Dixero si quid fortè jocosius, hoc mihi juris Cum venia dabis.—— HOR.

—Si quis calumnietur levius esse quam decet theologum, aut mordacius quam deceat Christianum—non Ego, sed Democritus dixit.—                 ERASMUS.

Si quis Clericus, aut Monachus, verba joculatoria, risum moventia, sciebat, anathema esto. Second Council of CARTHAGE.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE J O H N, LORD VISCOUNT SPENCER

MY LORD, I HUMBLY beg leave to offer you these two Volumes ; they are the best my talents, with such bad health as I have, could produce:—had Providence granted me a larger stock of either, they had been a much more proper present to your Lordship.

I beg your Lordship will forgive me, if, at the same time I dedicate this work to you, I join Lady SPENCER, in the liberty I take of inscribing the story ofLe Feverto her name; for which I have no other motive, which my heart has informed me of, but that the story is a humane one.

I am,

MY LORD , Your Lordship’s most devoted and most humble Servant, LAUR. STERNE.

[22]Volumes V. and VI. in the first Edition.

C H A P.   I

IFit had not been for those two mettlesome tits, and that madcap of a postillion who drove them from Stilton to Stamford, the thought had never entered my head. He flew like lightning——there was a slope of three miles and a half——we scarce touched the ground——the motion was most rapid——most impetuous——’twas communicated to my brain—my heart partook of it——“By the great God of day,” said I, looking towards the sun, and thrusting my arm out of the fore-window of the chaise, as I made my vow, “I will lock up my study-door the moment I get home, and throw the key of it ninety feet below the surface of the earth, into the draw-well at the back of my house.”

The London waggon confirmed me in my resolution; it hung tottering upon the hill, scarce progressive, drag’d—drag’d up by eightheavy beasts—“by main strength!——quoth I, nodding——but your betters draw the same way——and something of every body’s!——O rare!”

Tell me, ye learned, shall we for ever be adding so much to thebulk—so little to thestock?

Shall we for ever make new books, as apothecaries make new mixtures, by pouring only out of one vessel into another?

Are we for ever to be twisting, and untwisting the same rope? for ever in the same track—for ever at the same pace?

Shall we be destined to the days of eternity, on holy-days, as well as working-days, to be shewing therelicks of learning, as monks do the relicks of their saints—without working one—one single miracle with them?

Who made Man, with powers which dart him from earth to heaven in a moment—that great, that most excellent, and most noble creature of the world—themiracleof nature, as Zoroaster in his book ωεσι φυσεως called him—the SHEKINAHof the divine presence, as Chrysostom——theimageof God, as Moses——therayof divinity, as Plato—themarvelofmarvels, as Aristotle—to go sneaking on at this pitiful—pimping——pettifogging rate?

I scorn to be as abusive as Horace upon the occasion——but if there is no catachresis in the wish, and no sin in it, I wish from my soul, that every imitator inGreat Britain, France, andIreland, had the farcy for his pains; and that there was a good farcical house, large enough to hold—aye—and sublimate them,shag rag and bob-tail, male and female, all together: and this leads me to the affair ofWhiskers——but, by what chain of ideas—I leave as a legacy inmort-mainto Prudes and Tartufs, to enjoy and make the most of.

UPON WHISKERS.

I’m sorry I made it——’twas as inconsiderate a promise as ever entered a man’s head——A chapter upon whiskers! alas! the world will not bear it—’tis a delicate world——but I knew not of what mettle it was made—nor had I ever seen the under-written fragment; otherwise, as surely as noses are noses, and whiskers are whiskers still (let the world say what it will to the contrary); so surely would I have steered clear of this dangerous chapter.

THE FRAGMENT.

——You are half asleep, my good lady, said the old gentleman, taking hold of the old lady’s hand, and giving it a gentle squeeze, as he pronounced the word Whiskers ——shall we change the subject? By no means, replied the old lady—I like your account of those matters; so throwing a thin gauze handkerchief over her head, and leaning it back upon the chair with her face turned towards him, and advancing her two feet as she reclined herself——I desire, continued she, you will go on.

The old gentleman went on as follows:——Whiskers! cried the queen ofNavarre, dropping her knotting ball, asLa Fosseuseuttered the word——Whiskers, madam, saidLa Fosseuse, pinning the ball to the queen’s apron, and making a courtesy as she repeated it.

La Fosseuse’s voice was naturally soft and low, yet ’twas an articulate voice: and every letter of the wordWhiskersfell distinctly upon the queen ofNavarre’s ear—Whiskers! cried the queen, laying a greater stress upon the word, and as if she had still distrusted her ears——Whiskers! repliedLa Fosseuse, repeating the word a third time——There is not a cavalier, madam, of his age inNavarre, continued the maid of honour, pressing the page’s interest upon the queen, that has so gallant a pair——Of what? criedMargaret, smiling—Of whiskers, saidLa Fosseuse, with infinite modesty.

The wordWhiskersstill stood its ground, and continued to be made use of in most of the best companies throughout the little kingdom ofNavarre, notwithstanding the indiscreet use whichLa Fosseusehad made of it: the truth was,La Fosseusehad pronounced the word, not only before the queen, but upon sundry other occasions at court, with an accent which always implied something of a mystery—And as the court ofMargaret, as all the world knows, was at that time a mixture of gallantry and devotion——and whiskers being as applicable to the one, as the other, the word naturally stood its ground——it gained full as much as it lost; that is, the clergy were for it——the laity were against it——and for the women,——theywere divided.

