The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman Laurence Sterne (short novels to read .txt) 📖

it 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 wagon confirmed me in my resolution; it hung tottering upon the hill, scarce progressive, drag’d⁠—drag’d up by eight heavy beasts⁠—“by main strength!⁠⸺⁠quoth I, nodding⁠⸺⁠but your betters draw the same way⁠⸺⁠and something of everybody’s!⁠⸺⁠O rare!”

Tell me, ye learned, shall we forever be adding so much to the bulk⁠—so little to the stock?

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

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

Shall we be destined to the days of eternity, on holy-days, as well as working-days, to be showing the relicks 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—the miracle of nature, as Zoroaster in his book περι φύσεως called him⁠—the Shekinah of the divine presence, as Chrysostom⁠⸺⁠the image of God, as Moses⁠⸺⁠the ray of divinity, as Plato⁠—the marvel of marvels, 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 in Great Britain, France, and Ireland, 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 bobtail, male and female, all together: and this leads me to the affair of Whiskers⁠⸺⁠but, by what chain of ideas⁠—I leave as a legacy in mortmain to 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 underwritten 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 of Navarre, dropping her knotting ball, as La Fosseuse uttered the word⁠⸺⁠Whiskers, madam, said La 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 word Whiskers fell distinctly upon the queen of Navarre’s ear⁠—Whiskers! cried the queen, laying a greater stress upon the word, and as if she had still distrusted her ears⁠⸺⁠Whiskers! replied La Fosseuse, repeating the word a third time⁠⸺⁠There is not a cavalier, madam, of his age in Navarre, continued the maid of honour, pressing the page’s interest upon the queen, that has so gallant a pair⁠⸺⁠Of what? cried Margaret, smiling⁠—Of whiskers, said La Fosseuse, with infinite modesty.

The word Whiskers still stood its ground, and continued to be made use of in most of the best companies throughout the little kingdom of Navarre, notwithstanding the indiscreet use which La Fosseuse had made of it: the truth was, La Fosseuse had 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 of Margaret, 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 gain’d full as much as it lost; that is, the clergy were for it⁠⸺⁠the laity were against it⁠⸺⁠and for the women,⁠⸺⁠they were divided.

The excellency of the figure and mien of the young Sieur De 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 lady De Baussiere fell deeply in love with him,⁠⸺⁠La Battarelle did the same⁠—it was the finest weather for it, that ever was remembered in Navarre⁠⸺⁠La Guyol, La Maronette, La Sabatiere, fell in love with the Sieur De Croix also⁠⸺⁠La Rebours and La Fosseuse knew better⁠⸺⁠De Croix had failed in an attempt to recommend himself to La Rebours; and La Rebours and La Fosseuse were inseparable.

The queen of Navarre was sitting with her ladies in the painted bow-window, facing the gate of the second court, as De Croix passed through it⁠—He is handsome, said the Lady Baussiere.⁠⸺⁠He has a good mien, said La Battarelle⁠⸺⁠He is finely shaped, said La Guyol⁠—I never saw an officer