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"Have you been thinking any more about it?" Lord Nidderdale said to the girl as soon as Madame Melmotte had succeeded in leaving them alone together. "I have thought ever so much more about it," said Marie. "And what's the result?" "Oh,--I'll have you." "That's right," said Nidderdale, throwing himself on the sofa close to her, so that he might put his arm round her waist. "Wait a moment, Lord Nidderdale," she said. "You might as well call me John." "Then wait a moment,--John. You think you might as well marry me, though you don't love me a bit." "That's not true, Marie." "Yes it is;--it's quite true. And I think just the same,--that I might as well marry you, though I don't love you a bit." "But you will." "I don't know. I don't feel like it just at present. You had better know the exact truth, you know. I have told my father that I did not think you'd ever come again, but that if you did I would accept you. But I'm not going to tell any stories about it. You know who I've been in love with." "But you can't be in love with him now." "Why not? I can't marry him. I know that. And if he were to come to me, I don't think that I would. He has behaved bad." "Have I behaved bad?" "Not like him. You never did care, and you never said you cared." "Oh yes,--I have." "Not at first. You say it now because you think that I shall like it. But it makes no difference now. I don't mind about your arm being there if we are to be married, only it's just as well for both of us to look on it as business." "How very hard you are, Marie." "No, I ain't. I wasn't hard to Sir Felix Carbury, and so I tell you. I did love him." "Surely you have found him out now." "Yes, I have," said Marie. "He's a poor creature." "He has just been thrashed, you know, in the streets,--most horribly." Marie had not been told of this, and started back from her lover's arms. "You hadn't heard it?" "Who has thrashed him?" "I don't want to tell the story against him, but they say he has been cut about in a terrible manner." "Why should anybody beat him? Did he do anything?" "There was a young lady in the question, Marie." "A young lady! What young lady? I don't believe it. But it's nothing to me. I don't care about anything, Lord Nidderdale;--not a bit. I suppose you've made up all that out of your own head." "Indeed, no. I believe he was beaten, and I believe it was about a young woman. But it signifies nothing to me, and I don't suppose it signifies much to you. Don't you think we might fix a day, Marie?" "I don't care the least," said Marie. "The longer it's put off the better I shall like it;--that's all." "Because I'm so detestable?" "No,--you ain't detestable. I think you are a very good fellow; only you don't care for me. But it is detestable not being able to do what one wants. It's detestable having to quarrel with everybody and never to be good friends with anybody. And it's horribly detestable having nothing on earth to give one any interest." "You couldn't take any interest in me?" "Not the least." "Suppose you try. Wouldn't you like to know anything about the place where we live?" "It's a castle, I know." "Yes;--Castle Reekie; ever so many hundred years old." "I hate old places. I should like a new house, and a new dress, and a new horse every week,--and a new lover. Your father lives at the castle. I don't suppose we are to go and live there too." "We shall be there sometimes. When shall it be?" "The year after next." "Nonsense, Marie." "To-morrow." "You wouldn't be ready." "You may manage it all just as you like with papa. Oh, yes,--kiss me; of course you may. If I'm to belong to you what does it matter? No;--I won't say that I love you. But if ever I do say it, you may be sure it will be true. That's more than you can say of yourself,--John." So the interview was over and Nidderdale walked back to the house thinking of his lady love, as far as he was able to bring his mind to any operation of thinking. He was fully determined to go on with it. As far as the girl herself was concerned, she had, in these latter days, become much more attractive to him than when he had first known her. She certainly was not a fool. And, though he could not tell himself that she was altogether like a lady, still she had a manner of her own which made him think that she would be able to live with ladies. And he did think that, in spite of all she said to the contrary, she was becoming fond of him,--as he certainly had become fond of her. "Have you been up with the ladies?" Melmotte asked him. "Oh yes." "And what does Marie say?" "That you must fix the day." "We'll have it very soon then;--some time next month. You'll want to get away in August. And to tell the truth so shall I. I never was worked so hard in my life as I've been this summer. The election and that horrid dinner had something to do with it. And I don't mind telling you that I've had a fearful weight on my mind in reference to money. I never had to find so many large sums in so short a time! And I'm not quite through it yet." "I wonder why you gave the dinner then." "My dear boy,"--it was very pleasant to him to call the son of a marquis his dear boy,--"as regards expenditure that was a flea-bite. Nothing that I could spend myself would have the slightest effect upon my condition,--one way or the other." "I wish it could be the same way with me," said Nidderdale. "If you chose to go into business with me instead of taking Marie's money out, it very soon would be so with you. But the burden is very great. I never know whence these panics arise, or why they come, or whither they go. But when they do come, they are like a storm at sea. It is only the strong ships that can stand the fury of the winds and waves. And then the buffeting which a man gets leaves him only half the man he was. I've had it very hard this time." "I suppose you are getting right now." "Yes;--I am getting right. I am not in any fear if you mean that. I don't mind telling you everything as it is settled now that you are to be Marie's husband. I know that you are honest, and that if you could hurt me by repeating what I say you wouldn't do it." "Certainly I would not." "You see I've no partner,--nobody that is bound to know my affairs. My wife is the best woman in the world, but is utterly unable to understand anything about it. Of course I can't talk freely to Marie. Cohenlupe whom you see so much with me is all very well,--in his way, but I never talk over my affairs with him. He is concerned with me in one or two things,--our American railway for instance, but he has no interest generally in my house. It is all on my own shoulders, and I can tell you the weight is a little heavy. It will be the greatest comfort to me in the world if I can get you to have an interest in the matter." "I don't suppose I could ever really be any good at business," said the modest young lord. "You wouldn't come and work, I suppose. I shouldn't expect that. But I should be glad to think that I could tell you how things are going on. Of course you heard all that was said just before the election. For forty-eight hours I had a very bad time of it then. The fact was that Alf and they who were supporting him thought that they could carry the election by running me down. They were at it for a fortnight,--perfectly unscrupulous as to what they said or what harm they might do me and others. I thought that very cruel. They couldn't get their man in, but they could and did have the effect of depreciating my property suddenly by nearly half a million of money. Think what that is!" "I don't understand how it could be done." "Because you don't understand how delicate a thing is credit. They persuaded a lot of men to stay away from that infernal dinner, and consequently it was spread about the town that I was ruined. The effect upon shares which I held was instantaneous and tremendous. The Mexican railway were at 117, and they fell from that in two days to something quite nominal,--so that selling was out of the question. Cohenlupe and I between us had about 8,000 of these shares. Think what that comes to!" Nidderdale tried to calculate what it did come to, but failed altogether. "That's what I call a blow;--a terrible blow. When a man is concerned as I am with money interests, and concerned largely with them all, he is of course exchanging one property for another every day of his life,--according as the markets go. I don't keep such a sum as that in one concern as an investment. Nobody does. Then when a panic comes, don't you see how it hits?" "Will they never go up again?" "Oh yes;--perhaps higher than ever. But it will take time. And in the meantime I am driven to fall back upon property intended for other purposes. That's the meaning of what you hear about that place down in Sussex which I bought for Marie. I was so driven that I was obliged to raise forty or fifty thousand wherever I could. But that will be all right in a week or two. And as for Marie's money,--that, you know, is settled." He quite succeeded in making Nidderdale believe every word that he spoke, and he produced also a friendly feeling in the young man's bosom, with something approaching to a desire that he might be of service to his future father-in-law. Hazily, as through a thick fog, Lord Nidderdale thought that he did see something of the troubles, as he had long seen something of the glories, of commerce on an extended scale, and an idea occurred to him that it might be almost more exciting than whist or unlimited loo. He resolved too that whatever the man might tell him should never be divulged. He was on this occasion somewhat captivated by Melmotte, and went away from the interview with a conviction that the financier was a big man;--one with whom he could sympathise, and to whom in a certain way he could become attached. And Melmotte himself had derived positive pleasure even from a simulated confidence in his son-in-law. It had been pleasant to him to talk as though he were talking to a young friend whom he trusted. It was impossible that he could really admit any one to a participation in his secrets. It was out of the question that he should ever allow himself to be betrayed into speaking the truth of his own affairs. Of course every word he had said to Nidderdale had been a lie, or intended to corroborate lies. But it had not been only on behalf of the lies that he had talked after this fashion. Even though his friendship with the young man were but a mock friendship,--though it would too probably be turned into bitter enmity before three months had passed by,--still there was a pleasure in it. The Grendalls had left him since the day of the dinner,--Miles having sent him a letter up from the country complaining of severe illness. It was a comfort to him to have someone to whom he could speak, and he much preferred Nidderdale to Miles Grendall. This conversation took place in the smoking-room. When it was over Melmotte went into the House, and Nidderdale strolled away to the Beargarden. The Beargarden had been opened again though with difficulty, and with diminished luxury. Nor could even this be done without rigid laws as to the payment of ready money. Herr Vossner had never more been heard of, but the bills which Vossner had left unpaid were held to be good against the club, whereas every note of hand which he had taken from the members was left in the possession of Mr. Flatfleece. Of course there was sorrow and trouble at the Beargarden; but still the institution had become so absolutely necessary to its members that it had been reopened under a new management. No one had felt this need more strongly during every hour of the day,--of the day as he counted his days, rising as he did about an hour after noon and going to bed three or four hours after midnight,--than did Dolly Longestaffe. The Beargarden had become so much to him that he had begun to doubt whether life would be even possible without such a resort for his hours. But now the club was again open, and Dolly could have his dinner and his bottle of wine with the luxury to which he was accustomed. But at this time he was almost mad with the sense of injury. Circumstances had held out to him a prospect of almost unlimited ease and indulgence. The arrangement made as to the Pickering estate would pay all his debts, would disembarrass his own property, and would still leave him a comfortable sum in hand. Squercum had told him that if he would stick to his terms he would surely get them. He had stuck to his terms and he had got them. And now the property was sold, and the title-deeds gone,--and he had not received a penny! He did not know whom to be loudest in abusing,--his father, the Bideawhiles, or Mr. Melmotte. And then it was said that he had signed that letter! He was very open in his manner of talking about his misfortune at the club. His father was the most obstinate old fool that ever lived. As for the Bideawhiles,--he would bring an action against them. Squercum had explained all that to him. But Melmotte was the biggest rogue the world had ever produced. "By George! the world," he said, "must be coming to an end. There's that infernal scoundrel sitting in Parliament just as if he had not robbed me of my property, and forged my name, and--and--by George! he ought to be hung. If any man ever deserved to be hung, that man deserves to be hung." This he spoke openly in the coffee-room of the club, and was still speaking as Nidderdale was taking his seat at one of the tables. Dolly had been dining, and had turned round upon his chair so as to face some half-dozen men whom he was addressing. Nidderdale leaving his chair walked up to him very gently. "Dolly," said he, "do not go on in that way about Melmotte when I am in the room. I have no doubt you are mistaken, and so you'll find out in a day or two. You don't know Melmotte." "Mistaken!" Dolly still continued to exclaim with a loud voice. "Am I mistaken in supposing that I haven't been paid my money?" "I don't believe it has been owing very long." "Am I mistaken in supposing that my name has been forged to a letter?" "I am sure you are mistaken if you think that Melmotte had anything to do with it." "Squercum says--" "Never mind Squercum. We all know what are the suspicions of a fellow of that kind." "I'd believe Squercum a deuced sight sooner than Melmotte." "Look here, Dolly. I know more probably of Melmotte's affairs than you do or perhaps than anybody else. If it will induce you to remain quiet for a few days and to hold your tongue here,--I'll make myself responsible for the entire sum he owes you." "The devil you will." "I will indeed." Nidderdale was endeavouring to speak so that only Dolly should hear him, and probably nobody else did hear him; but Dolly would not lower his voice. "That's out of the question, you know," he said. "How could I take your money? The truth is, Nidderdale, the man is a thief, and so you'll find out, sooner or later. He has broken open a drawer in my father's room and forged my name to a letter. Everybody knows it. Even my governor knows it now,--and Bideawhile. Before many days are over you'll find that he will be in gaol for forgery." This was very unpleasant, as every one knew that Nidderdale was either engaged or becoming engaged to Melmotte's daughter. "Since you will speak about it in this public way--" began Nidderdale. "I think it ought to be spoken about in a public way," said Dolly. "I deny it as publicly. I can't say anything about the letter except that I am sure Mr. Melmotte did not put your name to it. From what I understand there seems to have been some blunder between your father and his lawyer." "That's true enough," said Dolly; "but it doesn't excuse Melmotte." "As to the money, there can be no more doubt that it will be paid than that I stand here. What is it?--twenty-five thousand, isn't it?" "Eighty thousand, the whole." "Well,--eighty thousand. It's impossible to suppose that such a man as Melmotte shouldn't be able to raise eighty thousand pounds." "Why don't he do it then?" asked Dolly. All this was very unpleasant and made the club less social than it used to be in old days. There was an attempt that night to get up a game of cards; but Nidderdale would not play because he was offended with Dolly Longestaffe; and Miles Grendall was away in the country,--a fugitive from the face of Melmotte, and Carbury was in hiding at home with his countenance from top to bottom supported by plasters, and Montague in these days never went to the club. At the present moment he was again in Liverpool, having been summoned thither by Mr. Ramsbottom. "By George," said Dolly, as he filled another pipe and ordered more brandy and water, "I think everything is going to come to an end. I do indeed. I never heard of such a thing before as a man being done in this way. And then Vossner has gone off, and it seems everybody is to pay just what he says they owed him. And now one can't even get up a game of cards. I feel as though there were no good in hoping that things would ever come right again." The opinion of the club was a good deal divided as to the matter in dispute between Lord Nidderdale and Dolly Longestaffe. It was admitted by some to be "very fishy." If Melmotte were so great a man why didn't he pay the money, and why should he have mortgaged the property before it was really his own? But the majority of the men thought that Dolly was wrong. As to the signature of the letter, Dolly was a man who would naturally be quite unable to say what he had and what he had not signed. And then, even into the Beargarden there had filtered, through the outer world, a feeling that people were not now bound to be so punctilious in the paying of money as they were a few years since. No doubt it suited Melmotte to make use of the money, and therefore,--as he had succeeded in getting the property into his hands,--he did make use of it. But it would be forthcoming sooner or later! In this way of looking at the matter the Beargarden followed the world at large. The world at large, in spite of the terrible falling-off at the Emperor of China's dinner, in spite of all the rumours, in spite of the ruinous depreciation of the Mexican Railway stock, and of the undoubted fact that Dolly Longestaffe had not received his money, was inclined to think that Melmotte would "pull through."

"Have you been thinking any more about it?" Lord Nidderdale said to Marie as soon as Madame Melmotte had left them alone together. "I have thought ever so much more about it," said Marie. "And what's the result?" "Oh, I'll have you." "That's right," said Nidderdale, throwing himself on the sofa so that he might put his arm round her waist. "Wait a moment, Lord Nidderdale," she said. "Call me John." "Then wait a moment, John. You think you might as well marry me, though you don't love me a bit." "That's not true, Marie." "Yes, it is. And I think just the same - that I might as well marry you, though I don't love you a bit." "But you will." "I don't know. I don't feel like it at present. You had better know the exact truth. I have told my father that I would accept you. But you know who I've been in love with." "But you can't be in love with him now." "Why not? I can't marry him. I know that. And if he were to come to me, I don't think that I would. He has behaved badly." "Have I behaved badly?" "Not like him. You never did care, and you never said you cared. You say it now because you think that I shall like it. But it makes no difference now. I don't mind about your arm being there if we are to be married, only it's just as well for both of us to look on it as business." "How very hard you are, Marie." "No, I ain't. I wasn't hard to Sir Felix Carbury." "Surely you have found him out now." "Yes, I have," said Marie. "He's a poor creature." "He has just been thrashed, you know, in the streets, most horribly." Marie had not been told of this, and started back from her lover's arms. "Who has thrashed him? Why?" "There was a young lady in the question, Marie." "A young lady? I don't believe it. You've made that up." "Indeed, no. I believe he was beaten about a young woman. But it signifies nothing to me. Don't you think we might fix a day, Marie?" "I don't care," said Marie. "The longer it's put off the better; that's all." "Because I'm so detestable?" "No, you ain't detestable. I think you are a very good fellow; only you don't care for me. But it is detestable not being able to do what one wants. It's detestable having to quarrel with everybody. And it's horribly detestable having nothing on earth to give one any interest." "You couldn't take any interest in me?" "Not in the least." "Suppose you try. Wouldn't you like to know anything about the place where we live?" "It's a castle, I know." "Yes; Castle Reekie; ever so many hundred years old." "I hate old places. I should like a new house, and a new dress, and a new horse every week - and a new lover. Your father lives at the castle. I don't suppose we are to live there too." "We shall be there sometimes. When shall the wedding be?" "The year after next." "Nonsense, Marie." "Tomorrow." "You wouldn't be ready." "You may manage it all just as you like with papa. Oh, yes, kiss me; of course you may. What does it matter? I won't say that I love you. But if ever I do say it, you may be sure it will be true. That's more than you can say yourself - John." So the interview was over and Nidderdale walked back to the house thinking of his lady love, as far as he was capable of thinking. He was fully determined to go on with the marriage. The girl had lately become much more attractive to him than when he had first known her. She certainly was not a fool. And, though she was not altogether like a lady, still she had a manner of her own. And he did think that, in spite of all she said, she was becoming fond of him - as he certainly had become fond of her. "Have you been with the ladies?" Melmotte asked him. "Oh yes." "And what does Marie say?" "That you must fix the day." "We'll have it very soon then; some time next month. You'll want to get away in August. To tell the truth so shall I. I never was worked so hard in my life as I've been this summer, with the election and that horrid dinner. And I don't mind telling you that I've had a fearful weight on my mind about money. I never had to find so many large sums in so short a time! And I'm not quite through it yet." "I wonder why you gave the dinner then." "My dear boy, as regards expenditure that was a flea-bite. The burden of money is very great. I never know whence these panics arise, or why they come, or whither they go. But when they do come, they are like a storm at sea. It is only the strong ships that can stand the fury of the winds and waves. I've had it very hard this time." "I suppose you are getting right now." "Yes. I am not in any fear if you mean that. I don't mind telling you everything as it is settled now that you are to be Marie's husband. I know that you are honest, and that you wouldn't hurt me by repeating anything I say." "Certainly not." "You see my wife is the best woman in the world, but is utterly unable to understand anything about it. Of course I can't talk freely to Marie. Cohenlupe is all very well, but I never talk over my affairs with him. It is all on my own shoulders, and I can tell you the weight is a little heavy. It will be the greatest comfort to me in the world if I can get you to have an interest in the matter." "I don't suppose I could ever really be any good at business," said the modest young lord. "Still I should be glad to tell you how things are going on. Of course you heard all that was said just before the election. For forty-eight hours I had a very bad time of it. The fact was that Alf and his supporters thought that they could carry the election by running me down. They were perfectly unscrupulous. They couldn't get their man in, but they did have the effect of depreciating my property suddenly by nearly half a million. Think what that is!" "I don't understand how it could be done." "Because you don't understand how delicate a thing is credit. They persuaded a lot of men to stay away from that infernal dinner, and consequently it was spread about the town that I was ruined. The effect upon my shares was instantaneous. The Mexican railway fell from 117 to something quite nominal, so that selling was out of the question. Cohenlupe and I between us had about 8,000 of these shares. Think what that comes to!" Nidderdale tried to calculate it, but failed altogether. "That's what I call a blow. When a man is concerned as I am with money interests, he is of course exchanging one property for another every day, according as the markets go. I don't keep such a sum as that in one concern. Nobody does. Then when a panic comes, you see how it hits?" "Will they never go up again?" "Oh yes; perhaps higher than ever. But it will take time. And in the meantime I am driven to fall back upon property intended for other purposes. That's the meaning of what you hear about that place down in Sussex which I bought for Marie. I was obliged to raise forty or fifty thousand wherever I could. But that will be all right in a week or two. And as for Marie's money - that, you know, is settled." He succeeded in making Nidderdale believe every word that he spoke, and he also produced a friendly feeling in the young man - almost a desire to be of service to his future father-in-law. Hazily, as through a thick fog, Lord Nidderdale thought that he did see something of the troubles of commerce, which seemed almost more exciting than whist or loo. He resolved too that whatever the man might tell him would never be divulged. He was somewhat captivated by Melmotte, and went away convinced that the financier was a big man; one with whom he could sympathise, and to whom in a certain way he could become attached. And Melmotte himself had derived pleasure even from a simulated confidence in his son-in-law. It had been pleasant to talk as though he were a young friend whom he trusted. It was out of the question that he should ever speak the truth about his own affairs, and of course every word he had said to Nidderdale had been intended to corroborate lies. Yet it was a comfort to have someone to whom he could speak, and he much preferred Nidderdale to Miles Grendall. After this conversation Melmotte went into the House, and Nidderdale strolled away to the Beargarden. The Beargarden had been opened again though with diminished luxury, and with rigid laws as to the payment of ready money. Herr Vossner had never more been heard of, but every note of hand which he had taken from the members was left in the possession of Mr. Flatfleece. Of course there was sorrow and trouble at the Beargarden; but the institution had become absolutely necessary to its members - and to no one more than Dolly Longestaffe. Now that the club was again open, Dolly could have his dinner and his bottle of wine with the luxury to which he was accustomed. But at this time Dolly was almost mad with the sense of injury. He had expected that the sale of the Pickering estate would pay all his debts and still leave him a comfortable sum. And now the property was sold, and the title-deeds gone - and he had not received a penny! He did not know whom to be loudest in abusing: his father, the Bideawhiles, or Mr. Melmotte. He was very open in talking about it at the club. His father was the most obstinate old fool that ever lived. As for the Bideawhiles, he would bring an action against them. Squercum had explained all that to him. But Melmotte was the biggest rogue the world had ever produced. "By George!" he said, "there's that infernal scoundrel sitting in Parliament just as if he had not robbed me of my property, and forged my name, by George! He ought to be hung. If any man ever deserved to be hung, that man does." This he said as Nidderdale was taking his seat at one of the tables. Nidderdale, leaving his chair, walked up to him very gently. "Dolly," said he, "do not go on in that way about Melmotte when I am in the room. I have no doubt you are mistaken, and so you'll find in a day or two. You don't know Melmotte." "Mistaken!" exclaimed Dolly loudly. "Am I mistaken in supposing that I haven't been paid my money?" "I don't believe it has been owing very long." "Am I mistaken in supposing that my name has been forged to a letter?" "I am sure you are mistaken if you think that Melmotte had anything to do with it." "Squercum says-" "Never mind Squercum. Look here, Dolly. I probably know more of Melmotte's affairs than you do. If it will induce you to remain quiet for a few days, I'll make myself responsible for the entire sum he owes you." "The devil you will." "I will indeed." Nidderdale was speaking quietly, but Dolly would not lower his voice. "That's out of the question," he said. "How could I take your money? The truth is, Nidderdale, the man is a thief, and so you'll find out, sooner or later. He has broken open a drawer in my father's room and forged my name. Everybody knows it. He will soon be in jail for forgery." This was very unpleasant, as everyone knew that Nidderdale was to become engaged to Melmotte's daughter. "Since you will speak about it in this public way," began Nidderdale, "I deny it as publicly. I can't say anything about the letter except that I am sure Mr. Melmotte did not put your name to it. From what I understand there seems to have been some blunder between your father and his lawyer." "That's true enough," said Dolly; "but it doesn't excuse Melmotte." "As to the money, it will certainly be paid. What is it? twenty-five thousand?" "Eighty thousand, the whole." "Well - eighty thousand. It's impossible that such a man as Melmotte shouldn't be able to raise eighty thousand pounds." "Why don't he do it then?" asked Dolly. All this unpleasantness made the club less social than it used to be. There was an attempt to get up a game of cards; but Nidderdale would not play because he was offended with Dolly Longestaffe; and Miles Grendall was away in the country, and Carbury was in hiding at home with his face covered in plasters, and Montague in these days never went to the club. At present he was again in Liverpool, having been summoned there by Mr. Ramsbottom. "By George," said Dolly, as he ordered more brandy and water, "I think everything is going to come to an end. I do indeed. And now one can't even get up a game of cards. I feel as though things might never come right again." The opinion of the club was divided as to the matter in dispute between Lord Nidderdale and Dolly Longestaffe. It was admitted by some to be "very fishy." If Melmotte were so great a man why didn't he pay the money? But most men thought that Dolly did not know what he had signed. And there was a general feeling that people were not bound to be so punctilious in the paying of money as they were a few years ago. No doubt Melmotte would produce the money sooner or later. In this way of looking at the matter the Beargarden followed the world at large. The world, in spite of all the rumours, in spite of the ruinous depreciation of the Mexican Railway stock, and the undoubted fact that Dolly Longestaffe had not received his money, was inclined to think that Melmotte would "pull through."

The Way We Live Now

Chapter 74: Melmotte Makes a Friend

The next night but one after that of the gambling transaction at the Beargarden, a great ball was given in Grosvenor Square. It was a ball on a scale so magnificent that it had been talked about ever since Parliament met, now about a fortnight since. Some people had expressed an opinion that such a ball as this was intended to be could not be given successfully in February. Others declared that the money which was to be spent,--an amount which would make this affair something quite new in the annals of ball-giving,--would give the thing such a character that it would certainly be successful. And much more than money had been expended. Almost incredible efforts had been made to obtain the co-operation of great people, and these efforts had at last been grandly successful. The Duchess of Stevenage had come up from Castle Albury herself to be present at it and to bring her daughters, though it has never been her Grace's wont to be in London at this inclement season. No doubt the persuasion used with the Duchess had been very strong. Her brother, Lord Alfred Grendall, was known to be in great difficulties, which,--so people said,--had been considerably modified by opportune pecuniary assistance. And then it was certain that one of the young Grendalls, Lord Alfred's second son, had been appointed to some mercantile position, for which he received a salary which his most intimate friends thought that he was hardly qualified to earn. It was certainly a fact that he went to Abchurch Lane, in the City, four or five days a week, and that he did not occupy his time in so unaccustomed a manner for nothing. Where the Duchess of Stevenage went all the world would go. And it became known at the last moment, that is to say only the day before the party, that a prince of the blood royal was to be there. How this had been achieved nobody quite understood; but there were rumours that a certain lady's jewels had been rescued from the pawnbroker's. Everything was done on the same scale. The Prime Minister had indeed declined to allow his name to appear on the list; but one Cabinet Minister and two or three under-secretaries had agreed to come because it was felt that the giver of the ball might before long be the master of considerable parliamentary interest. It was believed that he had an eye to politics, and it is always wise to have great wealth on one's own side. There had at one time been much solicitude about the ball. Many anxious thoughts had been given. When great attempts fail, the failure is disastrous, and may be ruinous. But this ball had now been put beyond the chance of failure. The giver of the ball was Augustus Melmotte, Esq., the father of the girl whom Sir Felix Carbury desired to marry, and the husband of the lady who was said to have been a Bohemian Jewess. It was thus that the gentleman chose to have himself designated, though within the last two years he had arrived in London from Paris, and had at first been known as M. Melmotte. But he had declared of himself that he had been born in England, and that he was an Englishman. He admitted that his wife was a foreigner,--an admission that was necessary as she spoke very little English. Melmotte himself spoke his "native" language fluently, but with an accent which betrayed at least a long expatriation. Miss Melmotte,--who a very short time since had been known as Mademoiselle Marie,--spoke English well, but as a foreigner. In regard to her it was acknowledged that she had been born out of England,--some said in New York; but Madame Melmotte, who must have known, had declared that the great event had taken place in Paris. It was at any rate an established fact that Mr. Melmotte had made his wealth in France. He no doubt had had enormous dealings in other countries, as to which stories were told which must surely have been exaggerated. It was said that he had made a railway across Russia, that he provisioned the Southern army in the American civil war, that he had supplied Austria with arms, and had at one time bought up all the iron in England. He could make or mar any company by buying or selling stock, and could make money dear or cheap as he pleased. All this was said of him in his praise,--but it was also said that he was regarded in Paris as the most gigantic swindler that had ever lived; that he had made that City too hot to hold him; that he had endeavoured to establish himself in Vienna, but had been warned away by the police; and that he had at length found that British freedom would alone allow him to enjoy, without persecution, the fruits of his industry. He was now established privately in Grosvenor Square and officially in Abchurch Lane; and it was known to all the world that a Royal Prince, a Cabinet Minister, and the very cream of duchesses were going to his wife's ball. All this had been done within twelve months. There was but one child in the family, one heiress for all this wealth. Melmotte himself was a large man, with bushy whiskers and rough thick hair, with heavy eyebrows, and a wonderful look of power about his mouth and chin. This was so strong as to redeem his face from vulgarity; but the countenance and appearance of the man were on the whole unpleasant, and, I may say, untrustworthy. He looked as though he were purse-proud and a bully. She was fat and fair,--unlike in colour to our traditional Jewesses; but she had the Jewish nose and the Jewish contraction of the eyes. There was certainly very little in Madame Melmotte to recommend her, unless it was a readiness to spend money on any object that might be suggested to her by her new acquaintances. It sometimes seemed that she had a commission from her husband to give away presents to any who would accept them. The world had received the man as Augustus Melmotte, Esq. The world so addressed him on the very numerous letters which reached him, and so inscribed him among the directors of three dozen companies to which he belonged. But his wife was still Madame Melmotte. The daughter had been allowed to take her rank with an English title. She was now Miss Melmotte on all occasions. Marie Melmotte had been accurately described by Felix Carbury to his mother. She was not beautiful, she was not clever, and she was not a saint. But then neither was she plain, nor stupid, nor, especially, a sinner. She was a little thing, hardly over twenty years of age, very unlike her father or mother, having no trace of the Jewess in her countenance, who seemed to be overwhelmed by the sense of her own position. With such people as the Melmottes things go fast, and it was very well known that Miss Melmotte had already had one lover who had been nearly accepted. The affair, however, had gone off. In this "going off" no one imputed to the young lady blame or even misfortune. It was not supposed that she had either jilted or been jilted. As in royal espousals interests of State regulate their expedience with an acknowledged absence, with even a proclaimed impossibility, of personal predilections, so in this case was money allowed to have the same weight. Such a marriage would or would not be sanctioned in accordance with great pecuniary arrangements. The young Lord Nidderdale, the eldest son of the Marquis of Auld Reekie, had offered to take the girl and make her Marchioness in the process of time for half a million down. Melmotte had not objected to the sum,--so it was said,--but had proposed to tie it up. Nidderdale had desired to have it free in his own grasp, and would not move on any other terms. Melmotte had been anxious to secure the Marquis,--very anxious to secure the Marchioness; for at that time terms had not been made with the Duchess; but at last he had lost his temper, and had asked his lordship's lawyer whether it was likely that he would entrust such a sum of money to such a man. "You are willing to trust your only child to him," said the lawyer. Melmotte scowled at the man for a few seconds from under his bushy eyebrows; then told him that his answer had nothing in it, and marched out of the room. So that affair was over. I doubt whether Lord Nidderdale had ever said a word of love to Marie Melmotte,--or whether the poor girl had expected it. Her destiny had no doubt been explained to her. Others had tried and had broken down somewhat in the same fashion. Each had treated the girl as an encumbrance he was to undertake,--at a very great price. But as affairs prospered with the Melmottes, as princes and duchesses were obtained by other means,--costly no doubt, but not so ruinously costly,--the immediate disposition of Marie became less necessary, and Melmotte reduced his offers. The girl herself, too, began to have an opinion. It was said that she had absolutely rejected Lord Grasslough, whose father indeed was in a state of bankruptcy, who had no income of his own, who was ugly, vicious, ill-tempered, and without any power of recommending himself to a girl. She had had experience since Lord Nidderdale, with a half laugh, had told her that he might just as well take her for his wife, and was now tempted from time to time to contemplate her own happiness and her own condition. People around were beginning to say that if Sir Felix Carbury managed his affairs well he might be the happy man. There was considerable doubt whether Marie was the daughter of that Jewish-looking woman. Enquiries had been made, but not successfully, as to the date of the Melmotte marriage. There was an idea abroad that Melmotte had got his first money with his wife, and had gotten it not very long ago. Then other people said that Marie was not his daughter at all. Altogether the mystery was rather pleasant as the money was certain. Of the certainty of the money in daily use there could be no doubt. There was the house. There was the furniture. There were the carriages, the horses, the servants with the livery coats and powdered heads, and the servants with the black coats and unpowdered heads. There were the gems, and the presents, and all the nice things that money can buy. There were two dinner parties every day, one at two o'clock called lunch, and the other at eight. The tradesmen had learned enough to be quite free of doubt, and in the City Mr. Melmotte's name was worth any money,--though his character was perhaps worth but little. The large house on the south side of Grosvenor Square was all ablaze by ten o'clock. The broad verandah had been turned into a conservatory, had been covered in with boards contrived to look like trellis-work, was heated with hot air and filled with exotics at some fabulous price. A covered way had been made from the door, down across the pathway, to the road, and the police had, I fear, been bribed to frighten foot passengers into a belief that they were bound to go round. The house had been so arranged that it was impossible to know where you were, when once in it. The hall was a paradise. The staircase was fairyland. The lobbies were grottoes rich with ferns. Walls had been knocked away and arches had been constructed. The leads behind had been supported and walled in, and covered and carpeted. The ball had possession of the ground floor and first floor, and the house seemed to be endless. "It's to cost sixty thousand pounds," said the Marchioness of Auld Reekie to her old friend the Countess of Mid-Lothian. The Marchioness had come in spite of her son's misfortune when she heard that the Duchess of Stevenage was to be there. "And worse spent money never was wasted," said the Countess. "By all accounts it was as badly come by," said the Marchioness. Then the two old noblewomen, one after the other, made graciously flattering speeches to the much-worn Bohemian Jewess, who was standing in fairyland to receive her guests, almost fainting under the greatness of the occasion. The three saloons on the first or drawing-room floor had been prepared for dancing, and here Marie was stationed. The Duchess had however undertaken to see that somebody should set the dancing going, and she had commissioned her nephew Miles Grendall, the young gentleman who now frequented the City, to give directions to the band and to make himself generally useful. Indeed there had sprung up a considerable intimacy between the Grendall family,--that is Lord Alfred's branch of the Grendalls,--and the Melmottes; which was as it should be, as each could give much and each receive much. It was known that Lord Alfred had not a shilling; but his brother was a duke and his sister was a duchess, and for the last thirty years there had been one continual anxiety for poor dear Alfred, who had tumbled into an unfortunate marriage without a shilling, had spent his own moderate patrimony, had three sons and three daughters, and had lived now for a very long time entirely on the unwilling contributions of his noble relatives. Melmotte could support the whole family in affluence without feeling the burden;--and why should he not? There had once been an idea that Miles should attempt to win the heiress, but it had soon been found expedient to abandon it. Miles had no title, no position of his own, and was hardly big enough for the place. It was in all respects better that the waters of the fountain should be allowed to irrigate mildly the whole Grendall family;--and so Miles went into the city. The ball was opened by a quadrille in which Lord Buntingford, the eldest son of the Duchess, stood up with Marie. Various arrangements had been made, and this among them. We may say that it had been part of a bargain. Lord Buntingford had objected mildly, being a young man devoted to business, fond of his own order, rather shy, and not given to dancing. But he had allowed his mother to prevail. "Of course they are vulgar," the Duchess had said,--"so much so as to be no longer distasteful because of the absurdity of the thing. I dare say he hasn't been very honest. When men make so much money, I don't know how they can have been honest. Of course it's done for a purpose. It's all very well saying that it isn't right, but what are we to do about Alfred's children? Miles is to have 500 a-year. And then he is always about the house. And between you and me they have got up those bills of Alfred's, and have said they can lie in their safe till it suits your uncle to pay them." "They will lie there a long time," said Lord Buntingford. "Of course they expect something in return; do dance with the girl once." Lord Buntingford disapproved--mildly, and did as his mother asked him. The affair went off very well. There were three or four card-tables in one of the lower rooms, and at one of them sat Lord Alfred Grendall and Mr. Melmotte, with two or three other players, cutting in and out at the end of each rubber. Playing whist was Lord Alfred's only accomplishment, and almost the only occupation of his life. He began it daily at his club at three o'clock, and continued playing till two in the morning with an interval of a couple of hours for his dinner. This he did during ten months of the year, and during the other two he frequented some watering-place at which whist prevailed. He did not gamble, never playing for more than the club stakes and bets. He gave to the matter his whole mind, and must have excelled those who were generally opposed to him. But so obdurate was fortune to Lord Alfred that he could not make money even of whist. Melmotte was very anxious to get into Lord Alfred's club,--The Peripatetics. It was pleasant to see the grace with which he lost his money, and the sweet intimacy with which he called his lordship Alfred. Lord Alfred had a remnant of feeling left, and would have liked to kick him. Though Melmotte was by far the bigger man, and was also the younger, Lord Alfred would not have lacked the pluck to kick him. Lord Alfred, in spite of his habitual idleness and vapid uselessness, had still left about him a dash of vigour, and sometimes thought that he would kick Melmotte and have done with it. But there were his poor boys, and those bills in Melmotte's safe. And then Melmotte lost his points so regularly, and paid his bets with such absolute good humour! "Come and have a glass of champagne, Alfred," Melmotte said, as the two cut out together. Lord Alfred liked champagne, and followed his host; but as he went he almost made up his mind that on some future day he would kick the man. Late in the evening Marie Melmotte was waltzing with Felix Carbury, and Henrietta Carbury was then standing by talking to one Mr. Paul Montague. Lady Carbury was also there. She was not well inclined either to balls or to such people as the Melmottes; nor was Henrietta. But Felix had suggested that, bearing in mind his prospects as to the heiress, they had better accept the invitation which he would cause to have sent to them. They did so; and then Paul Montague also got a card, not altogether to Lady Carbury's satisfaction. Lady Carbury was very gracious to Madame Melmotte for two minutes, and then slid into a chair expecting nothing but misery for the evening. She, however, was a woman who could do her duty and endure without complaint. "It is the first great ball I ever was at in London," said Hetta Carbury to Paul Montague. "And how do you like it?" "Not at all. How should I like it? I know nobody here. I don't understand how it is that at these parties people do know each other, or whether they all go dancing about without knowing." "Just that; I suppose when they are used to it they get introduced backwards and forwards, and then they can know each other as fast as they like. If you would wish to dance why won't you dance with me?" "I have danced with you,--twice already." "Is there any law against dancing three times?" "But I don't especially want to dance," said Henrietta. "I think I'll go and console poor mamma, who has got nobody to speak to her." Just at this moment, however, Lady Carbury was not in that wretched condition, as an unexpected friend had come to her relief. Sir Felix and Marie Melmotte had been spinning round and round throughout a long waltz, thoroughly enjoying the excitement of the music and the movement. To give Felix Carbury what little praise might be his due, it is necessary to say that he did not lack physical activity. He would dance, and ride, and shoot eagerly, with an animation that made him happy for the moment. It was an affair not of thought or calculation, but of physical organisation. And Marie Melmotte had been thoroughly happy. She loved dancing with all her heart if she could only dance in a manner pleasant to herself. She had been warned especially as to some men,--that she should not dance with them. She had been almost thrown into Lord Nidderdale's arms, and had been prepared to take him at her father's bidding. But she had never had the slightest pleasure in his society, and had only not been wretched because she had not as yet recognised that she had an identity of her own in the disposition of which she herself should have a voice. She certainly had never cared to dance with Lord Nidderdale. Lord Grasslough she had absolutely hated, though at first she had hardly dared to say so. One or two others had been obnoxious to her in different ways, but they had passed on, or were passing on, out of her way. There was no one at the present moment whom she had been commanded by her father to accept should an offer be made. But she did like dancing with Sir Felix Carbury. It was not only that the man was handsome but that he had a power of changing the expression of his countenance, a play of face, which belied altogether his real disposition. He could seem to be hearty and true till the moment came in which he had really to expose his heart,--or to try to expose it. Then he failed, knowing nothing about it. But in the approaches to intimacy with a girl he could be very successful. He had already nearly got beyond this with Marie Melmotte; but Marie was by no means quick in discovering his deficiencies. To her he had seemed like a god. If she might be allowed to be wooed by Sir Felix Carbury, and to give herself to him, she thought that she would be contented. "How well you dance," said Sir Felix, as soon as he had breath for speaking. "Do I?" She spoke with a slightly foreign accent, which gave a little prettiness to her speech. "I was never told so. But nobody ever told me anything about myself." "I should like to tell you everything about yourself, from the beginning to the end." "Ah,--but you don't know." "I would find out. I think I could make some good guesses. I'll tell you what you would like best in all the world." "What is that?" "Somebody that liked you best in all the world." "Ah,--yes; if one knew who?" "How can you know, Miss Melmotte, but by believing?" "That is not the way to know. If a girl told me that she liked me better than any other girl, I should not know it, just because she said so. I should have to find it out." "And if a gentleman told you so?" "I shouldn't believe him a bit, and I should not care to find out. But I should like to have some girl for a friend whom I could love, oh, ten times better than myself." "So should I." "Have you no particular friend?" "I mean a girl whom I could love,--oh, ten times better than myself." "Now you are laughing at me, Sir Felix," said Miss Melmotte. "I wonder whether that will come to anything?" said Paul Montague to Miss Carbury. They had come back into the drawing-room, and had been watching the approaches to love-making which the baronet was opening. "You mean Felix and Miss Melmotte. I hate to think of such things, Mr. Montague." "It would be a magnificent chance for him." "To marry a girl, the daughter of vulgar people, just because she will have a great deal of money? He can't care for her really,--because she is rich." "But he wants money so dreadfully! It seems to me that there is no other condition of things under which Felix can face the world, but by being the husband of an heiress." "What a dreadful thing to say!" "But isn't it true? He has beggared himself." "Oh, Mr. Montague." "And he will beggar you and your mother." "I don't care about myself." "Others do though." As he said this he did not look at her, but spoke through his teeth, as if he were angry both with himself and her. "I did not think you would have spoken so harshly of Felix." "I don't speak harshly of him, Miss Carbury. I haven't said that it was his own fault. He seems to be one of those who have been born to spend money; and as this girl will have plenty of money to spend, I think it would be a good thing if he were to marry her. If Felix had 20,000 a year, everybody would think him the finest fellow in the world." In saying this, however, Mr. Paul Montague showed himself unfit to gauge the opinion of the world. Whether Sir Felix be rich or poor, the world, evil-hearted as it is, will never think him a fine fellow. Lady Carbury had been seated for nearly half an hour in uncomplaining solitude under a bust, when she was delighted by the appearance of Mr. Ferdinand Alf. "You here?" she said. "Why not? Melmotte and I are brother adventurers." "I should have thought you would find so little here to amuse you." "I have found you; and, in addition to that, duchesses and their daughters without number. They expect Prince George!" "Do they?" "And Legge Wilson from the India Office is here already. I spoke to him in some jewelled bower as I made my way here, not five minutes since. It's quite a success. Don't you think it very nice, Lady Carbury?" "I don't know whether you are joking or in earnest." "I never joke. I say it is very nice. These people are spending thousands upon thousands to gratify you and me and others, and all they want in return is a little countenance." "Do you mean to give it then?" "I am giving it them." "Ah;--but the countenance of the 'Evening Pulpit.' Do you mean to give them that?" "Well; it is not in our line exactly to give a catalogue of names and to record ladies' dresses. Perhaps it may be better for our host himself that he should be kept out of the newspapers." "Are you going to be very severe upon poor me, Mr. Alf?" said the lady after a pause. "We are never severe upon anybody, Lady Carbury. Here's the Prince. What will they do with him now they've caught him! Oh, they're going to make him dance with the heiress. Poor heiress!" "Poor Prince!" said Lady Carbury. "Not at all. She's a nice little girl enough, and he'll have nothing to trouble him. But how is she, poor thing, to talk to royal blood?" Poor thing indeed! The Prince was brought into the big room where Marie was still being talked to by Felix Carbury, and was at once made to understand that she was to stand up and dance with royalty. The introduction was managed in a very business-like manner. Miles Grendall first came in and found the female victim; the Duchess followed with the male victim. Madame Melmotte, who had been on her legs till she was ready to sink, waddled behind, but was not allowed to take any part in the affair. The band were playing a galop, but that was stopped at once, to the great confusion of the dancers. In two minutes Miles Grendall had made up a set. He stood up with his aunt, the Duchess, as vis-a-vis to Marie and the Prince, till, about the middle of the quadrille, Legge Wilson was found and made to take his place. Lord Buntingford had gone away; but then there were still present two daughters of the Duchess who were rapidly caught. Sir Felix Carbury, being good-looking and having a name, was made to dance with one of them, and Lord Grasslough with the other. There were four other couples, all made up of titled people, as it was intended that this special dance should be chronicled, if not in the "Evening Pulpit," in some less serious daily journal. A paid reporter was present in the house ready to rush off with the list as soon as the dance should be a realized fact. The Prince himself did not quite understand why he was there, but they who marshalled his life for him had so marshalled it for the present moment. He himself probably knew nothing about the lady's diamonds which had been rescued, or the considerable subscription to St. George's Hospital which had been extracted from Mr. Melmotte as a make-weight. Poor Marie felt as though the burden of the hour would be greater than she could bear, and looked as though she would have fled had flight been possible. But the trouble passed quickly, and was not really severe. The Prince said a word or two between each figure, and did not seem to expect a reply. He made a few words go a long way, and was well trained in the work of easing the burden of his own greatness for those who were for the moment inflicted with it. When the dance was over he was allowed to escape after the ceremony of a single glass of champagne drank in the presence of the hostess. Considerable skill was shown in keeping the presence of his royal guest a secret from the host himself till the Prince was gone. Melmotte would have desired to pour out that glass of wine with his own hands, to solace his tongue by Royal Highnesses, and would probably have been troublesome and disagreeable. Miles Grendall had understood all this and had managed the affair very well. "Bless my soul;--his Royal Highness come and gone!" exclaimed Melmotte. "You and my father were so fast at your whist that it was impossible to get you away," said Miles. Melmotte was not a fool, and understood it all;--understood not only that it had been thought better that he should not speak to the Prince, but also that it might be better that it should be so. He could not have everything at once. Miles Grendall was very useful to him, and he would not quarrel with Miles, at any rate as yet. [Illustration: The Duchess followed with the male victim.] "Have another rubber, Alfred?" he said to Miles's father as the carriages were taking away the guests. Lord Alfred had taken sundry glasses of champagne, and for a moment forgot the bills in the safe, and the good things which his boys were receiving. "Damn that kind of nonsense," he said. "Call people by their proper names." Then he left the house without a further word to the master of it. That night before they went to sleep Melmotte required from his weary wife an account of the ball, and especially of Marie's conduct. "Marie," Madame Melmotte said, "had behaved well, but had certainly preferred 'Sir Carbury' to any other of the young men." Hitherto Mr. Melmotte had heard very little of "Sir Carbury," except that he was a baronet. Though his eyes and ears were always open, though he attended to everything, and was a man of sharp intelligence, he did not yet quite understand the bearing and sequence of English titles. He knew that he must get for his daughter either an eldest son, or one absolutely in possession himself. Sir Felix, he had learned, was only a baronet; but then he was in possession. He had discovered also that Sir Felix's son would in course of time also become Sir Felix. He was not therefore at the present moment disposed to give any positive orders as to his daughter's conduct to the young baronet. He did not, however, conceive that the young baronet had as yet addressed his girl in such words as Felix had in truth used when they parted. "You know who it is," he whispered, "likes you better than any one else in the world." "Nobody does;--don't, Sir Felix." "I do," he said as he held her hand for a minute. He looked into her face and she thought it very sweet. He had studied the words as a lesson, and, repeating them as a lesson, he did it fairly well. He did it well enough at any rate to send the poor girl to bed with a sweet conviction that at last a man had spoken to her whom she could love.