The excellency of the figure and mien of the young SieurDe Croix, was at that time beginning to draw the attention of the maids of honour towards the terrace before the palace gate, where the guard was mounted. The ladyDe Baussierefell deeply in love with him,——La Battarelledid the same—it was the finest weather for it, that ever was remembered inNavarre——La Guyol, La Maronette, La Sabatiere, fell in love with the SieurDe Croixalso——La ReboursandLa Fosseuseknew better——De Croixhad failed in an attempt to recommend himself toLa Rebours;andLa ReboursandLa Fosseusewere inseparable.

The queen ofNavarrewas sitting with her ladies in the painted bow-window, facing the gate of the second court, asDe Croixpassed through it—He is handsome, said the LadyBaussiere——He has a good mien, saidLa Battarelle——He is finely shaped, saidLa Guyol—I never saw an officer of the horse-guards in my life, saidLa Maronette, with two such legs——Or who stood so well upon them, saidLa Sabatiere——But he has no whiskers, criedLa Fosseuse——Not a pile, saidLa Rebours.

The queen went directly to her oratory, musing all the way, as she walked through the gallery, upon the subject; turning it this way and that way in her fancy—Ave Maria!——what canLa-Fosseusemean? said she, kneeling down upon the cushion.

La Guyol, La Battarelle, La Maronette, La Sabatiere, retired instantly to their chambers——Whiskers! said all four of them to themselves, as they bolted their doors on the inside.

The LadyCarnavallettewas counting her beads with both hands, unsuspected, under her farthingal——from St.Antonydown to St.Ursulainclusive, not a saint passed through her fingers without whiskers; St.Francis, St.Dominick, St.Bennet, St.Basil, St.Bridget, had all whiskers.

The LadyBaussierehad got into a wilderness of conceits, with moralizing too intricately uponLa Fosseuse’s text——She mounted her palfrey, her page followed her——the host passed by—the LadyBaussiererode on.

One denier, cried the order of mercy—one single denier, in behalf of a thousand patient captives, whose eyes look towards heaven and you for their redemption.

——The LadyBaussiererode on.

Pity the unhappy, said a devout, venerable, hoary-headed man, meekly holding up a box, begirt with iron, in his withered hands——I beg for the unfortunate—good my Lady, ’tis for a prison—for an hospital—’tis for an old man—a poor man undone by shipwreck, by suretyship, by fire——I call God and all his angels to witness——’tis to clothe the naked——to feed the hungry——’tis to comfort the sick and the broken-hearted.

The LadyBaussiererode on.

A decayed kinsman bowed himself to the ground.

——The LadyBaussiererode on.

He ran begging bare-headed on one side of her palfrey, conjuring her by the former bonds of friendship, alliance, consanguinity, &c.——Cousin, aunt, sister, mother,——for virtue’s sake, for your own, for mine, for Christ’s sake, remember me——pity me.

——The LadyBaussiererode on.

Take hold of my whiskers, said the LadyBaussiere—The page took hold of her palfrey. She dismounted at the end of the terrace.

There are some trains of certain ideas which leave prints of themselves about our eyes and eye-brows; and there is a consciousness of it, somewhere about the heart, which serves but to make these etchings the stronger—we see, spell, and put them together without a dictionary.

Ha, ha! he, hee! criedLa GuyolandLa Sabatiere, looking close at each other’s prints——Ho, ho! criedLa BattarelleandMaronette, doing the same:—Whist! cried one—ft, ft,—said a second—hush, quoth a third—poo, poo, replied a fourth—gramercy! cried the LadyCarnavallette;——’twas she who bewhisker’d St.Bridget.

La Fosseusedrew her bodkin from the knot of her hair, and having traced the outline of a small whisker, with the blunt end of it, upon one side of her upper lip, put in intoLa Rebours’ hand—La Reboursshook her head.

The LadyBaussierecoughed thrice into the inside of her muff—La Guyolsmiled—Fy, said the LadyBaussiere.The queen ofNavarretouched her eye with the tip of her fore-finger—as much as to say, I understand you all.

’Twas plain to the whole court the word was ruined:La Fosseusehad given it a wound, and it was not the better for passing through all these defiles——It made a faint stand, however, for a few months, by the expiration of which, the SieurDe Croix, finding it high time to leaveNavarrefor want of whiskers——the word in course became indecent, and (after a few efforts) absolutely unfit for use.

The best word, in the best language of the best world, must have suffered under such combinations.——The curate ofd’Estellawrote a book against them, setting forth the dangers of accessory ideas, and warning theNavaroisagainst them.

Does not all the world know, said the curated’Estellaat the conclusion of his work, that Noses ran the same fate some centuries ago in most parts ofEurope, which Whiskers have now done in the kingdom ofNavarre?—The evil indeed spread no farther then—but have not beds and bolsters, and night-caps and chamber-pots stood upon the brink of destruction ever since? Are not trouse, and placket-holes, and pump-handles—and spigots and faucets, in danger still from the same association?—Chastity, by nature, the gentlest of all affections—give it but its head——’tis like a ramping and a roaring lion.

The drift of the curated’Estella’s argument was not understood.—They ran the scent the wrong way.—The world bridled his ass at the tail.—And when theextremesofDELICACY, and thebeginningsofCONCUPISCENCE, hold their next provincial chapter together, they may decree that bawdy also.

