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 bush8 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 one 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, a show 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 swelling9 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 ethics, 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!10 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——
CHAP. XXII.
——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—obstreperated1 the abbess of Andoüillets with the end of her gold-headed cane against the bottom of the calesh——
——The old mule let a f—
CHAP. XXIII.
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 ravish’d——
——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 terrour had struck their under-standings——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.
CHAP. XXIV.
MY dear mother, quoth the novice, coming a little to her-self,——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 horrour—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 ravish’d 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 unemploy’d——no agent in nature, by some monitory shivering, creeping along the artery which led to his heart, to rouze 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——
CHAP. XXV.
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 sin1 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,2 at our complines) with ter. And accordingly the abbess, giving the pitch note, set off thus:
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.
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.
CHAP. XXVI.
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 DIJON the capital of Burgundy, and CHALLON, and Mâcon the capital of the Mâconese, 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 out1 ——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.
CHAP. XXVII.
——All you need say of Fontainbleau1 (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 chase—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 king2——
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 it 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 had gone before him—he saw kings and courts and silks3 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 opiniatry—they were of so odd, so mixed and tragicomical 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 it’s 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’s an end of it.
We’ll go, brother Toby, said my father, whilst dinner is coddling—to the abby of Saint Germain, if it be only to see these bodies, of which monsieur Sequier has given such a recom-mendation.——I’ll go see any body; quoth my uncle Toby; for he was all compliance thro’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 abby 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 young 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 Debonair, and Charles the Bald, bore a great sway in the government, and had a principal hand in bringing every thing into order and discipline4——
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 others faces—but found it not: my father clapp’d 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,5 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 Germain6 the builder of the abby——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,7 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 St. 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 wecross’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.
CHAP. XXVIII.
——NOW this is the most puzzled skein of all1 ——for this last chapte
r, 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 Iam 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*,2 upon the banks of the Garonne, which Mons. Sligniac has lent e, and where I now sit rhapsodizing all these affairs.
——Let me collect myself, and pursue my journey.
CHAP. XXIX.
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,1 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 no body 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 Rhone, 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——