Two nights after that, a great ball was given in Grosvenor Square. It was a ball on a scale so magnificent that it had been talked about for a fortnight. Some people declared that February was the wrong time for such a ball; others said that the huge amount of money spent would certainly make it a success. And much more than money had been expended. Almost incredible efforts had been made to obtain the co-operation of great people. The Duchess of Stevenage had come up from Castle Albury to attend it with her daughters, though it had never been her Grace's habit to be in London in winter. But then her brother, Lord Alfred Grendall, was known to be in great difficulties, which - people said - had been considerably modified by financial help. And one of the young Grendalls, Lord Alfred's second son, had been appointed to some mercantile position in the City, at Abchurch Lane, for which he received a salary which his friends thought he was hardly qualified to earn. Where the Duchess of Stevenage went, all the world would go. And it became known the day before the party that a royal prince was to be there. How this had been achieved nobody quite understood; but there were rumours that a certain lady's jewels had been rescued from the pawnbroker's. The Prime Minister had declined to accept; but one Cabinet Minister and two or three under-secretaries had agreed to come, because it was felt that the giver of the ball might before long enter politics: and it is always wise to have great wealth on one's own side. There had been much anxiety about the ball. But it was now beyond the chance of failure. The giver of the ball was Augustus Melmotte, the father of the girl whom Sir Felix Carbury desired to marry, and the husband of the lady who was said to have been a Bohemian Jewess. Two years ago, when he arrived in London from Paris, he was known as Monsieur Melmotte. But he declared that he had been born in England. He admitted that his wife was a foreigner; indeed, she spoke very little English. Melmotte spoke it fluently, but with an accent. So did Miss Melmotte: some said she had been born in New York, but Madame Melmotte declared that the great event had taken place in Paris. It was at any rate an established fact that Mr. Melmotte had made his wealth in France. He no doubt had had enormous dealings in other countries, even if the stories were exaggerated. It was said that he had made a railway across Russia, that he provisioned the Southern army in the American civil war, that he had supplied Austria with arms, and had at one time bought up all the iron in England. He could make or mar any company by buying or selling stock, and could make money dear or cheap as he pleased. However, it was also said that he was regarded in Paris as the most gigantic swindler that had ever lived; that he had made that city too hot to hold him; that he had tried to establish himself in Vienna, but had been warned away by the police; and that he had at length found that Britain alone would allow him to enjoy, without persecution, the fruits of his industry. His private house was in Grosvenor Square and his house of business in Abchurch Lane. There was only one child in the family, one heiress for all this wealth. Melmotte himself was a large man, with bushy whiskers and thick hair, heavy eyebrows, and a powerful-looking mouth and chin. His appearance was strong, but on the whole unpleasant and untrustworthy. He looked as though he were a bully. His wife was fat and fair, with a Jewish nose. She was very ready to spend money and give away presents to any who would accept them. She was still Madame Melmotte, not Mrs. Melmotte. However, the daughter, once Mademoiselle, was now Miss Melmotte on all occasions. Felix Carbury had accurately described Marie Melmotte to his mother. She was not beautiful, nor clever, nor a saint. But then neither was she plain, stupid, or a sinner. She was a little thing, hardly over twenty years of age, and seemed to be overwhelmed by the sense of her own position. It was well known that Miss Melmotte had already had one lover who had been nearly accepted. The affair, however, had gone off, with no blame to the lady. As royal marriages are governed by the interests of State, so in this case money had the same weight. The young Lord Nidderdale, the eldest son of the Marquis of Auld Reekie, had offered to marry the girl and make her Marchioness in exchange for half a million pounds. Melmotte had not objected to the sum - so it was said - but had proposed to tie it up. Nidderdale had desired to have it free in his own grasp. Although Melmotte had been anxious to secure the title for his daughter, he had lost his temper, and had asked his lordship's lawyer whether it was likely that he would entrust so much money to such a man. "You are willing to trust your only child to him," said the lawyer. Melmotte scowled, and marched out of the room. So that affair was over. I doubt whether Lord Nidderdale had ever said a word of love to Marie Melmotte - or whether the poor girl had expected it. Her destiny had no doubt been explained to her. Others had tried, each treating the girl as an encumbrance he was to undertake at a very great price. But as affairs prospered with the Melmottes, as princes and duchesses were obtained with lesser cost, a title for Marie became less necessary, and Melmotte reduced his offers. The girl herself, too, began to have an opinion. It was said that she had absolutely rejected Lord Grasslough, who indeed was penniless, ugly, vicious, ill-tempered, and without any power of recommending himself to a girl. She had gained experience, and she was now tempted to contemplate her own happiness. People were beginning to say that Sir Felix Carbury might be the happy man. There was considerable doubt whether Marie was the daughter of Madame Melmotte. Some even said that Marie was not Mr. Melmotte's daughter. However, of the Melmotte money there could be no doubt. There was the house. There was the furniture. There were the carriages, the horses, the servants with the livery coats and powdered heads. There were the gems and presents, and the daily dinner parties. The tradesmen were quite free of doubt, and in the City Mr. Melmotte's name was worth any money - though his character was perhaps worth little. The large house in Grosvenor Square was all ablaze by ten o'clock. The broad veranda had been turned into a conservatory, covered with boards contrived to look like trellis-work, heated with hot air and filled with exotic plants at some fabulous price. A covered way had been made from the road to the door; once inside the house, the hall was a paradise. The staircase was fairyland. The lobbies were grottoes rich with ferns. Walls had been knocked away and arches constructed; floors had been carpeted. The ball took up the ground floor and first floor, and the house seemed to be endless. "It's costing sixty thousand pounds," said the Marchioness of Auld Reekie to her old friend the Countess of Mid-Lothian. "And money was never worse spent," said the Countess. "By all accounts it was as badly come by," said the Marchioness. Then the two old noblewomen made graciously flattering speeches to the Jewess, who was standing in fairyland to receive her guests, almost fainting under the greatness of the occasion. The three saloons had been prepared for dancing, and here Marie was stationed. The Duchess of Stevenage had undertaken to see that somebody should set the dancing going, and she had commissioned her nephew Miles Grendall, the young gentleman who now worked in the City, to make himself useful. There had sprung up an intimacy between the Grendall family and the Melmottes, as each could give much and each receive much. Lord Alfred Grendall had not a shilling; but his brother was a duke and his sister was a duchess, and poor Alfred, who had tumbled into an unfortunate marriage, and had three sons and three daughters, had lived now for a very long time entirely on the unwilling contributions of his noble relatives. But Melmotte could support the whole family in affluence without feeling the burden. There had once been an idea that Miles should attempt to win the heiress, but it had soon been abandoned, since Miles had no title or position. The ball was opened by a quadrille in which Lord Buntingford, the eldest son of the Duchess, stood up with Marie. This had been part of a bargain, although Lord Buntingford had objected mildly. But his mother had said, "Of course they are vulgar. And I dare say he hasn't been very honest. When men make so much money, I don't know how they can have been honest. But what are we to do about Alfred's children? And his bills? Do dance with the girl once." Lord Buntingford did as his mother asked him. The ball went very well. There were three or four card-tables in one of the rooms, and at one of them sat Lord Alfred Grendall and Mr. Melmotte, with two or three other players. Playing whist was Lord Alfred's only accomplishment, and almost the only occupation of his life. He played it daily at his club for ten months of the year, and during the other two he frequented some watering-place at which whist prevailed. He did not gamble, never playing for more than the club stakes, but he never made any money. Melmotte was very anxious to get into Lord Alfred's club, The Peripatetics. It was pleasant to see the grace with which he lost his money, and the sweet intimacy with which he called his lordship Alfred. Though Melmotte was by far the bigger man, Lord Alfred would have liked to kick him. Lord Alfred, in spite of his habitual idleness and uselessness, had still a dash of vigour, and sometimes thought that he would kick Melmotte and have done with it. But there were his poor boys, and those bills in Melmotte's safe. And Melmotte paid his bets with such absolute good humour! "Come and have a glass of champagne, Alfred," Melmotte said. Lord Alfred liked champagne, and followed his host; but he almost made up his mind that on some future day he would kick the man. Late in the evening Marie Melmotte was waltzing with Felix Carbury, and Henrietta Carbury was standing by, talking to a Mr. Paul Montague. Lady Carbury was also there. She did not care for balls, nor for the Melmottes; but Felix had suggested that they had better accept the invitation. Lady Carbury was very gracious to Madame Melmotte for two minutes, and then slid into a chair expecting nothing but misery for the evening. However, she was a woman who could do her duty and endure without complaint. "It is the first great ball I ever was at in London," said Hetta Carbury to Paul Montague. "And how do you like it?" "Not at all. I know nobody here. I don't understand how it is that at these parties people do know each other, or whether they all go dancing about without knowing." "If you wish to dance why won't you dance with me?" "I have danced with you twice already." "Is there any law against dancing three times?" "But I don't especially want to dance," said Henrietta. "I think I'll go and console poor mamma, who has got nobody to speak to her." Just at this moment, however, an unexpected friend had come to Lady Carbury's relief. Sir Felix and Marie Melmotte had been spinning round and round throughout a long waltz, thoroughly enjoying the excitement of the music and the movement. To give Felix Carbury what little praise might be his due, he did not lack physical activity. He would dance, and ride, and shoot eagerly, with an animation that made him happy for the moment. And Marie Melmotte had been thoroughly happy. She loved dancing, although she had been warned that there were some men she should not dance with. She had been prepared to take Lord Nidderdale at her father's bidding, but she had never had any pleasure in his society. She certainly had never cared to dance with him. But she did like dancing with Sir Felix Carbury. Not only was the man handsome, but he had an expressive play of face which belied his real disposition. He could seem to be hearty and true till the moment came to expose his heart - or to try to expose it. Then he failed. But in the approaches to intimacy with a girl he could be very successful; and Marie was slow to discover his deficiencies. To her he had seemed like a god. If she might be allowed to be wooed by Sir Felix Carbury, and to give herself to him, she thought that she would be contented. "How well you dance," said Sir Felix. "Do I?" She spoke with a slightly foreign accent, which gave a little prettiness to her speech. "I was never told so. But nobody ever told me anything about myself." "I should like to tell you everything about yourself, from the beginning to the end." "Ah - but you don't know." "I think I could make some good guesses. I'll tell you what you would like best in all the world." "What is that?" "Somebody that liked you best in all the world." "Ah, yes; if one knew who?" "How can you know, Miss Melmotte, but by believing?" "That is not the way to know. If a girl told me that she liked me better than any other girl, I should not know it, just because she said so. I should have to find it out." "And if a gentleman told you so?" "I shouldn't believe him, and I should not care to find out. But I should like to have some girl for a friend whom I could love, oh, ten times better than myself." "So should I." "Have you no particular friend?" "I mean a girl whom I could love - oh, ten times better than myself." "Now you are laughing at me, Sir Felix," said Miss Melmotte. "I wonder whether that will come to anything?" said Paul Montague to Miss Carbury. They had come back into the drawing-room, and had been watching this. "It would be a magnificent chance for him." "To marry the daughter of vulgar people, just because she will have money?" said Hetta. "He can't care for her really." "But he needs money so dreadfully! It seems to me that there is no other solution for Felix than to marry an heiress." "What a dreadful thing to say!" "But isn't it true? He has beggared himself. And he will beggar you and your mother." "I don't care about myself." "Others do, though." Paul spoke through his teeth, as if he were angry. "I did not think you would have spoken so harshly of Felix." "I don't speak harshly of him, Miss Carbury. I haven't said that it was his own fault. He seems to be one of those who have been born to spend money; and as this girl will have plenty of money to spend, I think it would be a good thing if he were to marry her." Lady Carbury had been seated for nearly half an hour in uncomplaining solitude, when she was delighted by the appearance of Mr. Ferdinand Alf. "You here?" she said. "Why not? Melmotte and I are brother adventurers." "I should have thought you would find little here to amuse you." "I have found you; and, in addition, duchesses and their daughters without number. They expect Prince George! It's quite a success. Don't you think it very nice, Lady Carbury?" "I don't know whether you are joking or not." "I never joke. I say it is very nice. These people are spending thousands upon thousands to gratify you and me and others, and all they want in return is a little attention." "Ah; the attention of the Evening Pulpit. Do you mean to give them that?" "Well; it is not in our line exactly to give a catalogue of names and ladies' dresses. Perhaps it may be better for our host that he should be kept out of the newspapers." "Are you going to be very severe upon poor me, Mr. Alf?" said the lady after a pause. "We are never severe upon anybody, Lady Carbury. Here's the Prince. What will they do with him now they've caught him? Oh, they're going to make him dance with the heiress. Poor heiress!" "Poor Prince!" said Lady Carbury. "Not at all. She's a nice enough little girl. But how is she, poor thing, to talk to royal blood?" Poor thing indeed! The Prince was brought into the room where Marie was with Felix Carbury, and she was informed by Miles Grendall that she was to stand up and dance with royalty. The band were playing a gallop, but that was stopped at once, to the great confusion of the dancers. In two minutes Miles Grendall had made up a set. He stood up with his aunt, the Duchess, opposite Marie and the Prince. Two daughters of the Duchess were present: Sir Felix Carbury, being good-looking and having a name, was made to dance with one of them, and Lord Grasslough with the other. There were four other couples, all made up of titled people, as it was intended that this special dance should be chronicled, if not in the Evening Pulpit, in some less serious journal. A paid reporter was ready to rush off with the list as soon as the dance began. The Prince himself did not quite understand why he was there; he probably knew nothing about the lady's diamonds which had been rescued. Poor Marie looked as though she would have fled had flight been possible. But the trouble passed quickly. The Prince said a word or two, and did not seem to expect a reply. He made a few words go a long way, and was well trained in the work of easing the burden of his own greatness for those who were for the moment inflicted with it. When the dance was over he was allowed to escape after the ceremony of a single glass of champagne drunk with the hostess. The presence of his royal guest was kept secret from the host himself till the Prince was gone. Melmotte would have desired to pour out that glass of wine with his own hands, and would probably have been troublesome and disagreeable. Miles Grendall had understood all this and had managed the affair very well. "Bless my soul - his Royal Highness come and gone!" exclaimed Melmotte. "You and my father were so absorbed at your whist that it was impossible to get you away," said Miles. Melmotte was not a fool, and understood that it had been thought better that he should not speak to the Prince, but also that it might be better that it should be so. He could not have everything at once. Miles Grendall was very useful to him, and he would not quarrel with him just yet. That night before they went to sleep Melmotte required from his weary wife an account of the ball, and of Marie's conduct. "Marie," Madame Melmotte said, "behaved well, but certainly preferred 'Sir Carbury' to any other of the young men." Hitherto Mr. Melmotte had heard very little of "Sir Carbury," except that he was a baronet. Though he was a man of sharp intelligence, he did not yet understand the bearing and sequence of English titles. He knew that he must get for his daughter either an eldest son, or one in possession of a title. Sir Felix was only a baronet; but his son would in course of time also become Sir Felix. Melmotte was not disposed to give any positive orders as to his daughter's conduct to the young baronet. He did not, however, imagine that the young baronet had addressed his girl in the way Felix had when they parted. "You know who it is," he whispered, "likes you better than anyone else in the world." "Nobody does; don't, Sir Felix." "I do," he said as he held her hand for a minute. He looked into her face and she thought it very sweet. He had studied the words, and, repeating them as a lesson, he did it fairly well. He did it well enough at any rate to send the poor girl to bed with a sweet conviction that at last a man had spoken to her whom she could love.

The Way We Live Now

Chapter 4: Madame Melmotte's Ball

Ruby had run away from her lover in great dudgeon after the dance at the Music Hall, and had declared that she never wanted to see him again. But when reflection came with the morning her misery was stronger than her wrath. What would life be to her now without her lover? When she escaped from her grandfather's house she certainly had not intended to become nurse and assistant maid-of-all-work at a London lodging-house. The daily toil she could endure, and the hard life, as long as she was supported by the prospect of some coming delight. A dance with Felix at the Music Hall, though it were three days distant from her, would so occupy her mind that she could wash and dress all the children without complaint. Mrs. Pipkin was forced to own to herself that Ruby did earn her bread. But when she had parted with her lover almost on an understanding that they were never to meet again, things were very different with her. And perhaps she had been wrong. A gentleman like Sir Felix did not of course like to be told about marriage. If she gave him another chance, perhaps he would speak. At any rate she could not live without another dance. And so she wrote him a letter. Ruby was glib enough with her pen, though what she wrote will hardly bear repeating. She underscored all her loves to him. She underscored the expression of her regret if she had vexed him. She did not want to hurry a gentleman. But she did want to have another dance at the Music Hall. Would he be there next Saturday? Sir Felix sent her a very short reply to say that he would be at the Music Hall on the Tuesday. As at this time he proposed to leave London on the Wednesday on his way to New York, he was proposing to devote his very last night to the companionship of Ruby Ruggles. Mrs. Pipkin had never interfered with her niece's letters. It is certainly a part of the new dispensation that young women shall send and receive letters without inspection. But since Roger Carbury's visit Mrs. Pipkin had watched the postman, and had also watched her niece. For nearly a week Ruby said not a word of going out at night. She took the children for an airing in a broken perambulator, nearly as far as Holloway, with exemplary care, and washed up the cups and saucers as though her mind was intent upon them. But Mrs. Pipkin's mind was intent on obeying Mr. Carbury's behests. She had already hinted something as to which Ruby had made no answer. It was her purpose to tell her and to swear to her most solemnly,--should she find her preparing herself to leave the house after six in the evening,--that she should be kept out the whole night, having a purpose equally clear in her own mind that she would break her oath should she be unsuccessful in her effort to keep Ruby at home. But on the Tuesday, when Ruby went up to her room to deck herself, a bright idea as to a better precaution struck Mrs. Pipkin's mind. Ruby had been careless,--had left her lover's scrap of a note in an old pocket when she went out with the children, and Mrs. Pipkin knew all about it. It was nine o'clock when Ruby went up-stairs,--and then Mrs. Pipkin locked both the front door and the area gate. Mrs. Hurtle had come home on the previous day. "You won't be wanting to go out to-night;--will you, Mrs. Hurtle?" said Mrs. Pipkin, knocking at her lodger's door. Mrs. Hurtle declared her purpose of remaining at home all the evening. "If you should hear words between me and my niece, don't you mind, ma'am." "I hope there's nothing wrong, Mrs. Pipkin?" "She'll be wanting to go out, and I won't have it. It isn't right; is it, ma'am? She's a good girl; but they've got such a way nowadays of doing just as they pleases, that one doesn't know what's going to come next." Mrs. Pipkin must have feared downright rebellion when she thus took her lodger into her confidence. Ruby came down in her silk frock, as she had done before, and made her usual little speech. "I'm just going to step out, aunt, for a little time to-night. I've got the key, and I'll let myself in quite quiet." "Indeed, Ruby, you won't," said Mrs. Pipkin. "Won't what, aunt?" "Won't let yourself in, if you go out. If you go out to-night you'll stay out. That's all about it. If you go out to-night you won't come back here any more. I won't have it, and it isn't right that I should. You're going after that young man that they tell me is the greatest scamp in all England." "They tell you lies then, Aunt Pipkin." "Very well. No girl is going out any more at nights out of my house; so that's all about it. If you had told me you was going before, you needn't have gone up and bedizened yourself. For now it's all to take off again." Ruby could hardly believe it. She had expected some opposition,--what she would have called a few words; but she had never imagined that her aunt would threaten to keep her in the streets all night. It seemed to her that she had bought the privilege of amusing herself by hard work. Nor did she believe now that her aunt would be as hard as her threat. "I've a right to go if I like," she said. "That's as you think. You haven't a right to come back again, any way." "Yes, I have. I've worked for you a deal harder than the girl down-stairs, and I don't want no wages. I've a right to go out, and a right to come back;--and go I shall." "You'll be no better than you should be, if you do." "Am I to work my very nails off, and push that perambulator about all day till my legs won't carry me,--and then I ain't to go out, not once in a week?" "Not unless I know more about it, Ruby. I won't have you go and throw yourself into the gutter;--not while you're with me." "Who's throwing themselves into the gutter? I've thrown myself into no gutter. I know what I'm about." "There's two of us that way, Ruby;--for I know what I'm about." "I shall just go then." And Ruby walked off towards the door. "You won't get out that way, any way, for the door's locked;--and the area gate. You'd better be said, Ruby, and just take your things off." Poor Ruby for the moment was struck dumb with mortification. Mrs. Pipkin had given her credit for more outrageous perseverance than she possessed, and had feared that she would rattle at the front door, or attempt to climb over the area gate. She was a little afraid of Ruby, not feeling herself justified in holding absolute dominion over her as over a servant. And though she was now determined in her conduct,--being fully resolved to surrender neither of the keys which she held in her pocket,--still she feared that she might so far collapse as to fall away into tears, should Ruby be violent. But Ruby was crushed. Her lover would be there to meet her, and the appointment would be broken by her! "Aunt Pipkin," she said, "let me go just this once." "No, Ruby;--it ain't proper." "You don't know what you're a' doing of, aunt; you don't. You'll ruin me,--you will. Dear Aunt Pipkin, do, do! I'll never ask again, if you don't like." Mrs. Pipkin had not expected this, and was almost willing to yield. But Mr. Carbury had spoken so very plainly! "It ain't the thing, Ruby; and I won't do it." "And I'm to be--a prisoner! What have I done to be--a prisoner? I don't believe as you've any right to lock me up." "I've a right to lock my own doors." "Then I shall go away to-morrow." "I can't help that, my dear. The door will be open to-morrow, if you choose to go out." "Then why not open it to-night? Where's the difference?" But Mrs. Pipkin was stern, and Ruby, in a flood of tears, took herself up to her garret. Mrs. Pipkin knocked at Mrs. Hurtle's door again. "She's gone to bed," she said. "I'm glad to hear it. There wasn't any noise about it;--was there?" "Not as I expected, Mrs. Hurtle, certainly. But she was put out a bit. Poor girl! I've been a girl too, and used to like a bit of outing as well as any one,--and a dance too; only it was always when mother knew. She ain't got a mother, poor dear! and as good as no father. And she's got it into her head that she's that pretty that a great gentleman will marry her." "She is pretty!" "But what's beauty, Mrs. Hurtle? It's no more nor skin deep, as the scriptures tell us. And what'd a grand gentleman see in Ruby to marry her? She says she'll leave to-morrow." "And where will she go?" "Just nowhere. After this gentleman,--and you know what that means! You're going to be married yourself, Mrs. Hurtle." "We won't mind about that now, Mrs. Pipkin." "And this 'll be your second, and you know how these things are managed. No gentleman 'll marry her because she runs after him. Girls as knows what they're about should let the gentlemen run after them. That's my way of looking at it." "Don't you think they should be equal in that respect?" "Anyways the girls shouldn't let on as they are running after the gentlemen. A gentleman goes here and he goes there, and he speaks up free, of course. In my time, girls usen't to do that. But then, maybe, I'm old-fashioned," added Mrs. Pipkin, thinking of the new dispensation. "I suppose girls do speak for themselves more than they did formerly." "A deal more, Mrs. Hurtle; quite different. You hear them talk of spooning with this fellow, and spooning with that fellow,--and that before their very fathers and mothers! When I was young we used to do it, I suppose,--only not like that." "You did it on the sly." "I think we got married quicker than they do, any way. When the gentlemen had to take more trouble they thought more about it. But if you wouldn't mind speaking to Ruby to-morrow, Mrs. Hurtle, she'd listen to you when she wouldn't mind a word I said to her. I don't want her to go away from this, out into the street, till she knows where she's to go to, decent. As for going to her young man,--that's just walking the streets." Mrs. Hurtle promised that she would speak to Ruby, though when making the promise she could not but think of her unfitness for the task. She knew nothing of the country. She had not a single friend in it, but Paul Montague;--and she had run after him with as little discretion as Ruby Ruggles was showing in running after her lover. Who was she that she should take upon herself to give advice to any female? She had not sent her letter to Paul, but she still kept it in her pocket-book. At some moments she thought that she would send it; and at others she told herself that she would never surrender this last hope till every stone had been turned. It might still be possible to shame him into a marriage. She had returned from Lowestoft on the Monday, and had made some trivial excuse to Mrs. Pipkin in her mildest voice. The place had been windy, and too cold for her;--and she had not liked the hotel. Mrs. Pipkin was very glad to see her back again.

Ruby had run away from her lover in great dudgeon after the dance at the Music Hall, and had declared that she never wanted to see him again. But in the morning she was miserable. What would life be to her now without her lover? When she escaped from her grandfather's house she had not intended to become maid-of-all-work at a London lodging-house. The daily toil she could endure, as long as she was supported by the prospect of some coming delight - like a dance with Felix at the Music Hall. But when she had parted with her lover almost on an understanding that they were never to meet again, things were very different. And perhaps she had been wrong. A gentleman like Sir Felix did not like to be told about marriage. If she gave him another chance, perhaps he would speak. At any rate she could not live without another dance. And so she wrote him a letter. Ruby was glib enough with her pen, though what she wrote will hardly bear repeating. She underscored all her loves to him, and her regret at vexing him. She did not want to hurry a gentleman. But she did want to have another dance at the Music Hall. Would he be there next Saturday? Sir Felix sent her a very short reply to say that he would be at the Music Hall on Tuesday. As he planned to leave London on the Wednesday on his way to New York, he was proposing to devote his very last night to the companionship of Ruby Ruggles. Mrs. Pipkin had never interfered with her niece's letters. But since Roger Carbury's visit she had watched the postman, and had also watched her niece. For nearly a week Ruby said not a word of going out at night. She took the children for an airing with exemplary care, and washed the cups and saucers diligently. But Mrs. Pipkin was intent on obeying Mr. Carbury's requests. She decided to tell Ruby most solemnly, if she found her preparing to leave the house in the evening, that she should be kept out the whole night. On the Tuesday, when Ruby went up to her room to deck herself, she had been careless - she had left her lover's scrap of a note behind when she went out with the children, and Mrs. Pipkin knew all about it. It was nine o'clock when Ruby went upstairs; and Mrs. Pipkin locked both the front door and the area gate. Mrs. Hurtle had come home on the previous day. "You won't be wanting to go out tonight, will you, Mrs. Hurtle?" Mrs. Pipkin asked her. Mrs. Hurtle declared her intention of remaining at home all evening. "If you should hear words between me and my niece, don't you mind, ma'am." "I hope there's nothing wrong, Mrs. Pipkin?" "She'll be wanting to go out, and it isn't right; is it, ma'am? She's a good girl; but they've got such a way nowadays of doing just as they pleases, that one doesn't know what's coming next." Ruby came down in her silk frock, and made her usual speech. "I'm just going to step out, aunt, for a little time tonight. I've got the key, and I'll let myself in quiet." "Indeed, Ruby, you won't," said Mrs. Pipkin. "If you go out tonight you'll stay out. That's all. You won't come back here any more. I won't have it. You're going after that young man that they tell me is the greatest scamp in all England." "They tell lies then, Aunt Pipkin." "Very well. No girl is going out any more at nights out of my house; so that's it. You'd better take your finery off again." Ruby could hardly believe it. She had expected some opposition; but she had never imagined that her aunt would threaten to keep her in the streets all night. Nor did she believe her aunt would be as hard as her threat. "I've a right to go if I like," she said. "You haven't a right to come back again." "Yes, I have. I've worked hard for you, for no wages. I've a right to go out - and go I shall." "You'll be no better than you should be, if you do." "Am I to work my very nails off, and then I ain't to go out, not once a week?" "I won't have you go and throw yourself into the gutter, Ruby - not while you're with me." "Who's throwing themselves into the gutter? I know what I'm about." "And I know what I'm about." "I shall just go then." And Ruby walked off towards the door. "You won't get out that way, for the door's locked; and the area gate. You'd better just take your things off, Ruby." Poor Ruby for the moment was struck dumb. Mrs. Pipkin had feared that she would try to climb over the area gate, for she was a little afraid of Ruby. But Ruby was crushed. Her lover would be there to meet her, and she would not turn up! "Aunt Pipkin," she said, "let me go just this once." "No, Ruby; it ain't proper." "You don't know what you're doing, aunt. You'll ruin me, you will. Dear Aunt Pipkin, do, do! I'll never ask again." Mrs. Pipkin had not expected this, and was almost willing to yield. But Mr. Carbury had spoken so very plainly! "It ain't the thing, Ruby; and I won't do it." "And I'm to be - a prisoner! I don't believe as you've any right to lock me up." "I've a right to lock my own doors." "Then I shall go away tomorrow." "I can't help that, my dear. The door will be open, if you choose to go." "Then why not open it tonight?" But Mrs. Pipkin was stern, and Ruby, in a flood of tears, took herself up to her garret. Mrs. Pipkin knocked at Mrs. Hurtle's door again. "She's gone to bed," she said. "I'm glad to hear it." "She was put out a bit. Poor girl! She ain't got a mother, poor dear! And she's got it into her head that a great gentleman will marry her. But what'd a grand gentleman see in Ruby to marry her? She says she'll leave tomorrow." "And where will she go?" "Just nowhere. After this gentleman - and you know what that means! You're going to be married yourself, Mrs. Hurtle." "We won't mind about that now, Mrs. Pipkin." "But you know how these things are managed. No gentleman'll marry her because she runs after him. Girls should let the gentlemen run after them. Or anyways the girls shouldn't let on as they are running after the gentlemen. But then, maybe, I'm old-fashioned," added Mrs. Pipkin. "But if you wouldn't mind speaking to Ruby tomorrow, Mrs. Hurtle, she'd listen to you. I don't want her to go out into the street, till she knows where she's to go to." Mrs. Hurtle promised that she would speak to Ruby, though she could not help thinking of her unfitness for the task. She knew nothing of the country. She had not a single friend in it but Paul Montague; and she had run after him with as little discretion as Ruby Ruggles. Who was she to give advice? She had not sent her letter to Paul, but still kept it in her pocket-book. At some moments she thought that she would send it; and at others she told herself that it might still be possible to shame him into a marriage. She had returned from Lowestoft on the Monday, and had made some trivial excuse to Mrs. Pipkin in her mildest voice. The place had been windy, and too cold; and she had not liked the hotel. Mrs. Pipkin was very glad to see her back again.

The Way We Live Now

Chapter 48: Ruby a Prisoner

Paul Montague had other troubles on his mind beyond this trouble of the Mexican Railway. It was now more than a fortnight since he had taken Mrs. Hurtle to the play, and she was still living in lodgings at Islington. He had seen her twice, once on the following day, when he was allowed to come and go without any special reference to their engagement, and again, three or four days afterwards, when the meeting was by no means so pleasant. She had wept, and after weeping had stormed. She had stood upon what she called her rights, and had dared him to be false to her. Did he mean to deny that he had promised to marry her? Was not his conduct to her, ever since she had now been in London, a repetition of that promise? And then again she became soft, and pleaded with him. But for the storm he might have given way. At that moment he had felt that any fate in life would be better than a marriage on compulsion. Her tears and her pleadings, nevertheless, touched him very nearly. He had promised her most distinctly. He had loved her and had won her love. And she was lovely. The very violence of the storm made the sunshine more sweet. She would sit down on a stool at his feet, and it was impossible to drive her away from him. She would look up in his face and he could not but embrace her. Then there had come a passionate flood of tears and she was in his arms. How he had escaped he hardly knew, but he did know that he had promised to be with her again before two days should have passed. On the day named he wrote to her a letter excusing himself, which was at any rate true in words. He had been summoned, he said, to Liverpool on business, and must postpone seeing her till his return. And he explained that the business on which he was called was connected with the great American railway, and, being important, demanded his attention. In words this was true. He had been corresponding with a gentleman at Liverpool with whom he had become acquainted on his return home after having involuntarily become a partner in the house of Fisker, Montague, and Montague. This man he trusted and had consulted, and the gentleman, Mr. Ramsbottom by name, had suggested that he should come to him at Liverpool. He had gone, and his conduct at the Board had been the result of the advice which he had received; but it may be doubted whether some dread of the coming interview with Mrs. Hurtle had not added strength to Mr. Ramsbottom's invitation. In Liverpool he had heard tidings of Mrs. Hurtle, though it can hardly be said that he obtained any trustworthy information. The lady after landing from an American steamer had been at Mr. Ramsbottom's office, inquiring for him, Paul; and Mr. Ramsbottom had thought that the inquiries were made in a manner indicating danger. He therefore had spoken to a fellow-traveller with Mrs. Hurtle, and the fellow-traveller had opined that Mrs. Hurtle was "a queer card." "On board ship we all gave it up to her that she was about the handsomest woman we had ever seen, but we all said that there was a bit of the wild cat in her breeding." Then Mr. Ramsbottom had asked whether the lady was a widow. "There was a man on board from Kansas," said the fellow-traveller, "who knew a man named Hurtle at Leavenworth, who was separated from his wife and is still alive. There was, according to him, a queer story about the man and his wife having fought a duel with pistols, and then having separated." This Mr. Ramsbottom, who in an earlier stage of the affair had heard something of Paul and Mrs. Hurtle together, managed to communicate to the young man. His advice about the railway company was very clear and general, and such as an honest man would certainly give; but it might have been conveyed by letter. The information, such as it was, respecting Mrs. Hurtle, could only be given viv voce, and perhaps the invitation to Liverpool had originated in Mr. Ramsbottom's appreciation of this fact. "As she was asking after you here, perhaps it is as well that you should know," his friend said to him. Paul had only thanked him, not daring on the spur of the moment to speak of his own difficulties. In all this there had been increased dismay, but there had also been some comfort. It had only been at moments in which he had been subject to her softer influences that Paul had doubted as to his adherence to the letter which he had written to her, breaking off his engagement. When she told him of her wrongs and of her love; of his promise and his former devotion to her; when she assured him that she had given up everything in life for him, and threw her arms round him, looking into his eyes;--then he would almost yield. But when, what the traveller called the breeding of the wild cat, showed itself;--and when, having escaped from her, he thought of Hetta Carbury and of her breeding,--he was fully determined that, let his fate be what it might, it should not be that of being the husband of Mrs. Hurtle. That he was in a mass of troubles from which it would be very difficult for him to extricate himself he was well aware;--but if it were true that Mr. Hurtle was alive, that fact might help him. She certainly had declared him to be,--not separated, or even divorced,--but dead. And if it were true also that she had fought a duel with one husband, that also ought to be a reason why a gentleman should object to become her second husband. These facts would at any rate justify himself to himself, and would enable himself to break from his engagement without thinking himself to be a false traitor. But he must make up his mind as to some line of conduct. She must be made to know the truth. If he meant to reject the lady finally on the score of her being a wild cat, he must tell her so. He felt very strongly that he must not flinch from the wild cat's claws. That he would have to undergo some severe handling, an amount of clawing which might perhaps go near his life, he could perceive. Having done what he had done he would have no right to shrink from such usage. He must tell her to her face that he was not satisfied with her past life, and that therefore he would not marry her. Of course he might write to her;--but when summoned to her presence he would be unable to excuse himself, even to himself, for not going. It was his misfortune,--and also his fault,--that he had submitted to be loved by a wild cat. But it might be well that before he saw her he should get hold of information that might have the appearance of real evidence. He returned from Liverpool to London on the morning of the Friday on which the Board was held, and thought even more of all this than he did of the attack which he was prepared to make on Mr. Melmotte. If he could come across that traveller he might learn something. The husband's name had been Caradoc Carson Hurtle. If Caradoc Carson Hurtle had been seen in the State of Kansas within the last two years, that certainly would be sufficient evidence. As to the duel he felt that it might be very hard to prove that, and that if proved, it might be hard to found upon the fact any absolute right on his part to withdraw from the engagement. But there was a rumour also, though not corroborated during his last visit to Liverpool, that she had shot a gentleman in Oregon. Could he get at the truth of that story? If they were all true, surely he could justify himself to himself. But this detective's work was very distasteful to him. After having had the woman in his arms how could he undertake such inquiries as these? And it would be almost necessary that he should take her in his arms again while he was making them,--unless indeed he made them with her knowledge. Was it not his duty, as a man, to tell everything to herself? To speak to her thus;--"I am told that your life with your last husband was, to say the least of it, eccentric; that you even fought a duel with him. I could not marry a woman who had fought a duel,--certainly not a woman who had fought with her own husband. I am told also that you shot another gentleman in Oregon. It may well be that the gentleman deserved to be shot; but there is something in the deed so repulsive to me,--no doubt irrationally,--that, on that score also, I must decline to marry you. I am told also that Mr. Hurtle has been seen alive quite lately. I had understood from you that he is dead. No doubt you may have been deceived. But as I should not have engaged myself to you had I known the truth, so now I consider myself justified in absolving myself from an engagement which was based on a misconception." It would no doubt be difficult to get through all these details; but it might be accomplished gradually,--unless in the process of doing so he should incur the fate of the gentleman in Oregon. At any rate he would declare to her as well as he could the ground on which he claimed a right to consider himself free, and would bear the consequences. Such was the resolve which he made on his journey up from Liverpool, and that trouble was also on his mind when he rose up to attack Mr. Melmotte single-handed at the Board. When the Board was over, he also went down to the Beargarden. Perhaps, with reference to the Board, the feeling which hurt him most was the conviction that he was spending money which he would never have had to spend had there been no Board. He had been twitted with this at the Board-meeting, and had justified himself by referring to the money which had been invested in the Company of Fisker, Montague, and Montague, which money was now supposed to have been made over to the railway. But the money which he was spending had come to him after a loose fashion, and he knew that if called upon for an account, he could hardly make out one which would be square and intelligible to all parties. Nevertheless he spent much of his time at the Beargarden, dining there when no engagement carried him elsewhere. On this evening he joined his table with Nidderdale's, at the young lord's instigation. "What made you so savage at old Melmotte to-day?" said the young lord. "I didn't mean to be savage, but I think that as we call ourselves Directors we ought to know something about it." "I suppose we ought. I don't know, you know. I'll tell you what I've been thinking. I can't make out why the mischief they made me a Director." "Because you're a lord," said Paul bluntly. "I suppose there's something in that. But what good can I do them? Nobody thinks that I know anything about business. Of course I'm in Parliament, but I don't often go there unless they want me to vote. Everybody knows that I'm hard up. I can't understand it. The Governor said that I was to do it, and so I've done it." "They say, you know,--there's something between you and Melmotte's daughter." "But if there is, what has that to do with a railway in the city? And why should Carbury be there? And, heaven and earth, why should old Grendall be a Director? I'm impecunious; but if you were to pick out the two most hopeless men in London in regard to money, they would be old Grendall and young Carbury. I've been thinking a good deal about it, and I can't make it out." "I have been thinking about it too," said Paul. "I suppose old Melmotte is all right?" asked Nidderdale. This was a question which Montague found it difficult to answer. How could he be justified in whispering suspicions to the man who was known to be at any rate one of the competitors for Marie Melmotte's hand? "You can speak out to me, you know," said Nidderdale, nodding his head. "I've got nothing to speak. People say that he is about the richest man alive." "He lives as though he were." "I don't see why it shouldn't be all true. Nobody, I take it, knows very much about him." When his companion had left him, Nidderdale sat down, thinking of it all. It occurred to him that he would "be coming a cropper rather," were he to marry Melmotte's daughter for her money, and then find that she had got none. A little later in the evening he invited Montague to go up to the card-room. "Carbury, and Grasslough, and Dolly Longestaffe are there waiting," he said. But Paul declined. He was too full of his troubles for play. "Poor Miles isn't there, if you're afraid of that," said Nidderdale. "Miles Grendall wouldn't hinder me," said Montague. "Nor me either. Of course it's a confounded shame. I know that as well as any body. But, God bless me, I owe a fellow down in Leicestershire heaven knows how much for keeping horses, and that's a shame." "You'll pay him some day." "I suppose I shall,--if I don't die first. But I should have gone on with the horses just the same if there had never been anything to come;--only they wouldn't have given me tick, you know. As far as I'm concerned it's just the same. I like to live whether I've got money or not. And I fear I don't have many scruples about paying. But then I like to let live too. There's Carbury always saying nasty things about poor Miles. He's playing himself without a rap to back him. If he were to lose, Vossner wouldn't stand him a 10 note. But because he has won, he goes on as though he were old Melmotte himself. You'd better come up." But Montague wouldn't go up. Without any fixed purpose he left the club, and slowly sauntered northwards through the streets till he found himself in Welbeck Street. He hardly knew why he went there, and certainly had not determined to call on Lady Carbury when he left the Beargarden. His mind was full of Mrs. Hurtle. As long as she was present in London,--as long at any rate as he was unable to tell himself that he had finally broken away from her,--he knew himself to be an unfit companion for Henrietta Carbury. And, indeed, he was still under some promise made to Roger Carbury, not that he would avoid Hetta's company, but that for a certain period, as yet unexpired, he would not ask her to be his wife. It had been a foolish promise, made and then repented without much attention to words;--but still it was existing, and Paul knew well that Roger trusted that it would be kept. Nevertheless Paul made his way up to Welbeck Street and almost unconsciously knocked at the door. No;--Lady Carbury was not at home. She was out somewhere with Mr. Roger Carbury. Up to that moment Paul had not heard that Roger was in town; but the reader may remember that he had come up in search of Ruby Ruggles. Miss Carbury was at home, the page went on to say. Would Mr. Montague go up and see Miss Carbury? Without much consideration Mr. Montague said that he would go up and see Miss Carbury. "Mamma is out with Roger," said Hetta endeavouring to save herself from confusion. "There is a soire of learned people somewhere, and she made poor Roger take her. The ticket was only for her and her friend, and therefore I could not go." "I am so glad to see you. What an age it is since we met." "Hardly since the Melmottes' ball," said Hetta. "Hardly indeed. I have been here once since that. What has brought Roger up to town?" "I don't know what it is. Some mystery, I think. Whenever there is a mystery I am always afraid that there is something wrong about Felix. I do get so unhappy about Felix, Mr. Montague." "I saw him to-day in the city, at the Railway Board." "But Roger says the Railway Board is all a sham,"--Paul could not keep himself from blushing as he heard this,--"and that Felix should not be there. And then there is something going on about that horrid man's daughter." "She is to marry Lord Nidderdale, I think." "Is she? They are talking of her marrying Felix, and of course it is for her money. And I believe that man is determined to quarrel with them." "What man, Miss Carbury?" "Mr. Melmotte himself. It's all horrid from beginning to end." "But I saw them in the city to-day and they seemed to be the greatest friends. When I wanted to see Mr. Melmotte he bolted himself into an inner room, but he took your brother with him. He would not have done that if they had not been friends. When I saw it I almost thought that he had consented to the marriage." "Roger has the greatest dislike to Mr. Melmotte." "I know he has," said Paul. "And Roger is always right. It is always safe to trust him. Don't you think so, Mr. Montague?" Paul did think so, and was by no means disposed to deny to his rival the praise which rightly belonged to him; but still he found the subject difficult. "Of course I will never go against mamma," continued Hetta, "but I always feel that my Cousin Roger is a rock of strength, so that if one did whatever he said one would never get wrong. I never found any one else that I thought that of, but I do think it of him." "No one has more reason to praise him than I have." "I think everybody has reason to praise him that has to do with him. And I'll tell you why I think it is. Whenever he thinks anything he says it;--or, at least, he never says anything that he doesn't think. If he spent a thousand pounds, everybody would know that he'd got it to spend; but other people are not like that." "You're thinking of Melmotte." "I'm thinking of everybody, Mr. Montague;--of everybody except Roger." "Is he the only man you can trust? But it is abominable to me to seem even to contradict you. Roger Carbury has been to me the best friend that any man ever had. I think as much of him as you do." "I didn't say he was the only person;--or I didn't mean to say so. But of all my friends--" "Am I among the number, Miss Carbury?" "Yes;--I suppose so. Of course you are. Why not? Of course you are a friend,--because you are his friend." "Look here, Hetta," he said. "It is no good going on like this. I love Roger Carbury,--as well as one man can love another. He is all that you say,--and more. You hardly know how he denies himself, and how he thinks of everybody near him. He is a gentleman all round and every inch. He never lies. He never takes what is not his own. I believe he does love his neighbour as himself." "Oh, Mr. Montague! I am so glad to hear you speak of him like that." "I love him better than any man,--as well as a man can love a man. If you will say that you love him as well as a woman can love a man,--I will leave England at once, and never return to it." "There's mamma," said Henrietta;--for at that moment there was a double knock at the door.

Paul Montague had other troubles on his mind. It was now more than a fortnight since he had taken Mrs. Hurtle to the play. He had seen her twice since, once on the following day, when she had not mentioned their engagement, and again, three or four days afterwards, when the meeting was by no means so pleasant. She had wept and stormed. She had dared him to be false to her. Did he deny that he had promised to marry her? Were his visits not a repetition of that promise? And then she became soft, and pleaded. But for the storm, he might have given way. Her tears and pleadings touched him. He had loved her and had won her love. And she was lovely. It was impossible to drive her away from him. She would look up in his face and he could not help embracing her. Then there had come a passionate flood of tears and she was in his arms. How he had escaped he hardly knew, but he did know that he had promised to be with her again in two days. On the day he wrote her a letter excusing himself. He had been summoned, he said, to Liverpool on business connected with the great American railway, and must postpone seeing her till his return. This was true. He had been corresponding with a Mr. Ramsbottom at Liverpool since having become a partner in the house of Fisker, Montague, and Montague. Mr. Ramsbottom, whom he consulted and trusted, had suggested that he should come to him at Liverpool. He went, and his conduct at the Board was the result of the advice which he had received. In Liverpool he heard tidings of Mrs. Hurtle, though hardly trustworthy information. The lady, after landing from an American steamer, had inquired for Paul, in a manner that Mr. Ramsbottom thought indicated danger. He had spoken about her with a fellow-traveller, who had said that Mrs. Hurtle was "a queer card." "On board ship we reckoned she was about the handsomest woman we had ever seen, but we all said that there was a bit of the wild cat in her breeding." Then Mr. Ramsbottom had asked whether the lady was a widow. "There was a man on board from Kansas," said the fellow-traveller, "who knew a man named Hurtle, who was separated from his wife and is still alive. There was a queer story about the man and his wife having fought a duel with pistols." This information about Mrs. Hurtle could only be given to Paul face to face, which is why Mr. Ramsbottom had invited him to Liverpool. "It is as well that you should know," his friend said to him. Paul had thanked him, not daring to speak of his own difficulties with the lady. In all this there had been increased dismay, but also some comfort. Sometimes Paul had doubted whether he should break off his engagement. When she assured him that she had given up everything in life for him, and threw her arms round him - then he would almost yield. But when what the traveller had called the wild cat showed itself - and when, having escaped from her, he thought of Hetta Carbury - he was fully determined that he would not marry Mrs. Hurtle. That he was tangled in a mass of troubles he was well aware; but if it were true that Mr. Hurtle was alive, that fact might help him. She certainly had declared him to be dead. And if it were true also that she had fought a duel with one husband, that also ought to justify him in breaking from his engagement. He must make up his mind what to do. If he meant to reject the lady finally on the score of her being a wild cat, he must tell her so. He felt very strongly that he must not flinch from the wild cat's claws. That he would have to undergo some mauling and clawing, he understood. He must tell her to her face that he was not satisfied with her past life, and that therefore he would not marry her. But before he saw her it would be as well to get some real evidence. He returned from Liverpool to London on the morning on which the Board was held, and thought even more of all this than he did of his attack on Mr. Melmotte. The husband's name had been Caradoc Carson Hurtle. If he had been seen in the State of Kansas within the last two years, that certainly would be evidence. As to the duel, he felt that it might be very hard to prove that. But there was a rumour also that she had shot a gentleman in Oregon. Could he get at the truth of that story? However, this detective's work was very distasteful to him. After having had the woman in his arms how could he make such inquiries? And it would be almost necessary that he should take her in his arms again while he was making them, unless he told her outright that he would not marry her because of what he had heard. In so doing he might incur the fate of the gentleman in Oregon. At any rate he would declare the ground on which he considered himself free, and would bear the consequences. This was the resolve in his mind when he rose up to attack Mr. Melmotte at the Board. When the Board was over, he went down to the Beargarden, where he often dined. This evening he sat with Nidderdale, at the young lord's instigation. "What made you so savage at old Melmotte today?" said Nidderdale. "I didn't mean to be savage, but I think that as Directors we ought to know something about it." "I suppose we ought. I don't know. I can't make out why the mischief they made me a Director." "Because you're a lord," said Paul bluntly. "But what good can I do them? Nobody thinks that I know anything about business. Of course I'm in Parliament, but I don't often go there unless they want me to vote. I can't understand it. The Governor said that I was to do it, and so I've done it." "They say, you know - there's something between you and Melmotte's daughter." "But what has that to do with a railway? And why should Carbury be there? And why on earth should old Grendall be a Director? If you were to pick out the two most hopeless men in London in regard to money, they would be old Grendall and young Carbury. I've been thinking a good deal about it, and I can't make it out." "I have been thinking about it too," said Paul. "I suppose old Melmotte is all right?" This was a question which Paul found it difficult to answer. How could he whisper suspicions to the man who was a competitor for Marie Melmotte's hand? "You can speak out to me, you know," said Nidderdale. "I've got nothing to speak. People say that he is the richest man alive. I don't see why it shouldn't be true. Nobody knows very much about him." It occurred to Nidderdale that he would "come a cropper" were he to marry Melmotte's daughter for her money, and then find that she had got none. After dinner he invited Montague to go up to the card-room. "Carbury, and Grasslough, and Dolly Longestaffe are there," he said. But Paul declined. He left the club, and slowly sauntered northwards through the streets till he found himself in Welbeck Street; he hardly knew why. He had certainly intended to call on Lady Carbury. But his mind was full of Mrs. Hurtle. And, indeed, he was still under some promise made to Roger Carbury, that for a certain period, still unexpired, he would not ask Hetta to be his wife. It had been a foolish promise, made and then repented; but still it existed, and Paul knew that Roger trusted that it would be kept. Nevertheless Paul made his way up to Welbeck Street and almost unconsciously knocked at the door. No; Lady Carbury was not at home. She was out somewhere with Mr. Roger Carbury. Up to that moment Paul had not heard that Roger was in town; but the reader may remember that he had come in search of Ruby Ruggles. Miss Carbury was at home, the servant said. Would Mr. Montague go up and see her? Without considering, Mr. Montague said that he would. "Mamma is out with Roger," said Hetta, trying to save herself from confusion. "She made him take her to some soire of learned people." "I am so glad to see you. What an age it is since we met. What has brought Roger up to town?" "I don't know. Some mystery, I think. Whenever there is a mystery I am always afraid that there is something wrong about Felix." "I saw Felix today, at the Railway Board." "Roger says the Railway Board is all a sham." Paul could not help blushing as he heard this. "And there is something going on about that horrid man's daughter." "She is to marry Lord Nidderdale, I think." "Is she? They are talking of her marrying Felix, for her money of course. And I believe Mr. Melmotte is determined to quarrel with them. It's all horrid from beginning to end." "But today they seemed to be the greatest friends. Mr. Melmotte asked your brother into an inner room with him, as if they were friends." "Roger greatly dislikes Mr. Melmotte. And it is always safe to trust Roger. Don't you think so, Mr. Montague?" Paul did think so; but he found the subject difficult. "Of course I will never go against mamma," continued Hetta, "but I always feel that my Cousin Roger is a rock of strength, so that if one did whatever he said one would never go wrong." "No one has more reason to praise him than I have." "I think everybody who knows him has reason to praise him." "Is he the only man you can trust? But I should not contradict you. Roger Carbury has been the best friend that any man ever had." "I didn't say he was the only person. But of all my friends-" "Am I among the number, Miss Carbury?" "Yes; why not? Of course you are a friend - because you are his friend." "Look here, Hetta," he said. "It is no good going on like this. I love Roger Carbury. He is all that you say, and more. He is a gentleman every inch. He never lies. He never takes what is not his own. I believe he does love his neighbour as himself." "Oh, Mr. Montague! I am so glad to hear you speak of him like that." "I love him as well as a man can love a man. If you say that you love him as well as a woman can love a man, I will leave England at once, and never return." "There's mamma," said Henrietta; for at that moment there was a knock at the door.