C H A P.   II

WHENmy father received the letter which brought him the melancholy account of my brotherBobby’s death, he was busy calculating the expence of his riding post fromCalaistoParis, and so on toLyons.

’Twas a most inauspicious journey; my father having had every foot of it to travel over again, and his calculation to begin afresh, when he had almost got to the end of it, byObadiah’s opening the door to acquaint him the family was out of yeast—and to ask whether he might not take the great coach-horse early in the morning and ride in search of some.—With all my heart,Obadiah, said my father (pursuing his journey)—take the coach-horse, and welcome.——But he wants a shoe, poor creature! saidObadiah.——Poor creature! said my uncleToby, vibrating the note back again, like a string in unison. Then ride theScotchhorse, quoth my father hastily.—He cannot bear a saddle upon his back, quothObadiah, for the whole world.——The devil’s in that horse; then take PATRIOT, cried my father, and shut the door.——PATRIOTis sold, saidObadiah.Here’s for you! cried my father, making a pause, and looking in my uncleToby’s face, as if the thing had not been a matter of fact.—Your worship ordered me to sell him lastApril, saidObadiah.—Then go on foot for your pains, cried my father——I had much rather walk than ride, saidObadiah, shutting the door.

What plagues, cried my father, going on with his calculation.——But the waters are out, saidObadiah,—opening the door again.

Till that moment, my father, who had a map ofSanson’s, and a book of the post-roads before him, had kept his hand upon the head of his compasses, with one foot of them fixed uponNevers, the last stage he had paid for—purposing to go on from that point with his journey and calculation, as soon asObadiahquitted the room: but this second attack ofObadiah’s, in opening the door and laying the whole country under water, was too much.——He let go his compasses—or rather with a mixed motion between accident and anger, he threw them upon the table; and then there was nothing for him to do, but to return back toCalais(like many others) as wise as he had set out.

When the letter was brought into the parlour, which contained the news of my brother’s death, my father had got forwards again upon his journey to within a stride of the compasses of the very same stage ofNevers.——By your leave, Mons.Sanson, cried my father, striking the point of his compasses throughNeversinto the table—and nodding to my uncleTobyto see what was in the letter—twice of one night, is too much for an English gentleman and his son, Mons.Sanson, to be turned back from so lousy a town asNevers—What think’st thou,Toby? added my father in a sprightly tone.——Unless it be a garrison town, said my uncleToby——for then—I shall be a fool, said my father, smiling to himself, as long as I live.—So giving a second nod—and keeping his compasses still uponNeverswith one hand, and holding his book of the post-roads in the other—half calculating and half listening, he leaned forwards upon the table with both elbows, as my uncleTobyhummed over the letter.

—— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —he’s gone! said my uncleToby——Where——Who? cried my father.——My nephew, said my uncleToby.——What—without leave—without money—without governor? cried my father in amazement. No:——he is dead, my dear brother, quoth my uncleToby.—Without being ill? cried my father again.—I dare say not, said my uncleToby, in a low voice, and fetching a deep sigh from the bottom of his heart, he has been ill enough, poor lad! I’ll answer for him——for he is dead.

WhenAgrippinawas told of her son’s death,Tacitusinforms us, that, not being able to moderate the violence of her passions, she abruptly broke off her work—My father stuck his compasses intoNevers, but so much the faster.—What contrarieties! his, indeed, was matter of calculation!—Agrippina’s must have been quite a different affair; who else could pretend to reason from history?

How my father went on, in my opinion, deserves a chapter to itself.—

C H A P.   III

————And a chapter it shall have, and a devil of a one too—so look to yourselves.

’Tis eitherPlato, orPlutarch, orSeneca, orXenophon, orEpictetus, orTheophrastus, orLucian—or some one perhaps of later date—eitherCardan, orBudæus, orPetrarch, orStella—or possibly it may be some divine or father of the church, St.Austin, or St.Cyprian, orBarnard, who affirms that it is an irresistible and natural passion to weep for the loss of our friends or children—andSeneca(I’m positive) tells us somewhere, that such griefs evacuate themselves best by that particular channel—And accordingly we find, thatDavidwept for his sonAbsalom—Adrianfor hisAntinous—Niobefor her children, and thatApollodorusandCritoboth shed tears forSocratesbefore his death.

My father managed his affliction otherwise; and indeed differently from most men either ancient or modern; for he neither wept it away, as theHebrewsand theRomans—or slept it off, as theLaplanders—or hanged it, as theEnglish, or drowned it, as theGermans,—nor did he curse it, or damn it, or excommunicate it, or rhyme it, or lillabullero it.——

——He got rid of it, however.

Will your worships give me leave to squeeze in a story between these two pages?

WhenTullywas bereft of his dear daughterTullia, at first he laid it to his heart,—he listened to the voice of nature, and modulated his own unto it.—O myTullia!my daughter! my child!—still, still, still,—’twas O myTullia!—myTullia!Methinks I see myTullia, I hear myTullia, I talk with myTullia.—But as soon as he began to look into the stores of philosophy, and consider how many excellent things might be said upon the occasion—no body upon earth can conceive, says the great orator, how happy, how joyful it made me.

