have made him half so rich: ’Twas as successful a short visit as
ever was paid to the dead; and so highly was his fancy pleas’d with all
that had passed in it,—that he determined at once to stay another day
in _Auxerre._
—I’ll see the rest of these good gentry to-morrow, said my father, as
we cross’d over the square—And while you are paying that visit, brother
_Shandy_, quoth my uncle _Toby_—the corporal and I will mount the
ramparts.
C H A P. IX
——NOW this is the most puzzled skein of all——for in this last chapter,
as far at least as it has help’d me through _Auxerre_, I have been
getting forwards in two different journies together, and with the same
dash of the pen—for I have got entirely out of _Auxerre_ in this
journey which I am writing now, and I am got half way out of _Auxerre_
in that which I shall write hereafter——There is but a certain degree of
perfection in every thing; and by pushing at something beyond that, I
have brought myself into such a situation, as no traveller ever stood
before me; for I am this moment walking across the market-place of
_Auxerre_ with my father and my uncle _Toby_, in our way back to
dinner——and I am this moment also entering _Lyons_ with my post-chaise
broke into a thousand pieces—and I am moreover this moment in a
handsome pavillion built by _Pringello_,[36] upon the banks of the
_Garonne_, which Mons. _Sligniac_ has lent me, and where I now sit
rhapsodising all these affairs.
——Let me collect myself, and pursue my journey.
[36] The same Don _Pringello_, the celebrated _Spanish_ architect, of
whom my cousin _Antony_ has made such honourable mention in a scholium
to the Tale inscribed to his name.—Vid. p.129, small edit.
C H A P. X
I AM glad of it, said I, settling the account with myself, as I walk’d
into _Lyons_——my chaise being all laid higgledy-piggledy with my
baggage in a cart, which was moving slowly before me——I am heartily
glad, said I, that ’tis all broke to pieces; for now I can go directly
by water to _Avignon_, which will carry me on a hundred and twenty
miles of my journey, and not cost me seven livres——and from thence,
continued I, bringing forwards the account, I can hire a couple of
mules—or asses, if I like, (for nobody knows me,) and cross the plains
of _Languedoc_ for almost nothing——I shall gain four hundred livres by
the misfortune clear into my purse: and pleasure! worth—worth double
the money by it. With what velocity, continued I, clapping my two hands
together, shall I fly down the rapid _Rhône_, with the VIVARES on my
right hand, and DAUPHINY on my left, scarce seeing the ancient cities
of VIENNE, _Valence_, and _Vivieres._ What a flame will it rekindle in
the lamp, to snatch a blushing grape from the _Hermitage_ and _Cotê
roti_, as I shoot by the foot of them! and what a fresh spring in the
blood! to behold upon the banks advancing and retiring, the castles of
romance, whence courteous knights have whilome rescued the
distress’d——and see vertiginous, the rocks, the mountains, the
cataracts, and all the hurry which Nature is in with all her great
works about her.
As I went on thus, methought my chaise, the wreck of which look’d
stately enough at the first, insensibly grew less and less in its size;
the freshness of the painting was no more—the gilding lost its
lustre—and the whole affair appeared so poor in my eyes—so sorry!—so