The Way We Live Now

Chapter 38: Paul Montague's Troubles

In the meantime great preparations were going on down in Suffolk for the marriage of that happiest of lovers, John Crumb. John Crumb had been up to London, had been formally reconciled to Ruby,--who had submitted to his floury embraces, not with the best grace in the world, but still with a submission that had satisfied her future husband,--had been intensely grateful to Mrs. Hurtle, and almost munificent in liberality to Mrs. Pipkin, to whom he presented a purple silk dress, in addition to the cloak which he had given on a former occasion. During this visit he had expressed no anger against Ruby, and no indignation in reference to the baronite. When informed by Mrs. Pipkin, who hoped thereby to please him, that Sir Felix was supposed to be still "all one mash of gore," he blandly smiled, remarking that no man could be much the worse for a "few sich taps as them." He only stayed a few hours in London, but during these few hours he settled everything. When Mrs. Pipkin suggested that Ruby should be married from her house, he winked his eye as he declined the suggestion with thanks. Daniel Ruggles was old, and, under the influence of continued gin and water, was becoming feeble. John Crumb was of opinion that the old man should not be neglected, and hinted that with a little care the five hundred pounds which had originally been promised as Ruby's fortune, might at any rate be secured. He was of opinion that the marriage should be celebrated in Suffolk,--the feast being spread at Sheep's Acre farm, if Dan Ruggles could be talked into giving it,--and if not, at his own house. When both the ladies explained to him that this last proposition was not in strict accordance with the habits of the fashionable world, John expressed an opinion that, under the peculiar circumstances of his marriage, the ordinary laws of the world might be suspended. "It ain't jist like other folks, after all as we've been through," said he,--meaning probably to imply that having had to fight for his wife, he was entitled to give a breakfast on the occasion if he pleased. But whether the banquet was to be given by the bride's grandfather or by himself,--he was determined that there should be a banquet, and that he would bid the guests. He invited both Mrs. Pipkin and Mrs. Hurtle, and at last succeeded in inducing Mrs. Hurtle to promise that she would bring Mrs. Pipkin down to Bungay, for the occasion. Then it was necessary to fix the day, and for this purpose it was of course essential that Ruby should be consulted. During the discussion as to the feast and the bridegroom's entreaties that the two ladies would be present, she had taken no part in the matter in hand. She was brought up to be kissed, and having been duly kissed she retired again among the children, having only expressed one wish of her own,--namely, that Joe Mixet might not have anything to do with the affair. But the day could not be fixed without her, and she was summoned. Crumb had been absurdly impatient, proposing next Tuesday,--making his proposition on a Friday. They could cook enough meat for all Bungay to eat by Tuesday, and he was aware of no other cause for delay. "That's out of the question," Ruby had said decisively, and as the two elder ladies had supported her Mr. Crumb yielded with a good grace. He did not himself appreciate the reasons given because, as he remarked, gowns can be bought ready made at any shop. But Mrs. Pipkin told him with a laugh that he didn't know anything about it, and when the 14th of August was named he only scratched his head and, muttering something about Thetford fair, agreed that he would, yet once again, allow love to take precedence of business. If Tuesday would have suited the ladies as well he thought that he might have managed to combine the marriage and the fair, but when Mrs. Pipkin told him that he must not interfere any further, he yielded with a good grace. He merely remained in London long enough to pay a friendly visit to the policeman who had locked him up, and then returned to Suffolk, revolving in his mind how glorious should be the matrimonial triumph which he had at last achieved. Before the day arrived, old Ruggles had been constrained to forgive his granddaughter, and to give a general assent to the marriage. When John Crumb, with a sound of many trumpets, informed all Bungay that he had returned victorious from London, and that after all the ups and downs of his courtship Ruby was to become his wife on a fixed day, all Bungay took his part, and joined in a general attack upon Mr. Daniel Ruggles. The cross-grained old man held out for a long time, alleging that the girl was no better than she should be, and that she had run away with the baronite. But this assertion was met by so strong a torrent of contradiction, that the farmer was absolutely driven out of his own convictions. It is to be feared that many lies were told on Ruby's behalf by lips which had been quite ready a fortnight since to take away her character. But it had become an acknowledged fact in Bungay that John Crumb was ready at any hour to punch the head of any man who should hint that Ruby Ruggles had, at any period of her life, done any act or spoken any word unbecoming a young lady; and so strong was the general belief in John Crumb, that Ruby became the subject of general eulogy from all male lips in the town. And though perhaps some slight suspicion of irregular behaviour up in London might be whispered by the Bungay ladies among themselves, still the feeling in favour of Mr. Crumb was so general, and his constancy was so popular, that the grandfather could not stand against it. "I don't see why I ain't to do as I likes with my own," he said to Joe Mixet, the baker, who went out to Sheep's Acre Farm as one of many deputations sent by the municipality of Bungay. "She's your own flesh and blood, Mr. Ruggles," said the baker. "No; she ain't;--no more than she's a Pipkin. She's taken up with Mrs. Pipkin jist because I hate the Pipkinses. Let Mrs. Pipkin give 'em a breakfast." "She is your own flesh and blood,--and your name, too, Mr. Ruggles. And she's going to be the respectable wife of a respectable man, Mr. Ruggles." "I won't give 'em no breakfast;--that's flat," said the farmer. But he had yielded in the main when he allowed himself to base his opposition on one immaterial detail. The breakfast was to be given at the King's Head, and, though it was acknowledged on all sides that no authority could be found for such a practice, it was known that the bill was to be paid by the bridegroom. Nor would Mr. Ruggles pay the five hundred pounds down as in early days he had promised to do. He was very clear in his mind that his undertaking on that head was altogether cancelled by Ruby's departure from Sheep's Acre. When he was reminded that he had nearly pulled his granddaughter's hair out of her head, and had thus justified her act of rebellion, he did not contradict the assertion, but implied that if Ruby did not choose to earn her fortune on such terms as those, that was her fault. It was not to be supposed that he was to give a girl, who was after all as much a Pipkin as a Ruggles, five hundred pounds for nothing. But, in return for that night's somewhat harsh treatment of Ruby, he did at last consent to have the money settled upon John Crumb at his death,--an arrangement which both the lawyer and Joe Mixet thought to be almost as good as a free gift, being both of them aware that the consumption of gin and water was on the increase. And he, moreover, was persuaded to receive Mrs. Pipkin and Ruby at the farm for the night previous to the marriage. This very necessary arrangement was made by Mr. Mixet's mother, a most respectable old lady, who went out in a fly from the inn attired in her best black silk gown and an overpowering bonnet, an old lady from whom her son had inherited his eloquence, who absolutely shamed the old man into compliance,--not, however, till she had promised to send out the tea and white sugar and box of biscuits which were thought to be necessary for Mrs. Pipkin on the evening preceding the marriage. A private sitting-room at the inn was secured for the special accommodation of Mrs. Hurtle,--who was supposed to be a lady of too high standing to be properly entertained at Sheep's Acre Farm. On the day preceding the wedding one trouble for a moment clouded the bridegroom's brow. Ruby had demanded that Joe Mixet should not be among the performers, and John Crumb, with the urbanity of a lover, had assented to her demand,--as far, at least, as silence can give consent. And yet he felt himself unable to answer such interrogatories as the parson might put to him without the assistance of his friend, although he devoted much study to the matter. "You could come in behind like, Joe, just as if I knew nothin' about it," suggested Crumb. "Don't you say a word of me, and she won't say nothing, you may be sure. You ain't going to give in to all her cantraps that way, John?" John shook his head and rubbed the meal about on his forehead. "It was only just something for her to say. What have I done that she should object to me?" "You didn't ever go for to--kiss her,--did you, Joe?" "What a one'er you are! That wouldn't 'a set her again me. It is just because I stood up and spoke for you like a man that night at Sheep's Acre, when her mind was turned the other way. Don't you notice nothing about it. When we're all in the church she won't go back because Joe Mixet's there. I'll bet you a gallon, old fellow, she and I are the best friends in Bungay before six months are gone." "Nay, nay; she must have a better friend than thee, Joe, or I must know the reason why." But John Crumb's heart was too big for jealousy, and he agreed at last that Joe Mixet should be his best man, undertaking to "square it all" with Ruby, after the ceremony. He met the ladies at the station and,--for him,--was quite eloquent in his welcome to Mrs. Hurtle and Mrs. Pipkin. To Ruby he said but little. But he looked at her in her new hat, and generally bright in subsidiary wedding garments, with great delight. "Ain't she bootiful now?" he said aloud to Mrs. Hurtle on the platform, to the great delight of half Bungay, who had accompanied him on the occasion. Ruby, hearing her praises thus sung, made a fearful grimace as she turned round to Mrs. Pipkin, and whispered to her aunt, so that those only who were within a yard or two could hear her; "He is such a fool!" Then he conducted Mrs. Hurtle in an omnibus up to the Inn, and afterwards himself drove Mrs. Pipkin and Ruby out to Sheep's Acre; in the performance of all which duties he was dressed in the green cutaway coat with brass buttons which had been expressly made for his marriage. "Thou'rt come back then, Ruby," said the old man. "I ain't going to trouble you long, grandfather," said the girl. "So best;--so best. And this is Mrs. Pipkin?" "Yes, Mr. Ruggles; that's my name." "I've heard your name. I've heard your name, and I don't know as I ever want to hear it again. But they say as you've been kind to that girl as 'd 'a been on the town only for that." "Grandfather, that ain't true," said Ruby with energy. The old man made no rejoinder, and Ruby was allowed to take her aunt up into the bedroom which they were both to occupy. "Now, Mrs. Pipkin, just you say," pleaded Ruby, "how was it possible for any girl to live with an old man like that?" "But, Ruby, you might always have gone to live with the young man instead when you pleased." "You mean John Crumb." "Of course I mean John Crumb, Ruby." "There ain't much to choose between 'em. What one says is all spite; and the other man says nothing at all." "Oh Ruby, Ruby," said Mrs. Pipkin, with solemnly persuasive voice, "I hope you'll come to learn some day, that a loving heart is better nor a fickle tongue,--specially with vittels certain." On the following morning the Bungay church bells rang merrily, and half its population was present to see John Crumb made a happy man. He himself went out to the farm and drove the bride and Mrs. Pipkin into the town, expressing an opinion that no hired charioteer would bring them so safely as he would do himself; nor did he think it any disgrace to be seen performing this task before his marriage. He smiled and nodded at every one, now and then pointing back with his whip to Ruby when he met any of his specially intimate friends, as though he would have said, "See, I've got her at last in spite of all difficulties." Poor Ruby, in her misery under this treatment, would have escaped out of the cart had it been possible. But now she was altogether in the man's hands and no escape was within her reach. "What's the odds?" said Mrs. Pipkin as they settled their bonnets in a room at the Inn just before they entered the church. "Drat it,--you make me that angry I'm half minded to cuff you. Ain't he fond o' you? Ain't he got a house of his own? Ain't he well to do all round? Manners! What's manners? I don't see nothing amiss in his manners. He means what he says, and I call that the best of good manners." Ruby, when she reached the church, had been too completely quelled by outward circumstances to take any notice of Joe Mixet, who was standing there, quite unabashed, with a splendid nosegay in his button-hole. She certainly had no right on this occasion to complain of her husband's silence. Whereas she could hardly bring herself to utter the responses in a voice loud enough for the clergyman to catch the familiar words, he made his assertions so vehemently that they were heard throughout the whole building. "I, John,--take thee Ruby,--to my wedded wife,--to 'ave and to 'old,--from this day forrard,--for better nor worser,--for richer nor poorer--;" and so on to the end. And when he came to the "worldly goods" with which he endowed his Ruby, he was very emphatic indeed. Since the day had been fixed he had employed all his leisure-hours in learning the words by heart, and would now hardly allow the clergyman to say them before him. He thoroughly enjoyed the ceremony, and would have liked to be married over and over again, every day for a week, had it been possible. And then there came the breakfast, to which he marshalled the way up the broad stairs of the inn at Bungay, with Mrs. Hurtle on one arm and Mrs. Pipkin on the other. He had been told that he ought to take his wife's arm on this occasion, but he remarked that he meant to see a good deal of her in future, and that his opportunities of being civil to Mrs. Hurtle and Mrs. Pipkin would be rare. Thus it came to pass that, in spite of all that poor Ruby had said, she was conducted to the marriage-feast by Joe Mixet himself. Ruby, I think, had forgotten the order which she had given in reference to the baker. When desiring that she might see nothing more of Joe Mixet, she had been in her pride;--but now she was so tamed and quelled by the outward circumstances of her position, that she was glad to have some one near her who knew how to behave himself. "Mrs. Crumb, you have my best wishes for your continued 'ealth and 'appiness," said Joe Mixet in a whisper. "It's very good of you to say so, Mr. Mixet." "He's a good 'un; is he." "Oh, I dare say." "You just be fond of him and stroke him down, and make much of him, and I'm blessed if you mayn't do a'most anything with him,--all's one as a babby." "A man shouldn't be all's one as a babby, Mr. Mixet." "And he don't drink hard, but he works hard, and go where he will he can hold his own." Ruby said no more, and soon found herself seated by her husband's side. It certainly was wonderful to her that so many people should pay John Crumb so much respect, and should seem to think so little of the meal and flour which pervaded his countenance. After the breakfast, or "bit of dinner," as John Crumb would call it, Mr. Mixet of course made a speech. "He had had the pleasure of knowing John Crumb for a great many years, and the honour of being acquainted with Miss Ruby Ruggles,--he begged all their pardons, and should have said Mrs. John Crumb,--ever since she was a child." "That's a downright story," said Ruby in a whisper to Mrs. Hurtle. "And he'd never known two young people more fitted by the gifts of nature to contribute to one another's 'appinesses. He had understood that Mars and Wenus always lived on the best of terms, and perhaps the present company would excuse him if he likened this 'appy young couple to them two 'eathen gods and goddesses. For Miss Ruby,--Mrs. Crumb he should say,--was certainly lovely as ere a Wenus as ever was; and as for John Crumb, he didn't believe that ever a Mars among 'em could stand again him. He didn't remember just at present whether Mars and Wenus had any young family, but he hoped that before long there would be any number of young Crumbs for the Bungay birds to pick up. 'Appy is the man as 'as his quiver full of 'em,--and the woman too, if you'll allow me to say so, Mrs. Crumb." The speech, of which only a small sample can be given here, was very much admired by the ladies and gentlemen present,--with the single exception of poor Ruby, who would have run away and locked herself in an inner chamber had she not been certain that she would be brought back again. [Illustration: The happy bridegroom.] In the afternoon John took his bride to Lowestoft, and brought her back to all the glories of his own house on the following day. His honeymoon was short, but its influence on Ruby was beneficent. When she was alone with the man, knowing that he was her husband, and thinking something of all that he had done to win her to be his wife, she did learn to respect him. "Now, Ruby, give a fellow a buss,--as though you meant it," he said, when the first fitting occasion presented itself. "Oh, John,--what nonsense!" "It ain't nonsense to me, I can tell you. I'd sooner have a kiss from you than all the wine as ever was swallowed." Then she did kiss him, "as though she meant it;" and when she returned with him to Bungay the next day, she had made up her mind that she would endeavour to do her duty by him as his wife.

In the meantime great preparations were going on down in Suffolk for the marriage of that happiest of lovers, John Crumb. He had been formally reconciled to Ruby - who had submitted to his floury embraces, not with the best grace in the world, but still with a submission that satisfied her future husband. He had been intensely grateful to Mrs. Hurtle, and munificent to Mrs. Pipkin, to whom he presented a purple silk dress, in addition to the cloak which he had already given her. He had expressed no anger against Ruby, and no indignation about the baronite. He only stayed a few hours in London, but during these few hours he settled everything. When Mrs. Pipkin suggested that Ruby should be married from her house, he declined the suggestion with thanks. He thought that the marriage should be celebrated in Suffolk - the feast being spread at Sheep's Acre farm, if old Ruggles could be talked into giving it; if not, at his own house. Either way, he was determined that there should be a banquet, and succeeded in making Mrs. Hurtle promise to bring Mrs. Pipkin down to Bungay for the occasion. Then it was necessary to fix the day. Ruby only expressed one wish of her own: namely, that Joe Mixet might not have anything to do with the affair. Crumb had been absurdly impatient, proposing next Tuesday. "That's out of the question," Ruby had said decisively, and the other ladies agreed. When the 14th of August was named John Crumb scratched his head and muttered something about Thetford fair; but on Mrs. Pipkin telling him that he must not interfere any further, he yielded with a good grace. He merely remained in London long enough to pay a friendly visit to the policeman who had locked him up, and then returned to Suffolk. Before the day arrived, old Ruggles had been persuaded to forgive his granddaughter, and agree to the marriage. The old man held out for a long time, alleging that the girl was no better than she should be; but all the town met this with such a torrent of contradiction that the farmer was driven out of his own convictions. It is to be feared that many lies were told on Ruby's behalf by lips which had been quite ready a fortnight earlier to take away her character. But it was known that John Crumb was ready to punch the head of any man who should hint that Ruby Ruggles had ever done anything unbecoming. And the feeling in favour of Mr. Crumb was so general that the grandfather could not stand against it. Old Mr. Ruggles held out on one detail. The breakfast was to be given at the King's Head, and the bill was to be paid by the bridegroom. Nor would Mr. Ruggles pay the five hundred pounds down as in early days he had promised to do. But he did at last consent to have the money settled upon John Crumb at his death; and moreover was persuaded to receive Mrs. Pipkin and Ruby at the farm for the night before the marriage. A private sitting-room at the inn was secured for Mrs. Hurtle - who was supposed to be a lady of too high standing to stay at Sheep's Acre Farm. On the day before the wedding one trouble for a moment clouded the bridegroom's brow. Ruby had demanded that Joe Mixet should not be among the performers, and John Crumb had agreed. Yet he felt himself unable to answer such questions as the parson might put to him without the assistance of his friend. "You could come in behind like, Joe, just as if I knew nothin' about it," suggested Crumb. "What have I done that she should object to me?" "You didn't ever go for to - kiss her, did you, Joe?" "What a one'er you are! That wouldn't 'a set her again me. It is just because I stood up and spoke for you like a man that night at Sheep's Acre. I'll bet you a gallon, old fellow, she and I are the best friends in Bungay before six months are gone." So John Crumb agreed that Joe Mixet should be his best man, undertaking to "square it all" with Ruby after the ceremony. He met the ladies at the station and - for him - was quite eloquent in his welcome to Mrs. Hurtle and Mrs. Pipkin. To Ruby he said but little. But he looked at her in her new hat and outfit with great delight. "Ain't she bootiful now?" he said aloud to Mrs. Hurtle on the platform, to the delight of half Bungay, who had accompanied him. Ruby made a fearful grimace as she turned round to Mrs. Pipkin, and whispered, "He is such a fool!" Then he conducted Mrs. Hurtle up to the Inn, and himself drove Mrs. Pipkin and Ruby out to Sheep's Acre. "Thou'rt come back then, Ruby," said the old man. "I ain't going to trouble you long, grandfather," said the girl. "So best. And this is Mrs. Pipkin? They say as you've been kind to that girl as would 'a been on the town only for that." "Grandfather, that ain't true," said Ruby with energy. The old man made no rejoinder, and Ruby took her aunt up into the bedroom. "Now, Mrs. Pipkin," pleaded Ruby, "how was it possible for any girl to live with an old man like that?" "But, Ruby, you might have gone to live with John Crumb instead when you pleased." "There ain't much to choose between 'em. What one says is all spite; and the other says nothing at all." "Oh Ruby, Ruby," said Mrs. Pipkin solemnly, "You'll come to learn some day, that a loving heart is better nor a fickle tongue, specially with vittels certain." On the following morning the Bungay church bells rang merrily, and half its population was present to see John Crumb made a happy man. He himself drove the bride and Mrs. Pipkin into the town, smiling and nodding at every one. Poor Ruby would have escaped out of the cart had it been possible. But no escape was within her reach. "Drat it," said Mrs. Pipkin, just before they entered the church, "you make me that angry I'm half minded to cuff you. Ain't he fond o' you? Ain't he got a house? Ain't he well to do all round?" Ruby, when she reached the church, was too completely quelled to take any notice of Joe Mixet, who was standing there, unabashed, with a splendid nosegay in his button-hole. She certainly could not complain of her husband's silence. He made his responses to the clergyman so vehemently that they were heard throughout the whole building. "I, John - take thee Ruby - to my wedded wife-" and so on to the end. And when he came to the "worldly goods" with which he endowed his Ruby, he was very emphatic indeed. He thoroughly enjoyed the ceremony, and would have liked to be married over and over again, every day for a week, had it been possible. And then there came the breakfast, to which he led the way with Mrs. Hurtle on one arm and Mrs. Pipkin on the other. Thus it came to pass that, in spite of all that poor Ruby had said, she was conducted to the marriage-feast by Joe Mixet. But she was so tamed by circumstances that she was glad to have someone near her who knew how to behave himself. "Mrs. Crumb, you have my best wishes for your continued 'ealth and 'appiness," said Joe Mixet. "He's a good 'un." "Oh, I dare say." "You just be fond of him and make much of him, and I'm blessed if you mayn't do a'most anything with him. And he don't drink hard, but he works hard." Ruby said no more, and soon found herself seated by her husband's side. It certainly was wonderful to her that so many people should pay John Crumb so much respect. After the breakfast, Mr. Mixet made a speech. "He had had the pleasure of knowing John Crumb and Miss Ruby Ruggles for a great many years, and he'd never known two young people more fitted by the gifts of nature to contribute to one another's 'appiness. He had understood that Mars and Wenus always lived on the best of terms, and perhaps the company would excuse him if he likened this 'appy young couple to them two 'eathen gods and goddesses. He didn't remember just at present whether Mars and Wenus had any young family, but he hoped that before long there would be any number of young Crumbs for the Bungay birds to pick up." The speech, of which only a small sample can be given here, was much admired by the ladies and gentlemen present - with the single exception of poor Ruby. In the afternoon John took his bride to Lowestoft, and brought her back to all the glories of his own house on the following day. His honeymoon was short, but its influence on Ruby was beneficent. When she was alone with him, and thinking of all that he had done to win her, she did learn to respect him. "Now, Ruby, give a fellow a kiss - as though you meant it," he said. "Oh, John, what nonsense!" "It ain't nonsense to me. I'd sooner have a kiss from you than all the wine as ever was swallowed." Then she did kiss him, "as though she meant it;" and when she returned with him to Bungay the next day, she had made up her mind that she would endeavour to do her duty by him as his wife.

The Way We Live Now

Chapter 94: John Crumb's Victory

"I have half a mind to go back to-morrow morning," Felix said to his mother that Sunday evening after dinner. At that moment Roger was walking round the garden by himself, and Henrietta was in her own room. "To-morrow morning, Felix! You are engaged to dine with the Longestaffes!" "You could make any excuse you like about that." "It would be the most uncourteous thing in the world. The Longestaffes you know are the leading people in this part of the country. No one knows what may happen. If you should ever be living at Carbury, how sad it would be that you should have quarrelled with them." "You forget, mother, that Dolly Longestaffe is about the most intimate friend I have in the world." "That does not justify you in being uncivil to the father and mother. And you should remember what you came here for." "What did I come for?" "That you might see Marie Melmotte more at your ease than you can in their London house." "That's all settled," said Sir Felix, in the most indifferent tone that he could assume. "Settled!" "As far as the girl is concerned. I can't very well go to the old fellow for his consent down here." "Do you mean to say, Felix, that Marie Melmotte has accepted you?" "I told you that before." "My dear Felix. Oh, my boy!" In her joy the mother took her unwilling son in her arms and caressed him. Here was the first step taken not only to success, but to such magnificent splendour as should make her son to be envied by all young men, and herself to be envied by all mothers in England! "No, you didn't tell me before. But I am so happy. Is she really fond of you? I don't wonder that any girl should be fond of you." "I can't say anything about that, but I think she means to stick to it." "If she is firm, of course her father will give way at last. Fathers always do give way when the girl is firm. Why should he oppose it?" "I don't know that he will." "You are a man of rank, with a title of your own. I suppose what he wants is a gentleman for his girl. I don't see why he should not be perfectly satisfied. With all his enormous wealth a thousand a year or so can't make any difference. And then he made you one of the Directors at his Board. Oh Felix;--it is almost too good to be true." "I ain't quite sure that I care very much about being married, you know." "Oh, Felix, pray don't say that. Why shouldn't you like being married? She is a very nice girl, and we shall all be so fond of her! Don't let any feeling of that kind come over you; pray don't. You will be able to do just what you please when once the question of her money is settled. Of course you can hunt as often as you like, and you can have a house in any part of London you please. You must understand by this time how very disagreeable it is to have to get on without an established income." "I quite understand that." "If this were once done you would never have any more trouble of that kind. There would be plenty of money for everything as long as you live. It would be complete success. I don't know how to say enough to you, or to tell you how dearly I love you, or to make you understand how well I think you have done it all." Then she caressed him again, and was almost beside herself in an agony of mingled anxiety and joy. If, after all, her beautiful boy, who had lately been her disgrace and her great trouble because of his poverty, should shine forth to the world as a baronet with 20,000 a year, how glorious would it be! She must have known,--she did know,--how poor, how selfish a creature he was. But her gratification at the prospect of his splendour obliterated the sorrow with which the vileness of his character sometimes oppressed her. Were he to win this girl with all her father's money, neither she nor his sister would be the better for it, except in this, that the burden of maintaining him would be taken from her shoulders. But his magnificence would be established. He was her son, and the prospect of his fortune and splendour was sufficient to elate her into a very heaven of beautiful dreams. "But, Felix," she continued, "you really must stay and go to the Longestaffes' to-morrow. It will only be one day.--And now were you to run away--" "Run away! What nonsense you talk." "If you were to start back to London at once I mean, it would be an affront to her, and the very thing to set Melmotte against you. You should lay yourself out to please him;--indeed you should." "Oh, bother!" said Sir Felix. But nevertheless he allowed himself to be persuaded to remain. The matter was important even to him, and he consented to endure the almost unendurable nuisance of spending another day at the Manor House. Lady Carbury, almost lost in delight, did not know where to turn for sympathy. If her cousin were not so stiff, so pig-headed, so wonderfully ignorant of the affairs of the world, he would have at any rate consented to rejoice with her. Though he might not like Felix,--who, as his mother admitted to herself, had been rude to her cousin,--he would have rejoiced for the sake of the family. But, as it was, she did not dare to tell him. He would have received her tidings with silent scorn. And even Henrietta would not be enthusiastic. She felt that though she would have delighted to expatiate on this great triumph, she must be silent at present. It should now be her great effort to ingratiate herself with Mr. Melmotte at the dinner party at Caversham. During the whole of that evening Roger Carbury hardly spoke to his cousin Hetta. There was not much conversation between them till quite late, when Father Barham came in for supper. He had been over at Bungay among his people there, and had walked back, taking Carbury on the way. "What did you think of our bishop?" Roger asked him, rather imprudently. "Not much of him as a bishop. I don't doubt that he makes a very nice lord, and that he does more good among his neighbours than an average lord. But you don't put power or responsibility into the hands of any one sufficient to make him a bishop." "Nine-tenths of the clergy in the diocese would be guided by him in any matter of clerical conduct which might come before him." "Because they know that he has no strong opinion of his own, and would not therefore desire to dominate theirs. Take any of your bishops that has an opinion,--if there be one left,--and see how far your clergy consent to his teaching!" Roger turned round and took up his book. He was already becoming tired of his pet priest. He himself always abstained from saying a word derogatory to his new friend's religion in the man's hearing; but his new friend did not by any means return the compliment. Perhaps also Roger felt that were he to take up the cudgels for an argument he might be worsted in the combat, as in such combats success is won by practised skill rather than by truth. Henrietta was also reading, and Felix was smoking elsewhere,--wondering whether the hours would ever wear themselves away in that castle of dulness, in which no cards were to be seen, and where, except at meal-times, there was nothing to drink. But Lady Carbury was quite willing to allow the priest to teach her that all appliances for the dissemination of religion outside his own church must be naught. "I suppose our bishops are sincere in their beliefs," she said with her sweetest smile. "I'm sure I hope so. I have no possible reason to doubt it as to the two or three whom I have seen,--nor indeed as to all the rest whom I have not seen." "They are so much respected everywhere as good and pious men!" "I do not doubt it. Nothing tends so much to respect as a good income. But they may be excellent men without being excellent bishops. I find no fault with them, but much with the system by which they are controlled. Is it probable that a man should be fitted to select guides for other men's souls because he has succeeded by infinite labour in his vocation in becoming the leader of a majority in the House of Commons?" "Indeed, no," said Lady Carbury, who did not in the least understand the nature of the question put to her. "And when you've got your bishop, is it likely that a man should be able to do his duty in that capacity who has no power of his own to decide whether a clergyman under him is or is not fit for his duty?" "Hardly, indeed." "The English people, or some of them,--that some being the richest, and, at present, the most powerful,--like to play at having a Church, though there is not sufficient faith in them to submit to the control of a Church." "Do you think men should be controlled by clergymen, Mr. Barham?" "In matters of faith I do; and so, I suppose, do you; at least you make that profession. You declare it to be your duty to submit yourself to your spiritual pastors and masters." "That, I thought, was for children," said Lady Carbury. "The clergyman, in the catechism, says, 'My good child.'" "It is what you were taught as a child before you had made profession of your faith to a bishop, in order that you might know your duty when you had ceased to be a child. I quite agree, however, that the matter, as viewed by your Church, is childish altogether, and intended only for children. As a rule, adults with you want no religion." "I am afraid that is true of a great many." "It is marvellous to me that, when a man thinks of it, he should not be driven by very fear to the comforts of a safer faith,--unless, indeed, he enjoy the security of absolute infidelity." "That is worse than anything," said Lady Carbury with a sigh and a shudder. "I don't know that it is worse than a belief which is no belief," said the priest with energy;--"than a creed which sits so easily on a man that he does not even know what it contains, and never asks himself as he repeats it, whether it be to him credible or incredible." "That is very bad," said Lady Carbury. "We're getting too deep, I think," said Roger, putting down the book which he had in vain been trying to read. "I think it is so pleasant to have a little serious conversation on Sunday evening," said Lady Carbury. The priest drew himself back into his chair and smiled. He was quite clever enough to understand that Lady Carbury had been talking nonsense, and clever enough also to be aware of the cause of Roger's uneasiness. But Lady Carbury might be all the easier converted because she understood nothing and was fond of ambitious talking; and Roger Carbury might possibly be forced into conviction by the very feeling which at present made him unwilling to hear arguments. "I don't like hearing my Church ill-spoken of," said Roger. "You wouldn't like me if I thought ill of it and spoke well of it," said the priest. "And, therefore, the less said the sooner mended," said Roger, rising from his chair. Upon this Father Barham took his departure and walked away to Beccles. It might be that he had sowed some seed. It might be that he had, at any rate, ploughed some ground. Even the attempt to plough the ground was a good work which would not be forgotten. The following morning was the time on which Roger had fixed for repeating his suit to Henrietta. He had determined that it should be so, and though the words had been almost on his tongue during that Sunday afternoon, he had repressed them because he would do as he had determined. He was conscious, almost painfully conscious, of a certain increase of tenderness in his cousin's manner towards him. All that pride of independence, which had amounted almost to roughness, when she was in London, seemed to have left her. When he greeted her morning and night, she looked softly into his face. She cherished the flowers which he gave her. He could perceive that if he expressed the slightest wish in any matter about the house she would attend to it. There had been a word said about punctuality, and she had become punctual as the hand of the clock. There was not a glance of her eye, nor a turn of her hand, that he did not watch, and calculate its effect as regarded himself. But because she was tender to him and observant, he did not by any means allow himself to believe that her heart was growing into love for him. He thought that he understood the working of her mind. She could see how great was his disgust at her brother's doings; how fretted he was by her mother's conduct. Her grace, and sweetness, and sense, took part with him against those who were nearer to herself, and therefore,--in pity,--she was kind to him. It was thus he read it, and he read it almost with exact accuracy. "Hetta," he said after breakfast, "come out into the garden awhile." "Are not you going to the men?" "Not yet, at any rate. I do not always go to the men as you call it." She put on her hat and tripped out with him, knowing well that she had been summoned to hear the old story. She had been sure, as soon as she found the white rose in her room, that the old story would be repeated again before she left Carbury;--and, up to this time, she had hardly made up her mind what answer she would give to it. That she could not take his offer, she thought she did know. She knew well that she loved the other man. That other man had never asked her for her love, but she thought that she knew that he desired it. But in spite of all this there had in truth grown up in her bosom a feeling of tenderness towards her cousin so strong that it almost tempted her to declare to herself that he ought to have what he wanted, simply because he wanted it. He was so good, so noble, so generous, so devoted, that it almost seemed to her that she could not be justified in refusing him. And she had gone entirely over to his side in regard to the Melmottes. Her mother had talked to her of the charm of Mr. Melmotte's money, till her very heart had been sickened. There was nothing noble there; but, as contrasted with that, Roger's conduct and bearing were those of a fine gentleman who knew neither fear nor shame. Should such a one be doomed to pine for ever because a girl could not love him,--a man born to be loved, if nobility and tenderness and truth were lovely! "Hetta," he said, "put your arm here." She gave him her arm. "I was a little annoyed last night by that priest. I want to be civil to him, and now he is always turning against me." "He doesn't do any harm, I suppose?" "He does do harm if he teaches you and me to think lightly of those things which we have been brought up to revere." So, thought Henrietta, it isn't about love this time; it's only about the Church. "He ought not to say things before my guests as to our way of believing, which I wouldn't under any circumstances say as to his. I didn't quite like your hearing it." "I don't think he'll do me any harm. I'm not at all that way given. I suppose they all do it. It's their business." "Poor fellow! I brought him here just because I thought it was a pity that a man born and bred like a gentleman should never see the inside of a comfortable house." "I liked him;--only I didn't like his saying stupid things about the bishop." "And I like him." Then there was a pause. "I suppose your brother does not talk to you much about his own affairs." "His own affairs, Roger? Do you mean money? He never says a word to me about money." "I meant about the Melmottes." "No; not to me. Felix hardly ever speaks to me about anything." "I wonder whether she has accepted him." "I think she very nearly did accept him in London." "I can't quite sympathise with your mother in all her feelings about this marriage, because I do not think that I recognise as she does the necessity of money." "Felix is so disposed to be extravagant." "Well; yes. But I was going to say that though I cannot bring myself to say anything to encourage her about this heiress, I quite recognise her unselfish devotion to his interests." "Mamma thinks more of him than of anything," said Hetta, not in the least intending to accuse her mother of indifference to herself. "I know it; and though I happen to think myself that her other child would better repay her devotion,"--this he said, looking up to Hetta and smiling,--"I quite feel how good a mother she is to Felix. You know, when she first came the other day we almost had a quarrel." "I felt that there was something unpleasant." "And then Felix coming after his time put me out. I am getting old and cross, or I should not mind such things." "I think you are so good,--and so kind." As she said this she leaned upon his arm almost as though she meant to tell him that she loved him. "I have been angry with myself," he said, "and so I am making you my father confessor. Open confession is good for the soul sometimes, and I think that you would understand me better than your mother." "I do understand you; but don't think there is any fault to confess." "You will not exact any penance?" She only looked at him and smiled. "I am going to put a penance on myself all the same. I can't congratulate your brother on his wooing over at Caversham, as I know nothing about it, but I will express some civil wish to him about things in general." "Will that be a penance?" "If you could look into my mind you'd find that it would. I'm full of fretful anger against him for half-a-dozen little frivolous things. Didn't he throw his cigar on the path? Didn't he lie in bed on Sunday instead of going to church?" "But then he was travelling all the Saturday night." "Whose fault was that? But don't you see it is the triviality of the offence which makes the penance necessary. Had he knocked me over the head with a pickaxe, or burned the house down, I should have had a right to be angry. But I was angry because he wanted a horse on Sunday;--and therefore I must do penance." There was nothing of love in all this. Hetta, however, did not wish him to talk of love. He was certainly now treating her as a friend,--as a most intimate friend. If he would only do that without making love to her, how happy could she be! But his determination still held good. "And now," said he, altering his tone altogether, "I must speak about myself." Immediately the weight of her hand upon his arm was lessened. Thereupon he put his left hand round and pressed her arm to his. "No," he said; "do not make any change towards me while I speak to you. Whatever comes of it we shall at any rate be cousins and friends." "Always friends!" she said. "Yes;--always friends. And now listen to me for I have much to say. I will not tell you again that I love you. You know it, or else you must think me the vainest and falsest of men. It is not only that I love you, but I am so accustomed to concern myself with one thing only, so constrained by the habits and nature of my life to confine myself to single interests, that I cannot as it were escape from my love. I am thinking of it always, often despising myself because I think of it so much. For, after all, let a woman be ever so good,--and you to me are all that is good,--a man should not allow his love to dominate his intellect." "Oh, no!" "I do. I calculate my chances within my own bosom almost as a man might calculate his chances of heaven. I should like you to know me just as I am, the weak and the strong together. I would not win you by a lie if I could. I think of you more than I ought to do. I am sure,--quite sure that you are the only possible mistress of this house during my tenure of it. If I am ever to live as other men do, and to care about the things which other men care for, it must be as your husband." "Pray,--pray do not say that." "Yes; I think that I have a right to say it,--and a right to expect that you should believe me. I will not ask you to be my wife if you do not love me. Not that I should fear aught for myself, but that you should not be pressed to make a sacrifice of yourself because I am your friend and cousin. But I think it is quite possible you might come to love me,--unless your heart be absolutely given away elsewhere." "What am I to say?" "We each of us know of what the other is thinking. If Paul Montague has robbed me of my love--?" "Mr. Montague has never said a word." "If he had, I think he would have wronged me. He met you in my house, and I think must have known what my feelings were towards you." "But he never has." "We have been like brothers together,--one brother being very much older than the other, indeed; or like father and son. I think he should place his hopes elsewhere." "What am I to say? If he have such hope he has not told me. I think it almost cruel that a girl should be asked in that way." "Hetta, I should not wish to be cruel to you. Of course I know the way of the world in such matters. I have no right to ask you about Paul Montague,--no right to expect an answer. But it is all the world to me. You can understand that I should think you might learn to love even me, if you loved no one else." The tone of his voice was manly, and at the same time full of entreaty. His eyes as he looked at her were bright with love and anxiety. She not only believed him as to the tale which he now told her; but she believed in him altogether. She knew that he was a staff on which a woman might safely lean, trusting to it for comfort and protection in life. In that moment she all but yielded to him. Had he seized her in his arms and kissed her then, I think she would have yielded. She did all but love him. She so regarded him that had it been some other woman that he craved, she would have used every art she knew to have backed his suit, and would have been ready to swear that any woman was a fool who refused him. She almost hated herself because she was unkind to one who so thoroughly deserved kindness. As it was she made him no answer, but continued to walk beside him trembling. "I thought I would tell it you all, because I wish you to know exactly the state of my mind. I would show you if I could all my heart and all my thoughts about yourself as in a glass case. Do not coy your love for me if you can feel it. When you know, dear, that a man's heart is set upon a woman as mine is set on you, so that it is for you to make his life bright or dark, for you to open or to shut the gates of his earthly Paradise, I think you will be above keeping him in darkness for the sake of a girlish scruple." "Oh, Roger!" "If ever there should come a time in which you can say it truly, remember my truth to you and say it boldly. I at least shall never change. Of course if you love another man and give yourself to him, it will be all over. Tell me that boldly also. I have said it all now. God bless you, my own heart's darling. I hope,--I hope I may be strong enough through it all to think more of your happiness than of my own." Then he parted from her abruptly, taking his way over one of the bridges, and leaving her to find her way into the house alone.

"I have half a mind to go back tomorrow morning," Felix said to his mother that evening after dinner. Roger was walking round the garden by himself, and Henrietta was in her room. "Tomorrow morning, Felix! You are engaged to dine with the Longestaffes!" "You could make an excuse." "It would be most uncourteous. The Longestaffes are the leading people in this part of the country. And remember why you came here - to see Marie Melmotte more at your ease than you can in their London house." "That's all settled," said Sir Felix, in the most indifferent tone that he could assume. "Settled!" "As far as the girl is concerned. I can't very well go to the old fellow for his consent down here." "Do you mean to say, Felix, that Marie Melmotte has accepted you?" "I told you that before." "My dear Felix. Oh, my boy!" In her joy the mother took her unwilling son in her arms. Here was the first step taken not only to success, but to such magnificent splendour that she would be envied by all mothers in England! "I am so happy. Is she really fond of you? I don't wonder that any girl should be fond of you." "I think she means to stick to it." "If she is firm, of course her father will give way at last. Fathers always do. Why should he oppose it? You are a man of rank, with a title. I suppose he wants a gentleman for his girl. I don't see why he should not be perfectly satisfied. With all his enormous wealth a thousand a year or so can't make any difference. And then he made you one of his Directors. Oh Felix - it is almost too good to be true." "I ain't sure that I care very much about being married, you know." "Oh, Felix, pray don't say that. Why shouldn't you like being married? She is a very nice girl, and we shall be so fond of her! You will be able to do just what you please once the money is settled. Of course you can hunt as often as you like, and you can have a house in any part of London you please. There would be plenty of money for everything. I don't know how to tell you how dearly I love you, and how well I think you have done it all." Then she caressed him, almost beside herself in an agony of mingled anxiety and joy. If her beautiful boy, who had lately been her disgrace and her trouble, should shine forth to the world as a baronet with 20,000 a year, how glorious would it be! She must have known - she did know - how poor, how selfish a creature he was. But the prospect of his splendour obliterated her sorrow at his character. It raised her into a very heaven of beautiful dreams. "But, Felix," she continued, "you really must stay, and go to the Longestaffes' tomorrow. It will only be one day. If you were to start back to London at once, it would be an affront to her, and the very thing to set Melmotte against you. You should try to please him; indeed you should." "Oh, bother!" said Sir Felix. Nevertheless he was persuaded to remain, and endure the nuisance of spending another day at the Manor House. Lady Carbury, almost lost in delight, did not know who to tell. If her cousin were not so pig-headed, so ignorant of the ways of the world, he would have rejoiced with her for the sake of the family. But she did not dare to tell him. Even Henrietta would not be enthusiastic. She must be silent for now. That evening Roger Carbury hardly spoke to his cousin Hetta till quite late, when Father Barham came in for supper. He had been over at Bungay among his people, and walked back via Carbury. "What did you think of our bishop?" Roger asked him, rather imprudently. "Not much of him as a bishop. I don't doubt that he makes a very nice lord. He has no strong opinion of his own, so he can hardly be competent to guide his clergy." Roger turned round and took up his book. He was already becoming tired of his pet priest. He himself always abstained from insulting his new friend's religion in the man's hearing; but his new friend did not return the compliment. Perhaps also Roger felt that he might lose any argument, as in such combats success is won by practised skill rather than by truth. Henrietta was also reading, and Felix was smoking elsewhere. But Lady Carbury was quite willing to allow the priest to put her right. "I suppose our bishops are sincere in their beliefs," she said with her sweetest smile. "I'm sure I hope so." "They are so much respected everywhere as good and pious men!" "Indeed. But they may be excellent men without being excellent bishops. I find no fault with them, but much with the system by which they are controlled. English people like to play at having a Church, though they have not sufficient faith to submit to a Church's control." "Do you think men should be controlled by clergymen, Mr. Barham?" "In matters of faith I do; and so, I suppose, do you; at least you declare it to be your duty to submit yourself to your spiritual pastors." "That, I thought, was for children," said Lady Carbury. "I quite agree that the matter, as viewed by your Church, is childish altogether. As a rule, adults in your Church want no religion." "I am afraid that is true of a great many." "I marvel that, when a man thinks of it, he should not be driven by fear to a safer faith - unless, indeed, he enjoys the security of absolute infidelity." "That is worse than anything," said Lady Carbury with a sigh and a shudder. "I don't know that it is worse than a belief which is no belief," said the priest with energy; "than a creed which a man never questions, and does not even know what it contains." "That is very bad," said Lady Carbury. "We're getting too deep, I think," said Roger, putting down his book. "I think it is so pleasant to have a little serious conversation on Sunday evening," said Lady Carbury. The priest smiled. He knew that Lady Carbury had been talking nonsense. But she might be all the easier converted because she understood nothing. "I don't like hearing my Church ill-spoken of," said Roger. "You wouldn't like me if I thought ill of it and spoke well of it," said the priest. "And, therefore, the less said the sooner mended," said Roger, rising from his chair. Upon this Father Barham departed to Beccles. It might be that he had sowed some seed; or, at any rate, ploughed some ground. Roger had fixed on the following morning for repeating his suit to Henrietta. Though the words had been almost on his tongue that Sunday afternoon, he had repressed them. He was almost painfully conscious of an increase of tenderness in his cousin's manner towards him. When he greeted her, she looked softly into his face. She cherished the flowers which he gave her. He saw that if he expressed the slightest wish in any matter about the house she would attend to it. There had been a word said about punctuality, and she had become as punctual as the hand of the clock. But because she was tender and observant, he did not allow himself to believe that she was growing to love him. He thought that he understood her. She could see how great was his disgust at her brother's doings; how fretted he was by her mother's conduct. Her grace, and sweetness, and sense, made her sympathise with him; she was kind to him. Thus he read it, and with exact accuracy. "Hetta," he said after breakfast, "come out into the garden awhile." She put on her hat and tripped out with him, knowing well that she had been summoned to hear the old story. She had been sure that the old story would be repeated again before she left Carbury; and she had hardly decided what answer she would give. She knew well that she loved the other man. That other man had never asked for her love, but she thought that he desired it. In spite of this there had grown up in her bosom a feeling of tenderness towards Roger so strong that it almost tempted her to think that he ought to have what he wanted. He was so good, so noble, so generous, so devoted, that it almost seemed she could not be justified in refusing him. Should such a gentleman be doomed to pine for ever because a girl could not love him - a man born to be loved, if nobility and tenderness and truth were lovely! "Hetta," he said, "put your arm here." She gave him her arm. "I was a little annoyed last night by that priest. I want to be civil to him, and he is always turning against me." "He doesn't do any harm, I suppose?" "He does harm if he teaches us to think lightly of those things which we have been brought up to revere." So, thought Henrietta, it isn't about love this time; it's only about the Church. "He ought not to say such things before my guests. I didn't like your hearing it." "I don't think he'll do me any harm. I suppose they all do it. It's their business. I liked him; only I didn't like his saying stupid things about the bishop." "And I like him." Then there was a pause. "I suppose your brother does not talk to you much about his affairs. I mean about the Melmottes." "No. Felix hardly ever speaks to me about anything." "I wonder whether she has accepted him." "I think she very nearly did accept him in London." "I can't quite sympathise with your mother in all her feelings about this marriage. But I quite recognise her unselfish devotion to his interests." "Mamma thinks more of him than of anything," said Hetta, not intending to accuse her mother of indifference to herself. "I know; and though I happen to think that her other child would better repay her devotion," - he smiled at Hetta - "I know how good a mother she is to Felix. You know, the other day we almost had a quarrel. And then Felix arriving late put me out. I am getting old and cross, or I should not mind such things." "I think you are so good - and so kind." She leaned upon his arm. "I have been angry with myself," he said, "and so I am making you my father confessor. Confession is good for the soul sometimes, and I think you would understand me better than your mother." "I do; but don't think there is any fault to confess." "I am going to put a penance on myself all the same. I can't congratulate your brother on his wooing over at Caversham, but I will express some civil wish to him about things in general." "Will that be a penance?" "If you could look into my mind you'd find that it would. I'm full of fretful anger against him for half-a-dozen little things. But it is their triviality which makes the penance necessary. Had he burned the house down, I should have had a right to be angry. But I was angry because he wanted a horse on Sunday; and therefore I must do penance." There was nothing of love in all this. Hetta thought that if he would only continue treating her as a friend, how happy could she be! But his tone altered. "And now," said he, "I must speak about myself." Immediately the weight of her hand upon his arm was lessened. He pressed her arm to his. "No," he said; "do not make any change while I speak to you. Whatever comes of it we shall at any rate be cousins and friends." "Always friends!" she said. "Yes; always friends. And now listen. I will not tell you again that I love you. You know it. It is not only that I love you, but that I cannot as it were escape from my love. I am thinking of it always, often despising myself because I think of it so much. For a man should not allow his love to dominate his intellect." "Oh, no!" "I do. I calculate my chances almost as a man might calculate his chances of heaven. I should like you to know me just as I am, the weak and the strong together. I would not win you by a lie. I think of you more than I ought to do. I am quite sure that you are the only possible mistress of this house while I live here. If I am ever to live as other men do, it must be as your husband." "Pray, do not say that." "Yes; I think I have a right to say it. I will not ask you to be my wife if you do not love me. You should not be pressed to sacrifice yourself because I am your friend and cousin. But I think it is quite possible you might come to love me, - unless your heart be absolutely given away elsewhere." "What am I to say?" "We each of us know of what the other is thinking. If Paul Montague has robbed me of my love-?" "Mr. Montague has never said a word." "We have been like brothers together; or indeed like father and son. I think he should place his hopes elsewhere." "What am I to say? He has not told me. I think it almost cruel that a girl should be asked in that way." "Hetta, I should not wish to be cruel to you. I have no right to ask you about Paul Montague - no right to expect an answer. But it is all the world to me. I think you might learn to love even me, if you loved no one else." The tone of his voice was manly, and at the same time full of entreaty. His eyes were bright with love and anxiety. She believed in him altogether. She knew that he was a staff on which a woman might safely lean, trusting to it for comfort and protection. In that moment she all but yielded to him. Had he seized her in his arms and kissed her then, I think she would have yielded. She did all but love him. She would have been ready to swear that any woman who refused him was a fool. She almost hated herself because she was unkind to one who so thoroughly deserved kindness. As it was she made him no answer, but continued to walk beside him trembling. "I wish you to know exactly the state of my mind, to make all transparent. When you know, dear, that a man's heart is so set upon a woman, it is for you to make his life bright or dark, for you to open or to shut the gates of his earthly Paradise. I do not think you will keep him in darkness for the sake of a girlish scruple." "Oh, Roger!" "If ever there should come a time in which you can say it, then say it boldly. I at least shall never change. Of course if you love another man and give yourself to him, it will be all over. Tell me that boldly also. I have said it all now. God bless you, my own heart's darling. I hope - I may be strong enough to think more of your happiness than of my own." Then he parted from her abruptly, crossing one of the bridges, and leaving her to find her way into the house alone.

