The life and opinions of Tristram Shandy, gentleman

contemptible! and, in a word, so much worse than the abbess of _Andoüillets’_ itself—that I was just opening my mouth to give it to the devil—when a pert vamping chaise-undertaker, stepping nimbly across the street, demanded if Monsieur would have his chaise refitted——No, no, said I, shaking my head sideways—Would Monsieur choose to sell it? rejoined the undertaker—With all my soul, said I—the iron work is worth forty livres—and the glasses worth forty more—and the leather you may take to live on. 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 centre—— ——Every thing 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. C H A P. XI 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 every thing 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. C H A P. XII O! THERE is a sweet æra in the life of man, when (the brain being tender and fibrillous, and more like pap than any thing 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_ still alive? Is my _Amanda_ 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 cross 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—— C H A P. XIII ——’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 something 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