My father was as proud of his eloquence as MARCUSTULLIUSCICEROcould be for his life, and, for aught I am convinced of to the contrary at present, with as much reason: it was indeed his strength—and his weakness too.——His strength—for he was by nature eloquent; and his weakness—for he was hourly a dupe to it; and, provided an occasion in life would but permit him to shew his talents, or say either a wise thing, a witty, or a shrewd one—(bating the case of a systematic misfortune)—he had all he wanted.—A blessing which tied up my father’s tongue, and a misfortune which let it loose with a good grace, were pretty equal: sometimes, indeed, the misfortune was the better of the two; for instance, where the pleasure of the harangue was asten, and the pain of the misfortune but asfive—my father gained half in half, and consequently was as well again off, as if it had never befallen him.

This clue will unravel what otherwise would seem very inconsistent in my father’s domestic character; and it is this, that, in the provocations arising from the neglects and blunders of servants, or other mishaps unavoidable in a family, his anger, or rather the duration of it, eternally ran counter to all conjecture.

My father had a favourite little mare, which he had consigned over to a most beautiful Arabian horse, in order to have a pad out of her for his own riding: he was sanguine in all his projects; so talked about his pad every day with as absolute a security, as if it had been reared, broke,—and bridled and saddled at his door ready for mounting. By some neglect or other inObadiah, it so fell out, that my father’s expectations were answered with nothing better than a mule, and as ugly a beast of the kind as ever was produced.

My mother and my uncleTobyexpected my father would be the death ofObadiah—and that there never would be an end of the disaster——See here! you rascal, cried my father, pointing to the mule, what you have done!——It was not me, saidObadiah.——How do I know that? replied my father.

Triumph swam in my father’s eyes, at the repartee—theAtticsalt brought water into them—and soObadiahheard no more about it.

Now let us go back to my brother’s death.

Philosophy has a fine saying for every thing.—ForDeathit has an entire set; the misery was, they all at once rushed into my father’s head, that ’twas difficult to string them together, so as to make any thing of a consistent show out of them.—He took them as they came.

“’Tis an inevitable chance—the first statute inMagna Charta—it is an everlasting act of parliament, my dear brother,—All must die.

“If my son could not have died, it had been matter of wonder,—not that he is dead.

“Monarchs and princes dance in the same ring with us.

“—To die, is the great debt and tribute due unto nature: tombs and monuments, which should perpetuate our memories, pay it themselves; and the proudest pyramid of them all, which wealth and science have erected, has lost its apex, and stands obtruncated in the traveller’s horizon.” (My father found he got great ease, and went on)—“Kingdoms and provinces, and towns and cities, have they not their periods? and when those principles and powers, which at first cemented and put them together, performed their several evolutions, they fall back.”—BrotherShandy, said my uncleToby, laying down his pipe at the wordevolutions—Revolutions, I meant, quoth my father,—by heaven! I meant revolutions, brotherToby—evolutions is nonsense.——’Tis not nonsense—said my uncleToby.——But is it not nonsense to break the thread of such a discourse upon such an occasion? cried my father—do not—dearToby, continued he, taking him by the hand, do not—do not, I beseech thee, interrupt me at this crisis.——My uncleTobyput his pipe into his mouth.

“Where isTroyandMycenæ, andThebesandDelos, andPersepolisandAgrigentum?”—continued my father, taking up his book of post-roads, which he had laid down.—“What is become, brotherToby, ofNinevehandBabylon, ofCizicumandMitylenæ?The fairest towns that ever the sun rose upon, are now no more; the names only are left, and those (for many of them are wrong spelt) are falling themselves by piece-meals to decay, and in length of time will be forgotten, and involved with every thing in a perpetual night: the world itself, brotherToby, must—must come to an end.

“Returning out ofAsia, when I sailed fromÆginatowardsMegara,” (when can this have been? thought my uncle Toby,) “I began to view the country round about.Æginawas behind me,Megarawas before,Pyræuson the right hand,Corinthon the left.—What flourishing towns now prostrate upon the earth! Alas! alas! said I to myself, that man should disturb his soul for the loss of a child, when so much as this lies awfully buried in his presence——Remember, said I to myself again—remember thou art a man.”—

Now my uncleTobyknew not that this last paragraph was an extract ofServius Sulpicius’s consolatory letter to Tully.—He had as little skill, honest man, in the fragments, as he had in the whole pieces of antiquity.—And as my father, whilst he was concerned in theTurkeytrade, had been three or four different times in theLevant, in one of which he had stayed a whole year and an half atZant, my uncleTobynaturally concluded, that, in some one of these periods, he had taken a trip across theArchipelagointoAsia;and that all this sailing affair withÆginabehind, andMegarabefore, andPyræuson the right hand, &c. &c. was nothing more than the true course of my father’s voyage and reflections.—’Twas certainly in hismanner, and many an undertaking critic would have built two stories higher upon worse foundations.—And pray, brother, quoth my uncleToby, laying the end of his pipe upon my father’s hand in a kindly way of interruption—but waiting till he finished the account—what year of our Lord was this?—’Twas no year of our Lord, replied my father.—That’s impossible, cried my uncleToby.—Simpleton! said my father,—’twas forty years before Christ was born.

My uncleTobyhad but two things for it; either to suppose his brother to be the wanderingJew, or that his misfortunes had disordered his brain.—“May the Lord God of heaven and earth protect him and restore him!” said my uncleToby, praying silently for my father, and with tears in his eyes.

—My father placed the tears to a proper account, and went on with his harangue with great spirit.