The Way We Live Now

Chapter 19: Hetta Carbury Hears a Love Tale

Roger Carbury having found Ruby Ruggles, and having ascertained that she was at any rate living in a respectable house with her aunt, returned to Carbury. He had given the girl his advice, and had done so in a manner that was not altogether ineffectual. He had frightened her, and had also frightened Mrs. Pipkin. He had taught Mrs. Pipkin to believe that the new dispensation was not yet so completely established as to clear her from all responsibility as to her niece's conduct. Having done so much, and feeling that there was no more to be done, he returned home. It was out of the question that he should take Ruby with him. In the first place she would not have gone. And then,--had she gone,--he would not have known where to bestow her. For it was now understood throughout Bungay,--and the news had spread to Beccles,--that old Farmer Ruggles had sworn that his granddaughter should never again be received at Sheep's Acre Farm. The squire on his return home heard all the news from his own housekeeper. John Crumb had been at the farm and there had been a fierce quarrel between him and the old man. The old man had called Ruby by every name that is most distasteful to a woman, and John had stormed and had sworn that he would have punched the old man's head but for his age. He wouldn't believe any harm of Ruby,--or if he did he was ready to forgive that harm. But as for the Baro-nite;--the Baro-nite had better look to himself! Old Ruggles had declared that Ruby should never have a shilling of his money;--whereupon Crumb had anathematised old Ruggles and his money too, telling him that he was an old hunx, and that he had driven the girl away by his cruelty. Roger at once sent over to Bungay for the dealer in meal, who was with him early on the following morning. "Did ye find her, squoire?" "Oh, yes, Mr. Crumb, I found her. She's living with her aunt, Mrs. Pipkin, at Islington." "Eh, now;--look at that." "You knew she had an aunt of that name up in London." "Ye-es; I knew'd it, squoire. I a' heard tell of Mrs. Pipkin, but I never see'd her." "I wonder it did not occur to you that Ruby would go there." John Crumb scratched his head, as though acknowledging the shortcoming of his own intellect. "Of course if she was to go to London it was the proper thing for her to do." "I knew she'd do the thing as was right. I said that all along. Darned if I didn't. You ask Mixet, squoire,--him as is baker down Bardsey Lane. I allays guv' it her that she'd do the thing as was right. But how about she and the Baro-nite?" Roger did not wish to speak of the Baronet just at present. "I suppose the old man down here did ill use her?" "Oh, dreadful;--there ain't no manner of doubt o' that. Dragged her about awful;--as he ought to be took up, only for the rumpus like. D'ye think she's see'd the Baro-nite since she's been in Lon'on, Muster Carbury?" "I think she's a good girl, if you mean that." "I'm sure she be. I don't want none to tell me that, squoire. Tho', squoire, it's better to me nor a ten pun' note to hear you say so. I allays had a leaning to you, squoire; but I'll more nor lean to you, now. I've said all through she was good, and if e'er a man in Bungay said she warn't--; well, I was there, and ready." "I hope nobody has said so." "You can't stop them women, squoire. There ain't no dropping into them. But, Lord love 'ee, she shall come and be missus of my house to-morrow, and what 'll it matter her then what they say? But, squoire,--did ye hear if the Baro-nite had been a' hanging about that place?" "About Islington, you mean." "He goes a hanging about; he do. He don't come out straight forrard, and tell a girl as he loves her afore all the parish. There ain't one in Bungay, nor yet in Mettingham, nor yet in all the Ilketsals and all the Elmhams, as don't know as I'm set on Ruby Ruggles. Huggery-Muggery is pi'son to me, squoire." "We all know that when you've made up your mind, you have made up your mind." "I hove. It's made up ever so as to Ruby. What sort of a one is her aunt now, squoire?" "She keeps lodgings;--a very decent sort of a woman I should say." "She won't let the Baro-nite come there?" "Certainly not," said Roger, who felt that he was hardly dealing sincerely with this most sincere of mealmen. Hitherto he had shuffled off every question that had been asked him about Felix, though he knew that Ruby had spent many hours with her fashionable lover. "Mrs. Pipkin won't let him come there." "If I was to give her a ge'own now,--or a blue cloak;--them lodging-house women is mostly hard put to it;--or a chest of drawers like, for her best bedroom, wouldn't that make her more o' my side, squoire?" "I think she'll try to do her duty without that." "They do like things the like o' that; any ways I'll go up, squoire, arter Sax'nam market, and see how things is lying." "I wouldn't go just yet, Mr. Crumb, if I were you. She hasn't forgotten the scene at the farm yet." "I said nothing as warn't as kind as kind." "But her own perversity runs in her own head. If you had been unkind she could have forgiven that; but as you were good-natured and she was cross, she can't forgive that." John Crumb again scratched his head, and felt that the depths of a woman's character required more gauging than he had yet given to it. "And to tell you the truth, my friend, I think that a little hardship up at Mrs. Pipkin's will do her good." "Don't she have a bellyful o' vittels?" asked John Crumb, with intense anxiety. "I don't quite mean that. I dare say she has enough to eat. But of course she has to work for it with her aunt. She has three or four children to look after." "That moight come in handy by-and-by;--moightn't it, squoire?" said John Crumb grinning. "As you say, she'll be learning something that may be useful to her in another sphere. Of course there is a good deal to do, and I should not be surprised if she were to think after a bit that your house in Bungay was more comfortable than Mrs. Pipkin's kitchen in London." "My little back parlour;--eh, squoire! And I've got a four-poster, most as big as any in Bungay." "I am sure you have everything comfortable for her, and she knows it herself. Let her think about all that,--and do you go and tell her again in a month's time. She'll be more willing to settle matters then than she is now." "But,--the Baro-nite!" "Mrs. Pipkin will allow nothing of that." "Girls is so 'cute. Ruby is awful 'cute. It makes me feel as though I had two hun'erd weight o' meal on my stomach, lying awake o' nights and thinking as how he is, may be,--pulling of her about! If I thought that she'd let him--; oh! I'd swing for it, Muster Carbury. They'd have to make an eend o' me at Bury, if it was that way. They would then." Roger assured him again and again that he believed Ruby to be a good girl, and promised that further steps should be taken to induce Mrs. Pipkin to keep a close watch upon her niece. John Crumb made no promise that he would abstain from his journey to London after Saxmundham fair; but left the squire with a conviction that his purpose of doing so was shaken. He was still however resolved to send Mrs. Pipkin the price of a new blue cloak, and declared his purpose of getting Mixet to write the letter and enclose the money order. John Crumb had no delicacy as to declaring his own deficiency in literary acquirements. He was able to make out a bill for meal or pollards, but did little beyond that in the way of writing letters. This happened on a Saturday morning, and on that afternoon Roger Carbury rode over to Lowestoft, to a meeting there on church matters at which his friend the bishop presided. After the meeting was over he dined at the inn with half a dozen clergymen and two or three neighbouring gentlemen, and then walked down by himself on to the long strand which has made Lowestoft what it is. It was now just the end of June, and the weather was delightful;--but people were not as yet flocking to the sea-shore. Every shopkeeper in every little town through the country now follows the fashion set by Parliament and abstains from his annual holiday till August or September. The place therefore was by no means full. Here and there a few of the townspeople, who at a bathing place are generally indifferent to the sea, were strolling about; and another few, indifferent to fashion, had come out from the lodging-houses and from the hotel, which had been described as being small and insignificant,--and making up only a hundred beds. Roger Carbury, whose house was not many miles distant from Lowestoft, was fond of the sea-shore, and always came to loiter there for a while when any cause brought him into the town. Now he was walking close down upon the marge of the tide,--so that the last little roll of the rising water should touch his feet,--with his hands joined behind his back, and his face turned down towards the shore, when he came upon a couple who were standing with their backs to the land, looking forth together upon the waves. He was close to them before he saw them, and before they had seen him. Then he perceived that the man was his friend Paul Montague. Leaning on Paul's arm a lady stood, dressed very simply in black, with a dark straw hat on her head;--very simple in her attire, but yet a woman whom it would be impossible to pass without notice. The lady of course was Mrs. Hurtle. Paul Montague had been a fool to suggest Lowestoft, but his folly had been natural. It was not the first place he had named; but when fault had been found with others, he had fallen back upon the sea sands which were best known to himself. Lowestoft was just the spot which Mrs. Hurtle required. When she had been shown her room, and taken down out of the hotel on to the strand, she had declared herself to be charmed. She acknowledged with many smiles that of course she had had no right to expect that Mrs. Pipkin should understand what sort of place she needed. But Paul would understand,--and had understood. "I think the hotel charming," she said. "I don't know what you mean by your fun about the American hotels, but I think this quite gorgeous, and the people so civil!" Hotel people always are civil before the crowds come. Of course it was impossible that Paul should return to London by the mail train which started about an hour after his arrival. He would have reached London at four or five in the morning, and have been very uncomfortable. The following day was Sunday, and of course he promised to stay till Monday. Of course he had said nothing in the train of those stern things which he had resolved to say. Of course he was not saying them when Roger Carbury came upon him; but was indulging in some poetical nonsense, some probably very trite raptures as to the expanse of the ocean, and the endless ripples which connected shore with shore. Mrs. Hurtle, too, as she leaned with friendly weight upon his arm, indulged also in moonshine and romance. Though at the back of the heart of each of them there was a devouring care, still they enjoyed the hour. We know that the man who is to be hung likes to have his breakfast well cooked. And so did Paul like the companionship of Mrs. Hurtle because her attire, though simple, was becoming; because the colour glowed in her dark face; because of the brightness of her eyes, and the happy sharpness of her words, and the dangerous smile which played upon her lips. He liked the warmth of her close vicinity, and the softness of her arm, and the perfume from her hair,--though he would have given all that he possessed that she had been removed from him by some impassable gulf. As he had to be hanged,--and this woman's continued presence would be as bad as death to him,--he liked to have his meal well dressed. He certainly had been foolish to bring her to Lowestoft, and the close neighbourhood of Carbury Manor;--and now he felt his folly. As soon as he saw Roger Carbury he blushed up to his forehead, and then leaving Mrs. Hurtle's arm he came forward, and shook hands with his friend. "It is Mrs. Hurtle," he said, "I must introduce you," and the introduction was made. Roger took off his hat and bowed, but he did so with the coldest ceremony. Mrs. Hurtle, who was quick enough at gathering the minds of people from their looks, was just as cold in her acknowledgment of the courtesy. In former days she had heard much of Roger Carbury, and surmised that he was no friend to her. "I did not know that you were thinking of coming to Lowestoft," said Roger in a voice that was needlessly severe. But his mind at the present moment was severe, and he could not hide his mind. [Illustration: The sands at Lowestoft.] "I was not thinking of it. Mrs. Hurtle wished to get to the sea, and as she knew no one else here in England, I brought her." "Mr. Montague and I have travelled so many miles together before now," she said, "that a few additional will not make much difference." "Do you stay long?" asked Roger in the same voice. "I go back probably on Monday," said Montague. "As I shall be here a whole week, and shall not speak a word to any one after he has left me, he has consented to bestow his company on me for two days. Will you join us at dinner, Mr. Carbury, this evening?" "Thank you, madam;--I have dined." "Then, Mr. Montague, I will leave you with your friend. My toilet, though it will be very slight, will take longer than yours. We dine you know in twenty minutes. I wish you could get your friend to join us." So saying, Mrs. Hurtle tripped back across the sand towards the hotel. "Is this wise?" demanded Roger in a voice that was almost sepulchral, as soon as the lady was out of hearing. "You may well ask that, Carbury. Nobody knows the folly of it so thoroughly as I do." "Then why do you do it? Do you mean to marry her?" "No; certainly not." "Is it honest then, or like a gentleman, that you should be with her in this way? Does she think that you intend to marry her?" "I have told her that I would not. I have told her--." Then he stopped. He was going on to declare that he had told her that he loved another woman, but he felt that he could hardly touch that matter in speaking to Roger Carbury. "What does she mean then? Has she no regard for her own character?" "I would explain it to you all, Carbury, if I could. But you would never have the patience to hear me." "I am not naturally impatient." "But this would drive you mad. I wrote to her assuring her that it must be all over. Then she came here and sent for me. Was I not bound to go to her?" "Yes;--to go to her and repeat what you had said in your letter." "I did do so. I went with that very purpose, and did repeat it." "Then you should have left her." "Ah; but you do not understand. She begged that I would not desert her in her loneliness. We have been so much together that I could not desert her." "I certainly do not understand that, Paul. You have allowed yourself to be entrapped into a promise of marriage; and then, for reasons which we will not go into now but which we both thought to be adequate, you resolved to break your promise, thinking that you would be justified in doing so. But nothing can justify you in living with the lady afterwards on such terms as to induce her to suppose that your old promise holds good." "She does not think so. She cannot think so." "Then what must she be, to be here with you? And what must you be, to be here, in public, with such a one as she is? I don't know why I should trouble you or myself about it. People live now in a way that I don't comprehend. If this be your way of living, I have no right to complain." "For God's sake, Carbury, do not speak in that way. It sounds as though you meant to throw me over." "I should have said that you had thrown me over. You come down here to this hotel, where we are both known, with this lady whom you are not going to marry;--and I meet you, just by chance. Had I known it, of course I could have turned the other way. But coming on you by accident, as I did, how am I not to speak to you? And if I speak, what am I to say? Of course I think that the lady will succeed in marrying you." "Never." "And that such a marriage will be your destruction. Doubtless she is good-looking." "Yes, and clever. And you must remember that the manners of her country are not as the manners of this country." "Then if I marry at all," said Roger, with all his prejudice expressed strongly in his voice, "I trust I may not marry a lady of her country. She does not think that she is to marry you, and yet she comes down here and stays with you. Paul, I don't believe it. I believe you, but I don't believe her. She is here with you in order that she may marry you. She is cunning and strong. You are foolish and weak. Believing as I do that marriage with her would be destruction, I should tell her my mind,--and leave her." Paul at the moment thought of the gentleman in Oregon, and of certain difficulties in leaving. "That's what I should do. You must go in now, I suppose, and eat your dinner." "I may come to the hall as I go back home?" "Certainly you may come if you please," said Roger. Then he bethought himself that his welcome had not been cordial. "I mean that I shall be delighted to see you," he added, marching away along the strand. Paul did go into the hotel, and did eat his dinner. In the meantime Roger Carbury marched far away along the strand. In all that he had said to Montague he had spoken the truth, or that which appeared to him to be the truth. He had not been influenced for a moment by any reference to his own affairs. And yet he feared, he almost knew, that this man,--who had promised to marry a strange American woman and who was at this very moment living in close intercourse with the woman after he had told her that he would not keep his promise,--was the chief barrier between himself and the girl that he loved. As he had listened to John Crumb while John spoke of Ruby Ruggles, he had told himself that he and John Crumb were alike. With an honest, true, heart-felt desire they both panted for the companionship of a fellow-creature whom each had chosen. And each was to be thwarted by the make-believe regard of unworthy youth and fatuous good looks! Crumb, by dogged perseverance and indifference to many things, would probably be successful at last. But what chance was there of success for him? Ruby, as soon as want or hardship told upon her, would return to the strong arm that could be trusted to provide her with plenty and comparative ease. But Hetta Carbury, if once her heart had passed from her own dominion into the possession of another, would never change her love. It was possible, no doubt,--nay, how probable,--that her heart was still vacillating. Roger thought that he knew that at any rate she had not as yet declared her love. If she were now to know,--if she could now learn,--of what nature was the love of this other man; if she could be instructed that he was living alone with a lady whom not long since he had promised to marry,--if she could be made to understand this whole story of Mrs. Hurtle, would not that open her eyes? Would she not then see where she could trust her happiness, and where, by so trusting it, she would certainly be shipwrecked! "Never," said Roger to himself, hitting at the stones on the beach with his stick. "Never." Then he got his horse and rode back to Carbury Manor.

Roger Carbury, having found Ruby Ruggles and given the girl his advice, returned to Carbury. He felt that there was no more to be done. It was out of the question that he should bring Ruby with him. She would not have gone; and old Farmer Ruggles had sworn that his granddaughter should never again be received at Sheep's Acre Farm. The squire on his return home sent for Crumb, and heard all the news. John Crumb had quarrelled with old Ruggles, who had called Ruby by every bad name possible. John had sworn that he would have punched the old man's head but for his age. He wouldn't believe any harm of Ruby. But as for the Baro-nite - the Baro-nite had better look to himself! "Did ye find her, squoire?" "Yes, Mr. Crumb. She's living with her aunt, Mrs. Pipkin, at Islington. It was the proper thing for her to do." "I knew she'd do the thing as was right. I said that all along. But how about she and the Baro-nite?" Roger did not wish to speak of the Baronet at present. "I suppose old Ruggles did ill-use her?" "Oh, dreadful. Dragged her about awful. D'ye think she's see'd the Baro-nite since she's been in Lon'on, Muster Carbury?" "I think she's a good girl, if you mean that." "I'm sure she be. I don't want none to tell me that, squoire, tho' it's good to hear you say so. If e'er a man in Bungay said she warn't good - well, I was there, and ready." "I hope nobody has said so." "You can't stop them women, squoire. But, Lord love 'ee, she shall come and be missus of my house tomorrow, and what'll it matter then what they say? What sort of a one is her aunt, squoire?" "She keeps lodgings; a very decent sort of a woman." "She won't let the Baro-nite come there?" "Certainly not," said Roger, who felt that he was hardly being sincere. He knew that Ruby had spent many hours with her fashionable lover. "If I was to give Mrs. Pipkin a gown now - or a blue cloak - or a chest of drawers like, wouldn't that make her more o' my side, squoire?" "I think she'll try to do her duty without that." "Any ways I'll go up, squoire, and see how things is lying." "I wouldn't go just yet, Mr. Crumb, if I were you. She hasn't forgotten the scene at the farm yet." "I said nothing as warn't kind." "If you had been unkind she could have forgiven it; but as you were good-natured and she was cross, she can't forgive that." John Crumb scratched his head, and felt that the depths of a woman's character required more gauging than he had yet managed. "To tell you the truth, my friend, I think that a little hardship at Mrs. Pipkin's will do her good." "Don't she have enough vittels?" asked John Crumb, with intense anxiety. "I dare say she has enough to eat. But of course she has to work for her aunt. She has three or four children to look after." "That moight come in handy by-and-by," said John Crumb, grinning. "As you say. There is a good deal to do, and I should not be surprised if she were to think after a bit that your house in Bungay was more comfortable than Mrs. Pipkin's kitchen. Let her think about that, and in a month's time she'll be more willing to settle matters than she is now." "But - the Baro-nite!" "Mrs. Pipkin will allow none of that." "It makes me feel as though I had two hun'erd weight o' meal on my stomach, lying awake o' nights and thinking af him! If I thought that she'd let him - oh! I'd swing for it, Muster Carbury." Roger assured him again that he believed Ruby to be a good girl, and that Mrs. Pipkin would keep a close watch upon her niece. John Crumb made no promise not to travel to London; but the squire thought that his purpose of doing so was shaken. He was still resolved to send Mrs. Pipkin the price of a new blue cloak, and declared that he would get Mixet to write the letter. That afternoon Roger Carbury rode over to Lowestoft, to a meeting on church matters at which his friend the bishop presided. After the meeting he dined at the inn with half a dozen clergymen and neighbouring gentlemen, and then walked down by himself on to the long strand. It was now just the end of June, and the weather was delightful. Here and there a few townspeople were strolling about; and another few had come out from the lodging-houses and the hotel. Roger was fond of the sea-shore, and always came to loiter there for a while when any cause brought him into the town. He was walking close to the margin of the tide, with his hands joined behind his back, and his face turned down towards the shore, when he came upon a couple who were standing looking together upon the waves. He was close to them before they saw each other. The man was his friend Paul Montague. Leaning on Paul's arm a lady stood, dressed in black, with a dark straw hat; very simple in her attire, but yet a woman whom it would be impossible to pass without notice. The lady of course was Mrs. Hurtle. Paul Montague had been a fool to suggest Lowestoft, but his folly had been natural. Here were the sea sands which he knew best. When Mrs. Hurtle had been taken from the hotel on to the beach, she had declared herself to be charmed; Paul had understood what sort of place she needed. "I think the hotel is quite gorgeous," she said, "and the people so civil!" Hotel people always are civil before the crowds come. Of course it was impossible that Paul should return to London by the mail train an hour after his arrival. He would have reached London at four or five in the morning. The following day was Sunday, so of course he promised to stay till Monday. He had said nothing in the train of those stern things which he had resolved to say. He was not saying them when Roger Carbury came upon him; but was indulging in some poetical nonsense about the expanse of the ocean, and the endless ripples which connected shore with shore. Mrs. Hurtle, too, as she leaned with friendly weight upon his arm, indulged also in moonshine and romance. Though in the heart of each there was a devouring care, still they enjoyed the hour. And Paul liked the companionship of Mrs. Hurtle, because her attire was becoming and her eyes were bright. He liked the warmth of her closeness, and the softness of her arm, and the perfume from her hair - though he would have given all that he possessed to have her removed from him by some impassable gulf. He certainly had been foolish to bring her to Lowestoft, and now he felt his folly. As soon as he saw Roger Carbury he blushed, and then leaving Mrs. Hurtle's arm he came forward, and shook hands with his friend. "It is Mrs. Hurtle," he said, "I must introduce you." Roger took off his hat and bowed, but with the coldest ceremony. Mrs. Hurtle was just as cold in her acknowledgment. She had heard much of Roger Carbury, and felt that he was no friend to her. "I did not know that you were thinking of coming to Lowestoft," said Roger, unable to hide the severity he felt. "Mrs. Hurtle wished to get to the sea, and as she knew no one else here in England, I brought her." "Mr. Montague and I have travelled so many miles together before now," she said, "that a few more will not make much difference." "Do you stay long?" asked Roger in the same severe voice. "I go back probably on Monday," said Montague. "As I shall be here a whole week, and shall not speak a word to anyone after he has left me, he has consented to bestow his company on me for two days. Will you join us at dinner, Mr. Carbury, this evening?" "Thank you, madam; I have dined." "Then, Mr. Montague, I will leave you with your friend. We dine you know in twenty minutes. I wish you could get your friend to join us." So saying, Mrs. Hurtle tripped back towards the hotel. "Is this wise?" demanded Roger, as soon as the lady was out of hearing. "Nobody knows the folly of it so thoroughly as I do." "Then why do you do it? Do you mean to marry her?" "No; certainly not." "Is it honest then, or gentlemanly, that you should be with her in this way? Does she think that you intend to marry her?" "I have told her that I would not. I have told her-" He stopped, unable to say that he had told her that he loved another woman. "What does she mean then? Has she no regard for her own character?" "I would explain it all to you, Carbury, if I could. But you would never have the patience to hear me." "I am not naturally impatient." "But this would drive you mad. I wrote to her assuring her that it must be all over. Then she sent for me. Was I not bound to go to her?" "Yes; and to repeat what you had said in your letter." "I went with that very purpose, and did repeat it." "Then you should have left her." "Ah; but you do not understand. She begged that I would not desert her in her loneliness. We have been so much together that I could not desert her." "I certainly do not understand that, Paul. You have allowed yourself to be entrapped into a promise of marriage; and then, for reasons which we will not go into now, you resolved to break your promise, thinking that you were justified in doing so. But nothing can justify you in staying on such terms with the lady that she thinks your old promise holds good." "She does not think so." "Then what are you both doing here? Though I don't know why I should trouble myself about it. People live now in a way that I don't comprehend. If this is your way of living, I have no right to complain." "For God's sake, Carbury, do not speak in that way. It sounds as though you meant to throw me over." "I should have said that you had thrown me over. You come down here to this hotel, where we are both known, with this lady whom you are not going to marry; and I meet you, just by chance. What am I to say? I think that the lady will succeed in marrying you." "Never." "And that such a marriage will be your destruction. Doubtless she is good-looking." "Yes, and clever. And you must remember that the manners of her country are not as the manners of this country." "Then I trust I may not marry a lady of her country," said Roger. "She is here with you in order to marry you. She is cunning and strong. You are foolish and weak. You should tell her your mind - and leave her." Paul thought of the gentleman in Oregon, and of certain difficulties in leaving. "That's what I should do," said Roger. "You must go in now, I suppose, and eat your dinner." "May I come to the hall on the way home?" "Certainly, if you please," said Roger. Then he thought that his welcome had not been cordial. "I mean that I shall be delighted to see you," he added, marching away. Paul went into the hotel, and ate his dinner. In the meantime Roger Carbury walked far away along the strand. In all that he had said to Montague he had not been influenced by any reference to his own affairs. And yet he feared that this man was the chief barrier between himself and the girl that he loved. As he had listened to John Crumb speaking of Ruby Ruggles, he had told himself that he and John Crumb were alike. Both panted for the companionship of a fellow-creature: and each was to be thwarted by the make-believe regard of unworthy youth and fatuous good looks! Crumb would probably be successful at last. Ruby, as soon as hardship told upon her, would return to the strong arm that could be trusted to provide for her. But what chance was there of success for him? Hetta Carbury, if once she loved, would never change her love. It was possible, no doubt, that her heart was still vacillating. If she knew about Mrs. Hurtle, would not that open her eyes? Would she not then see where she could trust her happiness, and where she would certainly be shipwrecked? "Never," said Roger to himself, hitting at the stones on the beach with his stick. "Never." Then he got his horse and rode back to Carbury Manor.

The Way We Live Now

Chapter 46: Roger Carbury and his Two Friends

The statement made by Ruby as to her connection with Mrs. Pipkin was quite true. Ruby's father had married a Pipkin whose brother had died leaving a widow behind him at Islington. The old man at Sheep's Acre farm had greatly resented this marriage, had never spoken to his daughter-in-law,--or to his son after the marriage, and had steeled himself against the whole Pipkin race. When he undertook the charge of Ruby he had made it matter of agreement that she should have no intercourse with the Pipkins. This agreement Ruby had broken, corresponding on the sly with her uncle's widow at Islington. When therefore she ran away from Suffolk she did the best she could with herself in going to her aunt's house. Mrs. Pipkin was a poor woman, and could not offer a permanent home to Ruby; but she was good-natured, and came to terms. Ruby was to be allowed to stay at any rate for a month, and was to work in the house for her bread. But she made it a part of her bargain that she should be allowed to go out occasionally. Mrs. Pipkin immediately asked after a lover. "I'm all right," said Ruby. If the lover was what he ought to be, had he not better come and see her? This was Mrs. Pipkin's suggestion. Mrs. Pipkin thought that scandal might in this way be avoided. "That's as it may be, by-and-by," said Ruby. Then she told all the story of John Crumb:--how she hated John Crumb; how resolved she was that nothing should make her marry John Crumb. And she gave her own account of that night on which John Crumb and Mr. Mixet ate their supper at the farm, and of the manner in which her grandfather had treated her because she would not have John Crumb. Mrs. Pipkin was a respectable woman in her way, always preferring respectable lodgers if she could get them;--but bound to live. She gave Ruby very good advice. Of course if she was "dead-set" against John Crumb, that was one thing! But then there was nothing a young woman should look to so much as a decent house over her head,--and victuals. "What's all the love in the world, Ruby, if a man can't do for you?" Ruby declared that she knew somebody who could do for her, and could do very well for her. She knew what she was about, and wasn't going to be put off it. Mrs. Pipkin's morals were good wearing morals, but she was not strait-laced. If Ruby chose to manage in her own way about her lover she must. Mrs. Pipkin had an idea that young women in these days did have, and would have, and must have more liberty than was allowed when she was young. The world was being changed very fast. Mrs. Pipkin knew that as well as others. And therefore when Ruby went to the theatre once and again,--by herself as far as Mrs. Pipkin knew, but probably in company with her lover,--and did not get home till past midnight, Mrs. Pipkin said very little about it, attributing such novel circumstances to the altered condition of her country. She had not been allowed to go to the theatre with a young man when she had been a girl,--but that had been in the earlier days of Queen Victoria, fifteen years ago, before the new dispensation had come. Ruby had never yet told the name of her lover to Mrs. Pipkin, having answered all inquiries by saying that she was all right. Sir Felix's name had never even been mentioned in Islington till Paul Montague had mentioned it. She had been managing her own affairs after her own fashion,--not altogether with satisfaction, but still without interruption; but now she knew that interference would come. Mr. Montague had found her out, and had told her grandfather's landlord. The Squire would be after her, and then John Crumb would come, accompanied of course by Mr. Mixet,--and after that, as she said to herself on retiring to the couch which she shared with two little Pipkins, "the fat would be in the fire." "Who do you think was at our place yesterday?" said Ruby one evening to her lover. They were sitting together at a music-hall,--half music-hall, half theatre, which pleasantly combined the allurements of the gin-palace, the theatre, and the ball-room, trenching hard on those of other places. Sir Felix was smoking, dressed, as he himself called it, "incognito," with a Tom-and-Jerry hat, and a blue silk cravat, and a green coat. Ruby thought it was charming. Felix entertained an idea that were his West End friends to see him in this attire they would not know him. He was smoking, and had before him a glass of hot brandy and water, which was common to himself and Ruby. He was enjoying life. Poor Ruby! She was half-ashamed of herself, half-frightened, and yet supported by a feeling that it was a grand thing to have got rid of restraints, and be able to be with her young man. Why not? The Miss Longestaffes were allowed to sit and dance and walk about with their young men,--when they had any. Why was she to be given up to a great mass of stupid dust like John Crumb, without seeing anything of the world? But yet as she sat sipping her lover's brandy and water between eleven and twelve at the music-hall in the City Road, she was not altogether comfortable. She saw things which she did not like to see. And she heard things which she did not like to hear. And her lover, though he was beautiful,--oh, so beautiful!--was not all that a lover should be. She was still a little afraid of him, and did not dare as yet to ask him for the promise which she expected him to make to her. Her mind was set upon--marriage, but the word had hardly passed between them. To have his arm round her waist was heaven to her! Could it be possible that he and John Crumb were of the same order of human beings? But how was this to go on? Even Mrs. Pipkin made disagreeable allusions, and she could not live always with Mrs. Pipkin, coming out at nights to drink brandy and water and hear music with Sir Felix Carbury. She was glad therefore to take the first opportunity of telling her lover that something was going to happen. "Who do you suppose was at our place yesterday?" Sir Felix changed colour, thinking of Marie Melmotte, thinking that perhaps some emissary from Marie Melmotte had been there; perhaps Didon herself. He was amusing himself during these last evenings of his in London; but the business of his life was about to take him to New York. That project was still being elaborated. He had had an interview with Didon, and nothing was wanting but the money. Didon had heard of the funds which had been intrusted by him to Melmotte, and had been very urgent with him to recover them. Therefore, though his body was not unfrequently present, late in the night, at the City Road Music-Hall, his mind was ever in Grosvenor Square. "Who was it, Ruby?" "A friend of the Squire's, a Mr. Montague. I used to see him about in Bungay and Beccles." "Paul Montague!" "Do you know him, Felix?" "Well;--rather. He's a member of our club, and I see him constantly in the city--and I know him at home." "Is he nice?" "Well;--that depends on what you call nice. He's a prig of a fellow." "He's got a lady friend where I live." "The devil he has!" Sir Felix of course had heard of Roger Carbury's suit to his sister, and of the opposition to this suit on the part of Hetta, which was supposed to have been occasioned by her preference for Paul Montague. "Who is she, Ruby?" "Well;--she's a Mrs. Hurtle. Such a stunning woman! Aunt says she's an American. She's got lots of money." "Is Montague going to marry her?" "Oh dear yes. It's all arranged. Mr. Montague comes quite regular to see her;--not so regular as he ought, though. When gentlemen are fixed as they're to be married, they never are regular afterwards. I wonder whether it'll be the same with you?" "Wasn't John Crumb regular, Ruby?" "Bother John Crumb! That wasn't none of my doings. Oh, he'd been regular enough, if I'd let him; he'd been like clockwork,--only the slowest clock out. But Mr. Montague has been and told the Squire as he saw me. He told me so himself. The Squire's coming about John Crumb. I know that. What am I to tell him, Felix?" "Tell him to mind his own business. He can't do anything to you." "No;--he can't do nothing. I ain't done nothing wrong, and he can't send for the police to have me took back to Sheep's Acre. But he can talk,--and he can look. I ain't one of those, Felix, as don't mind about their characters,--so don't you think it. Shall I tell him as I'm with you?" "Gracious goodness, no! What would you say that for?" "I didn't know. I must say something." "Tell him you're nothing to him." "But aunt will be letting on about my being out late o'nights; I know she will. And who am I with? He'll be asking that." "Your aunt does not know?" "No;--I've told nobody yet. But it won't do to go on like that, you know,--will it? You don't want it to go on always like that;--do you?" "It's very jolly, I think." "It ain't jolly for me. Of course, Felix, I like to be with you. That's jolly. But I have to mind them brats all the day, and to be doing the bedrooms. And that's not the worst of it." "What is the worst of it?" "I'm pretty nigh ashamed of myself. Yes, I am." And now Ruby burst out into tears. "Because I wouldn't have John Crumb, I didn't mean to be a bad girl. Nor yet I won't. But what'll I do, if everybody turns again me? Aunt won't go on for ever in this way. She said last night that--" "Bother what she says!" Felix was not at all anxious to hear what aunt Pipkin might have to say upon such an occasion. "She's right too. Of course she knows there's somebody. She ain't such a fool as to think that I'm out at these hours to sing psalms with a lot of young women. She says that whoever it is ought to speak out his mind. There;--that's what she says. And she's right. A girl has to mind herself, though she's ever so fond of a young man." Sir Felix sucked his cigar and then took a long drink of brandy and water. Having emptied the beaker before him, he rapped for the waiter and called for another. He intended to avoid the necessity of making any direct reply to Ruby's importunities. He was going to New York very shortly, and looked on his journey thither as an horizon in his future beyond which it was unnecessary to speculate as to any farther distance. He had not troubled himself to think how it might be with Ruby when he was gone. He had not even considered whether he would or would not tell her that he was going, before he started. It was not his fault that she had come up to London. She was an "awfully jolly girl," and he liked the feeling of the intrigue better perhaps than the girl herself. But he assured himself that he wasn't going to give himself any "d----d trouble." The idea of John Crumb coming up to London in his wrath had never occurred to him,--or he would probably have hurried on his journey to New York instead of delaying it, as he was doing now. "Let's go in and have a dance," he said. Ruby was very fond of dancing,--perhaps liked it better than anything in the world. It was heaven to her to be spinning round the big room with her lover's arm tight round her waist, with one hand in his and her other hanging over his back. She loved the music, and loved the motion. Her ear was good, and her strength was great, and she never lacked breath. She could spin along and dance a whole room down, and feel at the time that the world could have nothing to give better worth having than that;--and such moments were too precious to be lost. She went and danced, resolving as she did so that she would have some answer to her question before she left her lover on that night. "And now I must go," she said at last. "You'll see me as far as the Angel, won't you?" Of course he was ready to see her as far as the Angel. "What am I to say to the Squire?" "Say nothing." "And what am I to say to aunt?" "Say to her? Just say what you have said all along." "I've said nothing all along,--just to oblige you, Felix. I must say something. A girl has got herself to mind. What have you got to say to me, Felix?" He was silent for about a minute, meditating his answer. "If you bother me I shall cut it, you know." "Cut it!" "Yes;--cut it. Can't you wait till I am ready to say something?" "Waiting will be the ruin o' me, if I wait much longer. Where am I to go, if Mrs. Pipkin won't have me no more?" "I'll find a place for you." "You find a place! No; that won't do. I've told you all that before. I'd sooner go into service, or--" "Go back to John Crumb." "John Crumb has more respect for me nor you. He'd make me his wife to-morrow, and only be too happy." "I didn't tell you to come away from him," said Sir Felix. "Yes, you did. You told me as I was to come up to London when I saw you at Sheepstone Beeches;--didn't you? And you told me you loved me;--didn't you? And that if I wanted anything you'd get it done for me;--didn't you?" "So I will. What do you want? I can give you a couple of sovereigns, if that's what it is." "No it isn't;--and I won't have your money. I'd sooner work my fingers off. I want you to say whether you mean to marry me. There!" As to the additional lie which Sir Felix might now have told, that would have been nothing to him. He was going to New York, and would be out of the way of any trouble; and he thought that lies of that kind to young women never went for anything. Young women, he thought, didn't believe them, but liked to be able to believe afterwards that they had been deceived. It wasn't the lie that stuck in his throat, but the fact that he was a baronet. It was in his estimation "confounded impudence" on the part of Ruby Ruggles to ask to be his wife. He did not care for the lie, but he did not like to seem to lower himself by telling such a lie as that at her dictation. "Marry, Ruby! No, I don't ever mean to marry. It's the greatest bore out. I know a trick worth two of that." She stopped in the street and looked at him. This was a state of things of which she had never dreamed. She could imagine that a man should wish to put it off, but that he should have the face to declare to his young woman that he never meant to marry at all, was a thing that she could not understand. What business had such a man to go after any young woman? "And what do you mean that I'm to do, Sir Felix?" she said. "Just go easy, and not make yourself a bother." "Not make myself a bother! Oh, but I will; I will. I'm to be carrying on with you, and nothing to come of it; but for you to tell me that you don't mean to marry, never at all! Never?" "Don't you see lots of old bachelors about, Ruby?" "Of course I does. There's the Squire. But he don't come asking girls to keep him company." "That's more than you know, Ruby." "If he did he'd marry her out of hand,--because he's a gentleman. That's what he is, every inch of him. He never said a word to a girl,--not to do her any harm, I'm sure," and Ruby began to cry. "You mustn't come no further now, and I'll never see you again--never! I think you're the falsest young man, and the basest, and the lowest-minded that I ever heard tell of. I know there are them as don't keep their words. Things turn up, and they can't. Or they gets to like others better; or there ain't nothing to live on. But for a young man to come after a young woman, and then say, right out, as he never means to marry at all, is the lowest-spirited fellow that ever was. I never read of such a one in none of the books. No, I won't. You go your way, and I'll go mine." In her passion she was as good as her word, and escaped from him, running all the way to her aunt's door. There was in her mind a feeling of anger against the man, which she did not herself understand, in that he would incur no risk on her behalf. He would not even make a lover's easy promise, in order that the present hour might be made pleasant. Ruby let herself into her aunt's house, and cried herself to sleep with a child on each side of her. On the next day Roger called. She had begged Mrs. Pipkin to attend the door, and had asked her to declare, should any gentleman ask for Ruby Ruggles, that Ruby Ruggles was out. Mrs. Pipkin had not refused to do so; but, having heard sufficient of Roger Carbury to imagine the cause which might possibly bring him to the house, and having made up her mind that Ruby's present condition of independence was equally unfavourable to the lodging-house and to Ruby herself, she determined that the Squire, if he did come, should see the young lady. When therefore Ruby was called into the little back parlour and found Roger Carbury there, she thought that she had been caught in a trap. She had been very cross all the morning. Though in her rage she had been able on the previous evening to dismiss her titled lover, and to imply that she never meant to see him again, now, when the remembrance of the loss came upon her amidst her daily work,--when she could no longer console herself in her drudgery by thinking of the beautiful things that were in store for her, and by flattering herself that though at this moment she was little better than a maid of all work in a lodging-house, the time was soon coming in which she would bloom forth as a baronet's bride,--now in her solitude she almost regretted the precipitancy of her own conduct. Could it be that she would never see him again;--that she would dance no more in that gilded bright saloon? And might it not be possible that she had pressed him too hard? A baronet of course would not like to be brought to book, as she could bring to book such a one as John Crumb. But yet,--that he should have said never;--that he would never marry! Looking at it in any light, she was very unhappy, and this coming of the Squire did not serve to cure her misery. Roger was very kind to her, taking her by the hand, and bidding her sit down, and telling her how glad he was to find that she was comfortably settled with her aunt. "We were all alarmed, of course, when you went away without telling anybody where you were going." "Grandfather 'd been that cruel to me that I couldn't tell him." "He wanted you to keep your word to an old friend of yours." "To pull me all about by the hairs of my head wasn't the way to make a girl keep her word;--was it, Mr. Carbury? That's what he did, then;--and Sally Hockett, who is there, heard it. I've been good to grandfather, whatever I may have been to John Crumb; and he shouldn't have treated me like that. No girl 'd like to be pulled about the room by the hairs of her head, and she with her things all off, just getting into bed." The Squire had no answer to make to this. That old Ruggles should be a violent brute under the influence of gin and water did not surprise him. And the girl, when driven away from her home by such usage, had not done amiss in coming to her aunt. But Roger had already heard a few words from Mrs. Pipkin as to Ruby's late hours, had heard also that there was a lover, and knew very well who that lover was. He also was quite familiar with John Crumb's state of mind. John Crumb was a gallant, loving fellow who might be induced to forgive everything, if Ruby would only go back to him; but would certainly persevere, after some slow fashion of his own, and "see the matter out," as he would say himself, if she did not go back. "As you found yourself obliged to run away," said Roger, "I'm glad that you should be here; but you don't mean to stay here always?" "I don't know," said Ruby. "You must think of your future life. You don't want to be always your aunt's maid." "Oh dear, no." "It would be very odd if you did, when you may be the wife of such a man as Mr. Crumb." "Oh, Mr. Crumb! Everybody is going on about Mr. Crumb. I don't like Mr. Crumb, and I never will like him." "Now look here, Ruby; I have come to speak to you very seriously, and I expect you to hear me. Nobody can make you marry Mr. Crumb, unless you please." "Nobody can't, of course, sir." "But I fear you have given him up for somebody else, who certainly won't marry you, and who can only mean to ruin you." "Nobody won't ruin me," said Ruby. "A girl has to look to herself, and I mean to look to myself." "I'm glad to hear you say so, but being out at night with such a one as Sir Felix Carbury is not looking to yourself. That means going to the devil head foremost." "I ain't a going to the devil," said Ruby, sobbing and blushing. "But you will, if you put yourself into the hands of that young man. He's as bad as bad can be. He's my own cousin, and yet I'm obliged to tell you so. He has no more idea of marrying you than I have; but were he to marry you, he could not support you. He is ruined himself, and would ruin any young woman who trusted him. I'm almost old enough to be your father, and in all my experience I never came across so vile a young man as he is. He would ruin you and cast you from him without a pang of remorse. He has no heart in his bosom;--none." Ruby had now given way altogether, and was sobbing with her apron to her eyes in one corner of the room. "That's what Sir Felix Carbury is," said the Squire, standing up so that he might speak with the more energy, and talk her down more thoroughly. "And if I understand it rightly," he continued, "it is for a vile thing such as he, that you have left a man who is as much above him in character, as the sun is above the earth. You think little of John Crumb because he does not wear a fine coat." "I don't care about any man's coat," said Ruby; "but John hasn't ever a word to say, was it ever so." [Illustration: "I don't care about any man's coat."] "Words to say! what do words matter? He loves you. He loves you after that fashion that he wants to make you happy and respectable, not to make you a bye-word and a disgrace." Ruby struggled hard to make some opposition to the suggestion, but found herself to be incapable of speech at the moment. "He thinks more of you than of himself, and would give you all that he has. What would that other man give you? If you were once married to John Crumb, would any one then pull you by the hairs of your head? Would there be any want then, or any disgrace?" "There ain't no disgrace, Mr. Carbury." "No disgrace in going about at midnight with such a one as Felix Carbury? You are not a fool, and you know that it is disgraceful. If you are not unfit to be an honest man's wife, go back and beg that man's pardon." "John Crumb's pardon! No!" "Oh, Ruby, if you knew how highly I respect that man, and how lowly I think of the other; how I look on the one as a noble fellow, and regard the other as dust beneath my feet, you would perhaps change your mind a little." Her mind was being changed. His words did have their effect, though the poor girl struggled against the conviction that was borne in upon her. She had never expected to hear any one call John Crumb noble. But she had never respected any one more highly than Squire Carbury, and he said that John Crumb was noble. Amidst all her misery and trouble she still told herself that it was but a dusty, mealy,--and also a dumb nobility. "I'll tell you what will take place," continued Roger. "Mr. Crumb won't put up with this you know." "He can't do nothing to me, sir." "That's true enough. Unless it be to take you in his arms and press you to his heart, he wants to do nothing to you. Do you think he'd injure you if he could? You don't know what a man's love really means, Ruby. But he could do something to somebody else. How do you think it would be with Felix Carbury, if they two were in a room together and nobody else by?" "John's mortial strong, Mr. Carbury." "If two men have equal pluck, strength isn't much needed. One is a brave man, and the other--a coward. Which do you think is which?" "He's your own cousin, and I don't know why you should say everything again him." "You know I'm telling you the truth. You know it as well as I do myself;--and you're throwing yourself away, and throwing the man who loves you over,--for such a fellow as that! Go back to him, Ruby, and beg his pardon." "I never will;--never." "I've spoken to Mrs. Pipkin, and while you're here she will see that you don't keep such hours any longer. You tell me that you're not disgraced, and yet you are out at midnight with a young blackguard like that! I've said what I've got to say, and I'm going away. But I'll let your grandfather know." "Grandfather don't want me no more." "And I'll come again. If you want money to go home, I will let you have it. Take my advice at least in this;--do not see Sir Felix Carbury any more." Then he took his leave. If he had failed to impress her with admiration for John Crumb, he had certainly been efficacious in lessening that which she had entertained for Sir Felix.

What Ruby had said about her connection with Mrs. Pipkin was true. Ruby's father had married a Pipkin whose brother had died, leaving a widow at Islington. The old man at Sheep's Acre farm had resented this marriage, and had never spoken to his daughter-in-law. When Ruby ran away from Suffolk she did the best she could in going to her aunt's house. Mrs. Pipkin was a poor woman, and could not offer a permanent home to Ruby; but she was good-natured, and came to terms with her. Ruby was to stay for a month, and to work in the house for her bread. But she made it a part of her bargain that she should be allowed to go out occasionally. Mrs. Pipkin immediately asked about a lover. "I'm all right," said Ruby. If the lover was what he ought to be, should he not come and see her? This was Mrs. Pipkin's suggestion, so that scandal might be avoided. "Maybe, by-and-by," said Ruby. Then she told the story of John Crumb: how she hated John Crumb, and would not marry him. She gave her own account of that night on which John Crumb and Mr. Mixet ate their supper at the farm, and how her grandfather had treated her. Mrs. Pipkin was a respectable woman in her way, and she gave Ruby very good advice. Of course if she was "dead-set" against John Crumb, that was one thing! But a young woman should look to a decent house over her head, and food. "What's all the love in the world, Ruby, if a man can't do for you?" Ruby declared that she knew somebody who could do very well for her. She knew what she was about. Mrs. Pipkin had an idea that young women in these days had more liberty than was allowed when she was young. The world was changing very fast. And therefore when Ruby went to the theatre, probably in company with her lover, and did not get home till past midnight, Mrs. Pipkin said very little. Ruby had never told her lover's name to Mrs. Pipkin. She had been managing her own affairs; but now that Mr. Montague had found her, the Squire would be after her, and then John Crumb would come, accompanied of course by Mr. Mixet - and after that, as she said to herself, "the fat would be in the fire." "Who do you think was at our place yesterday?" said Ruby one evening to her lover. They were sitting together at a music-hall. Sir Felix was dressed, as he called it, "incognito," with a blue silk cravat, and a green coat. He had an idea that if his West End friends saw him in this attire they would not know him. He was smoking, and had before him a glass of hot brandy and water, shared by Ruby. Poor Ruby! She was half-ashamed, half-frightened, and yet felt that it was a grand thing to have got rid of restraints, and be with her young man. Why not? The Miss Longestaffes were allowed to walk about with their young men. Why was she to be given up to a great mass of stupid dust like John Crumb, without seeing anything of the world? Yet as she sat sipping brandy and water at the music-hall in the City Road, she was not altogether comfortable. She saw things which she did not like to see, and she heard things which she did not like to hear. And her lover, though he was beautiful - oh, so beautiful! - was not all that a lover should be. She was still a little afraid of him, and did not dare to ask him for the promise which she expected him to make. Her mind was set upon marriage, but the word had hardly passed between them. To have his arm round her waist was heaven to her! But how was this to go on? Even Mrs. Pipkin made disagreeable allusions, and she could not live always with Mrs. Pipkin. She was glad therefore to tell her lover that something was going to happen. "Who do you suppose was at our place yesterday?" Sir Felix changed colour, thinking of Marie Melmotte; perhaps Didon had been there. He had had an interview with Didon, and nothing was lacking for the New York journey but the money. Didon had urged him to recover his funds from Melmotte. Therefore his mind was in Grosvenor Square. "Who was it, Ruby?" "A friend of the Squire's, a Mr. Montague." "Paul Montague!" "Do you know him, Felix?" "Rather. He's a member of our club. He's a prig of a fellow." "He's got a lady friend where I live." "The devil he has!" Sir Felix of course knew of Roger Carbury's suit to his sister, and her supposed preference for Paul Montague. "Who is she, Ruby?" "She's a Mrs. Hurtle. Such a stunning woman! Aunt says she's an American. She's got lots of money." "Is Montague going to marry her?" "Oh yes. It's all arranged. Mr. Montague comes quite regular to see her; not so regular as he ought, though. When gentlemen are fixed to be married, they never are regular afterwards. I wonder whether it'll be the same with you?" "Wasn't John Crumb regular, Ruby?" "Bother John Crumb! Oh, he'd been regular as clockwork if I let him - only the slowest clock out. But Mr. Montague has told the Squire as he saw me, and the Squire's coming. What am I to tell him, Felix?" "Tell him to mind his own business. He can't do anything to you." "No; I ain't done nothing wrong. But he can talk, and I ain't one of those as don't mind about their characters. Shall I tell him as I'm with you?" "Gracious goodness, no! What would you say that for?" "But aunt will be letting on about my being out late o'nights. He'll be asking who I'm with." "Your aunt does not know?" "No; I've told nobody. But it won't do to go on like that always, will it?" "It's very jolly, I think." "It ain't jolly for me. Of course, Felix, I like to be with you. But I'm pretty nigh ashamed of myself. Yes, I am." And now Ruby burst into tears. "Because I wouldn't have John Crumb, I didn't mean to be a bad girl. Nor yet I won't. But what'll I do, if everybody turns again me? Aunt said last night that-" "Bother what she says!" "She knows there's somebody. She ain't a fool. She says that whoever it is ought to speak out. And she's right. A girl has to mind herself, though she's ever so fond of a young man." Sir Felix took a long drink of brandy and water. Then he called the waiter for another, intending to avoid making any reply to Ruby. He was going to New York very shortly, and he had not troubled himself to think how it might be with Ruby when he was gone. He had not even considered whether he would tell her that he was going. It was not his fault that she had come up to London. He liked the intrigue better perhaps than the girl herself. But he told himself that he wasn't going to give himself any trouble; and the idea of John Crumb coming to London in his wrath had never occurred to him. "Let's go and have a dance," he said. Ruby was very fond of dancing. It was delightful to be spinning round the room with her lover's arm tight round her waist. She loved the music, and the motion. She could spin along and dance a whole room down, and feel that the world could hold nothing better. So she went and danced, resolving to have some answer to her question before she left her lover that night. "Now I must go," she said at last. "What am I to say to the Squire?" "Say nothing." "And what am I to say to aunt?" "Just say what you have said all along." "I've said nothing all along. I must say something. A girl has got herself to mind. What have you got to say to me, Felix?" He was silent for about a minute. "If you bother me I shall cut it, you know." "Cut it!" "Yes. Can't you wait till I am ready to say something?" "Waiting will be the ruin o' me, if I wait much longer. Where am I to go, if Mrs. Pipkin won't have me no more?" "I'll find a place for you." "You find a place! No; that won't do. I've told you all that before. I'd sooner go into service, or-" "Go back to John Crumb." "John Crumb has more respect for me nor you. He'd make me his wife tomorrow, and be only too happy." "I didn't tell you to come away from him," said Sir Felix. "Yes, you did. You told me as I was to come up to London when I saw you at Sheepstone Beeches; didn't you? And you told me you loved me; didn't you? And that if I wanted anything you'd get it done for me; didn't you?" "So I will. What do you want? I can give you a couple of sovereigns, if that's what it is." "No it isn't. I won't have your money. I'd sooner work my fingers off. I want you to say whether you mean to marry me. There!" An additional lie would have been nothing to Felix. He was going to New York, out of the way of any trouble; and he thought that lies of that kind to young women never mattered. Young women didn't believe them, but liked to be able to believe afterwards that they had been deceived. It wasn't the lie that stuck in his throat, but the fact that he was a baronet. He felt it was "confounded impudence" by Ruby Ruggles to ask to be his wife. "Marry, Ruby! No, I don't ever mean to marry. It's the greatest bore out." She stopped in the street and looked at him. This was a state of things of which she had never dreamed. What business had such a man to go after any young woman? "And what do you mean that I'm to do, Sir Felix?" she said. "Just go easy, and not make yourself a bother." "Not make myself a bother! Oh, but I will. I'm to be carrying on with you, and nothing to come of it; but for you to tell me that you don't mean to marry! Never?" "Don't you see lots of old bachelors about, Ruby?" "Of course I does. There's the Squire. If he came asking a girl to keep him company, he'd marry her - because he's a gentleman." Ruby began to cry. "You mustn't come no further now, and I'll never see you again - never! I think you're the falsest young man, and the basest, that I ever heard tell of. You go your way, and I'll go mine." In her passion she was as good as her word, and escaped from him, running all the way to her aunt's door. There was in her mind an anger against him, which she did not herself understand, that he would take no risk on her behalf. He would not even make a lover's easy promise to make the evening pleasant. Ruby let herself into her aunt's house, and cried herself to sleep. On the next day Roger called. Ruby had begged Mrs. Pipkin to tell any gentleman callers that she was out; but Mrs. Pipkin, having heard something of Roger Carbury, decided that the Squire should see the young lady. When therefore Ruby was called into the little back parlour and found Roger there, she thought that she had been caught in a trap. She had been very cross all morning. Though in her rage she had been able on the previous evening to dismiss Felix, now she almost regretted it. Could it be that she would never see him again - that she would dance no more in that gilded bright saloon? Maybe she had pressed him too hard. A baronet would not like to be brought to book. But to have said that he would never marry! She was very unhappy. Roger was very kind to her, taking her by the hand, and telling her how glad he was to find her comfortably settled with her aunt. "We were all alarmed, of course, when you went away without telling anybody where you were going." "Grandfather'd been that cruel to me that I couldn't tell him." "He wanted you to keep your word." "To pull me about by my hair wasn't the way to make a girl keep her word; was it, Mr. Carbury? I've been good to grandfather, and he shouldn't have treated me like that." The Squire had no answer to this. That old Ruggles should be a violent brute under the influence of gin did not surprise him. And the girl had not done amiss in coming to her aunt. But Roger had already heard from Mrs. Pipkin about Ruby's late hours, and a lover, and knew who that lover was. He also knew that John Crumb was a gallant, loving fellow who might forgive everything if Ruby would only go back to him; but would certainly persevere, after his slow fashion, and "see the matter out" if she did not go back. "I'm glad that you should be here," said Roger; "but you don't mean to stay here always?" "I don't know," said Ruby. "You must think of your future life. You don't want to be always your aunt's maid." "Oh dear, no." "It would be very odd if you did, when you may be the wife of such a man as Mr. Crumb." "Oh, Mr. Crumb! Everybody is going on about Mr. Crumb. I don't like him and I never will like him." "Now look here, Ruby; I have come to speak to you very seriously. Nobody can make you marry Mr. Crumb. But I fear you have given him up for somebody else, who certainly won't marry you, and who can only mean to ruin you." "Nobody won't ruin me," said Ruby. "I mean to look to myself." "I'm glad to hear you say so, but being out at night with Sir Felix Carbury is not looking to yourself. That means going to the devil head foremost." "I ain't a going to the devil," said Ruby, sobbing and blushing. "But you will, if you put yourself into the hands of that bad young man. He has no idea of marrying you, and if he did, he could not support you. He is ruined himself, and would ruin any young woman who trusted him. Though he is my cousin, I never came across so vile a young man as he is. He would ruin you and cast you away without a pang of remorse. He has no heart." Ruby was sobbing with her apron to her eyes. "And it is for that vile man that you have left a man who is as much above him in character, as the sun is above the earth. You think little of John Crumb because he does not wear a fine coat." "I don't care about any man's coat," said Ruby; "but John hasn't ever a word to say." "Words! What do words matter? He loves you. He wants to make you happy and respectable, not to disgrace you. He thinks more of you than of himself, and would give you all that he has. What would that other man give you? If you were once married to John Crumb, would anyone then pull you by the hair? Would there be any disgrace?" "There ain't no disgrace, Mr. Carbury." "No disgrace in going about at midnight with Felix Carbury? You know that it is disgraceful. If you are fit to be an honest man's wife, go back and beg that man's pardon." "John Crumb's pardon! No!" "Ruby, if you knew how highly I respect him, and how lowly I think of the other; how I look on the one as a noble fellow, and regard the other as dust beneath my feet, you would perhaps change your mind." Her mind was being changed. His words had their effect, though the poor girl struggled against it. She had never expected to hear anyone call John Crumb noble. She respected no one more highly than Squire Carbury. Amidst all her misery she still told herself that it was but a dusty, dumb nobility. "Mr. Crumb won't put up with this, you know," continued Roger. "He can't do nothing to me, sir." "That's true enough. Unless it be to take you in his arms, he wants to do nothing to you. Do you think he'd injure you? You don't know what a man's love really means, Ruby. But he could do something to somebody else. How do you think it would be with Felix Carbury, if they two met?" "John's mortal strong." "One is a brave man, and the other a coward. You know it as well as I do; and you're throwing yourself away, and throwing over the man who loves you - for such a fellow as that! Go back to him, Ruby, and beg his pardon." "I never will; never." "I've spoken to Mrs. Pipkin, and while you're here she will see that you don't keep such late hours any longer. I'm going now. But I'll come again. If you want money to go home, I will let you have it. Take my advice: do not see Sir Felix Carbury any more." Then he took his leave. If he had failed to impress her with admiration for John Crumb, he had certainly succeeded in lessening her admiration for Sir Felix.

The Way We Live Now

Chapter 43: The City Road

Lord Nidderdale had half consented to renew his suit to Marie Melmotte. He had at any rate half promised to call at Melmotte's house on the Sunday with the object of so doing. As far as that promise had been given it was broken, for on the Sunday he was not seen in Bruton Street. Though not much given to severe thinking, he did feel that on this occasion there was need for thought. His father's property was not very large. His father and his grandfather had both been extravagant men, and he himself had done something towards adding to the family embarrassments. It had been an understood thing, since he had commenced life, that he was to marry an heiress. In such families as his, when such results have been achieved, it is generally understood that matters shall be put right by an heiress. It has become an institution, like primogeniture, and is almost as serviceable for maintaining the proper order of things. Rank squanders money; trade makes it;--and then trade purchases rank by re-gilding its splendour. The arrangement, as it affects the aristocracy generally, is well understood, and was quite approved of by the old marquis--so that he had felt himself to be justified in eating up the property, which his son's future marriage would renew as a matter of course. Nidderdale himself had never dissented, had entertained no fanciful theory opposed to this view, had never alarmed his father by any liaison tending towards matrimony with any undowered beauty;--but had claimed his right to "have his fling" before he devoted himself to the redintegration of the family property. His father had felt that it would be wrong and might probably be foolish to oppose so natural a desire. He had regarded all the circumstances of "the fling" with indulgent eyes. But there arose some little difference as to the duration of the fling, and the father had at last found himself compelled to inform his son that if the fling were carried on much longer it must be done with internecine war between himself and his heir. Nidderdale, whose sense and temper were alike good, saw the thing quite in the proper light. He assured his father that he had no intention of "cutting up rough," declared that he was ready for the heiress as soon as the heiress should be put in his way, and set himself honestly about the task imposed on him. This had all been arranged at Auld Reekie Castle during the last winter, and the reader knows the result. But the affair had assumed abnormal difficulties. Perhaps the Marquis had been wrong in flying at wealth which was reputed to be almost unlimited, but which was not absolutely fixed. A couple of hundred thousand pounds down might have been secured with greater ease. But here there had been a prospect of endless money,--of an inheritance which might not improbably make the Auld Reekie family conspicuous for its wealth even among the most wealthy of the nobility. The old man had fallen into the temptation, and abnormal difficulties had been the result. Some of these the reader knows. Latterly two difficulties had culminated above the others. The young lady preferred another gentleman, and disagreeable stories were afloat, not only as to the way in which the money had been made, but even as to its very existence. The Marquis, however, was a man who hated to be beaten. As far as he could learn from inquiry, the money would be there,--or, at least, so much money as had been promised. A considerable sum, sufficient to secure the bridegroom from absolute shipwreck,--though by no means enough to make a brilliant marriage,--had in truth been already settled on Marie, and was, indeed, in her possession. As to that, her father had armed himself with a power of attorney for drawing the income,--but had made over the property to his daughter, so that in the event of unforeseen accidents on 'Change, he might retire to obscure comfort, and have the means perhaps of beginning again with whitewashed cleanliness. When doing this, he had doubtless not anticipated the grandeur to which he would soon rise, or the fact that he was about to embark on seas so dangerous that this little harbour of refuge would hardly offer security to his vessel. Marie had been quite correct in her story to her favoured lover. And the Marquis's lawyer had ascertained that if Marie ever married before she herself had restored this money to her father, her husband would be so far safe,--with this as a certainty and the immense remainder in prospect. The Marquis had determined to persevere. Pickering was to be added. Mr. Melmotte had been asked to depone the title-deeds, and had promised to do so as soon as the day of the wedding should have been fixed with the consent of all the parties. The Marquis's lawyer had ventured to express a doubt; but the Marquis had determined to persevere. The reader will, I trust, remember that those dreadful misgivings, which are I trust agitating his own mind, have been borne in upon him by information which had not as yet reached the Marquis in all its details. But Nidderdale had his doubts. That absurd elopement, which Melmotte declared really to mean nothing,--the romance of a girl who wanted to have one little fling of her own before she settled down for life,--was perhaps his strongest objection. Sir Felix, no doubt, had not gone with her; but then one doesn't wish to have one's intended wife even attempt to run off with any one but oneself. "She'll be sick of him by this time, I should say," his father said to him. "What does it matter, if the money's there?" The Marquis seemed to think that the escapade had simply been the girl's revenge against his son for having made his arrangements so exclusively with Melmotte, instead of devoting himself to her. Nidderdale acknowledged to himself that he had been remiss. He told himself that she was possessed of more spirit than he had thought. By the Sunday evening he had determined that he would try again. He had expected that the plum would fall into his mouth. He would now stretch out his hand to pick it. On the Monday he went to the house in Bruton Street, at lunch time. Melmotte and the two Grendalls had just come over from their work in the square, and the financier was full of the priest's visit to him. Madame Melmotte was there, and Miss Longestaffe, who was to be sent for by her friend Lady Monogram that afternoon,--and, after they had sat down, Marie came in. Nidderdale got up and shook hands with her,--of course as though nothing had happened. Marie, putting a brave face upon it, struggling hard in the midst of very real difficulties, succeeded in saying an ordinary word or two. Her position was uncomfortable. A girl who has run away with her lover and has been brought back again by her friends, must for a time find it difficult to appear in society with ease. But when a girl has run away without her lover,--has run away expecting her lover to go with her, and has then been brought back, her lover not having stirred, her state of mind must be peculiarly harassing. But Marie's courage was good, and she ate her lunch even though she sat next to Lord Nidderdale. Melmotte was very gracious to the young lord. "Did you ever hear anything like that, Nidderdale?" he said, speaking of the priest's visit. "Mad as a hatter," said Lord Alfred. "I don't know much about his madness. I shouldn't wonder if he had been sent by the Archbishop of Westminster. Why don't we have an Archbishop of Westminster when they've got one? I shall have to see to that when I'm in the House. I suppose there is a bishop, isn't there, Alfred?" Alfred shook his head. "There's a Dean, I know, for I called on him. He told me flat he wouldn't vote for me. I thought all those parsons were Conservatives. It didn't occur to me that the fellow had come from the Archbishop, or I would have been more civil to him." "Mad as a hatter;--nothing else," said Lord Alfred. "You should have seen him, Nidderdale. It would have been as good as a play to you." "I suppose you didn't ask him to the dinner, sir." "D---- the dinner, I'm sick of it," said Melmotte, frowning. "We must go back again, Alfred. Those fellows will never get along if they are not looked after. Come, Miles. Ladies, I shall expect you to be ready at exactly a quarter before eight. His Imperial Majesty is to arrive at eight precisely, and I must be there to receive him. You, Madame, will have to receive your guests in the drawing-room." The ladies went up-stairs, and Lord Nidderdale followed them. Miss Longestaffe soon took her departure, alleging that she couldn't keep her dear friend Lady Monogram waiting for her. Then there fell upon Madame Melmotte the duty of leaving the young people together, a duty which she found a great difficulty in performing. After all that had happened, she did not know how to get up and go out of the room. As regarded herself, the troubles of these troublous times were becoming almost too much for her. She had no pleasure from her grandeur,--and probably no belief in her husband's achievements. It was her present duty to assist in getting Marie married to this young man, and that duty she could only do by going away. But she did not know how to get out of her chair. She expressed in fluent French her abhorrence of the Emperor, and her wish that she might be allowed to remain in bed during the whole evening. She liked Nidderdale better than any one else who came there, and wondered at Marie's preference for Sir Felix. Lord Nidderdale assured her that nothing was so easy as kings and emperors, because no one was expected to say anything. She sighed and shook her head, and wished again that she might be allowed to go to bed. Marie, who was by degrees plucking up her courage, declared that though kings and emperors were horrors as a rule, she thought an Emperor of China would be good fun. Then Madame Melmotte also plucked up her courage, rose from her chair, and made straight for the door. "Mamma, where are you going?" said Marie, also rising. Madame Melmotte, putting her handkerchief up to her face, declared that she was being absolutely destroyed by a toothache. "I must see if I can't do something for her," said Marie, hurrying to the door. But Lord Nidderdale was too quick for her, and stood with his back to it. "That's a shame," said Marie. "Your mother has gone on purpose that I may speak to you," said his lordship. "Why should you grudge me the opportunity?" Marie returned to her chair and again seated herself. She also had thought much of her own position since her return from Liverpool. Why had Sir Felix not been there? Why had he not come since her return, and, at any rate, endeavoured to see her? Why had he made no attempt to write to her? Had it been her part to do so, she would have found a hundred ways of getting at him. She absolutely had walked inside the garden of the square on Sunday morning, and had contrived to leave a gate open on each side. But he had made no sign. Her father had told her that he had not gone to Liverpool--and had assured her that he had never intended to go. Melmotte had been very savage with her about the money, and had loudly accused Sir Felix of stealing it. The repayment he never mentioned,--a piece of honesty, indeed, which had showed no virtue on the part of Sir Felix. But even if he had spent the money, why was he not man enough to come and say so? Marie could have forgiven that fault,--could have forgiven even the gambling and the drunkenness which had caused the failure of the enterprise on his side, if he had had the courage to come and confess to her. What she could not forgive was continued indifference,--or the cowardice which forbade him to show himself. She had more than once almost doubted his love, though as a lover he had been better than Nidderdale. But now, as far as she could see, he was ready to consent that the thing should be considered as over between them. No doubt she could write to him. She had more than once almost determined to do so. But then she had reflected that if he really loved her he would come to her. She was quite ready to run away with a lover, if her lover loved her; but she would not fling herself at a man's head. Therefore she had done nothing,--beyond leaving the garden gates open on the Sunday morning. But what was she to do with herself? She also felt, she knew not why, that the present turmoil of her father's life might be brought to an end by some dreadful convulsion. No girl could be more anxious to be married and taken away from her home. If Sir Felix did not appear again, what should she do? She had seen enough of life to be aware that suitors would come,--would come as long as that convulsion was staved off. She did not suppose that her journey to Liverpool would frighten all the men away. But she had thought that it would put an end to Lord Nidderdale's courtship; and when her father had commanded her, shaking her by the shoulders, to accept Lord Nidderdale when he should come on Sunday, she had replied by expressing her assurance that Lord Nidderdale would never be seen at that house any more. On the Sunday he had not come; but here he was now, standing with his back to the drawing-room door, and cutting off her retreat with the evident intention of renewing his suit. She was determined at any rate that she would speak up. "I don't know what you should have to say to me, Lord Nidderdale." "Why shouldn't I have something to say to you?" "Because--. Oh, you know why. Besides, I've told you ever so often, my lord. I thought a gentleman would never go on with a lady when the lady has told him that she liked somebody else better." "Perhaps I don't believe you when you tell me." "Well; that is impudent! You may believe it then. I think I've given you reason to believe it, at any rate." "You can't be very fond of him now, I should think." "That's all you know about it, my lord. Why shouldn't I be fond of him? Accidents will happen, you know." "I don't want to make any allusion to anything that's unpleasant, Miss Melmotte." "You may say just what you please. All the world knows about it. Of course I went to Liverpool, and of course papa had me brought back again." "Why did not Sir Felix go?" "I don't think, my lord, that that can be any business of yours." "But I think that it is, and I'll tell you why. You might as well let me say what I've got to say,--out at once." "You may say what you like, but it can't make any difference." "You knew me before you knew him, you know." "What does that matter? If it comes to that, I knew ever so many people before I knew you." "And you were engaged to me." "You broke it off." "Listen to me for a moment or two. I know I did. Or, rather, your father and my father broke it off for us." "If we had cared for each other they couldn't have broken it off. Nobody in the world could break me off as long as I felt that he really loved me;--not if they were to cut me in pieces. But you didn't care, not a bit. You did it just because your father told you. And so did I. But I know better than that now. You never cared for me a bit more than for the old woman at the crossing. You thought I didn't understand;--but I did. And now you've come again;--because your father has told you again. And you'd better go away." "There's a great deal of truth in what you say." "It's all true, my lord. Every word of it." "I wish you wouldn't call me my lord." "I suppose you are a lord, and therefore I shall call you so. I never called you anything else when they pretended that we were to be married, and you never asked me. I never even knew what your name was till I looked it out in the book after I had consented." "There is truth in what you say;--but it isn't true now. How was I to love you when I had seen so little of you? I do love you now." "Then you needn't;--for it isn't any good." "I do love you now, and I think you'd find that I should be truer to you than that fellow who wouldn't take the trouble to go down to Liverpool with you." "You don't know why he didn't go." "Well;--perhaps I do. But I did not come here to say anything about that." "Why didn't he go, Lord Nidderdale?" She asked the question with an altered tone and an altered face. "If you really know, you might as well tell me." "No, Marie;--that's just what I ought not to do. But he ought to tell you. Do you really in your heart believe that he means to come back to you?" "I don't know," she said, sobbing. "I do love him;--I do indeed. I know that you are good-natured. You are more good-natured than he is. But he did like me. You never did;--no; not a bit. It isn't true. I ain't a fool. I know. No;--go away. I won't let you now. I don't care what he is; I'll be true to him. Go away, Lord Nidderdale. You oughtn't to go on like that because papa and mamma let you come here. I didn't let you come. I don't want you to come. No;--I won't say any kind word to you. I love Sir Felix Carbury better--than any person--in all the world. There! I don't know whether you call that kind, but it's true." "Say good-bye to me, Marie." "Oh, I don't mind saying good-bye. Good-bye, my lord; and don't come any more." "Yes, I shall. Good-bye, Marie. You'll find the difference between me and him yet." So he took his leave, and as he sauntered away he thought that upon the whole he had prospered, considering the extreme difficulties under which he had laboured in carrying on his suit. "She's quite a different sort of girl from what I took her to be," he said to himself. "Upon my word, she's awfully jolly." Marie, when the interview was over, walked about the room almost in dismay. It was borne in upon her by degrees that Sir Felix Carbury was not at all points quite as nice as she had thought him. Of his beauty there was no doubt; but then she could trust him for no other good quality. Why did he not come to her? Why did he not show some pluck? Why did he not tell her the truth? She had quite believed Lord Nidderdale when he said that he knew the cause that had kept Sir Felix from going to Liverpool. And she had believed him, too, when he said that it was not his business to tell her. But the reason, let it be what it might, must, if known, be prejudicial to her love. Lord Nidderdale was, she thought, not at all beautiful. He had a common-place, rough face, with a turn-up nose, high cheek bones, no especial complexion, sandy-coloured whiskers, and bright laughing eyes,--not at all an Adonis such as her imagination had painted. But if he had only made love at first as he had attempted to do it now, she thought that she would have submitted herself to be cut in pieces for him.

Lord Nidderdale had half consented to renew his suit to Marie Melmotte, and had agreed to call at Melmotte's house on Sunday. However, he did not go to Bruton Street. Though not much given to severe thinking, he did feel that on this occasion there was need for thought. His father's property was not large. His father and his grandfather had both been extravagant, and he had added to their debts. In such families as his, it is generally understood that matters shall be put right by marrying an heiress. Rank squanders money; trade makes it; and then trade purchases rank. The arrangement is well understood, and was so approved of by the old marquis that he had felt himself justified in eating up the property, which his son's future marriage would renew as a matter of course. Nidderdale himself had never dissented; but had claimed his right to "have his fling" before he married. His indulgent father had felt that it would be foolish to oppose so natural a desire; but there arose some difference as to the duration of the fling, and the father had at last informed his son that if the fling were carried on much longer it would mean war between himself and his heir. Nidderdale, whose sense and temper were good, assured his father that he did not want that, and was ready for the heiress as soon as she should be put in his way. The alliance with Marie Melmotte had been arranged at Auld Reekie Castle during the last winter, and the reader knows the result. But difficulties had arisen: the young lady preferred another gentleman, and disagreeable stories were afloat, not only about the way in which the money had been made, but even as to its very existence. The Marquis, however, hated to be beaten. As far as he could learn, the money would be there. A considerable sum had in truth been already settled on Marie. Her father had armed himself with a power of attorney for drawing the income, but had signed over the property to his daughter, so that in the event of unforeseen accidents he might retire to obscure comfort. Marie had been quite correct in her story to Felix Carbury. And the Marquis's lawyer had found that if Marie married before she had restored this money to her father, her husband would have this amount as a certainty, with the immense remainder in prospect. Therefore the Marquis was determined to persevere. Pickering was to be added. Mr. Melmotte had been asked to depone the title-deeds, and had promised to do so as soon as the day of the wedding was fixed. But Nidderdale too had his doubts. That absurd elopement was perhaps his strongest objection. Sir Felix had not gone with her; but one doesn't wish to have one's intended wife even attempt to run off with anyone but oneself. "She'll be sick of him by this time," his father said. "What does it matter, if the money's there?" The Marquis seemed to think that the escapade had simply been the girl's revenge against his son for having made his arrangements exclusively with Melmotte, instead of devoting himself to her. Nidderdale acknowledged that he had been remiss. She had more spirit than he had thought. By the Sunday evening he had resolved to try again. Previously, he had expected that the plum would fall into his mouth. He would now stretch out his hand to pick it. On the Monday he went to Bruton Street at lunch time. Melmotte and the two Grendalls had just come over from their work in Grosvenor Square, and the financier was full of the priest's visit. Madame Melmotte was there, and Miss Longestaffe. After they had sat down, Marie came in. Nidderdale got up and shook hands with her, as though nothing had happened. Marie, putting a brave face upon it, with a struggle succeeded in saying an ordinary word or two. Her position was uncomfortable. When a girl has run away expecting her lover to go with her, and has then been brought back, her lover not having stirred, her state of mind must be peculiarly harassing. But Marie's courage was good, and she ate her lunch sitting next to Lord Nidderdale. Melmotte was very gracious to the young lord. "Did you ever hear anything like that, Nidderdale?" he said, speaking of the priest's visit. "Mad as a hatter," said Lord Alfred. "I don't know. I shouldn't wonder if he had been sent by the Archbishop of Westminster." "Mad as a hatter, nothing else," said Lord Alfred. "You should have seen him, Nidderdale." "I suppose you didn't ask him to the dinner, sir." "D___ the dinner, I'm sick of it," said Melmotte, frowning. "We must go back, Alfred. Come, Miles. Ladies, I shall expect you to be ready at exactly a quarter to eight. His Imperial Majesty is to arrive at eight, and I must be there to receive him. You, Madame, will have to receive your guests in the drawing-room." The ladies went upstairs, and Lord Nidderdale followed them. Miss Longestaffe departed to her dear friend Lady Monogram. There fell upon Madame Melmotte the duty of leaving the young people together; but she did not know how to get up and go out of the room. The troubles of these times were almost too much for her. She had no pleasure from her grandeur, and probably no belief in her husband's achievements. She liked Nidderdale, and wondered at Marie's preference for Sir Felix; so at last she plucked up her courage, rose from her chair, and made for the door. "Mamma, where are you going?" said Marie, also rising. Madame Melmotte, putting her handkerchief up to her face, declared that she had a toothache. "I must see if I can't do something for her," said Marie, hurrying to the door. But Lord Nidderdale was too quick for her, and stood with his back to it. "Your mother has gone on purpose so that I may speak to you," he said. "Why should you grudge me the opportunity?" Marie returned to her chair. She also had thought much of her own position since her return from Liverpool. Why had Sir Felix not been there? Why had he not tried to see her since her return? Why had he made no attempt to write to her? She had waited in the square, and left the gates open, but he had not come. Her father had told her that he had not gone to Liverpool - that he had never intended to go. Melmotte had been very savage about the money. But even if Felix had spent the money, why was he not man enough to come and say so? Marie could have forgiven that fault - could have forgiven even the gambling and drunkenness which had caused the failure, if he had had the courage to come and confess to her. What she could not forgive was indifference - or cowardice. She had more than once almost doubted his love. Now, as far as she could see, he was ready to consent that the thing was over between them. No doubt she could write to him; but if he really loved her he would come to her. She would not fling herself at a man's head. Therefore she had done nothing, beyond leaving the garden gates open on the Sunday morning. But what was she to do with herself? She also felt, she knew not why, that the present turmoil of her father's life might be brought to an end by some dreadful convulsion. No girl could be more anxious to be married and taken away from her home. If Sir Felix did not appear again, what should she do? She did not suppose that her journey to Liverpool would frighten all the men away. But she had thought that it would put an end to Lord Nidderdale's courtship; yet here he was now, standing with his back to the door, and cutting off her retreat. "I don't know what you should have to say to me, Lord Nidderdale." "Why shouldn't I have something to say to you?" "Because - oh, you know why. Besides, I've told you ever so often that I liked somebody else better." "Perhaps I don't believe you." "Well; that is impudent! I've given you reason to believe it, at any rate." "You can't be very fond of him now, I should think." "That's all you know, my lord. Why shouldn't I be fond of him? Accidents will happen, you know." "I don't want to make any allusion to anything unpleasant, Miss Melmotte." "You may say just what you please. All the world knows about it. Of course I went to Liverpool, and papa had me brought back again." "Why did not Sir Felix go?" "I don't think, my lord, that that is any business of yours." "But I think that it is, and I'll tell you why. You might as well let me say what I've got to say." "It can't make any difference." "You were engaged to me before you knew him, you know." "You broke it off," said Marie. "I know I did. Or, rather, your father and my father broke it off for us." "If we had cared for each other they couldn't have broken it off. Nobody in the world could break me off as long as I felt that he really loved me. But you didn't care, not a bit. You did it just because your father told you. And so did I. But I know better than that now. And now you've come again; because your father has told you again. And you'd better go away." "There's a great deal of truth in what you say." "It's all true, my lord." "It isn't true now. How was I to love you when I had seen so little of you? I do love you now." "Then you needn't," she said, "for it isn't any good." "I should be truer to you than that fellow who wouldn't take the trouble to go down to Liverpool." "You don't know why he didn't go." "Perhaps I do. But I did not come here to say anything about that." "Why didn't he go, Lord Nidderdale?" She asked the question with an altered tone. "If you really know, you might as well tell me." "No, Marie; that's just what I ought not to do. But he ought to tell you. Do you really believe that he means to come back to you?" "I don't know," she said, sobbing. "I do love him; I do indeed. I would be cut in pieces for him. I know that you are more good-natured than he is. But he did like me. You never did, not a bit. No; go away. I don't care what he is; I'll be true to him. Go away, Lord Nidderdale. I don't want you to come. No; I won't say any kind word to you. I love Sir Felix Carbury better - than any person - in all the world. There! I don't know whether you call that kind, but it's true." "Say good-bye to me, Marie." "Oh, I don't mind saying good-bye. Good-bye, my lord; and don't come any more." "Yes, I shall. Good-bye, Marie. You'll find the difference between me and him yet." So he left, and as he sauntered away he thought that upon the whole he had prospered, considering the extreme difficulties in carrying on his suit. "She's quite a different sort of girl from what I thought," he said to himself. "Upon my word, she's awfully jolly." Marie, after this interview, walked about the room almost in dismay. It was borne in upon her that Sir Felix Carbury was not as nice as she had thought him. Of his beauty there was no doubt; but she could have trust in no other good quality. Why did he not come to her? Why did he not show some pluck? Why did he not tell her the truth? Lord Nidderdale was, she thought, not at all beautiful. He had a commonplace, rough face, with a turned-up nose, high cheek bones, sandy-coloured whiskers, and bright laughing eyes - not at all an Adonis. But if he had only made love at first as he had attempted to do it now, she thought that she would have allowed herself to be cut in pieces for him.

The Way We Live Now

Chapter 57: Lord Nidderdale Tries his Hand Again

"And now I have something to say to you." Mr. Broune as he thus spoke to Lady Carbury rose up to his feet and then sat down again. There was an air of perturbation about him which was very manifest to the lady, and the cause and coming result of which she thought that she understood. "The susceptible old goose is going to do something highly ridiculous and very disagreeable." It was thus that she spoke to herself of the scene that she saw was prepared for her, but she did not foresee accurately the shape in which the susceptibility of the "old goose" would declare itself. "Lady Carbury," said Mr. Broune, standing up a second time, "we are neither of us so young as we used to be." "No, indeed;--and therefore it is that we can afford to ourselves the luxury of being friends. Nothing but age enables men and women to know each other intimately." This speech was a great impediment to Mr. Broune's progress. It was evidently intended to imply that he at least had reached a time of life at which any allusion to love would be absurd. And yet, as a fact, he was nearer fifty than sixty, was young of his age, could walk his four or five miles pleasantly, could ride his cob in the park with as free an air as any man of forty, and could afterwards work through four or five hours of the night with an easy steadiness which nothing but sound health could produce. Mr. Broune, thinking of himself and his own circumstances, could see no reason why he should not be in love. "I hope we know each other intimately at any rate," he said somewhat lamely. "Oh, yes;--and it is for that reason that I have come to you for advice. Had I been a young woman I should not have dared to ask you." "I don't see that. I don't quite understand that. But it has nothing to do with my present purpose. When I said that we were neither of us so young as we once were, I uttered what was a stupid platitude,--a foolish truism." "I did not think so," said Lady Carbury smiling. "Or would have been, only that I intended something further." Mr. Broune had got himself into a difficulty and hardly knew how to get out of it. "I was going on to say that I hoped we were not too old to--love." Foolish old darling! What did he mean by making such an ass of himself? This was worse even than the kiss, as being more troublesome and less easily pushed on one side and forgotten. It may serve to explain the condition of Lady Carbury's mind at the time if it be stated that she did not even at this moment suppose that the editor of the "Morning Breakfast Table" intended to make her an offer of marriage. She knew, or thought she knew, that middle-aged men are fond of prating about love, and getting up sensational scenes. The falseness of the thing, and the injury which may come of it, did not shock her at all. Had she known that the editor professed to be in love with some lady in the next street, she would have been quite ready to enlist the lady in the next street among her friends that she might thus strengthen her own influence with Mr. Broune. For herself such make-belief of an improper passion would be inconvenient, and therefore to be avoided. But that any man, placed as Mr. Broune was in the world,--blessed with power, with a large income, with influence throughout all the world around him, courted, fted, feared and almost worshipped,--that he should desire to share her fortunes, her misfortunes, her struggles, her poverty and her obscurity, was not within the scope of her imagination. There was a homage in it, of which she did not believe any man to be capable,--and which to her would be the more wonderful as being paid to herself. She thought so badly of men and women generally, and of Mr. Broune and herself as a man and a woman individually, that she was unable to conceive the possibility of such a sacrifice. "Mr. Broune," she said, "I did not think that you would take advantage of the confidence I have placed in you to annoy me in this way." "To annoy you, Lady Carbury! The phrase at any rate is singular. After much thought I have determined to ask you to be my wife. That I should be--annoyed, and more than annoyed by your refusal, is a matter of course. That I ought to expect such annoyance is perhaps too true. But you can extricate yourself from the dilemma only too easily." The word "wife" came upon her like a thunder-clap. It at once changed all her feelings towards him. She did not dream of loving him. She felt sure that she never could love him. Had it been on the cards with her to love any man as a lover, it would have been some handsome spendthrift who would have hung from her neck like a nether millstone. This man was a friend to be used,--to be used because he knew the world. And now he gave her this clear testimony that he knew as little of the world as any other man. Mr. Broune of the "Daily Breakfast Table" asking her to be his wife! But mixed with her other feelings there was a tenderness which brought back some memory of her distant youth, and almost made her weep. That a man,--such a man,--should offer to take half her burdens, and to confer upon her half his blessings! What an idiot! But what a God! She had looked upon the man as all intellect, alloyed perhaps by some passionless remnants of the vices of his youth; and now she found that he not only had a human heart in his bosom, but a heart that she could touch. How wonderfully sweet! How infinitely small! It was necessary that she should answer him--and to her it was only natural that she should at first think what answer would best assist her own views without reference to his. It did not occur to her that she could love him; but it did occur to her that he might lift her out of her difficulties. What a benefit it would be to her to have a father, and such a father, for Felix! How easy would be a literary career to the wife of the editor of the "Morning Breakfast Table!" And then it passed through her mind that somebody had told her that the man was paid 3,000 a year for his work. Would not the world, or any part of it that was desirable, come to her drawing-room if she were the wife of Mr. Broune? It all passed through her brain at once during that minute of silence which she allowed herself after the declaration was made to her. But other ideas and other feelings were present to her also. Perhaps the truest aspiration of her heart had been the love of freedom which the tyranny of her late husband had engendered. Once she had fled from that tyranny and had been almost crushed by the censure to which she had been subjected. Then her husband's protection and his tyranny had been restored to her. After that the freedom had come. It had been accompanied by many hopes never as yet fulfilled, and embittered by many sorrows which had been always present to her; but still the hopes were alive and the remembrance of the tyranny was very clear to her. At last the minute was over and she was bound to speak. "Mr. Broune," she said, "you have quite taken away my breath. I never expected anything of this kind." And now Mr. Broune's mouth was opened, and his voice was free. "Lady Carbury," he said, "I have lived a long time without marrying, and I have sometimes thought that it would be better for me to go on in the same way to the end. I have worked so hard all my life that when I was young I had no time to think of love. And, as I have gone on, my mind has been so fully employed, that I have hardly realised the want which nevertheless I have felt. And so it has been with me till I fancied, not that I was too old for love, but that others would think me so. Then I met you. As I said at first, perhaps with scant gallantry, you also are not as young as you once were. But you keep the beauty of your youth, and the energy, and something of the freshness of a young heart. And I have come to love you. I speak with absolute frankness, risking your anger. I have doubted much before I resolved upon this. It is so hard to know the nature of another person. But I think I understand yours;--and if you can confide your happiness with me, I am prepared to intrust mine to your keeping." Poor Mr. Broune! Though endowed with gifts peculiarly adapted for the editing of a daily newspaper, he could have had but little capacity for reading a woman's character when he talked of the freshness of Lady Carbury's young mind! And he must have surely been much blinded by love, before convincing himself that he could trust his happiness to such keeping. "You do me infinite honour. You pay me a great compliment," ejaculated Lady Carbury. "Well?" "How am I to answer you at a moment? I expected nothing of this. As God is to be my judge it has come upon me like a dream. I look upon your position as almost the highest in England,--on your prosperity as the uttermost that can be achieved." "That prosperity, such as it is, I desire most anxiously to share with you." "You tell me so;--but I can hardly yet believe it. And then how am I to know my own feelings so suddenly? Marriage as I have found it, Mr. Broune, has not been happy. I have suffered much. I have been wounded in every joint, hurt in every nerve,--tortured till I could hardly endure my punishment. At last I got my liberty, and to that I have looked for happiness." "Has it made you happy?" "It has made me less wretched. And there is so much to be considered! I have a son and a daughter, Mr. Broune." "Your daughter I can love as my own. I think I prove my devotion to you when I say that I am willing for your sake to encounter the troubles which may attend your son's future career." "Mr. Broune, I love him better,--always shall love him better,--than anything in the world." This was calculated to damp the lover's ardour, but he probably reflected that should he now be successful, time might probably change the feeling which had just been expressed. "Mr. Broune," she said, "I am now so agitated that you had better leave me. And it is very late. The servant is sitting up, and will wonder that you should remain. It is near two o'clock." "When may I hope for an answer?" "You shall not be kept waiting. I will write to you, almost at once. I will write to you,--to-morrow; say the day after to-morrow, on Thursday. I feel that I ought to have been prepared with an answer; but I am so surprised that I have none ready." He took her hand in his, and kissing it, left her without another word. As he was about to open the front door to let himself out, a key from the other side raised the latch, and Sir Felix, returning from his club, entered his mother's house. The young man looked up into Mr. Broune's face with mingled impudence and surprise. "Halloo, old fellow," he said, "you've been keeping it up late here; haven't you?" He was nearly drunk, and Mr. Broune, perceiving his condition, passed him without a word. Lady Carbury was still standing in the drawing-room, struck with amazement at the scene which had just passed, full of doubt as to her future conduct, when she heard her son stumbling up the stairs. It was impossible for her not to go out to him. "Felix," she said, "why do you make so much noise as you come in?" "Noish! I'm not making any noish. I think I'm very early. Your people's only just gone. I shaw shat editor fellow at the door that won't call himself Brown. He'sh great ass'h, that fellow. All right, mother. Oh, ye'sh I'm all right." And so he stumbled up to bed, and his mother followed him to see that the candle was at any rate placed squarely on the table, beyond the reach of the bed curtains. Mr. Broune as he walked to his newspaper office experienced all those pangs of doubts which a man feels when he has just done that which for days and weeks past he has almost resolved that he had better leave undone. That last apparition which he had encountered at his lady love's door certainly had not tended to reassure him. What curse can be much greater than that inflicted by a drunken, reprobate son? The evil, when in the course of things it comes upon a man, has to be borne; but why should a man in middle life unnecessarily afflict himself with so terrible a misfortune? The woman, too, was devoted to the cub! Then thousands of other thoughts crowded upon him. How would this new life suit him? He must have a new house, and new ways; must live under a new dominion, and fit himself to new pleasures. And what was he to gain by it? Lady Carbury was a handsome woman, and he liked her beauty. He regarded her too as a clever woman; and, because she had flattered him, he had liked her conversation. He had been long enough about town to have known better,--and as he now walked along the streets, he almost felt that he ought to have known better. Every now and again he warmed himself a little with the remembrance of her beauty, and told himself that his new home would be pleasanter, though it might perhaps be less free, than the old one. He tried to make the best of it; but as he did so was always repressed by the memory of the appearance of that drunken young baronet. Whether for good or for evil, the step had been taken and the thing was done. It did not occur to him that the lady would refuse him. All his experience of the world was against such refusal. Towns which consider, always render themselves. Ladies who doubt always solve their doubts in the one direction. Of course she would accept him;--and of course he would stand to his guns. As he went to his work he endeavoured to bathe himself in self-complacency; but, at the bottom of it, there was a substratum of melancholy which leavened his prospects. Lady Carbury went from the door of her son's room to her own chamber, and there sat thinking through the greater part of the night. During these hours she perhaps became a better woman, as being more oblivious of herself, than she had been for many a year. It could not be for the good of this man that he should marry her,--and she did in the midst of her many troubles try to think of the man's condition. Although in the moments of her triumph,--and such moments were many,--she would buoy herself up with assurances that her Felix would become a rich man, brilliant with wealth and rank, an honour to her, a personage whose society would be desired by many, still in her heart of hearts she knew how great was the peril, and in her imagination she could foresee the nature of the catastrophe which might come. He would go utterly to the dogs and would take her with him. And whithersoever he might go, to what lowest canine regions he might descend, she knew herself well enough to be sure that whether married or single she would go with him. Though her reason might be ever so strong in bidding her to desert him, her heart, she knew, would be stronger than her reason. He was the one thing in the world that overpowered her. In all other matters she could scheme, and contrive, and pretend; could get the better of her feelings and fight the world with a double face, laughing at illusions and telling herself that passions and preferences were simply weapons to be used. But her love for her son mastered her,--and she knew it. As it was so, could it be fit that she should marry another man? And then her liberty! Even though Felix should bring her to utter ruin, nevertheless she would be and might remain a free woman. Should the worse come to the worst she thought that she could endure a Bohemian life in which, should all her means have been taken from her, she could live on what she earned. Though Felix was a tyrant after a kind, he was not a tyrant who could bid her do this or that. A repetition of marriage vows did not of itself recommend itself to her. As to loving the man, liking his caresses, and being specially happy because he was near her,--no romance of that kind ever presented itself to her imagination. How would it affect Felix and her together,--and Mr. Broune as connected with her and Felix? If Felix should go to the dogs, then would Mr. Broune not want her. Should Felix go to the stars instead of the dogs, and become one of the gilded ornaments of the metropolis, then would not he and she want Mr. Broune. It was thus that she regarded the matter. She thought very little of her daughter as she considered all this. There was a home for Hetta, with every comfort, if Hetta would only condescend to accept it. Why did not Hetta marry her cousin Roger Carbury and let there be an end of that trouble? Of course Hetta must live wherever her mother lived till she should marry; but Hetta's life was so much at her own disposal that her mother did not feel herself bound to be guided in the great matter by Hetta's predispositions. But she must tell Hetta should she ultimately make up her mind to marry the man, and in that case the sooner this was done the better. On that night she did not make up her mind. Ever and again as she declared to herself that she would not marry him, the picture of a comfortable assured home over her head, and the conviction that the editor of the "Morning Breakfast Table" would be powerful for all things, brought new doubts to her mind. But she could not convince herself, and when at last she went to her bed her mind was still vacillating. The next morning she met Hetta at breakfast, and with assumed nonchalance asked a question about the man who was perhaps about to be her husband. "Do you like Mr. Broune, Hetta?" "Yes;--pretty well. I don't care very much about him. What makes you ask, mamma?" "Because among my acquaintances in London there is no one so truly kind to me as he is." "He always seems to me to like to have his own way." "Why shouldn't he like it?" "He has to me that air of selfishness which is so very common with people in London;--as though what he said were all said out of surface politeness." "I wonder what you expect, Hetta, when you talk of--London people? Why should not London people be as kind as other people? I think Mr. Broune is as obliging a man as any one I know. But if I like anybody, you always make little of him. The only person you seem to think well of is Mr. Montague." "Mamma, that is unfair and unkind. I never mention Mr. Montague's name if I can help it,--and I should not have spoken of Mr. Broune, had you not asked me."