“There is not such great odds, brotherToby, betwixt good and evil, as the world imagines”——(this way of setting off, by the bye, was not likely to cure my uncleToby’s suspicions).——“Labour, sorrow, grief, sickness, want, and woe, are the sauces of life.”—Much good may do them—said my uncleTobyto himself.——

“My son is dead!—so much the better;—’tis a shame in such a tempest to have but one anchor.

“But he is gone for ever from us!—be it so. He is got from under the hands of his barber before he was bald—he is but risen from a feast before he was surfeited—from a banquet before he had got drunken.

“TheThracianswept when a child was born,”—(and we were very near it, quoth my uncleToby,)—“and feasted and made merry when a man went out of the world; and with reason.——Death opens the gate of fame, and shuts the gate of envy after it,—it unlooses the chain of the captive, and puts the bondsman’s task into another man’s hands.

“Shew me the man, who knows what life is, who dreads it, and I’ll shew thee a prisoner who dreads his liberty.”

Is it not better, my dear brotherToby, (for mark—our appetites are but diseases,)—is it not better not to hunger at all, than to eat?—not to thirst, than to take physic to cure it?

Is it not better to be freed from cares and agues, from love and melancholy, and the other hot and cold fits of life, than, like a galled traveller, who comes weary to his inn, to be bound to begin his journey afresh?

There is no terrour, brotherToby, in its looks, but what it borrows from groans and convulsions—and the blowing of noses and the wiping away of tears with the bottoms of curtains, in a dying man’s room.—Strip it of these, what is it?—’Tis better in battle than in bed, said my uncleToby.—Take away its hearses, its mutes, and its mourning,—its plumes, scutcheons, and other mechanic aids—What is it?—Better in battle!continued my father, smiling, for he had absolutely forgot my brotherBobby—’tis terrible no way—for consider, brotherToby,—when weare—death isnot;—and when deathis—we arenot.My uncleTobylaid down his pipe to consider the proposition; my father’s eloquence was too rapid to stay for any man—away it went,—and hurried my uncleToby’s ideas along with it.——

For this reason, continued my father, ’tis worthy to recollect, how little alteration, in great men, the approaches of death have made.—Vespasiandied in a jest upon his close-stool—Galbawith a sentence—Septimus Severusin a dispatch—Tiberiusin dissimulation, andCæsar Augustusin a compliment.—I hope ’twas a sincere one—quoth my uncleToby.

—’Twas to his wife,—said my father.

C H A P.   IV

——And lastly—for all the choice anecdotes which history can produce of this matter, continued my father,—this, like the gilded dome which covers in the fabric—crowns all.—

’Tis ofCornelius Gallus, the prætor—which, I dare say, brotherToby, you have read.—I dare say I have not, replied my uncle.—He died, said my father as * —And if it was with his wife, said my uncleToby—there could be no hurt in it.—That’s more than I know—replied my father.

C H A P.   V

MYmother was going very gingerly in the dark along the passage which led to the parlour, as my uncleTobypronounced the wordwife.—’Tis a shrill penetrating sound of itself, andObadiahhad helped it by leaving the door a little a-jar, so that my mother heard enough of it to imagine herself the subject of the conversation; so laying the edge of her finger across her two lips—holding in her breath, and bending her head a little downwards, with a twist of her neck—(not towards the door, but from it, by which means her ear was brought to the chink)—she listened with all her powers:——the listening slave, with the Goddess of Silence at his back, could not have given a finer thought for an intaglio.

In this attitude I am determined to let her stand for five minutes: till I bring up the affairs of the kitchen (asRapindoes those of the church) to the same period.

C H A P.   VI

THOUGHin one sense, our family was certainly a simple machine, as it consisted of a few wheels; yet there was thus much to be said for it, that these wheels were set in motion by so many different springs, and acted one upon the other from such a variety of strange principles and impulses——that though it was a simple machine, it had all the honour and advantages of a complex one,——and a number of as odd movements within it, as ever were beheld in the inside of aDutchsilk-mill.

Amongst these there was one, I am going to speak of, in which, perhaps, it was not altogether so singular, as in many others; and it was this, that whatever motion, debate, harangue, dialogue, project, or dissertation, was going forwards in the parlour, there was generally another at the same time, and upon the same subject, running parallel along with it in the kitchen.

Now to bring this about, whenever an extraordinary message, or letter, was delivered in the parlour—or a discourse suspended till a servant went out—or the lines of discontent were observed to hang upon the brows of my father or mother—or, in short, when any thing was supposed to be upon the tapis worth knowing or listening to, ’twas the rule to leave the door, not absolutely shut, but somewhat a-jar—as it stands just now,—which, under covert of the bad hinge, (and that possibly might be one of the many reasons why it was never mended,) it was not difficult to manage; by which means, in all these cases, a passage was generally left, not indeed as wide as theDardanelles, but wide enough, for all that, to carry on as much of this windward trade, as was sufficient to save my father the trouble of governing his house;—my mother at this moment stands profiting by it.—Obadiahdid the same thing, as soon as he had left the letter upon the table which brought the news of my brother’s death, so that before my father had well got over his surprise, and entered upon his harangue,—hadTrimgot upon his legs, to speak his sentiments upon the subject.

A curious observer of nature, had he been worth the inventory of allJob’s stock—though by the bye,your curious observers are seldom worth a groat—would have given the half of it, to have heard CorporalTrimand my father, two orators so contrasted by nature and education, haranguing over the same bier.