"And now I have something to say to you." Mr. Broune as he spoke stood up, then sat down again, with a perturbed air. "The susceptible old goose is going to do something highly ridiculous and disagreeable," she thought. "Lady Carbury," said Mr. Broune, standing up a second time, "we are neither of us so young as we used to be." "No, indeed; and that is why we can afford the luxury of being friends. Nothing but age enables men and women to know each other intimately." This speech was a great impediment to Mr. Broune's progress. It was evidently intended to imply that he had reached a time of life at which love would be absurd. And yet he was nearer fifty than sixty, was young for his age, could walk his four or five miles pleasantly, and work through four or five hours of the night with the easy steadiness of sound health. Mr. Broune could see no reason why he should not be in love. "I hope we know each other intimately at any rate," he said somewhat lamely. "Oh, yes; that is why I have come to you for advice." "When I said that we were neither of us so young as we once were, I uttered a stupid platitude." "I did not think so," said Lady Carbury, smiling. "I intended something further." Mr. Broune had got himself into a difficulty and hardly knew how to get out of it. "I was going on to say that I hoped we were not too old to - love." Foolish old darling! What did he mean by making such an ass of himself? This was more troublesome even than the kiss. Lady Carbury even now had no inkling that the editor of the Breakfast Table intended to make her an offer of marriage. That Mr. Broune, blessed with power, a large income, and influence - that he should desire to share her fortunes and misfortunes, her struggles and her poverty, was not within the scope of her imagination. She thought so badly of men and women generally, that she was unable to conceive the possibility of such a sacrifice. "Mr. Broune," she said, "I did not think that you would take advantage of the confidence I have placed in you to annoy me in this way." "To annoy you, Lady Carbury! I have determined to ask you to be my wife. That I should be - annoyed by your refusal, is a matter of course. That I ought to expect such annoyance is perhaps too true. But you can extricate yourself from the dilemma easily." The word "wife" came upon her like a thunder-clap. It at once changed all her feelings towards him. She did not dream of loving him. Had it been on the cards for her to love any man, it would have been some handsome spendthrift. This man was a friend, to be used because he knew the world. And now he showed that he knew as little of the world as any other man. But mixed with these feelings was a tenderness which brought back some memory of her distant youth, and almost made her weep. That such a man should offer to take half her burdens! What an idiot! But what a God! She had looked upon him as all intellect, and now she found that he not only had a human heart in his bosom, but a heart that she could touch. How wonderfully sweet! How infinitely small! It was necessary that she should answer him. It did not occur to her that she could love him; but it did occur to her that he might lift her out of her difficulties. What a benefit it would be to her to have such a father for Felix! How easy would be a literary career to the wife of the editor of the Morning Breakfast Table! Would not the world come to her drawing-room if she were the wife of Mr. Broune? It all passed through her brain at once during that minute of silence which she allowed herself. But other feelings were present also. Perhaps the truest aspiration of her heart had been the love of freedom which the tyranny of her late husband had engendered. Once, she had fled from that tyranny and had been almost crushed by the censure that followed. Then her husband's protection and his tyranny had been restored to her. After that the freedom had come; accompanied by many hopes still unfulfilled, and embittered by many sorrows; but the memory of the tyranny was very clear. The minute was over, and she must speak. "Mr. Broune," she said, "you have quite taken away my breath. I never expected anything of this kind." "Lady Carbury," he said, "I have lived a long time without marrying. I have worked so hard all my life that when I was young I had no time to think of love. And my mind has been so fully employed that I have hardly realised the want which nevertheless I have felt. Then I met you. As I said, perhaps with little gallantry, you also are not as young as you once were. But you keep the beauty and energy of your youth, and the freshness of a young heart. And I have come to love you. I speak with absolute frankness, risking your anger. But if you can confide your happiness with me, I am prepared to entrust mine to your keeping." Poor Mr. Broune! Though a gifted editor, he showed little capacity for reading a woman's character when he talked of the freshness of Lady Carbury's young mind! And he must have surely been much blinded by love, in convincing himself that he could trust his happiness to such keeping. "You do me infinite honour." "Well?" "How am I to answer you at a moment? I expected nothing of this. It has come upon me like a dream; I can hardly yet believe it. How am I to know my own feelings so suddenly? Marriage as I have found it, Mr. Broune, has not been happy. I have suffered much. I have been hurt in every nerve - tortured till I could hardly endure it. At last I got my liberty, and to that I have looked for happiness." "Has it made you happy?" "It has made me less wretched. And there is so much to be considered! I have a son and a daughter, Mr. Broune." "Your daughter I can love as my own. I think I prove my devotion to you when I say that I am willing for your sake to encounter the troubles which your son may face." "Mr. Broune, I shall always love him better than anything in the world." This was calculated to damp the lover's ardour, but he probably reflected that if he were successful, time might change her feelings. "Mr. Broune," she said, "you had better leave me. It is very late." "When may I hope for an answer?" "I will write to you - tomorrow; say the day after tomorrow." He kissed her hand and left without another word. As he was about to let himself out, the front door was opened from the other side, and Sir Felix entered. The young man looked at Mr. Broune with impudence and surprise. "Halloo, old fellow," he said, "you've been keeping up late, haven't you?" He was nearly drunk, and Mr. Broune passed him without a word. Lady Carbury was still standing in the drawing-room, struck with amazement at the proposal and wondering what she should do, when she heard her son stumbling up the stairs. "Felix," she said, "why do you make so much noise as you come in?" "Noish! I'm not making any noish. Your people's only just gone. I shaw that editor fellow at the door. He'sh great assh, that fellow. All right, mother." And so he stumbled up to bed, and his mother followed him to see that the candle was placed squarely on the table, beyond the reach of the bed curtains. Mr. Broune as he walked to his newspaper office experienced many pangs of doubt. Would it have been better if he had not spoken? That last apparition at his lady love's door certainly did not reassure him. What curse can be greater than that inflicted by a drunken son? Why should a man unnecessarily afflict himself with so terrible a misfortune? Then thousands of other thoughts crowded upon him. He must have a new house, and new ways; must fit himself to new pleasures. And what was he to gain by it? Lady Carbury was a handsome woman, and, he thought, a clever woman. Because she had flattered him, he had liked her conversation. He had been around long enough to know better - and he almost felt that he ought to have known better. He warmed himself a little with the remembrance of her beauty, and told himself that his new home would be pleasanter than the old one. He tried to make the best of it; but he was repressed by the memory of that drunken young baronet. Whether for good or for evil, the step had been taken. It did not occur to him that the lady would refuse him. Of course she would accept him; and of course he would stick to his guns. He tried to feel complacent; but underneath there was a substratum of melancholy. Lady Carbury went to her own chamber, and there sat thinking through most of the night. During these hours she perhaps became a better woman, more oblivious of herself, than she had been for many a year. It could not be good for this man that he should marry her. Although in the moments of her triumph she would buoy herself up with assurances that her Felix would become wealthy and brilliant, still in her heart of hearts she knew how great was the peril of catastrophe. He might go utterly to the dogs and take her with him - married or single. He was the one thing in the world that overpowered her. In all other matters she could scheme, and pretend, and overcome her feelings, telling herself that passions were simply weapons to be used. But her love for her son mastered her - and she knew it. As it was so, could it be fit that she should marry another man? And then her liberty! A repetition of marriage vows did not recommend itself to her. As to loving the man, and liking his caresses, she imagined no romance of that kind. If Felix should go to the dogs, then Mr. Broune would not want her. Should Felix go to the stars instead of the dogs, then he - and she - would not need Mr. Broune. She thought very little of her daughter in all this. There was a comfortable home for Hetta, if Hetta would only condescend to marry her cousin Roger. Hetta's life was so much at her own disposal that her mother did not feel herself bound to be guided in this great matter by her wishes. But she must tell Hetta if she decided to marry the man, and the sooner the better. On that night she did not make up her mind. Even as she declared to herself that she would not marry him, the picture of a comfortable home, and the power of the editor of the Morning Breakfast Table brought doubts to her mind. The next morning she met Hetta at breakfast, and with assumed nonchalance asked, "Do you like Mr. Broune, Hetta?" "Yes; pretty well. I don't care very much about him. What makes you ask, mamma?" "Because among my acquaintances in London there is no one so truly kind to me as he is." "I think he has that air of selfishness which is so common with people in London - as though what he said were out of surface politeness." "Why should not London people be as kind as other people, Hetta? I think Mr. Broune is as obliging a man as anyone I know. But the only person you seem to think well of is Mr. Montague." "Mamma, that is unfair and unkind. I never mention Mr. Montague's name if I can help it, and I should not have spoken of Mr. Broune, unless you had asked me."

The Way We Live Now

Chapter 31: Mr. Broune has made up his Mind

Roger Carbury when he received the letter from Hetta's mother desiring him to tell her all that he knew of Paul Montague's connection with Mrs. Hurtle found himself quite unable to write a reply. He endeavoured to ask himself what he would do in such a case if he himself were not personally concerned. What advice in this emergency would he give to the mother and what to the daughter, were he himself uninterested? He was sure that, as Hetta's cousin and acting as though he were Hetta's brother, he would tell her that Paul Montague's entanglement with that American woman should have forbidden him at any rate for the present to offer his hand to any other lady. He thought that he knew enough of all the circumstances to be sure that such would be his decision. He had seen Mrs. Hurtle with Montague at Lowestoft, and had known that they were staying together as friends at the same hotel. He knew that she had come to England with the express purpose of enforcing the fulfilment of an engagement which Montague had often acknowledged. He knew that Montague made frequent visits to her in London. He had, indeed, been told by Montague himself that, let the cost be what it might, the engagement should be and in fact had been broken off. He thoroughly believed the man's word, but put no trust whatever in his firmness. And, hitherto, he had no reason whatever for supposing that Mrs. Hurtle had consented to be abandoned. What father, what elder brother would allow a daughter or a sister to become engaged to a man embarrassed by such difficulties? He certainly had counselled Montague to rid himself of the trammels by which he had surrounded himself;--but not on that account could he think that the man in his present condition was fit to engage himself to another woman. All this was clear to Roger Carbury. But then it had been equally clear to him that he could not, as a man of honour, assist his own cause by telling a tale,--which tale had become known to him as the friend of the man against whom it would have to be told. He had resolved upon that as he left Montague and Mrs. Hurtle together upon the sands at Lowestoft. But what was he to do now? The girl whom he loved had confessed her love for the other man,--that man, who in seeking the girl's love, had been as he thought so foul a traitor to himself! That he would hold himself as divided from the man by a perpetual and undying hostility he had determined. That his love for the woman would be equally perpetual he was quite sure. Already there were floating across his brain ideas of perpetuating his name in the person of some child of Hetta's,--but with the distinct understanding that he and the child's father should never see each other. No more than twenty-four hours had intervened between the receipt of Paul's letter and that from Lady Carbury,--but during those four-and-twenty hours he had almost forgotten Mrs. Hurtle. The girl was gone from him, and he thought only of his own loss and of Paul's perfidy. Then came the direct question as to which he was called upon for a direct answer. Did he know anything of facts relating to the presence of a certain Mrs. Hurtle in London which were of a nature to make it inexpedient that Hetta should accept Paul Montague as her betrothed lover? Of course he did. The facts were all familiar to him. But how was he to tell the facts? In what words was he to answer such a letter? If he told the truth as he knew it how was he to secure himself against the suspicion of telling a story against his rival in order that he might assist himself, or at any rate, punish the rival? As he could not trust himself to write an answer to Lady Carbury's letter he determined that he would go to London. If he must tell the story he could tell it better face to face than by any written words. So he made the journey, arrived in town late in the evening, and knocked at the door in Welbeck Street between ten and eleven on the morning after the unfortunate meeting which took place between Sir Felix and John Crumb. The page when he opened the door looked as a page should look when the family to which he is attached is suffering from some terrible calamity. "My lady" had been summoned to the hospital to see Sir Felix who was,--as the page reported,--in a very bad way indeed. The page did not exactly know what had happened, but supposed that Sir Felix had lost most of his limbs by this time. Yes; Miss Carbury was up-stairs; and would no doubt see her cousin, though she, too, was in a very bad condition; and dreadfully put about. That poor Hetta should be "put about" with her brother in the hospital and her lover in the toils of an abominable American woman was natural enough. "What's this about Felix?" asked Roger. The new trouble always has precedence over those which are of earlier date. "Oh Roger, I am so glad to see you. Felix did not come home last night, and this morning there came a man from the hospital in the city to say that he is there." "What has happened to him?" "Somebody,--somebody has,--beaten him," said Hetta whimpering. Then she told the story as far as she knew it. The messenger from the hospital had declared that the young man was in no danger and that none of his bones were broken, but that he was terribly bruised about the face, that his eyes were in a frightful condition, sundry of his teeth knocked out, and his lips cut open. But, the messenger had gone on to say, the house surgeon had seen no reason why the young gentleman should not be taken home. "And mamma has gone to fetch him," said Hetta. "That's John Crumb," said Roger. Hetta had never heard of John Crumb, and simply stared into her cousin's face. "You have not been told about John Crumb? No;--you would not hear of him." "Why should John Crumb beat Felix like that?" "They say, Hetta, that women are the cause of most troubles that occur in the world." The girl blushed up to her eyes, as though the whole story of Felix's sin and folly had been told to her. "If it be as I suppose," continued Roger, "John Crumb has considered himself to be aggrieved and has thus avenged himself." "Did you--know of him before?" "Yes indeed;--very well. He is a neighbour of mine and was in love with a girl, with all his heart; and he would have made her his wife and have been good to her. He had a home to offer her, and is an honest man with whom she would have been safe and respected and happy. Your brother saw her and, though he knew the story, though he had been told by myself that this honest fellow had placed his happiness on the girl's love, he thought,--well, I suppose he thought that such a pretty thing as this girl was too good for John Crumb." "But Felix has been going to marry Miss Melmotte!" "You're old-fashioned, Hetta. It used to be the way,--to be off with the old love before you are on with the new; but that seems to be all changed now. Such fine young fellows as there are now can be in love with two at once. That I fear is what Felix has thought;--and now he has been punished." "You know all about it then?" "No;--I don't know. But I think it has been so. I do know that John Crumb had threatened to do this thing, and I felt sure that sooner or later he would be as good as his word. If it has been so, who is to blame him?" Hetta as she heard the story hardly knew whether her cousin, in his manner of telling the story, was speaking of that other man, of that stranger of whom she had never heard, or of himself. He would have made her his wife and have been good to her. He had a home to offer her. He was an honest man with whom she would have been safe and respected and happy! He had looked at her while speaking as though it were her own case of which he spoke. And then, when he talked of the old-fashioned way, of being off with the old love before you are on with the new, had he not alluded to Paul Montague and this story of the American woman? But, if so, it was not for Hetta to notice it by words. He must speak more plainly than that before she could be supposed to know that he alluded to her own condition. "It is very shocking," she said. "Shocking;--yes. One is shocked at it all. I pity your mother, and I pity you." "It seems to me that nothing ever will be happy for us," said Hetta. She was longing to be told something of Mrs. Hurtle, but she did not as yet dare to ask the question. "I do not know whether to wait for your mother or not," said he after a short pause. "Pray wait for her if you are not very busy." "I came up only to see her, but perhaps she would not wish me to be here when she brings Felix back to the house." "Indeed she will. She would like you always to be here when there are troubles. Oh, Roger, I wish you could tell me." "Tell you what?" "She has written to you;--has she not?" "Yes; she has written to me." "And about me?" "Yes;--about you, Hetta. And, Hetta, Mr. Montague has written to me also." "He told me that he would," whispered Hetta. "Did he tell you of my answer?" "No;--he has told me of no answer. I have not seen him since." "You do not think that it can have been very kind, do you? I also have something of the feeling of John Crumb, though I shall not attempt to show it after the same fashion." "Did you not say the girl had promised to love that man?" "I did not say so;--but she had promised. Yes, Hetta; there is a difference. The girl then was fickle and went back from her word. You never have done that. I am not justified in thinking even a hard thought of you. I have never harboured a hard thought of you. It is not you that I reproach. But he,--he has been if possible more false than Felix." "Oh, Roger, how has he been false?" Still he was not wishful to tell her the story of Mrs. Hurtle. The treachery of which he was speaking was that which he had thought had been committed by his friend towards himself. "He should have left the place and never have come near you," said Roger, "when he found how it was likely to be with him. He owed it to me not to take the cup of water from my lips." How was she to tell him that the cup of water never could have touched his lips? And yet if this were the only falsehood of which he had to tell, she was bound to let him know that it was so. That horrid story of Mrs. Hurtle;--she would listen to that if she could hear it. She would be all ears for that. But she could not admit that her lover had sinned in loving her. "But, Roger," she said--"it would have been the same." "You may think so. You may feel it. You may know it. I at any rate will not contradict you when you say that it must have been so. But he didn't feel it. He didn't know it. He was to me as a younger brother,--and he has robbed me of everything. I understand, Hetta, what you mean. I should never have succeeded! My happiness would have been impossible if Paul had never come home from America. I have told myself so a hundred times, but I cannot therefore forgive him. And I won't forgive him, Hetta. Whether you are his wife, or another man's, or whether you are Hetta Carbury on to the end, my feeling to you will be the same. While we both live, you must be to me the dearest creature living. My hatred to him--" "Oh, Roger, do not say hatred." "My hostility to him can make no difference in my feeling to you. I tell you that should you become his wife you will still be my love. As to not coveting,--how is a man to cease to covet that which he has always coveted? But I shall be separated from you. Should I be dying, then I should send for you. You are the very essence of my life. I have no dream of happiness otherwise than as connected with you. He might have my whole property and I would work for my bread, if I could only have a chance of winning you to share my toils with me." But still there was no word of Mrs. Hurtle. "Roger," she said, "I have given it all away now. It cannot be given twice." "If he were unworthy would your heart never change?" "I think--never. Roger, is he unworthy?" "How can you trust me to answer such a question? He is my enemy. He has been ungrateful to me as one man hardly ever is to another. He has turned all my sweetness to gall, all my flowers to bitter weeds; he has choked up all my paths. And now you ask me whether he is unworthy! I cannot tell you." "If you thought him worthy you would tell me," she said, getting up and taking him by the arm. "No;--I will tell you nothing. Go to some one else, not to me;" and he tried with gentleness but tried ineffectually to disengage himself from her hold. "Roger, if you knew him to be good you would tell me,--because you yourself are so good. Even though you hated him you would say so. It would not be you to leave a false impression even against your enemies. I ask you because, however it may be with you, I know I can trust you. I can be nothing else to you, Roger; but I love you as a sister loves, and I come to you as a sister comes to a brother. He has my heart. Tell me;--is there any reason why he should not also have my hand?" "Ask himself, Hetta." "And you will tell me nothing? You will not try to save me though you know that I am in danger? Who is--Mrs. Hurtle?" "Have you asked him?" "I had not heard her name when he parted from me. I did not even know that such a woman lived. Is it true that he has promised to marry her? Felix told me of her, and told me also that you knew. But I cannot trust Felix as I would trust you. And mamma says that it is so;--but mamma also bids me ask you. There is such a woman?" "There is such a woman certainly." "And she has been,--a friend of Paul's?" "Whatever be the story, Hetta, you shall not hear it from me. I will say neither evil nor good of the man except in regard to his conduct to myself. Send for him and ask him to tell you the story of Mrs. Hurtle as it concerns himself. I do not think he will lie, but if he lies you will know that he is lying." "And that is all?" "All that I can say, Hetta. You ask me to be your brother; but I cannot put myself in the place of your brother. I tell you plainly that I am your lover, and shall remain so. Your brother would welcome the man whom you would choose as your husband. I can never welcome any husband of yours. I think if twenty years were to pass over us, and you were still Hetta Carbury, I should still be your lover,--though an old one. What is now to be done about Felix, Hetta?" "Ah,--what can be done? I think sometimes that it will break mamma's heart." "Your mother makes me angry by her continual indulgence." "But what can she do? You would not have her turn him into the street?" "I do not know that I would not. For a time it might serve him perhaps. Here is the cab. Here they are. Yes; you had better go down and let your mother know that I am here. They will perhaps take him up to bed, so that I need not see him." Hetta did as she was bid, and met her mother and her brother in the hall. Felix having the full use of his arms and legs was able to descend from the cab, and hurry across the pavement into the house, and then, without speaking a word to his sister, hid himself in the dining-room. His face was strapped up with plaister so that not a feature was visible; and both his eyes were swollen and blue; part of his beard had been cut away, and his physiognomy had altogether been so treated that even the page would hardly have known him. "Roger is up-stairs, mamma," said Hetta in the hall. "Has he heard about Felix;--has he come about that?" "He has heard only what I have told him. He has come because of your letter. He says that a man named Crumb did it." "Then he does know. Who can have told him? He always knows everything. Oh, Hetta, what am I to do? Where shall I go with this wretched boy?" "Is he hurt, mamma?" "Hurt;--of course he is hurt; horribly hurt. The brute tried to kill him. They say that he will be dreadfully scarred for ever. But oh, Hetta;--what am I to do with him? What am I to do with myself and you?" On this occasion Roger was saved from the annoyance of any personal intercourse with his cousin Felix. The unfortunate one was made as comfortable as circumstances would permit in the parlour, and Lady Carbury then went up to her cousin in the drawing-room. She had learned the truth with some fair approach to accuracy, though Sir Felix himself had of course lied as to every detail. There are some circumstances so distressing in themselves as to make lying almost a necessity. When a young man has behaved badly about a woman, when a young man has been beaten without returning a blow, when a young man's pleasant vices are brought directly under a mother's eyes, what can he do but lie? How could Sir Felix tell the truth about that rash encounter? But the policeman who had brought him to the hospital had told all that he knew. The man who had thrashed the baronet had been called Crumb, and the thrashing had been given on the score of a young woman called Ruggles. So much was known at the hospital, and so much could not be hidden by any lies which Sir Felix might tell. And when Sir Felix swore that a policeman was holding him while Crumb was beating him, no one believed him. In such cases the liar does not expect to be believed. He knows that his disgrace will be made public, and only hopes to be saved from the ignominy of declaring it with his own words. "What am I to do with him?" Lady Carbury said to her cousin. "It is no use telling me to leave him. I can't do that. I know he is bad. I know that I have done much to make him what he is." As she said this the tears were running down her poor worn cheeks. "But he is my child. What am I to do with him now?" This was a question which Roger found it almost impossible to answer. If he had spoken his thoughts he would have declared that Sir Felix had reached an age at which, if a man will go headlong to destruction, he must go headlong to destruction. Thinking as he did of his cousin he could see no possible salvation for him. "Perhaps I should take him abroad," he said. "Would he be better abroad than here?" "He would have less opportunity for vice, and fewer means of running you into debt." Lady Carbury, as she turned this counsel in her mind, thought of all the hopes which she had indulged,--her literary aspirations, her Tuesday evenings, her desire for society, her Brounes, her Alfs, and her Bookers, her pleasant drawing-room, and the determination which she had made that now in the afternoon of her days she would become somebody in the world. Must she give it all up and retire to the dreariness of some French town because it was no longer possible that she should live in London with such a son as hers? There seemed to be a cruelty in this beyond all cruelties that she had hitherto endured. This was harder even than those lies which had been told of her when almost in fear of her life she had run from her husband's house. But yet she must do even this if in no other way she and her son could be together. "Yes," she said, "I suppose it would be so. I only wish that I might die, so that were an end of it." "He might go out to one of the Colonies," said Roger. "Yes;--be sent away that he might kill himself with drink in the bush, and so be got rid of. I have heard of that before. Wherever he goes I shall go." As the reader knows, Roger Carbury had not latterly held this cousin of his in much esteem. He knew her to be worldly and he thought her to be unprincipled. But now, at this moment, her exceeding love for the son whom she could no longer pretend to defend, wiped out all her sins. He forgot the visit made to Carbury under false pretences, and the Melmottes, and all the little tricks which he had detected, in his appreciation of an affection which was pure and beautiful. "If you like to let your house for a period," he said, "mine is open to you." "But, Felix?" "You shall take him there. I am all alone in the world. I can make a home for myself at the cottage. It is empty now. If you think that would save you you can try it for six months." "And turn you out of your own house? No, Roger. I cannot do that. And, Roger;--what is to be done about Hetta?" Hetta herself had retreated, leaving Roger and her mother alone together, feeling sure that there would be questions asked and answered in her absence respecting Mrs. Hurtle, which her presence would prevent. She wished it could have been otherwise--that she might have been allowed to hear it all herself--as she was sure that the story coming through her mother would not savour so completely of unalloyed truth as if told to her by her cousin Roger. "Hetta can be trusted to judge for herself," he said. "How can you say that when she has just accepted this young man? Is it not true that he is even now living with an American woman whom he has promised to marry?" "No;--that is not true." "What is true, then? Is he not engaged to the woman?" Roger hesitated a moment. "I do not know that even that is true. When last he spoke to me about it he declared that the engagement was at an end. I have told Hetta to ask himself. Let her tell him that she has heard of this woman from you, and that it behoves her to know the truth. I do not love him, Lady Carbury. He has no longer any place in my friendship. But I think that if Hetta asks him simply what is the nature of his connexion with Mrs. Hurtle, he will tell her the truth." Roger did not again see Hetta before he left the house, nor did he see his cousin Felix at all. He had now done all that he could do by his journey up to London, and he returned on that day back to Carbury. Would it not be better for him, in spite of the protestations which he had made, to dismiss the whole family from his mind? There could be no other love for him. He must be desolate and alone. But he might then save himself from a world of cares, and might gradually teach himself to live as though there were no such woman as Hetta Carbury in the world. But no! He would not allow himself to believe that this could be right. The very fact of his love made it a duty to him,--made it almost the first of his duties,--to watch over the interests of her he loved and of those who belonged to her. But among those so belonging he did not recognise Paul Montague.

Roger Carbury, when he received the letter from Hetta's mother asking about Paul Montague and Mrs. Hurtle, was quite unable to write a reply. He asked himself what advice he would give if he were not personally concerned. He was sure that, as Hetta's cousin, he would tell her that Montague's entanglement with that American woman should have forbidden him to offer his hand to any other lady. He had seen them at Lowestoft, and had known that they were staying together as friends at the same hotel. He knew that she had come to England because of the engagement, which Montague had acknowledged. He knew that Montague made frequent visits to her in London. He had, indeed, been told by Montague himself that the engagement had been broken off. He believed the man, but put no trust in his firmness; and he had no reason for supposing that Mrs. Hurtle had consented to be abandoned. He could not think that the man was at present fit to engage himself to another woman. All this was clear to Roger Carbury. But it was equally clear to him that he could not, as a man of honour, assist his own cause by telling a tale against his friend. What was he to do? The girl whom he loved had confessed her love for the other man - who had been, he thought, a foul traitor to himself! He regarded himself as divided from Montague by an undying hostility. That his love for the woman would be equally undying he was quite sure. Already there were floating across his brain ideas of perpetuating his name in the person of some child of Hetta's - but with the distinct understanding that he and the child's father should never see each other. As he could not trust himself to write an answer to Lady Carbury's letter, he determined to go to London to tell the story face to face. So he made the journey, and knocked at the door in Welbeck Street the morning after the unfortunate meeting between Sir Felix and John Crumb. The servant-boy who opened the door looked as if there had been some terrible calamity. "My lady" had been summoned to the hospital to see Sir Felix, who was in a very bad way indeed. The boy did not exactly know what had happened, but supposed that Sir Felix had lost most of his limbs by this time. Miss Carbury was upstairs; and would no doubt see her cousin, though she too was dreadfully upset. "What's this about Felix?" Roger asked her. "Oh Roger, I am so glad to see you. Felix did not come home last night, and this morning there came a man from the hospital to say that he is there." "What has happened to him?" "Somebody has - beaten him," said Hetta, whimpering. Then she told the story as far as she knew it. The messenger from the hospital had declared that the young man was in no danger and that none of his bones were broken, but that he was terribly bruised about the face, with some of his teeth knocked out, and his lips cut open. But the surgeon had seen no reason why the young gentleman should not be taken home. "And mamma has gone to fetch him," said Hetta. "That's John Crumb," said Roger. Hetta had never heard of John Crumb, and simply stared at him. "You have not been told about John Crumb." "Why should he beat Felix like that?" "They say, Hetta, that women are the cause of most troubles in the world." The girl blushed up to her eyes. "John Crumb is a neighbour of mine and was in love with a girl; and he would have made her his wife and have been good to her. He had a home to offer her, and is an honest man with whom she would have been safe and happy. Your brother saw her and, though he knew that honest fellow had placed his happiness on the girl's love, he thought - well, I suppose he thought that such a pretty thing as this girl was too good for John Crumb." "But Felix has been going to marry Miss Melmotte!" "You're old-fashioned, Hetta. It used to be the way - to be off with the old love before you are on with the new; but that seems to be all changed now. Today's fine young fellows can be in love with two at once. That I fear is what Felix has thought; and now he has been punished." "You know all about it then?" "I think it has been so. I do know that John Crumb had threatened this. If it has been so, who is to blame him?" Hetta hardly knew whether her cousin, in his manner of telling this story, was speaking of John Crumb or of himself. He would have made her his wife and have been good to her. He had a home to offer her. He was an honest man with whom she would have been safe and happy! He had looked at her while speaking as though it were her own case of which he spoke. And then, when he talked of being off with the old love before you are on with the new, had he not alluded to Paul Montague? But, if so, he must speak more plainly than that. "It is very shocking," she said. "Yes. I pity your mother, and you." "It seems to me that nothing ever will be happy for us," said Hetta. She was longing to be told about Mrs. Hurtle, but she did not dare to ask the question. "I do not know whether to wait for your mother or not," said he after a short pause. "Pray wait for her if you are not busy." "Perhaps she would not wish me to be here when she brings Felix back to the house." "Indeed she will. She would always like you to be here when there are troubles. Oh, Roger, I wish you could tell me." "Tell you what?" "She has written to you, has she not, about me?" "Yes. And, Hetta, Mr. Montague has written to me also." "He told me that he would," whispered Hetta. "Did he tell you of my answer?" "No. I have not seen him since." "You do not think that my answer can have been very kind, do you? I have something of the feeling of John Crumb, though I shall not attempt to show it in the same way." "Did you not say the girl had promised to love that man?" "I did not say; but she had promised. Yes, Hetta, there is a difference. The girl was fickle and went back from her word. You never have done that. I am not justified in thinking even a hard thought of you. It is not you that I reproach. But he - he has been if possible more false than Felix." "Oh, Roger, how has he been false?" Still he did not wish to tell her the story of Mrs. Hurtle. His friend's falseness had been towards himself. "He should have left the place and never have come near you," said Roger, "when he found how it was likely to be with him. He owed it to me not to take the cup of water from my lips." Hetta could not admit that her lover had sinned in loving her. "But, Roger," she said, "the result would have been the same." "You may think so. You may feel it. I will not contradict you when you say so. But he didn't feel it. He didn't know it. He was to me as a younger brother - and he has robbed me of everything. Hetta, I know I should never have succeeded! My happiness would have been impossible even if Paul had never come home from America. I have told myself so a hundred times, but I cannot therefore forgive him. And I won't forgive him, Hetta. Whether you are his wife, or another man's, you must always be to me the dearest creature living. My hatred to him-" "Oh, Roger, do not say hatred." "My hostility to him can make no difference in my feeling to you. If you become his wife you will still be my love. But I shall be separated from you. Should I be dying, then I should send for you. You are the very essence of my life. I have no dream of happiness otherwise than as connected with you. He might have my whole property and I would work for my bread, if I could only have a chance of winning you." "Roger," she said, "I have given it all away now. It cannot be given twice." "If he were unworthy would your heart never change?" "I think - never. Roger, is he unworthy?" "How can you trust me to answer such a question? He is my enemy. He has been ungrateful to me. He has turned all my sweetness to gall, all my flowers to bitter weeds; he has choked up all my paths. And you ask me whether he is unworthy! I cannot tell you." "If you thought him worthy you would tell me," she said, taking him by the arm. "No; I will tell you nothing." He tried gently but ineffectually to remove her hand. "Roger, if you knew him to be good you would tell me, because you yourself are so good. I ask you because I know I can trust you. I can be nothing else to you, Roger; but I love you as a sister loves a brother. He has my heart. Tell me; is there any reason why he should not also have my hand?" "Ask him, Hetta." "And you will tell me nothing? You will not try to save me though you know that I am in danger? Who is - Mrs. Hurtle? I had never heard of her before Felix told me about her, and told me also that you knew. But I cannot trust Felix. And mamma also bids me ask you. There is such a woman?" "Certainly." "And she has been - a friend of Paul's?" "Whatever be the story, Hetta, you shall not hear it from me. Send for him and ask him to tell you about Mrs. Hurtle. I do not think he will lie, but if he lies you will know." "And that is all?" "Hetta, you ask me to be your brother; but I cannot put myself in a brother's place. I tell you plainly that I am your lover, and shall remain so. Your brother would welcome the man whom you would choose as your husband. I can never welcome any husband of yours. If twenty years were to pass, and you were still Hetta Carbury, I should still be your lover - though an old one. What is now to be done about Felix, Hetta?" "Ah - what can be done? I think sometimes that it will break mamma's heart." "Your mother makes me angry by her continual indulgence." "But you would not have her turn him into the street?" "I think I might. For a time it might help. Here is the cab. You had better go down and let your mother know that I am here." Hetta went down and met her mother and her brother in the hall. Felix was able to descend from the cab, and hurry across the pavement into the house, where he hid himself in the dining-room. His face was bandaged; both his eyes were swollen and blue, and part of his beard had been cut away. "Roger is upstairs, mamma," said Hetta. "Has he come because of Felix?" "He has come because of your letter. He says that a man named Crumb did it." "Oh, Hetta, what am I to do? Where shall I go with this wretched boy?" "Is he hurt, mamma?" "Of course he is; horribly hurt. The brute tried to kill him. They say that he will be dreadfully scarred. But oh, Hetta; what am I to do with him?" Felix was made as comfortable as possible in the parlour, and Lady Carbury then went up to her cousin Roger in the drawing-room. She had learned the truth, though Sir Felix himself had of course lied about every detail. When a young man's pleasant vices are brought directly under a mother's eyes, what can he do but lie? But the policeman who had taken him to the hospital had told her all that he knew about John Crumb and Ruby Ruggles. And when Sir Felix swore that a policeman was holding him while Crumb was beating him, no one believed him. In such cases the liar does not expect to be believed. "What am I to do with him?" Lady Carbury said to her cousin. "I can't leave him. I know he is bad. I know that I have done much to make him what he is." As she said this the tears were running down her poor worn cheeks. "But he is my child. What am I to do with him now?" This was a question which Roger found it almost impossible to answer. If he had spoken his thoughts he would have declared that Sir Felix had reached an age at which, if a man will go headlong to destruction, he must go headlong to destruction. "Perhaps take him abroad," he said. "He would have less opportunity for vice, and for running you into debt." Lady Carbury thought of all the hopes she had indulged - her literary aspirations, her Tuesday evenings, her Brounes, her Alfs, and her Bookers, her pleasant drawing-room, and her determination to become somebody in the world. Must she give it all up and retire to some dreary French town because of her son? This seemed to be crueller than all cruelties that she had hitherto endured. Yet she must do this if in no other way could she and her son be together. "Yes," she said, "I suppose it would be so. I only wish that I might die, so that were an end of it." "He might go out to one of the Colonies," said Roger. "Yes - be sent away to kill himself with drink in the bush. I have heard of that. Wherever he goes I shall go." As the reader knows, Roger had not lately held Lady Carbury in much esteem. He thought her to be worldly and unprincipled. But now her exceeding love for her son wiped out all her sins. He forgot all her little tricks in his appreciation of an affection which was pure and beautiful. "If you would like to let out your house for a period," he said, "mine is open to you. You can take Felix there. I can make a home for myself at the cottage. If you think that would save you, you can try it for six months." "And turn you out of your own house? No, Roger, I cannot do that. And Roger; what is to be done about Hetta?" Hetta herself had retreated, so that her mother and Roger could speak freely together. "Hetta can be trusted to judge for herself," he said. "How can you say that when she has just accepted this young man? Is it not true that he is even now living with an American woman whom he has promised to marry?" "No; that is not true." "What is true, then? Is he not engaged to the woman?" Roger hesitated a moment. "When last he spoke to me about it he declared that the engagement was at an end. I have told Hetta to ask him. Let her tell him that she has heard of this woman from you, and that she needs to know the truth. I do not love him, Lady Carbury. He has no longer any place in my friendship. But I think that if Hetta asks him, he will tell her the truth." Roger did not see Hetta again before he returned to Carbury, nor did he see Felix at all. Would it not be better for him to dismiss the whole family from his mind? He might then save himself from a world of cares, and might gradually teach himself to live as though there were no such woman as Hetta Carbury in the world. But no! The very fact of his love made it his foremost duty to watch over the interests of her he loved, and of those who belonged to her. But among those who belonged to her, he did not recognise Paul Montague.

The Way We Live Now

Chapter 72: "Ask Himself"

It does sometimes occur in life that an unambitious man, who is in no degree given to enterprises, who would fain be safe, is driven by the cruelty of circumstances into a position in which he must choose a side, and in which, though he has no certain guide as to which side he should choose, he is aware that he will be disgraced if he should take the wrong side. This was felt as a hardship by many who were quite suddenly forced to make up their mind whether they would go to Melmotte's dinner, or join themselves to the faction of those who had determined to stay away although they had accepted invitations. Some there were not without a suspicion that the story against Melmotte had been got up simply as an electioneering trick,--so that Mr. Alf might carry the borough on the next day. As a dodge for an election this might be very well, but any who might be deterred by such a manoeuvre from meeting the Emperor and supporting the Prince would surely be marked men. And none of the wives, when they were consulted, seemed to care a straw whether Melmotte was a swindler or not. Would the Emperor and the Princes and Princesses be there? This was the only question which concerned them. They did not care whether Melmotte was arrested at the dinner or after the dinner, so long as they, with others, could show their diamonds in the presence of eastern and western royalty. But yet,--what a fiasco would it be, if at this very instant of time the host should be apprehended for common forgery! The great thing was to ascertain whether others were going. If a hundred or more out of the two hundred were to be absent how dreadful would be the position of those who were present! And how would the thing go if at the last moment the Emperor should be kept away? The Prime Minister had decided that the Emperor and the Prince should remain altogether in ignorance of the charges which were preferred against the man; but of that these doubters were unaware. There was but little time for a man to go about town and pick up the truth from those who were really informed; and questions were asked in an uncomfortable and restless manner. "Is your Grace going?" said Lionel Lupton to the Duchess of Stevenage,--having left the House and gone into the park between six and seven to pick up some hints among those who were known to have been invited. The Duchess was Lord Alfred's sister, and of course she was going. "I usually keep engagements when I make them, Mr. Lupton," said the Duchess. She had been assured by Lord Alfred not a quarter of an hour before that everything was as straight as a die. Lord Alfred had not then even heard of the rumour. But ultimately both Lionel Lupton and Beauchamp Beauclerk attended the dinner. They had received special tickets as supporters of Mr. Melmotte at the election,--out of the scanty number allotted to that gentleman himself,--and they thought themselves bound in honour to be there. But they, with their leader, and one other influential member of the party, were all who at last came as the political friends of the candidate for Westminster. The existing ministers were bound to attend to the Emperor and the Prince. But members of the Opposition, by their presence, would support the man and the politician, and both as a man and as a politician they were ashamed of him. When Melmotte arrived at his own door with his wife and daughter he had heard nothing of the matter. That a man so vexed with affairs of money, so laden with cares, encompassed by such dangers, should be free from suspicion and fear it is impossible to imagine. That such burdens should be borne at all is a wonder to those whose shoulders have never been broadened for such work;--as is the strength of the blacksmith's arm to men who have never wielded a hammer. Surely his whole life must have been a life of terrors! But of any special peril to which he was at that moment subject, or of any embarrassment which might affect the work of the evening, he knew nothing. He placed his wife in the drawing-room and himself in the hall, and arranged his immediate satellites around him,--among whom were included the two Grendalls, young Nidderdale, and Mr. Cohenlupe,--with a feeling of gratified glory. Nidderdale down at the House had heard the rumour, but had determined that he would not as yet fly from his colours. Cohenlupe had also come up from the House, where no one had spoken to him. Though grievously frightened during the last fortnight, he had not dared to be on the wing as yet. And, indeed, to what clime could such a bird as he fly in safety? He had not only heard,--but also knew very much, and was not prepared to enjoy the feast. Since they had been in the hall Miles had spoken dreadful words to his father. "You've heard about it; haven't you?" whispered Miles. Lord Alfred, remembering his sister's question, became almost pale, but declared that he had heard nothing. "They're saying all manner of things in the City;--forgery and heaven knows what. The Lord Mayor is not coming." Lord Alfred made no reply. It was the philosophy of his life that misfortunes when they came should be allowed to settle themselves. But he was unhappy. The grand arrivals were fairly punctual, and the very grand people all came. The unfortunate Emperor,--we must consider a man to be unfortunate who is compelled to go through such work as this,--with impassible and awful dignity, was marshalled into the room on the ground floor, whence he and other royalties were to be marshalled back into the banqueting hall. Melmotte, bowing to the ground, walked backwards before him, and was probably taken by the Emperor for some Court Master of the Ceremonies especially selected to walk backwards on this occasion. The Princes had all shaken hands with their host, and the Princesses had bowed graciously. Nothing of the rumour had as yet been whispered in royal palaces. Besides royalty the company allowed to enter the room downstairs was very select. The Prime Minister, one archbishop, two duchesses, and an ex-governor of India with whose features the Emperor was supposed to be peculiarly familiar, were alone there. The remainder of the company, under the superintendence of Lord Alfred, were received in the drawing-room above. Everything was going on well, and they who had come and had thought of not coming were proud of their wisdom. But when the company was seated at dinner the deficiencies were visible enough, and were unfortunate. Who does not know the effect made by the absence of one or two from a table intended for ten or twelve,--how grievous are the empty places, how destructive of the outward harmony and grace which the hostess has endeavoured to preserve are these interstices, how the lady in her wrath declares to herself that those guilty ones shall never have another opportunity of filling a seat at her table? Some twenty, most of whom had been asked to bring their wives, had slunk from their engagements, and the empty spaces were sufficient to declare a united purpose. A week since it had been understood that admission for the evening could not be had for love or money, and that a seat at the dinner-table was as a seat at some banquet of the gods! Now it looked as though the room were but half-filled. There were six absences from the City. Another six of Mr. Melmotte's own political party were away. The archbishops and the bishop were there, because bishops never hear worldly tidings till after other people;--but that very Master of the Buckhounds for whom so much pressure had been made did not come. Two or three peers were absent, and so also was that editor who had been chosen to fill Mr. Alf's place. One poet, two painters, and a philosopher had received timely notice at their clubs, and had gone home. The three independent members of the House of Commons for once agreed in their policy, and would not lend the encouragement of their presence to a man suspected of forgery. Nearly forty places were vacant when the business of the dinner commenced. Melmotte had insisted that Lord Alfred should sit next to himself at the big table, and having had the objectionable bar removed, and his own chair shoved one step nearer to the centre, had carried his. point. With the anxiety natural to such an occasion, he glanced repeatedly round the hall, and of course became aware that many were absent. "How is it that there are so many places empty?" he said to his faithful Achates. "Don't know," said Achates, shaking his head, steadfastly refusing to look round upon the hall. Melmotte waited awhile, then looked round again, and asked the question in another shape: "Hasn't there been some mistake about the numbers? There's room for ever so many more." "Don't know," said Lord Alfred, who was unhappy in his mind, and repenting himself that he had ever seen Mr. Melmotte. "What the deuce do you mean?" whispered Melmotte. "You've been at it from the beginning and ought to know. When I wanted to ask Brehgert, you swore that you couldn't squeeze a place." "Can't say anything about it," said Lord Alfred, with his eyes fixed upon his plate. "I'll be d---- if I don't find out," said Melmotte. "There's either some horrible blunder, or else there's been imposition. I don't see quite clearly. Where's Sir Gregory Gribe?" "Hasn't come, I suppose." "And where's the Lord Mayor?" Melmotte, in spite of royalty, was now sitting with his face turned round upon the hall. "I know all their places, and I know where they were put. Have you seen the Lord Mayor?" "No; I haven't seen him at all." "But he was to come. What's the meaning of it, Alfred?" "Don't know anything about it." He shook his head but would not, for even a moment, look round upon the room. "And where's Mr. Killegrew,--and Sir David Boss?" Mr. Killegrew and Sir David were gentlemen of high standing, and destined for important offices in the Conservative party. "There are ever so many people not here. Why, there's not above half of them down the room. What's up, Alfred? I must know." "I tell you I know nothing. I could not make them come." Lord Alfred's answers were made not only with a surly voice, but also with a surly heart. He was keenly alive to the failure, and alive also to the feeling that the failure would partly be attached to himself. At the present moment he was anxious to avoid observation, and it seemed to him that Melmotte, by the frequency and impetuosity of his questions, was drawing special attention to him. "If you go on making a row," he said, "I shall go away." Melmotte looked at him with all his eyes. "Just sit quiet and let the thing go on. You'll know all about it soon enough." This was hardly the way to give Mr. Melmotte peace of mind. For a few minutes he did sit quiet. Then he got up and moved down the hall behind the guests. In the meantime, Imperial Majesty and Royalties of various denominations ate their dinner, without probably observing those Banquo's seats. As the Emperor talked Manchoo only, and as there was no one present who could even interpret Manchoo into English,--the imperial interpreter condescending only to interpret Manchoo into ordinary Chinese which had to be reinterpreted,--it was not within his Imperial Majesty's power to have much conversation with his neighbours. And as his neighbours on each side of him were all cousins and husbands, and brothers and wives, who saw each constantly under, let us presume, more comfortable circumstances, they had not very much to say to each other. Like most of us, they had their duties to do, and, like most of us, probably found their duties irksome. The brothers and sisters and cousins were used to it; but that awful Emperor, solid, solemn, and silent, must, if the spirit of an Eastern Emperor be at all like that of a Western man, have had a weary time of it. He sat there for more than two hours, awful, solid, solemn, and silent, not eating very much,--for this was not his manner of eating; nor drinking very much,--for this was not his manner of drinking; but wondering, no doubt, within his own awful bosom, at the changes which were coming when an Emperor of China was forced, by outward circumstances, to sit and hear this buzz of voices and this clatter of knives and forks. "And this," he must have said to himself, "is what they call royalty in the West!" If a prince of our own was forced, for the good of the country, to go among some far distant outlandish people, and there to be poked in the ribs, and slapped on the back all round, the change to him could hardly be so great. "Where's Sir Gregory?" said Melmotte, in a hoarse whisper, bending over the chair of a City friend. It was old Todd, the senior partner of Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner. Mr. Todd was a very wealthy man, and had a considerable following in the City. "Ain't he here?" said Todd,--knowing very well who had come from the City and who had declined. "No;--and the Lord Mayor's not come;--nor Postlethwaite, nor Bunter. What's the meaning of it?" Todd looked first at one neighbour and then at another before he answered. "I'm here, that's all I can say, Mr. Melmotte; and I've had a very good dinner. They who haven't come, have lost a very good dinner." There was a weight upon Melmotte's mind of which he could not rid himself. He knew from the old man's manner, and he knew also from Lord Alfred's manner, that there was something which each of them could tell him if he would. But he was unable to make the men open their mouths. And yet it might be so important to him that he should know! "It's very odd," he said, "that gentlemen should promise to come and then stay away. There were hundreds anxious to be present whom I should have been glad to welcome, if I had known that there would be room. I think it is very odd." "It is odd," said Mr. Todd, turning his attention to the plate before him. Melmotte had lately seen much of Beauchamp Beauclerk, in reference to the coming election. Passing back up the table, he found the gentleman with a vacant seat on one side of him. There were many vacant seats in this part of the room, as the places for the Conservative gentlemen had been set apart together. There Mr. Melmotte seated himself for a minute, thinking that he might get the truth from his new ally. Prudence should have kept him silent. Let the cause of these desertions have been what it might, it ought to have been clear to him that he could apply no remedy to it now. But he was bewildered and dismayed, and his mind within him was changing at every moment. He was now striving to trust to his arrogance and declaring that nothing should cow him. And then again he was so cowed that he was ready to creep to any one for assistance. Personally, Mr. Beauclerk had disliked the man greatly. Among the vulgar, loud upstarts whom he had known, Melmotte was the vulgarest, the loudest, and the most arrogant. But he had taken the business of Melmotte's election in hand, and considered himself bound to stand by Melmotte till that was over; and he was now the guest of the man in his own house, and was therefore constrained to courtesy. His wife was sitting by him, and he at once introduced her to Mr. Melmotte. "You have a wonderful assemblage here, Mr. Melmotte," said the lady, looking up at the royal table. "Yes, ma'am, yes. His Majesty the Emperor has been pleased to intimate that he has been much gratified."--Had the Emperor in truth said so, no one who looked at him could have believed his imperial word.--"Can you tell me, Mr. Beauclerk, why those other gentlemen are not here? It looks very odd; does it not?" "Ah; you mean Killegrew." "Yes; Mr. Killegrew and Sir David Boss, and the whole lot. I made a particular point of their coming. I said I wouldn't have the dinner at all unless they were to be asked. They were going to make it a Government thing; but I said no. I insisted on the leaders of our own party; and now they're not here. I know the cards were sent;--and, by George, I have their answers, saying they'd come." "I suppose some of them are engaged," said Mr. Beauclerk. "Engaged! What business has a man to accept one engagement and then take another? And, if so, why shouldn't he write and make his excuses? No, Mr. Beauclerk, that won't go down." "I'm here, at any rate," said Beauclerk, making the very answer that had occurred to Mr. Todd. "Oh, yes, you're here. You're all right. But what is it, Mr. Beauclerk? There's something up, and you must have heard." And so it was clear to Mr. Beauclerk that the man knew nothing about it himself. If there was anything wrong, Melmotte was not aware that the wrong had been discovered. "Is it anything about the election to-morrow?" "One never can tell what is actuating people," said Mr. Beauclerk. "If you know anything about the matter I think you ought to tell me." "I know nothing except that the ballot will be taken to-morrow. You and I have got nothing more to do in the matter except to wait the result." "Well; I suppose it's all right," said Melmotte, rising and going back to his seat. But he knew that things were not all right. Had his political friends only been absent, he might have attributed their absence to some political cause which would not have touched him deeply. But the treachery of the Lord Mayor and of Sir Gregory Gribe was a blow. For another hour after he had returned to his place, the Emperor sat solemn in his chair; and then, at some signal given by some one, he was withdrawn. The ladies had already left the room about half an hour. According to the programme arranged for the evening, the royal guests were to return to the smaller room for a cup of coffee, and were then to be paraded upstairs before the multitude who would by that time have arrived, and to remain there long enough to justify the invited ones in saying that they had spent the evening with the Emperor and the Princes and the Princesses. The plan was carried out perfectly. At half-past ten the Emperor was made to walk upstairs, and for half an hour sat awful and composed in an arm-chair that had been prepared for him. How one would wish to see the inside of the mind of the Emperor as it worked on that occasion! Melmotte, when his guests ascended his stairs, went back into the banqueting-room and through to the hall, and wandered about till he found Miles Grendall. "Miles," he said, "tell me what the row is." "How row?" asked Miles. "There's something wrong, and you know all about it. Why didn't the people come?" Miles, looking guilty, did not even attempt to deny his knowledge. "Come; what is it? We might as well know all about it at once." Miles looked down on the ground, and grunted something. "Is it about the election?" "No, it's not that," said Miles. "Then what is it?" "They got hold of something to-day in the City--about Pickering." "They did, did they? And what were they saying about Pickering? Come; you might as well out with it. You don't suppose that I care what lies they tell." "They say there's been something--forged. Title-deeds, I think they say." "Title-deeds! that I have forged title-deeds. Well; that's beginning well. And his lordship has stayed away from my house after accepting my invitation because he has heard that story! All right, Miles; that will do." And the Great Financier went upstairs into his own drawing-room.

It sometimes happens that an unambitious man is driven into a position in which he must choose a side; and though he does not know which side to choose, he is aware that he will be disgraced if he should make the wrong choice. This was felt by many who were suddenly forced to make up their mind whether they would go to Melmotte's dinner, or stay away. Some suspected that the story against Melmotte had been got up simply as an electioneering trick, so that Mr. Alf might win the borough on the next day. As a dodge for an election this might work, but any who were therefore deterred from supporting their Prince at the dinner would surely be marked men. And none of the wives cared a straw whether Melmotte was a swindler or not. Would the Emperor and the Princes and Princesses be there? This was the only question which concerned them. They did not care whether Melmotte was arrested at the dinner, so long as they could show their diamonds in the presence of royalty. Yet what a fiasco would it be, if the host should be apprehended for common forgery! The great thing was to find out whether others were going. If half stayed away, how dreadful would be the position of those who were present! And what if at the last moment the Emperor should be kept away? The Prime Minister had decided that the Emperor and the Prince should remain in ignorance of the charges against Melmotte; but of that these doubters were unaware. "Is your Grace going?" said Lionel Lupton to the Duchess of Stevenage, having gone into the park between six and seven to pick up some hints. The Duchess was Lord Alfred's sister, and of course she was going. She had been assured by Lord Alfred not a quarter of an hour before that everything was as straight as a die. Lord Alfred had not then even heard of the rumour. Ultimately both Lionel Lupton and Beauchamp Beauclerk attended the dinner. They had received special tickets as supporters of Mr. Melmotte at the election, and they thought themselves honour-bound to be there. But they, with their leader, and one other member of the party, were all who came as the political friends of the candidate for Westminster. When Melmotte arrived at his own door with his wife and daughter he had heard nothing of the matter. That a man so vexed with affairs of money, so laden with cares and dangers, should be free from fear it is impossible to imagine. That such burdens should be borne at all is a wonder. Surely his whole life must have been a life of terrors! But of any special peril at that moment, he knew nothing. He placed his wife in the drawing-room and himself in the hall, and arranged his satellites around him - including the two Grendalls, young Nidderdale, and Mr. Cohenlupe - with a feeling of gratified glory. Nidderdale had heard the rumour at the Houses of Parliament, but had determined that he would not as yet fly. Cohenlupe had also come up from the House, where no one had spoken to him. Though grievously frightened, he had not dared to be on the wing as yet. And, indeed, to what clime could such a bird as he fly in safety? He knew very much, and was not prepared to enjoy the feast. In the hall Miles whispered to his father. "You've heard about it; haven't you?" Lord Alfred turned pale, but declared that he had heard nothing. "They're saying all manner of things in the City; forgery and heaven knows what. The Lord Mayor is not coming." Lord Alfred made no reply. But he was unhappy. The grand arrivals were punctual, and the very grand people all came. The Emperor, with impassive and awful dignity, was marshalled into the room on the ground floor, before being marshalled back into the banqueting hall. Melmotte, bowing to the ground, walked backwards before him, and was probably taken by the Emperor for some Court Master of Ceremonies. The Princes had all shaken hands with Melmotte, and the Princesses had bowed graciously. Nothing of the rumour had been whispered in royal palaces. Besides royalty the company allowed to enter the room was very select: the Prime Minister, one archbishop, two duchesses, and an ex-governor of India. The remainder of the company were received in the drawing-room above. Everything was going well, and they who had decided to come were proud of their wisdom. But when the company was seated at dinner the absences were unfortunately visible. A week ago, admission could not be had for love or money. Now it looked as though the room were but half-filled. There were six absences from the City; another six of Mr. Melmotte's own political party were away. The archbishops and the bishop were there, but two or three peers were absent, and so were a poet, two painters, and a philosopher, as well as three independent members of the House of Commons. Nearly forty places were vacant when the dinner commenced. Melmotte had insisted that Lord Alfred should sit next to him at the big table, having had the objectionable bar removed, and his own chair shoved nearer to the centre. He glanced repeatedly round the hall, and of course became aware that many were absent. "How is it that there are so many places empty?" he asked. "Don't know," said Lord Alfred, shaking his head, steadfastly refusing to look round upon the hall. Melmotte looked round again. "Has there been some mistake about the numbers? There's room for ever so many more." "Don't know," said Lord Alfred unhappily, wishing that he had never seen Mr. Melmotte. "What the deuce do you mean?" whispered Melmotte. "You ought to know." "Can't say anything about it," said Lord Alfred, with his eyes fixed upon his plate. "I'll be d___ if I don't find out," said Melmotte. "Where's the Lord Mayor?" In spite of royalty, he was now sitting with his face turned round upon the hall. "Have you seen the Lord Mayor?" "No, I haven't." "But he was to come. What's the meaning of it, Alfred?" "Don't know anything about it." "And where's Mr. Killegrew, and Sir David Boss? What's up, Alfred? I must know." "I could not make them come." Lord Alfred's answers were surly. He was sure the failure would partly be attached to himself, and he felt that Melmotte, by his frequent questions, was drawing attention to him. "If you go on making a row," he said, "I shall go away. Just sit quiet. You'll know all about it soon enough." This was hardly the way to give Mr. Melmotte peace of mind. For a few minutes he did sit quiet. Then he got up and moved down the hall behind the guests. In the meantime, various Royalties ate their dinner, without observing those empty Banquo's seats. As the Emperor spoke only Manchoo, and as there was no one present who could even interpret Manchoo into English - the imperial interpreter condescending only to interpret Manchoo into ordinary Chinese - his Imperial Majesty could not have much conversation with his neighbours. And his neighbours had not very much to say to each other. They probably found these duties irksome; and that solemn, silent Emperor must have had a weary time of it. He sat there for more than two hours, not eating nor drinking very much; but wondering at the changes which were coming when an Emperor of China was forced to sit and hear this buzz of voices and clatter of knives and forks. "And this," he must have said to himself, "is what they call royalty in the West!" "Where's Sir Gregory Gribe?" said Melmotte, in a hoarse whisper, to a City friend - old Todd, of Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner. "Ain't he here?" said Todd, knowing very well that he wasn't. "No - and the Lord Mayor's not come; nor Postlethwaite, nor Bunter. What's the meaning of it?" Todd looked at his neighbours before he answered. "I'm here, that's all I can say, Mr. Melmotte; and I've had a very good dinner." There was a weight upon Melmotte's mind. He knew from old Todd's manner, and Lord Alfred's, that there was something they could tell him if they would. But they would not open their mouths. "It's very odd," he said, "that gentlemen should promise to come and then stay away. There were hundreds anxious to be present. I think it is very odd." "It is odd," said Mr. Todd, turning his attention to his plate. Passing back up the table, Melmotte found Beauchamp Beauclerk with a vacant seat next to him. There were many vacant seats in this part of the room, and Mr. Melmotte seated himself for a minute, thinking that he might get the truth from his ally in the election. Prudence should have kept him silent. Whatever the cause of these desertions, he could apply no remedy to it now. But he was bewildered and dismayed; and though he declared that nothing should cow him, yet he was cowed. Personally, Mr. Beauclerk disliked the man greatly, thinking him a loud and vulgar upstart. But he had taken the business of Melmotte's election in hand, and considered himself bound to stand by Melmotte till that was over; and he was now the man's guest, and was constrained to courtesy. His wife was sitting by him, and he introduced her to Mr. Melmotte. "You have a wonderful assemblage here, Mr. Melmotte," said the lady. "Yes, ma'am, yes. His Majesty the Emperor has said that he has been much gratified. - Can you tell me, Mr. Beauclerk, why those other gentlemen are not here? It looks very odd; does it not?" "Ah; you mean Killegrew." "And Sir David Boss, and the whole lot. I insisted on their being invited, and I know the cards were sent; and, by George, I have their answers, saying they'd come." "I suppose some of them are engaged," said Mr. Beauclerk. "Engaged! What business has a man to accept one engagement and then take another? There's something up. What is it, Mr. Beauclerk? You must have heard. If you know anything about it I think you ought to tell me." "I know nothing except that the ballot will be taken tomorrow. You and I have got nothing more to do except await the result." "Well; I suppose it's all right," said Melmotte, rising and going back to his seat. But he knew that things were not all right. The Emperor sat solemn in his chair for another hour; and then, at some signal, he was withdrawn. The ladies had already left the room. According to the programme arranged for the evening, the royal guests were to return to the smaller room for a cup of coffee, and were then to be paraded upstairs before the multitude who would by that time have arrived, and to remain there long enough to justify the invited ones in saying that they had spent the evening with the Emperor and the Princes and the Princesses. The plan was carried out perfectly. At half-past ten the Emperor was made to walk upstairs, and for half an hour sat awful and composed in an arm-chair. How one would wish to see inside his mind! Melmotte went through to the hall, and found Miles Grendall. "Miles," he said, "there's something wrong, and you know all about it. Why didn't the people come? What is it? Is it about the election?" "No, it's not that," said Miles. "Then what is it?" "They got hold of something today in the City - about Pickering." "And what were they saying about Pickering? Come; out with it. You don't suppose that I care what lies they tell." "They say there's been something - forged. Title-deeds, I think." "Forged title-deeds! All right, Miles; that will do." And the Great Financier went upstairs into his own drawing-room.

The Way We Live Now

Chapter 59: The Dinner

The Conservative party at this particular period was putting its shoulder to the wheel,--not to push the coach up any hill, but to prevent its being hurried along at a pace which was not only dangerous, but manifestly destructive. The Conservative party now and then does put its shoulder to the wheel, ostensibly with the great national object above named; but also actuated by a natural desire to keep its own head well above water and be generally doing something, so that other parties may not suppose that it is moribund. There are, no doubt, members of it who really think that when some object has been achieved,--when, for instance, a good old Tory has been squeezed into Parliament for the borough of Porcorum, which for the last three parliaments has been represented by a Liberal,--the coach has been really stopped. To them, in their delightful faith, there comes at these triumphant moments a conviction that after all the people as a people have not been really in earnest in their efforts to take something from the greatness of the great, and to add something to the lowliness of the lowly. The handle of the windlass has been broken, the wheel is turning fast the reverse way, and the rope of Radical progress is running back. Who knows what may not be regained if the Conservative party will only put its shoulder to the wheel and take care that the handle of the windlass be not mended! Sticinthemud, which has ever been a doubtful little borough, has just been carried by a majority of fifteen! A long pull, a strong pull, and a pull altogether,--and the old day will come back again. Venerable patriarchs think of Lord Liverpool and other heroes, and dream dreams of Conservative bishops, Conservative lord-lieutenants, and of a Conservative ministry that shall remain in for a generation. Such a time was now present. Porcorum and Sticinthemud had done their duty valiantly,--with much management. But Westminster! If this special seat for Westminster could be carried, the country then could hardly any longer have a doubt on the matter. If only Mr. Melmotte could be got in for Westminster, it would be manifest that the people were sound at heart, and that all the great changes which had been effected during the last forty years,--from the first reform in Parliament down to the Ballot,--had been managed by the cunning and treachery of a few ambitious men. Not, however, that the Ballot was just now regarded by the party as an unmitigated evil, though it was the last triumph of Radical wickedness. The Ballot was on the whole popular with the party. A short time since, no doubt it was regarded by the party as being one and the same as national ruin and national disgrace. But it had answered well at Porcorum, and with due manipulation had been found to be favourable at Sticinthemud. The Ballot might perhaps help the long pull and the strong pull,--and, in spite of the ruin and disgrace, was thought by some just now to be a highly Conservative measure. It was considered that the Ballot might assist Melmotte at Westminster very materially. Any one reading the Conservative papers of the time, and hearing the Conservative speeches in the borough,--any one at least who lived so remote as not to have learned what these things really mean,--would have thought that England's welfare depended on Melmotte's return. In the enthusiasm of the moment, the attacks made on his character were answered by eulogy as loud as the censure was bitter. The chief crime laid to his charge was connected with the ruin of some great continental assurance company, as to which it was said that he had so managed it as to leave it utterly stranded, with an enormous fortune of his own. It was declared that every shilling which he had brought to England with him had consisted of plunder stolen from the shareholders in the company. Now the "Evening Pulpit," in its endeavour to make the facts of this transaction known, had placed what it called the domicile of this company in Paris, whereas it was ascertained that its official head-quarters had in truth been placed at Vienna. Was not such a blunder as this sufficient to show that no merchant of higher honour than Mr. Melmotte had ever adorned the Exchanges of modern capitals? And then two different newspapers of the time, both of them antagonistic to Melmotte, failed to be in accord on a material point. One declared that Mr. Melmotte was not in truth possessed of any wealth. The other said that he had derived his wealth from those unfortunate shareholders. Could anything betray so bad a cause as contradictions such as these? Could anything be so false, so weak, so malignant, so useless, so wicked, so self-condemned,--in fact, so "Liberal" as a course of action such as this? The belief naturally to be deduced from such statements, nay, the unavoidable conviction on the minds--of, at any rate, the Conservative newspapers--was that Mr. Melmotte had accumulated an immense fortune, and that he had never robbed any shareholder of a shilling. The friends of Melmotte had moreover a basis of hope, and were enabled to sound premonitory notes of triumph, arising from causes quite external to their party. The "Breakfast Table" supported Melmotte, but the "Breakfast Table" was not a Conservative organ. This support was given, not to the great man's political opinions, as to which a well-known writer in that paper suggested that the great man had probably not as yet given very much attention to the party questions which divided the country,--but to his commercial position. It was generally acknowledged that few men living,--perhaps no man alive,--had so acute an insight into the great commercial questions of the age as Mr. Augustus Melmotte. In whatever part of the world he might have acquired his commercial experience,--for it had been said repeatedly that Melmotte was not an Englishman,--he now made London his home and Great Britain his country, and it would be for the welfare of the country that such a man should sit in the British Parliament. Such were the arguments used by the "Breakfast Table" in supporting Mr. Melmotte. This was, of course, an assistance;--and not the less so because it was asserted in other papers that the country would be absolutely disgraced by his presence in Parliament. The hotter the opposition the keener will be the support. Honest good men, men who really loved their country, fine gentlemen, who had received unsullied names from great ancestors, shed their money right and left, and grew hot in personally energetic struggles to have this man returned to Parliament as the head of the great Conservative mercantile interests of Great Britain! There was one man who thoroughly believed that the thing at the present moment most essentially necessary to England's glory was the return of Mr. Melmotte for Westminster. This man was undoubtedly a very ignorant man. He knew nothing of any one political question which had vexed England for the last half century,--nothing whatever of the political history which had made England what it was at the beginning of that half century. Of such names as Hampden, Somers, and Pitt he had hardly ever heard. He had probably never read a book in his life. He knew nothing of the working of parliament, nothing of nationality,--had no preference whatever for one form of government over another, never having given his mind a moment's trouble on the subject. He had not even reflected how a despotic monarch or a federal republic might affect himself, and possibly did not comprehend the meaning of those terms. But yet he was fully confident that England did demand and ought to demand that Mr. Melmotte should be returned for Westminster. This man was Mr. Melmotte himself. In this conjunction of his affairs Mr. Melmotte certainly lost his head. He had audacity almost sufficient for the very dangerous game which he was playing; but, as crisis heaped itself upon crisis, he became deficient in prudence. He did not hesitate to speak of himself as the man who ought to represent Westminster, and of those who opposed him as little malignant beings who had mean interests of their own to serve. He went about in his open carriage, with Lord Alfred at his left hand, with a look on his face which seemed to imply that Westminster was not good enough for him. He even hinted to certain political friends that at the next general election he should try the City. Six months since he had been a humble man to a Lord,--but now he scolded Earls and snubbed Dukes, and yet did it in a manner which showed how proud he was of connecting himself with their social pre-eminence, and how ignorant of the manner in which such pre-eminence affects English gentlemen generally. The more arrogant he became the more vulgar he was, till even Lord Alfred would almost be tempted to rush away to impecuniosity and freedom. Perhaps there were some with whom this conduct had a salutary effect. No doubt arrogance will produce submission; and there are men who take other men at the price those other men put upon themselves. Such persons could not refrain from thinking Melmotte to be mighty because he swaggered; and gave their hinder parts to be kicked merely because he put up his toe. We all know men of this calibre,--and how they seem to grow in number. But the net result of his personal demeanour was injurious; and it was debated among some of the warmest of his supporters whether a hint should not be given him. "Couldn't Lord Alfred say a word to him?" said the Honourable Beauchamp Beauclerk, who, himself in Parliament, a leading man in his party, thoroughly well acquainted with the borough, wealthy and connected by blood with half the great Conservative families in the kingdom, had been moving heaven and earth on behalf of the great financial king, and working like a slave for his success. "Alfred's more than half afraid of him," said Lionel Lupton, a young aristocrat, also in Parliament, who had been inoculated with the idea that the interests of the party demanded Melmotte in Parliament, but who would have given up his Scotch shooting rather than have undergone Melmotte's company for a day. "Something really must be done, Mr. Beauclerk," said Mr. Jones, who was the leading member of a very wealthy firm of builders in the borough, who had become a Conservative politician, who had thoughts of the House for himself, but who never forgot his own position. "He is making a great many personal enemies." "He's the finest old turkey cock out," said Lionel Lupton. Then it was decided that Mr. Beauclerk should speak a word to Lord Alfred. The rich man and the poor man were cousins, and had always been intimate. "Alfred," said the chosen mentor at the club one afternoon, "I wonder whether you couldn't say something to Melmotte about his manner." Lord Alfred turned sharp round and looked into his companion's face. "They tell me he is giving offence. Of course he doesn't mean it. Couldn't he draw it a little milder?" Lord Alfred made his reply almost in a whisper. "If you ask me, I don't think he could. If you got him down and trampled on him, you might make him mild. I don't think there's any other way." "You couldn't speak to him, then?" "Not unless I did it with a horsewhip." This, coming from Lord Alfred, who was absolutely dependent on the man, was very strong. Lord Alfred had been much afflicted that morning. He had spent some hours with his friend, either going about the borough in the open carriage, or standing just behind him at meetings, or sitting close to him in committee-rooms,--and had been nauseated with Melmotte. When spoken to about his friend he could not restrain himself. Lord Alfred had been born and bred a gentleman, and found the position in which he was now earning his bread to be almost insupportable. It had gone against the grain with him at first, when he was called Alfred; but now that he was told "just to open the door," and "just to give that message," he almost meditated revenge. Lord Nidderdale, who was quick at observation, had seen something of this in Grosvenor Square, and declared that Lord Alfred had invested part of his recent savings in a cutting whip. Mr. Beauclerk, when he had got his answer, whistled and withdrew. But he was true to his party. Melmotte was not the first vulgar man whom the Conservatives had taken by the hand, and patted on the back, and told that he was a god. The Emperor of China was now in England, and was to be entertained one night at the India Office. The Secretary of State for the second great Asiatic Empire was to entertain the ruler of the first. This was on Saturday the 6th of July, and Melmotte's dinner was to take place on the following Monday. Very great interest was made by the London world generally to obtain admission to the India Office,--the making of such interest consisting in the most abject begging for tickets of admission, addressed to the Secretary of State, to all the under secretaries, to assistant secretaries, secretaries of departments, chief clerks, and to head-messengers and their wives. If a petitioner could not be admitted as a guest into the splendour of the reception rooms, might not he,--or she,--be allowed to stand in some passage whence the Emperor's back might perhaps be seen,--so that, if possible, the petitioner's name might be printed in the list of guests which would be published on the next morning? Now Mr. Melmotte with his family was, of course, supplied with tickets. He, who was to spend a fortune in giving the Emperor a dinner, was of course entitled to be present at other places to which the Emperor would be brought to be shown. Melmotte had already seen the Emperor at a breakfast in Windsor Park, and at a ball in royal halls. But hitherto he had not been presented to the Emperor. Presentations have to be restricted,--if only on the score of time; and it had been thought that as Mr. Melmotte would of course have some communication with the hardworked Emperor at his own house, that would suffice. But he had felt himself to be ill-used and was offended. He spoke with bitterness to some of his supporters of the Royal Family generally, because he had not been brought to the front rank either at the breakfast or at the ball,--and now, at the India Office, was determined to have his due. But he was not on the list of those whom the Secretary of State intended on this occasion to present to the Brother of the Sun. He had dined freely. At this period of his career he had taken to dining freely,--which was in itself imprudent, as he had need at all hours of his best intelligence. Let it not be understood that he was tipsy. He was a man whom wine did not often affect after that fashion. But it made him, who was arrogant before, tower in his arrogance till he was almost sure to totter. It was probably at some moment after dinner that Lord Alfred decided upon buying the cutting whip of which he had spoken. Melmotte went with his wife and daughter to the India Office, and soon left them far in the background with a request,--we may say an order,--to Lord Alfred to take care of them. It may be observed here that Marie Melmotte was almost as great a curiosity as the Emperor himself, and was much noticed as the girl who had attempted to run away to New York, but had gone without her lover. Melmotte entertained some foolish idea that as the India Office was in Westminster, he had a peculiar right to demand an introduction on this occasion because of his candidature. He did succeed in getting hold of an unfortunate under secretary of state, a studious and invaluable young peer, known as Earl De Griffin. He was a shy man, of enormous wealth, of mediocre intellect, and no great physical ability, who never amused himself; but worked hard night and day, and read everything that anybody could write, and more than any other person could read, about India. Had Mr. Melmotte wanted to know the exact dietary of the peasants in Orissa, or the revenue of the Punjaub, or the amount of crime in Bombay, Lord De Griffin would have informed him without a pause. But in this matter of managing the Emperor, the under secretary had nothing to do, and would have been the last man to be engaged in such a service. He was, however, second in command at the India Office, and of his official rank Melmotte was unfortunately made aware. "My Lord," said he, by no means hiding his demand in a whisper, "I am desirous of being presented to his Imperial Majesty." Lord De Griffin looked at him in despair, not knowing the great man,--being one of the few men in that room who did not know him. "This is Mr. Melmotte," said Lord Alfred, who had deserted the ladies and still stuck to his master. "Lord De Griffin, let me introduce you to Mr. Melmotte." "Oh--oh--oh," said Lord De Griffin, just putting out his hand. "I am delighted;--ah, yes," and pretending to see somebody, he made a weak and quite ineffectual attempt to escape. Melmotte stood directly in his way, and with unabashed audacity repeated his demand. "I am desirous of being presented to his Imperial Majesty. Will you do me the honour of making my request known to Mr. Wilson?" Mr. Wilson was the Secretary of State, who was as busy as a Secretary of State is sure to be on such an occasion. "I hardly know," said Lord De Griffin. "I'm afraid it's all arranged. I don't know anything about it myself." "You can introduce me to Mr. Wilson." "He's up there, Mr. Melmotte; and I couldn't get at him. Really you must excuse me. I'm very sorry. If I see him I'll tell him." And the poor under secretary again endeavoured to escape. Mr. Melmotte put up his hand and stopped him. "I'm not going to stand this kind of thing," he said. The old Marquis of Auld Reekie was close at hand, the father of Lord Nidderdale, and therefore the proposed father-in-law of Melmotte's daughter, and he poked his thumb heavily into Lord Alfred's ribs. "It is generally understood, I believe," continued Melmotte, "that the Emperor is to do me the honour of dining at my poor house on Monday. He don't dine there unless I'm made acquainted with him before he comes. I mean what I say. I ain't going to entertain even an Emperor unless I'm good enough to be presented to him. Perhaps you'd better let Mr. Wilson know, as a good many people intend to come." "Here's a row," said the old Marquis. "I wish he'd be as good as his word." "He has taken a little wine," whispered Lord Alfred. "Melmotte," he said, still whispering; "upon my word it isn't the thing. They're only Indian chaps and Eastern swells who are presented here,--not a fellow among 'em all who hasn't been in India or China, or isn't a Secretary of State, or something of that kind." "Then they should have done it at Windsor, or at the ball," said Melmotte, pulling down his waistcoat. "By George, Alfred! I'm in earnest, and somebody had better look to it. If I'm not presented to his Imperial Majesty to-night, by G----, there shall be no dinner in Grosvenor Square on Monday. I'm master enough of my own house, I suppose, to be able to manage that." Here was a row, as the Marquis had said! Lord De Griffin was frightened, and Lord Alfred felt that something ought to be done. "There's no knowing how far the pig-headed brute may go in his obstinacy," Lord Alfred said to Mr. Lupton, who was there. It no doubt might have been wise to have allowed the merchant prince to return home with the resolution that his dinner should be abandoned. He would have repented probably before the next morning; and had he continued obdurate it would not have been difficult to explain to Celestial Majesty that something preferable had been found for that particular evening even to a banquet at the house of British commerce. The Government would probably have gained the seat for Westminster, as Melmotte would at once have become very unpopular with the great body of his supporters. But Lord De Griffin was not the man to see this. He did make his way up to Mr. Wilson, and explained to the Amphytrion of the night the demand which was made on his hospitality. A thoroughly well-established and experienced political Minister of State always feels that if he can make a friend or appease an enemy without paying a heavy price he will be doing a good stroke of business. "Bring him up," said Mr. Wilson. "He's going to do something out in the East, isn't he?" "Nothing in India," said Lord De Griffin. "The submarine telegraph is quite impossible." Mr. Wilson, instructing some satellite to find out in what way he might properly connect Mr. Melmotte with China, sent Lord De Griffin away with his commission. "My dear Alfred, just allow me to manage these things myself," Mr. Melmotte was saying when the under secretary returned. "I know my own position and how to keep it. There shall be no dinner. I'll be d---- if any of the lot shall dine in Grosvenor Square on Monday." Lord Alfred was so astounded that he was thinking of making his way to the Prime Minister, a man whom he abhorred and didn't know, and of acquainting him with the terrible calamity which was threatened. But the arrival of the under secretary saved him the trouble. "If you will come with me," whispered Lord De Griffin, "it shall be managed. It isn't just the thing, but as you wish it, it shall be done." "I do wish it," said Melmotte aloud. He was one of those men whom success never mollified, whose enjoyment of a point gained always demanded some hoarse note of triumph from his own trumpet. "If you will be so kind as to follow me," said Lord De Griffin. And so the thing was done. Melmotte, as he was taken up to the imperial footstool, was resolved upon making a little speech, forgetful at the moment of interpreters,--of the double interpreters whom the Majesty of China required; but the awful, quiescent solemnity of the celestial one quelled even him, and he shuffled by without saying a word even of his own banquet. But he had gained his point, and, as he was taken home to poor Mr. Longestaffe's house in Bruton Street, was intolerable. Lord Alfred tried to escape after putting Madame Melmotte and her daughter into the carriage, but Melmotte insisted on his presence. "You might as well come, Alfred;--there are two or three things I must settle before I go to bed." "I'm about knocked up," said the unfortunate man. "Knocked up, nonsense! Think what I've been through. I've been all day at the hardest work a man can do." Had he as usual got in first, leaving his man-of-all-work to follow, the man-of-all-work would have escaped. Melmotte, fearing such defection, put his hand on Lord Alfred's shoulder, and the poor fellow was beaten. As they were taken home a continual sound of cock-crowing was audible, but as the words were not distinguished they required no painful attention; but when the soda water and brandy and cigars made their appearance in Mr. Longestaffe's own back room, then the trumpet was sounded with a full blast. "I mean to let the fellows know what's what," said Melmotte, walking about the room. Lord Alfred had thrown himself into an arm-chair, and was consoling himself as best he might with tobacco. "Give and take is a very good motto. If I scratch their back, I mean them to scratch mine. They won't find many people to spend ten thousand pounds in entertaining a guest of the country's as a private enterprise. I don't know of any other man of business who could do it, or would do it. It's not much any of them can do for me. Thank God, I don't want 'em. But if consideration is to be shown to anybody, I intend to be considered. The Prince treated me very scurvily, Alfred, and I shall take an opportunity of telling him so on Monday. I suppose a man may be allowed to speak to his own guests." "You might turn the election against you if you said anything the Prince didn't like." "D---- the election, sir. I stand before the electors of Westminster as a man of business, not as a courtier,--as a man who understands commercial enterprise, not as one of the Prince's toadies. Some of you fellows in England don't realise the matter yet; but I can tell you that I think myself quite as great a man as any Prince." Lord Alfred looked at him, with strong reminiscences of the old ducal home, and shuddered. "I'll teach them a lesson before long. Didn't I teach 'em a lesson to-night,--eh? They tell me that Lord De Griffin has sixty thousand a-year to spend. What's sixty thousand a year? Didn't I make him go on my business? And didn't I make 'em do as I chose? You want to tell me this and that, but I can tell you that I know more of men and women than some of you fellows do, who think you know a great deal." This went on through the whole of a long cigar; and afterwards, as Lord Alfred slowly paced his way back to his lodgings in Mount Street, he thought deeply whether there might not be means of escaping from his present servitude. "Beast! Brute! Pig!" he said to himself over and over again as he slowly went to Mount Street.

The Conservative party at this particular period was putting its shoulder to the wheel, as it now and then does, so that other parties may not suppose that it is moribund. A long pull, a strong pull, and a pull together - and the old days, before the Radical reforms, will come back again. Venerable patriarchs think of Lord Liverpool and other heroes, and dream of Conservative bishops and lord-lieutenants, and a Conservative ministry that shall remain in for a generation. If this seat for Westminster could be won by Mr. Melmotte, it would show that the country was sound at heart, and that all the great changes of the last forty years - from the first reform in Parliament down to the Secret Ballot - had been managed by the cunning and treachery of a few ambitious men. Not that the Ballot was regarded by the party as an unmitigated evil, though it was the last triumph of Radical wickedness. The Ballot was on the whole popular with the party, and it might assist Melmotte at Westminster. Anyone reading the Conservative papers of the time would have thought that England's welfare depended on Melmotte's election. The praise was as loud as the censure of him had been bitter. The chief crime laid to his charge was connected with the ruin of some great continental assurance company, which it was said he had left utterly stranded, with an enormous fortune of his own. Now the Evening Pulpit, in reporting this, had said that the company's headquarters were in Paris, whereas in fact they were in Vienna. Did not this blunder show that Mr. Melmotte was a merchant of high honour? And then two different newspapers, both antagonistic to Melmotte, failed to agree about his wealth. One declared that in truth he had none. The other said that he had derived his wealth from those unfortunate shareholders on the Continent. Could anything be so false, so weak, so wicked - in fact, so "Liberal" as this contradiction? The natural deduction from this, said the Conservative newspapers, was that Mr. Melmotte had an immense fortune, and that he had never robbed any shareholder of a shilling. Although it was not a Conservative paper, the Breakfast Table supported Melmotte because of his commercial position and understanding. Few men had so acute an insight into the great commercial questions of the age as Mr. Augustus Melmotte. No matter what his origin, it would be for the country's good that such a man should sit in the British Parliament. This was the opinion of the Breakfast Table. There was one man who thoroughly believed that the thing most necessary for England's glory was the return of Mr. Melmotte for Westminster. This man was undoubtedly a very ignorant man. He knew nothing of any of the political questions which had vexed England for the last half century, or of the country's political history, or of the working of Parliament. Yet he was fully confident that England ought to demand that Mr. Melmotte should be returned for Westminster. This man was Mr. Melmotte himself. At this point Mr. Melmotte certainly lost his head. He had enough boldness for the very dangerous game which he was playing; but, as crisis heaped itself upon crisis, he lacked prudence. He spoke of those who opposed him as little malignant beings, and went about in his open carriage with a disdainful air. He scolded Earls and snubbed Dukes, and yet did it in a manner which showed how proud he was of connecting himself with their pre-eminence. The more arrogant he became the more vulgar he was. The result was damaging. "Couldn't Lord Alfred say a word to him?" said the Honourable Beauchamp Beauclerk, who, himself in Parliament, had been moving heaven and earth on behalf of the great financial king. "Alfred's more than half afraid of him," said Lionel Lupton, a young aristocrat, also in Parliament. "Something really must be done, Mr. Beauclerk," said Mr. Jones, who led a very wealthy firm of builders in the borough. "He is making a great many personal enemies." "He's the finest old turkey cock out," said Lionel Lupton. It was decided that Mr. Beauclerk should speak a word to Lord Alfred. "Alfred," said he at the club one afternoon, "I wonder whether you couldn't say something to Melmotte about his manner." Lord Alfred turned sharply round and looked into his companion's face. "They tell me he is giving offence. Couldn't he draw it a little milder?" Lord Alfred made his reply almost in a whisper. "If you ask me, I don't think he could." "You couldn't speak to him, then?" "Not unless I did it with a horsewhip." Lord Alfred had been much afflicted that morning. He had spent some hours with Melmotte, going about the borough in the open carriage, and standing just behind him at meetings - and had been nauseated with him. He found his position to be almost insupportable. When he was told to "just open the door," and "just give that message," he meditated revenge. Mr. Beauclerk whistled and withdrew. The Emperor of China was now in England, and was to be entertained at the India Office on Saturday the 6th of July, and Melmotte's dinner was to take place on the following Monday. The London world was very keen to obtain admission to the India Office, begging for tickets allocated to the under secretaries, assistant secretaries, chief clerks, and head-messengers and their wives. Now Mr. Melmotte with his family was, of course, supplied with tickets. He had already seen the Emperor at a breakfast in Windsor Park, and at a ball in royal halls. But he had not been presented to the Emperor. He had felt himself to be ill-used, and was offended. He spoke with bitterness of the Royal Family, because he had not been brought to the front rank - and now, at the India Office, was determined to have his due. But he was not on the list of those who would be presented to the Brother of the Sun. At this period of his career he had taken to dining freely, which was imprudent, as he needed his best intelligence. Wine did not often make him tipsy; but it made him tower in his arrogance till he was almost sure to totter. He went with his wife and daughter and Lord Alfred to the event at the India Office, with some foolish idea that as the India Office was in Westminster, he had a right to demand an introduction because of his candidature. He did succeed in getting hold of an unfortunate under secretary of state, a studious and invaluable young peer, known as Earl De Griffin. He was a shy man, who worked hard night and day, and was second in command at the India Office. "My Lord," said Melmotte loudly, "I desire to be presented to his Imperial Majesty." Lord De Griffin looked at him in despair, not knowing the great man. "This is Mr. Melmotte," said Lord Alfred. "Oh," said Lord De Griffin. "I am delighted; ah, yes," and he made a weak and ineffectual attempt to escape. Melmotte stood in his way, and repeated his demand. "I'm afraid it's all arranged." said Lord De Griffin. "I don't know anything about it myself. I'm very sorry." "I'm not going to stand this kind of thing," said Melmotte. The old Marquis of Auld Reekie was close at hand, Lord Nidderdale's father; and he poked his thumb into Lord Alfred's ribs. "It is generally understood, I believe," continued Melmotte, "that the Emperor is to dine at my house on Monday. He don't dine there unless I'm made acquainted with him before he comes. I mean what I say. I ain't going to entertain even an Emperor unless I'm good enough to be presented to him." "Here's a row," said the old Marquis. "He has taken a little wine," whispered Lord Alfred. "Melmotte," he said, still whispering; "upon my word it isn't the thing. They're only Indian chaps and Eastern swells who are presented here." "Then they should have done it at Windsor," said Melmotte. "By George, Alfred! I'm in earnest, and somebody had better look to it. If I'm not presented to his Imperial Majesty tonight, by G__, there shall be no dinner in Grosvenor Square on Monday." Lord De Griffin was frightened, and Lord Alfred felt that something ought to be done. It might have been wise to have allowed Melmotte to return home with the resolution that his dinner should be abandoned; he would probably have repented before the next morning. But Lord De Griffin went to the Secretary of State, Mr. Wilson, and explained the issue. "Bring him up," said Mr. Wilson. "He's going to do something out in the East, isn't he?" Lord de Griffin returned to Melmotte, and whispered, "If you will come with me, it shall be managed. It isn't just the thing, but as you wish it, it shall be done." "I do wish it," said Melmotte aloud. He was one of those men for whom success always demanded some hoarse note of triumph from his own trumpet. And so the thing was done. Melmotte, as he was taken up to the imperial footstool, was resolved upon making a little speech; but the awful, silent solemnity of the celestial one quelled even him, and he shuffled by without saying a word. But he had gained his point, and afterwards became intolerable. Lord Alfred tried to escape after putting Madame Melmotte and her daughter into the carriage, but Melmotte insisted: "Come with me, Alfred; there are two or three things I must settle before I go to bed." "I'm about knocked up," said the unfortunate man. "Nonsense!" Melmotte put his hand on Lord Alfred's shoulder, and the poor fellow was beaten. Walking about Mr. Longstaffe's back room with a brandy and a cigar, Melmotte again sounded his own trumpet. "I mean to let the fellows know what's what," he said. "They won't find many people to spend ten thousand pounds in entertaining a guest of the country. I don't know of any other man of business who could do it. But I intend to be respected. The Prince treated me very scurvily, Alfred, and I shall take an opportunity of telling him so on Monday. I suppose a man may speak to his own guests." "You might turn the election against you if you said anything the Prince didn't like," said Lord Alfred. "D___ the election, sir. I stand before the electors of Westminster as a man of business, not as one of the Prince's toadies. I can tell you that I think myself quite as great a man as any Prince. I'll teach them a lesson before long. Didn't I teach 'em a lesson tonight, eh? Didn't I make 'em do as I chose?" This went on through the whole of a cigar; and afterwards, as Lord Alfred slowly walked back to his lodgings, he thought deeply whether there might not be a means of escaping from his servitude. "Beast! Brute! Pig!" he said to himself over and over again as he returned to Mount Street.

The Way We Live Now

Chapter 54: The India Office

The world is ashamed of being virtuous ----My uncle _Toby_ knew little of the world; and therefore when he felt he was in love with widow _Wadman_, he had no conception that the thing was any more to be made a mystery of, than if Mrs. _Wadman_ had given him a cut with a gap'd knife across his finger: Had it been otherwise----yet as he ever look'd upon _Trim_ as a humble friend; and saw fresh reasons every day of his life, to treat him as such----it would have made no variation in the manner in which he informed him of the affair. "I am in love, corporal!" quoth my uncle _Toby_.

My uncle Toby knew little of the world; and therefore when he felt he was in love with widow Wadman, he had no idea that the thing was to be made a mystery of. Even had it been otherwise, as he looked upon Trim as a humble friend, it would have made no difference to the manner in which he informed him of it. 'I am in love, corporal!' quoth my uncle Toby.

Tristram Shandy

Book 8 - Chapter 27

----What an unconscionable jointure, my dear, do we pay out of this small estate of ours, quoth my grandmother to my grandfather. My father, replied my grandfather, had no more nose, my dear, saving the mark, than there is upon the back of my hand. --Now, you must know, that my great-grandmother outlived my grandfather twelve years; so that my father had the jointure to pay, a hundred and fifty pounds half-yearly--(on _Michaelmas_ and _Lady-day_), --during all that time. No man discharged pecuniary obligations with a better grace than my father. ------And as far as a hundred pounds went, he would fling it upon the table, guinea by guinea, with that spirited jerk of an honest welcome, which generous souls, and generous souls only, are able to fling down money: but as soon as ever he enter'd upon the odd fifty--he generally gave a loud _Hem!_ rubb'd the side of his nose leisurely with the flat part of his fore finger----inserted his hand cautiously betwixt his head and the cawl of his wig--look'd at both sides of every guinea as he parted with it----and seldom could get to the end of the fifty pounds, without pulling out his handkerchief, and wiping his temples. Defend me, gracious Heaven! from those persecuting spirits who make no allowances for these workings within us. --Never --O never may I lay down in their tents, who cannot relax the engine, and feel pity for the force of education, and the prevalence of opinions long derived from ancestors! For three generations at least this _tenet_ in favour of long noses had gradually been taking root in our family. ------TRADITION was all along on its side, and INTEREST was every half-year stepping in to strengthen it; so that the whimsicality of my father's brain was far from having the whole honour of this, as it had of almost all his other strange notions. --For in a great measure he might be said to have suck'd this in with his mother's milk. He did his part however. ----If education planted the mistake (in case it was one) my father watered it, and ripened it to perfection. He would often declare, in speaking his thoughts upon the subject, that he did not conceive how the greatest family in _England_ could stand it out against an uninterrupted succession of six or seven short noses. --And for the contrary reason, he would generally add, That it must be one of the greatest problems in civil life, where the same number of long and jolly noses, following one another in a direct line, did not raise and hoist it up into the best vacancies in the kingdom. ------He would often boast that the _Shandy_ family rank'd very high in King _Harry_ the VIIIth's time, but owed its rise to no state engine--he would say--but to that only; ----but that, like other families, he would add----it had felt the turn of the wheel, and had never recovered the blow of my great-grandfather's nose. ----It was an ace of clubs indeed, he would cry, shaking his head--and as vile a one for an unfortunate family as ever turn'd up trumps. ------Fair and softly, gentle reader! ------where is thy fancy carrying thee? ----If there is truth in man, by my great-grandfather's nose, I mean the external organ of smelling, or that part of man which stands prominent in his face----and which painters say, in good jolly noses and well-proportioned faces, should comprehend a full third----that is, measured downwards from the setting on of the hair.---- ----What a life of it has an author, at this pass!