My father—a man of deep reading—prompt memory—withCato, andSeneca, andEpictetus, at his fingers ends.—

The corporal—with nothing—to remember—of no deeper reading than his muster-roll—or greater names at his fingers end, than the contents of it.

The one proceeding from period to period, by metaphor and allusion, and striking the fancy as he went along (as men of wit and fancy do) with the entertainment and pleasantry of his pictures and images.

The other, without wit or antithesis, or point, or turn, this way or that; but leaving the images on one side, and the picture on the other, going straight forwards as nature could lead him, to the heart. OTrim!would to heaven thou had’st a better historian!—would!—thy historian had a better pair of breeches!——O ye critics! will nothing melt you?

C H A P.   VII

——My young master in London is dead? saidObadiah.—

——A green sattin night-gown of my mother’s, which had been twice scoured, was the first idea whichObadiah’s exclamation brought intoSusannah’s head.

—Well mightLockewrite a chapter upon the imperfections of words.—Then, quothSusannah, we must all go into mourning.—But note a second time: the wordmourning, notwithstandingSusannahmade use of it herself—failed also of doing its office; it excited not one single idea, tinged either with grey or black,—all was green.——The green sattin night-gown hung there still.

—O! ’twill be the death of my poor mistress, criedSusannah.—My mother’s whole wardrobe followed.—What a procession! her red damask,—her orange tawney,—her white and yellow lutestrings,—her brown taffata,—her bone-laced caps, her bed-gowns, and comfortable under-petticoats.—Not a rag was left behind.—“No,—she will never look up again,” saidSusannah.

We had a fat, foolish scullion—my father, I think, kept her for her simplicity;—she had been all autumn struggling with a dropsy.—He is dead, saidObadiah,—he is certainly dead!—So am not I, said the foolish scullion.

——Here is sad news,Trim, criedSusannah, wiping her eyes asTrimstepp’d into the kitchen,—masterBobbyis dead andburied—the funeral was an interpolation ofSusannah’s—we shall have all to go into mourning, saidSusannah.

I hope not, saidTrim.—You hope not! criedSusannahearnestly.—The mourning ran not inTrim’s head, whatever it did inSusannah’s.—I hope—saidTrim, explaining himself, I hope in God the news is not true. I heard the letter read with my own ears, answeredObadiah;and we shall have a terrible piece of work of it in stubbing the ox-moor.—Oh! he’s dead, saidSusannah.—As sure, said the scullion, as I’m alive.

I lament for him from my heart and my soul, saidTrim, fetching a sigh.—Poor creature!—poor boy!—poor gentleman!

—He was alive lastWhitsontide!said the coachman.—Whitsontide!alas! criedTrim, extending his right arm, and falling instantly into the same attitude in which he read the sermon,—what isWhitsontide, Jonathan(for that was the coachman’s name), orShrovetide, or any tide or time past, to this? Are we not here now, continued the corporal (striking the end of his stick perpendicularly upon the floor, so as to give an idea of health and stability)—and are we not—(dropping his hat upon the ground) gone! in a moment!—’Twas infinitely striking!Susannahburst into a flood of tears.—We are not stocks and stones.—Jonathan, Obadiah, the cook-maid, all melted.—The foolish fat scullion herself, who was scouring a fish-kettle upon her knees, was rous’d with it.—The whole kitchen crowded about the corporal.

Now, as I perceive plainly, that the preservation of our constitution in church and state,—and possibly the preservation of the whole world—or what is the same thing, the distribution and balance of its property and power, may in time to come depend greatly upon the right understanding of this stroke of the corporal’s eloquence—I do demand your attention—your worships and reverences, for any ten pages together, take them where you will in any other part of the work, shall sleep for it at your ease.

I said, “we were not stocks and stones”—’tis very well. I should have added, nor are we angels, I wish we were,—but men clothed with bodies, and governed by our imaginations;—and what a junketing piece of work of it there is, betwixt these and our seven senses, especially some of them, for my own part, I own it, I am ashamed to confess. Let it suffice to affirm, that of all the senses, the eye (for I absolutely deny the touch, though most of yourBarbati, I know, are for it) has the quickest commerce with the soul,—gives a smarter stroke, and leaves something more inexpressible upon the fancy, than words can either convey—or sometimes get rid of.

—I’ve gone a little about—no matter, ’tis for health—let us only carry it back in our mind to the mortality ofTrim’s hat—“Are we not here now,—and gone in a moment?”—There was nothing in the sentence—’twas one of your self-evident truths we have the advantage of hearing every day; and ifTrimhad not trusted more to his hat than his head—he made nothing at all of it.

——“Are we not here now;” continued the corporal, “and are we not”—(dropping his hat plumb upon the ground—and pausing, before he pronounced the word)—“gone! in a moment?” The descent of the hat was as if a heavy lump of clay had been kneaded into the crown of it.——Nothing could have expressed the sentiment of mortality, of which it was the type and fore-runner, like it,—his hand seemed to vanish from under it,—it fell dead,—the corporal’s eye fixed upon it, as upon a corpse,—andSusannahburst into a flood of tears.

Now—Ten thousand, and ten thousand times ten thousand (for matter and motion are infinite) are the ways by which a hat may be dropped upon the ground, without any effect.——Had he flung it, or thrown it, or cast it, or skimmed it, or squirted it, or let it slip or fall in any possible direction under heaven,—or in the best direction that could be given to it,—had he dropped it like a goose—like a puppy—like an ass—or in doing it, or even after he had done, had he looked like a fool—like a ninny—like a nincompoop—it had fail’d, and the effect upon the heart had been lost.

Ye who govern this mighty world and its mighty concerns with the engines of eloquence,—who heat it, and cool it, and melt it, and mollify it,——and then harden it again toyour purpose——

Ye who wind and turn the passions with this great windlass, and, having done it, lead the owners of them, whither ye think meet.

Ye, lastly, who drive——and why not, Ye also who are driven, like turkeys to market with a stick and a red clout—meditate—meditate, I beseech you, uponTrim’s hat.

C H A P.   VIII

STAY—I have a small account to settle with the reader beforeTrimcan go on with his harangue.—It shall be done in two minutes.

Amongst many other book-debts, all of which I shall discharge in due time,—I own myself a debtor to the world for two items,—a chapter uponchamber-maids and button-holes, which, in the former part of my work, I promised and fully intended to pay off this year: but some of your worships and reverences telling me, that the two subjects, especially so connected together, might endanger the morals of the world,—I pray the chapter upon chamber-maids and button-holes may be forgiven me,—and that they will accept of the last chapter in lieu of it; which is nothing, an’t please your reverences, but a chapter ofchamber-maids, green gowns, and old hats.

Trimtook his hat off the ground,—put it upon his head,—and then went on with his oration upon death, in manner and form following.

C H A P.   IX

——To us,Jonathan, who know not what want or care is—who live here in the service of two of the best of masters—(bating in my own case his majesty KingWilliamthe Third, whom I had the honour to serve both inIrelandandFlanders)—I own it, that fromWhitsontideto within three weeks ofChristmas,—’tis not long—’tis like nothing;—but to those,Jonathan, who know what death is, and what havock and destruction he can make, before a man can well wheel about—’tis like a whole age.—OJonathan!’twould make a good-natured man’s heart bleed, to consider, continued the corporal (standing perpendicularly), how low many a brave and upright fellow has been laid since that time!—And trust me,Susy, added the corporal, turning toSusannah, whose eyes were swimming in water,—before that time comes round again,—many a bright eye will be dim.—Susannahplaced it to the right side of the page—she wept—but she court’sied too.—Are we not, continuedTrim, looking still atSusannah—are we not like a flower of the field—a tear of pride stole in betwixt every two tears of humiliation—else no tongue could have describedSusannah’s affliction—is not all flesh grass?—Tis clay,—’tis dirt.—They all looked directly at the scullion,—the scullion had just been scouring a fish-kettle.—It was not fair.—

—What is the finest face that ever man looked at!—I could hearTrimtalk so for ever, criedSusannah,—what is it! (Susannahlaid her hand uponTrim’s shoulder)—but corruption?——Susannahtook it off.

Now I love you for this—and ’tis this delicious mixture within you which makes you dear creatures what you are—and he who hates you for it——all I can say of the matter is—That he has either a pumpkin for his head—or a pippin for his heart,—and whenever he is dissected ’twill be found so.

C H A P.   X

WHETHERSusannah, by taking her hand too suddenly from off the corporal’s shoulder (by the whisking about of her passions)——broke a little the chain of his reflexions——

Or whether the corporal began to be suspicious, he had got into the doctor’s quarters, and was talking more like the chaplain than himself——

Or whether  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  - Or whether——for in all such cases a man of invention and parts may with pleasure fill a couple of pages with suppositions——which of all these was the cause, let the curious physiologist, or the curious any body determine——’tis certain, at least, the corporal went on thus with his harangue.

For my own part, I declare it, that out of doors, I value not death at all:—not this . . added the corporal, snapping his fingers,—but with an air which no one but the corporal could have given to the sentiment.—In battle, I value death not this . . . and let him not take me cowardly, like poorJoe Gibbins, in scouring his gun.—What is he? A pull of a trigger—a push of a bayonet an inch this way or that—makes the difference.—Look along the line—to the right—see!Jack’s down! well,—’tis worth a regiment of horse to him.—No—’tisDick.ThenJack’s no worse.—Never mind which,—we pass on,—in hot pursuit the wound itself which brings him is not felt,—the best way is to stand up to him,—the man who flies, is in ten times more danger than the man who marches up into his jaws.—I’ve look’d him, added the corporal, an hundred times in the face,—and know what he is.—He’s nothing,Obadiah, at all in the field.—But he’s very frightful in a house, quothObadiah.——I never mind it myself, saidJonathan, upon a coach-box.—It must, in my opinion, be most natural in bed, repliedSusannah.—And could I escape him by creeping into the worst calf’s skin that ever was made into a knapsack, I would do it there—saidTrim—but that is nature.

——Nature is nature, saidJonathan.—And that is the reason, criedSusannah, I so much pity my mistress.—She will never get the better of it.—Now I pity the captain the most of any one in the family, answeredTrim.——Madam will get ease of heart in weeping,—and the Squire in talking about it,—but my poor master will keep it all in silence to himself.—I shall hear him sigh in his bed for a whole month together, as he did for lieutenantLe Fever.An’ please your honour, do not sigh so piteously, I would say to him as I laid besides him. I cannot help it,Trim, my master would say,—’tis so melancholy an accident—I cannot get it off my heart.—Your honour fears not death yourself.—I hope,Trim, I fear nothing, he would say, but the doing a wrong thing.——Well, he would add, whatever betides, I will take care ofLe Fever’s boy.—And with that, like a quieting draught, his honour would fall asleep.

I like to hearTrim’s stories about the captain, saidSusannah.—He is a kindly-hearted gentleman, saidObadiah, as ever lived.—Aye, and as brave a one too, said the corporal, as ever stept before a platoon.—There never was a better officer in the king’s army,—or a better man in God’s world; for he would march up to the mouth of a cannon, though he saw the lighted match at the very touch-hole,—and yet, for all that, he has a heart as soft as a child for other people.——He would not hurt a chicken.——I would sooner, quothJonathan, drive such a gentleman for seven pounds a year—than some for eight.—Thank thee,Jonathan!for thy twenty shillings,—as much,Jonathan, said the corporal, shaking him by the hand, as if thou hadst put the money into my own pocket.——I would serve him to the day of my death out of love. He is a friend and a brother to me,—and could I be sure my poor brotherTomwas dead,—continued the corporal, taking out his handkerchief,—was I worth ten thousand pounds, I would leave every shilling of it to the captain.——Trimcould not refrain from tears at this testamentary proof he gave of his affection to his master.——The whole kitchen was affected.—Do tell us the story of the poor lieutenant, saidSusannah.——With all my heart, answered the corporal.

Susannah, the cook,Jonathan,Obadiah, and corporalTrim, formed a circle about the fire; and as soon as the scullion had shut the kitchen door,—the corporal begun.

C H A P.   XI

IAMaTurkif I had not as much forgot my mother, as if Nature had plaistered me up, and set me down naked upon the banks of the riverNile, without one.——Your most obedient servant, Madam—I’ve cost you a great deal of trouble,—I wish it may answer;—but you have left a crack in my back,—and here’s a great piece fallen off here before,—and what must I do with this foot?——I shall never reachEnglandwith it.

For my own part, I never wonder at any thing;—and so often has my judgment deceived me in my life, that I always suspect it, right or wrong,—at least I am seldom hot upon cold subjects. For all this, I reverence truth as much as any body; and when it has slipped us, if a man will but take me by the hand, and go quietly and search for it, as for a thing we have both lost, and can neither of us do well without,—I’ll go to the world’s end with him:——But I hate disputes,—and therefore (bating religious points, or such as touch society) I would almost subscribe to any thing which does not choak me in the first passage, rather than be drawn into one——But I cannot bear suffocation,——and bad smells worst of all.——For which reasons, I resolved from the beginning, That if ever the army of martyrs was to be augmented,—or a new-one raised,—I would have no hand in it, one way or t’other.

C H A P.   XII

——BUTto return to my mother.

My uncleToby’s opinion, Madam, “that there could be no harm inCornelius Gallus, theRomanprætor’s lying with his wife;”——or rather the last word of that opinion,—(for it was all my mother heard of it) caught hold of her by the weak part of the whole sex:——You shall not mistake me,—I mean her curiosity,—she instantly concluded herself the subject of the conversation, and with that prepossession upon her fancy, you will readily conceive every word my father said, was accommodated either to herself, or her family concerns.

——Pray, Madam, in what street does the lady live, who would not have done the same?

From the strange mode ofCornelius’s death, my father had made a transition to that ofSocrates, and was giving my uncleTobyan abstract of his pleading before his judges;——’twas irresistible:——not the oration ofSocrates,—but my father’s temptation to it.——He had wrote the Life ofSocrateshimself the year before he left off trade, which, I fear, was the means of hastening him out of it;——so that no one was able to set out with so full a sail, and in so swelling a tide of heroic loftiness upon the occasion, as my father was. Not a period inSocrates’s oration, which closed with a shorter word thantransmigration, orannihilation,—or a worse thought in the middle of it thanto be—or not to be,—the entering upon a new and untried state of things,—or, upon a long, a profound and peaceful sleep, without dreams, without disturbance?——That we and our children were born to die,—but neither of us born to be slaves.——No—there I mistake; that was part ofEleazer’s oration, as recorded byJosephus (de Bell. Judaic)——Eleazerowns he had it from the philosophers ofIndia;in all likelihoodAlexanderthe Great, in his irruption intoIndia, after he had over-runPersia, amongst the many things he stole,—stole that sentiment also; by which means it was carried, if not all the way by himself (for we all know he died atBabylon), at least by some of his maroders, intoGreece,—fromGreeceit got toRome,—fromRometoFrance,—and fromFrancetoEngland:——So things come round.——

By land carriage, I can conceive no other way.——

By water the sentiment might easily have come down theGangesinto theSinus Gangeticus, orBay of Bengal, and so into theIndian Sea;and following the course of trade (the way fromIndiaby theCape of Good Hopebeing then unknown), might be carried with other drugs and spices up theRed SeatoJoddah, the port ofMekka, or else toTororSues, towns at the bottom of the gulf; and from thence by karrawans toCoptos, but three days journey distant, so down theNiledirectly toAlexandria, where theSENTIMENTwould be landed at the very foot of the great stair-case of theAlexandrianlibrary,——and from that store-house it would be fetched.——Bless me! what a trade was driven by the learned in those days!

[23]This book my father would never consent to publish; ’tis in manuscript, with some other tracts of his, in the family, all, or most of which will be printed in due time.