'What an excessive jointure, my dear, we pay out of this small estate of ours,' quoth my grandmother to my grandfather. 'My father,' replied my grandfather, 'had no more nose, my dear, than there is upon the back of my hand.' Now, you must know that my great-grandmother outlived my grandfather twelve years; so that my father had the jointure to pay, a hundred and fifty pounds half-yearly, during all that time. No man paid his bills with a better grace than my father. As far as a hundred pounds went, he would fling it upon the table with a generous spirit; but faced with half that amount, he gave a loud 'Hem!', rubbed his nose, scratched his head, looked at both sides of every guinea as he parted with it - and could seldom get to the end of the fifty pounds, without pulling out his handkerchief, and wiping his temples. Defend me, gracious Heaven! from those persecuting spirits who make no allowances for these workings within us, and for opinions derived from our ancestors! For three generations at least this opinion in favour of long noses had gradually been taking root in our family; so my father's whimsical brain was far from having devised this, as it had almost all his other strange notions. He might be said to have sucked this in with his mother's milk. However, if education planted the mistake, my father watered it, and ripened it to perfection. He would often declare that he did not see how the greatest family in England could stand it out against an uninterrupted succession of six or seven short noses. And conversely, he would add, it must be a great problem when the same number of long and jolly noses, following one another in a line, did not raise the family up into the best vacancies in the kingdom. He would often boast that the Shandy family ranked very high in King Harry the VIIIth's time, owing to its noses; - but that it had never recovered from the blow of my great-grandfather's nose. 'It was an ace of clubs indeed,' he would cry, shaking his head, 'and as vile a one for an unfortunate family as ever turned up trumps.' -Softly, gentle reader! where is thy fancy carrying thee? By my great-grandfather's nose, I mean the external organ of smelling - and which painters say, should take up a full third of the face measured downwards from the hairline. What a life an author has!

Tristram Shandy

Book 3 - Chapter 33

The first thing which entered my father's head, after affairs were a little settled in the family, and _Susannah_ had got possession of my mother's green sattin night-gown, --was to sit down coolly, after the example of _Xenophon_, and write a TRISTRA-pdia, or system of education for me; collecting first for that purpose his own scattered thoughts, counsels, and notions; and binding them together, so as to form an INSTITUTE for the government of my childhood and adolescence. I was my father's last stake--he had lost my brother _Bobby_ entirely, --he had lost, by his own computation, full three-fourths of me--that is, he had been unfortunate in his three first great casts for me--my geniture, nose, and name, --there was but this one left; and accordingly my father gave himself up to it with as much devotion as ever my uncle _Toby_ had done to his doctrine of projectils. --The difference between them was, that my uncle _Toby_ drew his whole knowledge of projectils from _Nicholas Tartaglia_ --My father spun his, every thread of it, out of his own brain, --or reeled and cross-twisted what all other spinners and spinsters had spun before him, that 'twas pretty near the same torture to him. In about three years, or something more, my father had got advanced almost into the middle of his work. --Like all other writers, he met with disappointments. --He imagined he should be able to bring whatever he had to say, into so small a compass, that when it was finished and bound, it might be rolled up in my mother's hussive. --Matter grows under our hands. --Let no man say, --"Come --I'll write a duodecimo." My father gave himself up to it, however, with the most painful diligence, proceeding step by step in every line, with the same kind of caution and circumspection (though I cannot say upon quite so religious a principle) as was used by _John de la Casse_, the lord archbishop of _Benevento_, in compassing his _Galatea_; in which his Grace of _Benevento_ spent near forty years of his life; and when the thing came out, it was not of above half the size or the thickness of a _Rider's_ Almanack. --How the holy man managed the affair, unless he spent the greatest part of his time in combing his whiskers, or playing at _primero_ with his chaplain, --would pose any mortal not let into the true secret; --and therefore 'tis worth explaining to the world, was it only for the encouragement of those few in it, who write not so much to be fed--as to be famous. I own had _John de la Casse_, the archbishop of _Benevento_, for whose memory (notwithstanding his _Galatea_) I retain the highest veneration, --had he been, Sir, a slender clerk--of dull wit--slow parts--costive head, and so forth, --he and his _Galatea_ might have jogged on together to the age of _Methuselah_ for me, --the phnomenon had not been worth a parenthesis.-- But the reverse of this was the truth: _John de la Casse_ was a genius of fine parts and fertile fancy; and yet with all these advantages of nature, which should have pricked him forwards with his _Galatea_, he lay under an impuissance at the same time of advancing above a line and a half in the compass of a whole summer's day: this disability in his Grace arose from an opinion he was afflicted with, --which opinion was this, --_viz._ that whenever a Christian was writing a book (not for his private amusement, but) where his intent and purpose was, _bon fide_, to print and publish it to the world, his first thoughts were always the temptations of the evil one. --This was the state of ordinary writers: but when a personage of venerable character and high station, either in church or state, once turned author, --he maintained, that from the very moment he took pen in hand--all the devils in hell broke out of their holes to cajole him. --'Twas Term-time with them, --every thought, first and last, was captious; --how specious and good soever, --'twas all one; --in whatever form or colour it presented itself to the imagination, --'twas still a stroke of one or other of 'em levell'd at him, and was to be fenced off. --So that the life of a writer, whatever he might fancy to the contrary, was not so much a state of _composition_, as a state of _warfare_; and his probation in it, precisely that of any other man militant upon earth, --both depending alike, not half so much upon the degrees of his WIT--as his RESISTANCE. My father was hugely pleased with this theory of _John de la Casse_, archbishop of _Benevento_; and (had it not cramped him a little in his creed) I believe would have given ten of the best acres in the _Shandy_ estate, to have been the broacher of it. --How far my father actually believed in the devil, will be seen, when I come to speak of my father's religious notions, in the progress of this work: 'tis enough to say here, as he could not have the honour of it, in the literal sense of the doctrine--he took up with the allegory of it; and would often say, especially when his pen was a little retrograde, there was as much good meaning, truth, and knowledge, couched under the veil of _John de la Casse's_ parabolical representation, --as was to be found in any one poetic fiction or mystic record of antiquity. --Prejudice of education, he would say, _is the devil_, --and the multitudes of them which we suck in with our mother's milk--_are the devil and all_. ----We are haunted with them, brother _Toby_, in all our lucubrations and researches; and was a man fool enough to submit tamely to what they obtruded upon him, --what would his book be? Nothing, --he would add, throwing his pen away with a vengeance, --nothing but a farrago of the clack of nurses, and of the nonsense of the old women (of both sexes) throughout the kingdom. This is the best account I am determined to give of the slow progress my father made in his _Tristra-pdia_; at which (as I said) he was three years, and something more, indefatigably at work, and, at last, had scarce completed, by his own reckoning, one half of his undertaking: the misfortune was, that I was all that time totally neglected and abandoned to my mother: and what was almost as bad, by the very delay, the first part of the work, upon which my father had spent the most of his pains, was rendered entirely useless, ----every day a page or two became of no consequence.---- ----Certainly it was ordained as a scourge upon the pride of human wisdom, That the wisest of us all should thus outwit ourselves, and eternally forego our purposes, in the intemperate act of pursuing them. In short, my father was so long in all his acts of resistance, --or in other words, --he advanced so very slow with his work, and I began to live and get forwards at such a rate, that if an event had not happened, ----which, when we get to it, if it can be told with decency, shall not be concealed a moment from the reader ----I verily believe, I had put by my father, and left him drawing a sun-dial, for no better purpose than to be buried underground.

The first thing which entered my father's head, after affairs were a little settled in the family, and Susannah had got possession of my mother's green satin night-gown - was to sit down coolly, after Xenophon's example, and write a Tristra-paedia, or system of education for me; collecting his scattered thoughts, and binding them together, so as to form an Institute for the government of my childhood and adolescence. I was my father's last stake - he had lost my brother Bobby entirely; he had lost, he reckoned, full three-fourths of me - that is, he had been unfortunate in his three first great casts of the dice for me - my begetting, my nose, and my name - but there was this one left. Accordingly my father gave himself up to it with as much devotion as ever my uncle Toby gave to his study of projectiles. The difference was, that my uncle Toby drew his knowledge of projectiles from Nicholas Tartaglia. My father spun his knowledge, every thread of it, out of his own brain - or reeled and twisted what all other spinners had spun before him, which was pretty near the same thing. In about three years, my father had almost reached the middle of his work. Like all other writers, he met with disappointments. He imagined he should be able to fit whatever he had to say into so small a space that, when it was finished and bound, it might be rolled up in my mother's pocket-case. Matter grows under our hands. My father gave himself up to it, however, with painful diligence, proceeding step by step with the same caution as was used by John de la Casse, the archbishop of Benevento, in writing his Galatea, on which he spent near forty years; and when the thing came out, it was only half the size of a Rider's Almanack. How he managed it, unless he spent most of his time combing his whiskers, or playing at cards with his chaplain, would puzzle anyone not let into the true secret; and therefore 'tis worth explaining to the world. I admit, if John de la Casse, for whose memory (despite his Galatea) I retain the highest respect,- if he had been, Sir, a slender clerk of dull wit, he and his Galatea might have jogged on together to the age of Methuselah, and have not been worth a mention. But John de la Casse was a genius of fertile fancy; yet with the natural advantages which should have spurred him on with his Galatea, he was incapable of writing more than a line and a half in a whole summer's day. This disability arose from his opinion that, whenever a Christian was writing a book with the intent of publishing it to the world, his first thoughts were always the temptations of the evil one. And, he maintained, when a person of high character and status turned author, from the very moment he took pen in hand - all the devils in hell broke out of their holes to cajole him. Every thought, however it came to him, was a stroke of one or other of these devils. So that the life of a writer was not so much a state of composition, as a state of warfare; and his success, like a soldier's, depended not so much upon his Wit as his Resistance. My father was hugely pleased with this theory of John de la Casse. - How far my father actually believed in the devil will be seen when I come to speak of his religious notions: 'tis enough to say here, that he took up the allegory of the doctrine, if not its literal sense; and would often say there was as much good truth in John de la Casse's description as was to be found in any poetic fiction or ancient record. 'Prejudice of education,' he would say, 'is the devil - and the multitudes of them which we suck in with our mother's milk are the devil and all. We are haunted with them, brother Toby, in all our researches; and if a man was fool enough to submit tamely to them, what would his book be? Nothing,' he would add, throwing his pen away, - 'nothing but a farrago of the clack of nurses, and of the nonsense of the old women (of both sexes) throughout the kingdom.' This is the best account I can give of the slow progress my father made in his Tristra-paedia; at which (as I said) he was over three years at work, and had scarce completed one half. The misfortune was, that I was all that time totally neglected and abandoned to my mother: and what was almost as bad, by the very delay, the first part of the work was rendered entirely useless - every day a page or two became outdated. - Certainly it was ordained as a scourge upon our pride, that the wisest of us should thus outwit ourselves, and eternally deny our purposes, in the intemperate act of pursuing them. In short, my father advanced so very slow with his work, and I began to get forwards at such a rate, that, if an event had not happened - which, if it can be told with decency, shall not be concealed a moment from the reader - I believe I would have outgrown it.

Tristram Shandy

Book 5 - Chapter 16

"_Nihil me pnitet hujus nasi_," quoth _Pamphagus_; ----that is-- "My nose has been the making of me." ----------"_Nec est cur pniteat_," replies _Cocles_; that is, "How the duce should such a nose fail?" The doctrine, you see, was laid down by _Erasmus_, as my father wished it, with the utmost plainness; but my father's disappointment was, in finding nothing more from so able a pen, but the bare fact itself; without any of that speculative subtilty or ambidexterity of argumentation upon it, which Heaven had bestow'd upon man on purpose to investigate truth, and fight for her on all sides. ----My father pish'd and pugh'd at first most terribly------'tis worth something to have a good name. As the dialogue was of _Erasmus_, my father soon came to himself, and read it over and over again with great application, studying every word and every syllable of it thro' and thro' in its most strict and literal interpretation--he could still make nothing of it, that way. Mayhap there is more meant, than is said in it, quoth my father. ----Learned men, brother _Toby_, don't write dialogues upon long noses for nothing. ------I'll study the mystick and the allegorick sense----here is some room to turn a man's self in, brother. My father read on. ------Now I find it needful to inform your reverences and worships, that besides the many nautical uses of long noses enumerated by _Erasmus_, the dialogist affirmeth that a long nose is not without its domestic conveniencies also; for that in a case of distress--and for want of a pair of bellows, it will do excellently well, _ad ixcitandum focum_ (to stir up the fire). Nature had been prodigal in her gifts to my father beyond measure, and had sown the seeds of verbal criticism as deep within him, as she had done the seeds of all other knowledge------so that he had got out his penknife, and was trying experiments upon the sentence, to see if he could not scratch some better sense into it. ----I've got within a single letter, brother _Toby_, cried my father, of _Erasmus_ his mystic meaning. --You are near enough, brother, replied my uncle, in all conscience. ------Pshaw! cried my father, scratching on ----I might as well be seven miles off. --I've done it--said my father, snapping his fingers --See, my dear brother _Toby_, how I have mended the sense. ----But you have marr'd a word, replied my uncle _Toby_. ----My father put on his spectacles----bit his lip------and tore out the leaf in a passion.

'Nihil me poenitet hujus nasi,' quoth Pamphagus; that is, 'My nose has been the making of me.' 'Nec est cur poeniteat,' replies Cocles; that is, 'How the deuce should such a nose fail?' This was laid down by Erasmus with great plainness; but my father was disappointed to find no subtler argument from so able a pen. My father pished and pughed at first most terribly. But as the dialogue was by Erasmus, he soon read it over again with great application, studying every word through and through. He could still make nothing of it. 'Mayhap more is meant than is said in it,' quoth he. 'Learned men don't write dialogues upon long noses for nothing. I'll study the mystic and allegoric sense.' My father read on. Now I must inform your worships, that besides the many nautical uses of long noses listed by Erasmus, he writes that a long nose has its domestic conveniences also; for instance, in the want of a pair of bellows, it will do excellently well ad excitandum focum (to arouse the fire.) My father had got out his penknife, and was trying experiments upon the sentence, to see if he could not scratch some better sense into it. 'I've got within a single letter, brother Toby,' cried he, scratching on, 'of Erasmus's mystic meaning. I've done it,' he said, snapping his fingers. 'See, my dear brother, how I have mended the sense.' 'But you have marred a word,' replied my uncle Toby. My father bit his lip - and tore the page out in a passion.

Tristram Shandy

Book 3 - Chapter 37

Now, because I have once or twice said, in my inconsiderate way of talking, That I was confident the following memoirs of my uncle _Toby's_ courtship of widow _Wadman_, whenever I got time to write them, would turn out one of the most complete systems, both of the elementary and practical part of love and love-making, that ever was addressed to the world----are you to imagine from thence, that I shall set out with a description of _what love is?_ whether part God and part Devil, as _Plotinus_ will have it---- ----Or by a more critical equation, and supposing the whole of love to be as ten----to determine with _Ficinus_, "_How many parts of it--the one, --and how many the other_;" --or whether it is _all of it one great Devil_, from head to tail, as _Plato_ has taken upon him to pronounce; concerning which conceit of his, I shall not offer my opinion: --but my opinion of _Plato_ is this; that he appears, from this instance, to have been a man of much the same temper and way of reasoning with doctor _Baynyard_, who being a great enemy to blisters, as imagining that half a dozen of 'em at once, would draw a man as surely to his grave, as a herse and six--rashly concluded, that the Devil himself was nothing in the world, but one great bouncing _Canthari[di]s_.------ I have nothing to say to people who allow themselves this monstrous liberty in arguing, but what _Nazianzen_ cried out (_that is, polemically_) to _Philagrius_---- "!" _O rare! 'tis fine reasoning, Sir, indeed!_-- " "--_and most nobly do you aim at truth, when you philosophize about it in your moods and passions._ Nor is it to be imagined, for the same reason, I should stop to inquire, whether love is a disease, ----or embroil myself with _Rhasis_ and _Dioscorides_, whether the seat of it is in the brain or liver; --because this would lead me on, to an examination of the two very opposite manners, in which patients have been treated----the one, of _Atius_, who always begun with a cooling clyster of hempseed and bruised cucumbers; --and followed on with thin potations of water-lillies and purslane--to which he added a pinch of snuff of the herb _Hanea_; --and where _Atius_ durst venture it, --his topaz-ring. ----The other, that of _Gordonius_, who (in his cap. 15. _de Amore_) directs they should be thrashed, "_ad putorem usque_," ----till they stink again. These are disquisitions, which my father, who had laid in a great stock of knowledge of this kind, will be very busy with in the progress of my uncle _Toby's_ affairs: I must anticipate thus much, That from his theories of love, (with which, by the way, he contrived to crucify my uncle _Toby's_ mind, almost as much as his amours themselves)--he took a single step into practice; --and by means of a camphorated cerecloth, which he found means to impose upon the taylor for buckram, whilst he was making my uncle _Toby_ a new pair of breeches, he produced _Gordonius's_ effect upon my uncle _Toby_ without the disgrace. What changes this produced, will be read in its proper place: all that is needful to be added to the anecdote, is this ----That whatever effect it had upon my uncle _Toby_, ----it had a vile effect upon the house; ----and if my uncle _Toby_ had not smoaked it down as he did, it might have had a vile effect upon my father too.

Now, because I have once or twice said that I was confident the following memoirs of my uncle Toby's courtship of widow Wadman, whenever I got time to write them, would turn out one of the most complete accounts of the practice of love and love-making that ever was addressed to the world - do you imagine that I shall set out with a description of what love is? whether part God and part Devil, as Plotinus puts it- - Or supposing the whole of love to be as ten - as Ficinus does - 'How many parts of it are one, and how many the other' - or whether it is all one great Devil from head to tail, as Plato says: but Plato appears to have been a man of much the same temper as doctor Baynyard, who being a great enemy to blisters, imagined that half a dozen of 'em at once would draw a man to his grave, and rashly concluded that the Devil himself was nothing but one great bouncing blister beetle. I have nothing to say to people who allow themselves this monstrous liberty in arguing, but what Nazianzen cried out to Philagrius- 'O fine reasoning, Sir! when you philosophize in your moods and passions.' Nor should I stop to inquire whether love is a disease, or embroil myself with Rhasis and Dioscorides, whether the seat of it is in the brain or liver; because this would lead me on to an examination of the two opposite manners in which patients have been treated - the one, of Aertius, who always began with a cooling dressing of hempseed and bruised cucumbers, followed with thin potations of water-lilies and purslane - to which he added a pinch of snuff of the herb Hanea. - The other, that of Gordonius (in Ch. 15 of De Amore), who directs they should be thrashed ad putorem usque - till they stink again. My father, who had a great stock of knowledge of this kind, was very busy with the progress of my uncle Toby's affairs: from his theories of love, (with which, by the way, he contrived to crucify my uncle Toby's mind, almost as much as his amours themselves) - he put one into practice; and by means of a camphorated waxed cloth to allay lust, which he imposed upon the tailor whilst he was making my uncle Toby a new pair of breeches, he produced Gordonius's effect upon my uncle Toby without the disgrace. What changes this produced, will be read in its proper place: all that needs to be added is this - that whatever effect the camphorated cloth had upon my uncle Toby, it had a vile effect upon the house; and if my uncle Toby had not swathed it in smoke, it might have had a vile effect upon my father too.

Tristram Shandy

Book 6 - Chapter 36

We live in a world beset on all sides with mysteries and riddles--and so 'tis no matter----else it seems strange, that Nature, who makes everything so well to answer its destination, and seldom or never errs, unless for pastime, in giving such forms and aptitudes to whatever passes through her hands, that whether she designs for the plough, the caravan, the cart--or whatever other creature she models, be it but an asse's foal, you are sure to have the thing you wanted; and yet at the same time should so eternally bungle it as she does, in making so simple a thing as a married man. Whether it is in the choice of the clay----or that it is frequently spoiled in the baking; by an excess of which a husband may turn out too crusty (you know) on one hand----or not enough so, through defect of heat, on the other----or whether this great Artificer is not so attentive to the little Platonic exigences _of that part_ of the species, for whose use she is fabricating _this_----or that her Ladyship sometimes scarce knows what sort of a husband will do ----I know not: we will discourse about it after supper. It is enough, that neither the observation itself, or the reasoning upon it, are at all to the purpose----but rather against it; since with regard to my uncle _Toby's_ fitness for the marriage state, nothing was ever better: she had formed him of the best and kindliest clay----had temper'd it with her own milk, and breathed into it the sweetest spirit----she had made him all gentle, generous, and humane----she had filled his heart with trust and confidence, and disposed every passage which led to it, for the communication of the tenderest offices----she had moreover considered the other causes for which matrimony was ordained---- And accordingly * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *. The DONATION was not defeated by my uncle _Toby's_ wound. Now this last article was somewhat apocryphal; and the Devil, who is the great disturber of our faiths in this world, had raised scruples in Mrs. _Wadman's_ brain about it; and like a true devil as he was, had done his own work at the same time, by turning my uncle _Toby's_ Virtue thereupon into nothing but _empty bottles_, _tripes_, _trunk-hose_, and _pantofles_.

We live in a world beset on all sides with mysteries and riddles - but it seems strange that Nature, who makes everything so well for its purpose, whether she designs for the plough or the cart - yet at the same time should so eternally bungle it as she does, in making so simple a thing as a married man. Whether it is in the choice of the clay, or because it is spoiled in the baking, so that a husband may turn out too crusty on one hand - or not crusty enough, on the other; - or whether this great Artificer is not so attentive to the little details of that part of the species - or whether her Ladyship sometimes scarce knows what sort of a husband will do - I know not: we will discuss it after supper. However, with regard to my uncle Toby's fitness for the marriage state, nothing was ever better. Nature had formed him of the best and kindliest clay - had tempered it with her own milk, and breathed into it the sweetest spirit - she had made him gentle, generous, and humane - she had filled his heart with trust and confidence, and made it fit for the tenderest offices. - She had moreover considered the other causes for which matrimony was ordained- And accordingly * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *. The gift was not defeated by my uncle Toby's wound. Now this wound was somewhat apocryphal; and the Devil had raised scruples in Mrs. Wadman's brain about it; and like the true devil he was, had done his own work at the same time, by turning my uncle Toby's Virtue thereupon into nothing but empty bottles, tripes, trunk-hose, and slippers.

Tristram Shandy

Book 9 - Chapter 22

"The two great causes, which conspire with each other to shorten life, says lord _Verulam_, are first---- "The internal spirit, which, like a gentle flame, wastes the body down to death: --And secondly, the external air, that parches the body up to ashes: --which two enemies attacking us on both sides of our bodies together, at length destroy our organs, and render them unfit to carry on the functions of life." This being the state of the case, the road to Longevity was plain; nothing more being required, says his lordship, but to repair the waste committed by the internal spirit, by making the substance of it more thick and dense, by a regular course of opiates on one side, and by refrigerating the heat of it on the other, by three grains and a half of salt-petre every morning before you got up.---- Still this frame of ours was left exposed to the inimical assaults of the air without; --but this was fenced off again by a course of greasy unctions, which so fully saturated the pores of the skin, that no spicula could enter; ----nor could any one get out. ----This put a stop to all perspiration, sensible and insensible, which being the cause of so many scurvy distempers--a course of clysters was requisite to carry off redundant humours, --and render the system complete. What my father had to say to my lord of _Verulam's_ opiates, his salt-petre, and greasy unctions and clysters, you shall read, --but not to-day--or to-morrow: time presses upon me, --my reader is impatient --I must get forwards. ----You shall read the chapter at your leisure (if you chuse it), as soon as ever the _Tristra-pdia_ is published.---- Sufficeth it at present, to say, my father levelled the hypothesis with the ground, and in doing that, the learned know, he built up and established his own.----

The two great causes which shorten life, says lord Verulam, are: First: the internal spirit, which, like a gentle flame, wastes the body down to death: And secondly, the external air, that parches the body: these two enemies, attacking us together, at length destroy our organs, and make them unfit to carry on the functions of life. This being the case, the road to Longevity was plain; nothing more being required, (says his lordship), but to repair the waste committed by the internal spirit, by making it more thick and dense with a regular course of opiates, and also by cooling its heat with three grains and a half of salt-petre every morning before you got up. Still this frame of ours was left exposed to the assaults of the air - but this was fenced off by a course of greasy unctions, which so fully saturated the pores of the skin, that no particles could enter, nor get out. This put a stop to all perspiration, the cause of so many scurvy distempers - and a course of enemas was needed to make the system complete. What my father had to say to my lord of Verulam's opiates, his salt-petre, and greasy unctions and purges, you shall read, - but not today - or tomorrow: time presses upon me, - my reader is impatient - I must get on. You shall read the chapter at your leisure (if you choose), as soon as the Tristra-paedia is published. Suffice it to say at present, my father destroyed the hypothesis, and in doing so, he established his own.

Tristram Shandy

Book 5 - Chapter 35

I had now the whole south of _France_, from the banks of the _Rhne_ to those of the _Garonne_, to traverse upon my mule at my own leisure--_at my own leisure_----for I had left Death, the Lord knows----and He only--how far behind me---- "I have followed many a man thro' _France_, quoth he--but never at this mettlesome rate." ----Still he followed, ----and still I fled him----but I fled him chearfully----still he pursued----but, like one who pursued his prey without hope----as he lagg'd, every step he lost, soften'd his looks----why should I fly him at this rate? So notwithstanding all the commissary of the post-office had said, I changed the _mode_ of my travelling once more; and, after so precipitate and rattling a course as I had run, I flattered my fancy with thinking of my mule, and that I should traverse the rich plains of _Languedoc_ upon his back, as slowly as foot could fall. There is nothing more pleasing to a traveller----or more terrible to travel-writers, than a large rich plain; especially if it is without great rivers or bridges; and presents nothing to the eye, but one unvaried picture of plenty: for after they have once told you, that 'tis delicious! or delightful! (as the case happens)--that the soil was grateful, and that nature pours out all her abundance, &c. . . . they have then a large plain upon their hands, which they know not what to do with--and which is of little or no use to them but to carry them to some town; and that town, perhaps of little more, but a new place to start from to the next plain----and so on. --This is most terrible work; judge if I don't manage my plains better.

I had now the whole south of France to cross upon my mule at my leisure - for I had left Death far behind me - 'I have followed many a man through France,' quoth he, 'but never at this speed.' - Still he followed, and still I fled him, but I fled him cheerfully - and he lagged like one without hope of catching his prey. - Why should I fly him at this rate? So I changed the mode of my travelling once more; and, after running so rapid and rattling a course, I flattered my fancy with thinking that I should cross the rich plains of Languedoc upon my mule's back, as slowly as foot could fall. There is nothing more pleasing to a traveller - or more terrible to travel-writers, than a large rich plain; especially if it is without great rivers or bridges, and presents nothing to the eye but one unvaried picture of plenty. For after they have told you that 'tis delicious! or delightful! and that nature pours out her abundance, &c, they have then a large plain upon their hands, which they know not what to do with - and which is of little use to them but to carry them to some town; and that town may be of no more use than as a starting-point for the next plain - and so on. This is most terrible work; judge if I don't manage my plains better.

Tristram Shandy

Book 7 - Chapter 42

When Dr. _Slop_ entered the back parlour, where my father and my uncle _Toby_ were discoursing upon the nature of women, ----it was hard to determine whether Dr. _Slop's_ figure, or Dr. _Slop's_ presence, occasioned more surprize to them; for as the accident happened so near the house, as not to make it worth while for _Obadiah_ to remount him, ----Obadiah had led him in as he was, _unwiped_, _unappointed_, _unannealed_, with all his stains and blotches on him. --He stood like _Hamlet's_ ghost, motionless and speechless, for a full minute and a half at the parlour-door (_Obadiah_ still holding his hand) with all the majesty of mud. His hinder parts, upon which he had received his fall, totally besmeared, ----and in every other part of him, blotched over in such a manner with _Obadiah's_ explosion, that you would have sworn (without mental reservation) that every grain of it had taken effect. Here was a fair opportunity for my uncle _Toby_ to have triumphed over my father in his turn; --for no mortal, who had beheld Dr. _Slop_ in that pickle, could have dissented from so much at least, of my uncle _Toby's_ opinion, "That mayhap his sister might not care to let such a Dr. _Slop_ come so near her ****." But it was the _Argumentum ad hominem_; and if my uncle _Toby_ was not very expert at it, you may think, he might not care to use it. ----No; the reason was, --'twas not his nature to insult. Dr. _Slop's_ presence at that time, was no less problematical than the mode of it; tho' it is certain, one moment's reflexion in my father might have solved it; for he had apprized Dr. _Slop_ but the week before, that my mother was at her full reckoning; and as the doctor had heard nothing since, 'twas natural and very political too in him, to have taken a ride to _Shandy-Hall_, as he did, merely to see how matters went on. But my father's mind took unfortunately a wrong turn in the investigation; running, like the hypercritick's, altogether upon the ringing of the bell and the rap upon the door, --measuring their distance, and keeping his mind so intent upon the operation as to have power to think of nothing else, ----common-place infirmity of the greatest mathematicians! working with might and main at the demonstration, and so wasting all their strength upon it, that they have none left in them to draw the corollary, to do good with. The ringing of the bell, and the rap upon the door, struck likewise strong upon the sensorium of my uncle _Toby_, --but it excited a very different train of thoughts; --the two irreconcileable pulsations instantly brought _Stevinus_, the great engineer, along with them, into my uncle _Toby's_ mind. What business _Stevinus_ had in this affair, --is the greatest problem of all: ----It shall be solved, --but not in the next chapter.

When Dr. Slop entered the back parlour, where my father and my uncle Toby were discussing the nature of women, it was hard to say whether Dr. Slop's appearance, or his presence, surprised them more; for Obadiah had led him in as he was, unwiped, with all his stains and blotches on him. He stood like Hamlet's ghost, motionless and speechless, for a full minute and a half at the parlour-door in all the majesty of mud. His hinder parts, upon which he had fallen, were totally besmeared, and every other part so blotched with Obadiah's explosion, that you would have sworn that every grain of it had taken effect. Here was an opportunity for my uncle Toby to have triumphed over my father; for no one who beheld Dr. Slop in that pickle, could disagree with my uncle's opinion, 'That mayhap Mrs. Shandy might not care to let Dr. Slop come near her ****.' But 'twas not my uncle Toby's nature to insult. Had my father reflected a moment, he might have recalled that he had told Dr. Slop only the week before, that my mother was at her full reckoning; and 'twas very natural in the doctor to have ridden to Shandy-Hall, to see how matters went on. But my father's mind took unfortunately a wrong turn; running upon his ringing of the bell and the rap upon the door, measuring the distance betwixt them, and able to think of nothing else. The ringing of the bell, and the rap upon the door, likewise struck my uncle Toby, - but it excited a very different train of thought; - the noises instantly brought Stevinus, the great engineer, into my uncle Toby's mind. What business Stevinus had in this affair, is the greatest problem of all. - It shall be solved, but not in the next chapter.

Tristram Shandy

Book 2 - Chapter 10

----"_I WISH, Dr. Slop_," quoth my uncle _Toby_, (repeating his wish for Dr. _Slop_ a second time, and with a degree of more zeal and earnestness in his manner of wishing, than he had wished at first[3.1])---- "_I wish, Dr. Slop_," quoth my uncle _Toby_, "_you had seen what prodigious armies we had in_ Flanders." My uncle _Toby's_ wish did Dr. _Slop_ a disservice which his heart never intended any man, --Sir, it confounded him----and thereby putting his ideas first into confusion, and then to flight, he could not rally them again for the soul of him. In all disputes, ----male or female, ----whether for honour, for profit, or for love, --it makes no difference in the case; --nothing is more dangerous, Madam, than a wish coming sideways in this unexpected manner upon a man: the safest way in general to take off the force of the wish, is for the party wish'd at, instantly to get upon his legs--and wish the _wisher_ something in return, of pretty near the same value, ----so balancing the account upon the spot, you stand as you were--nay sometimes gain the advantage of the attack by it. This will be fully illustrated to the world in my chapter of wishes.-- Dr. _Slop_ did not understand the nature of this defence; --he was puzzled with it, and it put an entire stop to the dispute for four minutes and a half; --five had been fatal to it: --my father saw the danger--the dispute was one of the most interesting disputes in the world, "Whether the child of his prayers and endeavours should be born without a head or with one:" --he waited to the last moment, to allow Dr. _Slop_, in whose behalf the wish was made, his right of returning it; but perceiving, I say, that he was confounded, and continued looking with that perplexed vacuity of eye which puzzled souls generally stare with--first in my uncle _Toby's_ face--then in his--then up--then down--then east--east and by east, and so on, ----coasting it along by the plinth of the wainscot till he had got to the opposite point of the compass, ----and that he had actually begun to count the brass nails upon the arm of his chair, --my father thought there was no time to be lost with my uncle _Toby_, so took up the discourse as follows. [Footnote 3.1: Vide page 105.] [[end of ch. II.XVIII]]

'I wish, Dr. Slop,' quoth my uncle Toby earnestly, - 'I wish you had seen what prodigious armies we had in Flanders.' My uncle Toby's wish did a thing he never intended; - it confounded Dr. Slop - putting his ideas to flight, so that he could not rally them again for the soul of him. In all disputes, nothing is more dangerous, Madam, than a wish coming sideways in this unexpected manner upon a man. The safest way to take off the force of the wish, is for the party wished at, instantly to stand up and wish the wisher something in return of pretty near the same value, so balancing the account upon the spot. This will be fully illustrated in my chapter of wishes. Dr. Slop did not understand the nature of this defence; he was puzzled, and it put an entire stop to the dispute for four minutes and a half. Five would have been fatal to it: my father saw the danger. The dispute was most interesting to him - 'Whether the child of his prayers should be born without a head or with one.' He waited till the last moment, to allow Dr. Slop to return the wish; but perceiving that he was confounded, and was looking with that perplexed vacuity of eye which puzzled souls generally stare with - first up - then down - then east - then west, and so on; - and seeing that he had actually begun to count the brass nails upon the arm of his chair, my father thought there was no time to be lost, so took up the discourse as follows.

Tristram Shandy

Book 3 - Chapter 1

As soon as the corporal had finished the story of his amour--or rather my uncle _Toby_ for him --Mrs. _Wadman_ silently sallied forth from her arbour, replaced the pin in her mob, pass'd the wicker-gate, and advanced slowly towards my uncle _Toby's_ sentry-box: the disposition which _Trim_ had made in my uncle _Toby's_ mind, was too favourable a crisis to be let slipp'd---- ----The attack was determin'd upon: it was facilitated still more by my uncle _Toby's_ having ordered the corporal to wheel off the pioneer's shovel, the spade, the pick-axe, the picquets, and other military stores which lay scatter'd upon the ground where _Dunkirk_ stood--the corporal had march'd--the field was clear. Now, consider, sir, what nonsense it is, either in fighting, or writing, or anything else (whether in rhyme to it, or not) which a man has occasion to do--to act by plan: for if ever Plan, independent of all circumstances, deserved registering in letters of gold (I mean in the archives of _Gotham_)--it was certainly the PLAN of Mrs. _Wadman's_ attack of my uncle _Toby_ in his sentry-box, BY PLAN ----Now the plan hanging up in it at this juncture, being the Plan of _Dunkirk_--and the tale of _Dunkirk_ a tale of relaxation, it opposed every impression she could make: and besides, could she have gone upon it--the manuvre of fingers and hands in the attack of the sentry-box, was so outdone by that of the fair _Beguine's_, in _Trim's_ story--that just then, that particular attack, however successful before--became the most heartless attack that could be made---- O! let woman alone for this. Mrs. _Wadman_ had scarce open'd the wicket-gate, when her genius sported with the change of circumstances. ----She formed a new attack in a moment.

As soon as the corporal had finished the story of his amour, Mrs. Wadman silently sallied forth from her arbour, passed the wicker-gate, and advanced towards my uncle Toby's sentry-box. The effect which Trim had made in my uncle's mind was too favourable a crisis to let slip. The attack was determined upon: it was facilitated still more by my uncle Toby's ordering the corporal to move away the shovel, spade, pick-axe, and other military stores which lay scattered upon the ground. - The corporal marched - the field was clear. If ever Plan deserved registering in letters of gold, it was certainly the Plan of Mrs. Wadman's attack on my uncle Toby in his sentry-box. Now the plan hanging up in the sentry-box at this point being the plan of Dunkirk, and the tale of Dunkirk a tale of relaxation, it opposed every impression she could make: and besides, the manoeuvre of fingers and hands in the attack of the sentry-box, was so outdone by the fair Beguine's, in Trim's story, that just then, that particular attack, however successful before, became the most heartless attack that could be made. But Mrs. Wadman had scarce opened the wicket-gate, when her mind took in the change of circumstances. She formed a new attack in a moment.

Tristram Shandy

Book 8 - Chapter 23

The learned Bishop _Hall_, I mean the famous Dr. _Joseph Hall_, who was Bishop of _Exeter_ in King _James_ the First's reign, tells us in one of his _Decads_, at the end of his divine art of meditation, imprinted at _London_, in the year 1610, by _John Beal_, dwelling in _Aldersgate-street_, "That it is an abominable thing for a man to commend himself;" ----and I really think it is so. And yet, on the other hand, when a thing is executed in a masterly kind of a fashion, which thing is not likely to be found out; --I think it is full as abominable, that a man should lose the honour of it, and go out of the world with the conceit of it rotting in his head. This is precisely my situation. For in this long digression which I was accidentally led into, as in all my digressions (one only excepted) there is a masterstroke of digressive skill, the merit of which has all along, I fear, been overlooked by my reader, --not for want of penetration in him, --but because 'tis an excellence seldom looked for, or expected indeed, in a digression; --and it is this: That tho' my digressions are all fair, as you observe, --and that I fly off from what I am about, as far, and as often too, as any writer in _Great Britain_; yet I constantly take care to order affairs so that my main business does not stand still in my absence. I was just going, for example, to have given you the great outlines of my uncle _Toby's_ most whimsical character; --when my aunt _Dinah_ and the coachman came across us, and led us a vagary some millions of miles into the very heart of the planetary system: Notwithstanding all this, you perceive that the drawing of my uncle _Toby's_ character went on gently all the time; --not the great contours of it, --that was impossible, --but some familiar strokes and faint designations of it, were here and there touch'd on, as we went along, so that you are much better acquainted with my uncle _Toby_ now than you was before. By this contrivance the machinery of my work is of a species by itself; two contrary motions are introduced into it, and reconciled, which were thought to be at variance with each other. In a word, my work is digressive, and it is progressive too, --and at the same time. This, Sir, is a very different story from that of the earth's moving round her axis, in her diurnal rotation, with her progress in her elliptick orbit which brings about the year, and constitutes that variety and vicissitude of seasons we enjoy; --though I own it suggested the thought, --as I believe the greatest of our boasted improvements and discoveries have come from such trifling hints. Digressions, incontestably, are the sunshine; ----they are the life, the soul of reading! --take them out of this book, for instance, --you might as well take the book along with them; --one cold eternal winter would reign in every page of it; restore them to the writer; --he steps forth like a bridegroom, --bids All-hail; brings in variety, and forbids the appetite to fail. All the dexterity is in the good cookery and management of them, so as to be not only for the advantage of the reader, but also of the author, whose distress, in this matter, is truly pitiable: For, if he begins a digression, --from that moment, I observe, his whole work stands stock still; --and if he goes on with his main work, --then there is an end of his digression. ----This is vile work. --For which reason, from the beginning of this, you see, I have constructed the main work and the adventitious parts of it with such intersections, and have so complicated and involved the digressive and progressive movements, one wheel within another, that the whole machine, in general, has been kept a-going; --and, what's more, it shall be kept a-going these forty years, if it pleases the fountain of health to bless me so long with life and good spirits.

The famous Dr. Joseph Hall, who was Bishop of Exeter in King James I's reign, tells us in one of his Decads, printed at London in the year 1610, by John Beal, of Aldersgate-street, 'That it is an abominable thing for a man to praise himself'; and I agree. And yet, on the other hand, when a thing is executed in a masterly kind of a fashion, yet likely to go undiscovered; - I think it is just as abominable that a man should lose the honour of it, and go out of the world with the idea of it rotting in his head. This is precisely my situation. For in this long digression which I was accidentally led into, as in all my digressions (apart from one) there is a masterstroke of digressive skill, the merit of which has all along, I fear, been overlooked by my reader, - not for lack of penetration in him, - but because 'tis an excellence seldom expected in a digression; - and it is this: That though my digressions are all fair, as you observe, and though I fly off from my subject as much as any writer in Great Britain; yet I constantly take care to order affairs so that my main business does not stand still in my absence. I was just going, for example, to have given you the outlines of my uncle Toby's character, when my aunt Dinah and the coachman came across us, and led us wandering some millions of miles into the heart of the planetary system. Despite this, you perceive that the drawing of my uncle Toby's character went on gently all the time; - not the great contours of it, but some faint strokes were here and there touched on, as we went along, so that you are much better acquainted with my uncle Toby now than you were before. By this means, two contrary motions are introduced into the machinery of my work, and reconciled. In a word, my work is digressive, and progressive too, both at the same time. This, Sir, is a very different story from that of the earth's moving round her axis in her daily rotation, along with her progress in her elliptic orbit which brings about the year and our variety of seasons; - though I admit it suggested the thought, as I believe the greatest of our discoveries have come from such trifling hints. Digressions, incontestably, are the sunshine - they are the life, the soul of reading! Take them out of this book, for instance, and you might as well take the book along with them; cold eternal winter would reign in every page. Restore them to the writer; - he steps forth like a bridegroom who bids All-hail to the feast. All the skill is in the good cookery and management of these digressions, not only for the advantage of the reader, but also of the author, whose distress, in this matter, is truly pitiable. For, if he begins a digression, from that moment his whole work stands stock still; - and if he goes on with his main work, then there is an end of his digression. This is vile work. For which reason, from the start, you see, I have constructed this book with such intersections, and have so complicated and involved the digressive and progressive movements, one wheel within another, that the whole machine, in general, has been kept a-going. What's more, it shall be kept a-going for forty years, if it pleases the fountain of health to bless me so long with life and good spirits.

Tristram Shandy

Book 1 - Chapter 22

------ * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *.------ ----You shall see the very place, Madam; said my uncle _Toby_. Mrs. _Wadman_ blush'd----look'd towards the door----turn'd pale----blush'd slightly again----recover'd her natural colour----blush'd worse than ever; which, for the sake of the unlearned reader, I translate thus---- "_L--d! I cannot look at it---- What would the world say if I look'd at it? I should drop down, if I look'd at it-- I wish I could look at it---- There can be no sin in looking at it. ----I will look at it._" Whilst all this was running through Mrs. _Wadman's_ imagination, my uncle _Toby_ had risen from the sopha, and got to the other side of the parlour door, to give _Trim_ an order about it in the passage---- * * * * * * * * * * * ----I believe it is in the garret, said my uncle _Toby_ ----I saw it there, an' please your honour, this morning, answered _Trim_ ----Then prithee, step directly for it, _Trim_, said my uncle _Toby_, and bring it into the parlour. The corporal did not approve of the orders, but most chearfully obeyed them. The first was not an act of his will--the second was; so he put on his _Montero_-cap, and went as fast as his lame knee would let him. My uncle _Toby_ returned into the parlour, and sat himself down again upon the sopha. ----You shall lay your finger upon the place--said my uncle _Toby_. ----I will not touch it, however, quoth Mrs. _Wadman_ to herself. This requires a second translation: --it shews what little knowledge is got by mere words--we must go up to the first springs. Now in order to clear up the mist which hangs upon these three pages, I must endeavour to be as clear as possible myself. Rub your hands thrice across your foreheads--blow your noses--cleanse your emunctories--sneeze, my good people! ----God bless you---- Now give me all the help you can.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *. 'You shall see the very place, Madam,' said my uncle Toby. Mrs. Wadman blushed - looked towards the door - turned pale - blushed again - recovered her natural colour - blushed worse than ever; which, for the sake of the unlearned reader, I translate thus: 'L__d! I cannot look at it - What would the world say if I looked at it? I should drop down, if I looked at it - I wish I could look at it - there can be no sin in looking at it - I will look at it.' Whilst all this was running through Mrs. Wadman's imagination, my uncle Toby had risen from the sofa, and left the parlour, to give Trim an order about it in the passage- * * * * * * * * * - 'I believe it is in the garret,' said my uncle Toby. 'I saw it there, your honour, this morning,' answered Trim. 'Then prithee, Trim,' said my uncle Toby, 'go and bring it into the parlour.' The corporal did not approve of the order, but cheerfully obeyed. He put on his Montero-cap, and went as fast as his lame knee would let him. My uncle Toby returned into the parlour, and sat himself down again upon the sofa. 'You shall lay your finger upon the place,' said my uncle Toby. 'I will not touch it, however,' thought Mrs. Wadman. This shows what little knowledge is got by mere words - we must go up to the source. Now in order to clear up the mist which hangs upon these three pages, I must try to be as clear as possible myself. Rub your hands thrice across your foreheads - blow your noses - sneeze, my good people! - God bless you- Now give me all the help you can.

Tristram Shandy

Book 9 - Chapter 20

From this moment I am to be considered as heir-apparent to the _Shandy_ family----and it is from this point properly, that the story of my LIFE and my OPINIONS sets out. With all my hurry and precipitation, I have but been clearing the ground to raise the building----and such a building do I foresee it will turn out, as never was planned, and as never was executed since _Adam_. In less than five minutes I shall have thrown my pen into the fire, and the little drop of thick ink which is left remaining at the bottom of my ink-horn, after it --I have but half a score things to do in the time ----I have a thing to name----a thing to lament----a thing to hope----a thing to promise, and a thing to threaten --I have a thing to suppose--a thing to declare----a thing to conceal----a thing to choose, and a thing to pray for ------This chapter, therefore, I _name_ the chapter of THINGS------and my next chapter to it, that is, the first chapter of my next volume, if I live, shall be my chapter upon WHISKERS, in order to keep up some sort of connection in my works. The thing I lament is, that things have crowded in so thick upon me, that I have not been able to get into that part of my work, towards which I have all the way looked forwards, with so much earnest desire; and that is the Campaigns, but especially the amours of my uncle _Toby_, the events of which are of so singular a nature, and so Cervantick a cast, that if I can so manage it, as to convey but the same impressions to every other brain, which the occurrences themselves excite in my own --I will answer for it the book shall make its way in the world, much better than its master has done before it. ----Oh _Tristram!_ _Tristram!_ can this but be once brought about----the credit, which will attend thee as an author, shall counterbalance the many evils which have befallen thee as a man----thou wilt feast upon the one----when thou hast lost all sense and remembrance of the other!---- No wonder I itch so much as I do, to get at these amours --They are the choicest morsel of my whole story! and when I do get at 'em----assure yourselves, good folks--(nor do I value whose squeamish stomach takes offence at it) I shall not be at all nice in the choice of my words! ----and that's the thing I have to _declare_. ------I shall never get all through in five minutes, that I fear----and the thing I _hope_ is, that your worships and reverences are not offended--if you are, depend upon't I'll give you something, my good gentry, next year to be offended at----that's my dear _Jenny's_ way--but who my _Jenny_ is--and which is the right and which the wrong end of a woman, is the thing to be _concealed_--it shall be told you in the next chapter but one to my chapter of Button-holes----and not one chapter before. And now that you have just got to the end of these[4.14] four volumes----the thing I have to _ask_ is, how you feel your heads? my own akes dismally! ------as for your healths, I know, they are much better. --True _Shandeism_, think what you will against it, opens the heart and lungs, and like all those affections which partake of its nature, it forces the blood and other vital fluids of the body to run freely through its channels, makes the wheel of life run long and chearfully round. Was I left, like _Sancho Panca_, to choose my kingdom, it should not be maritime--or a kingdom of blacks to make a penny of; --no, it should be a kingdom of hearty laughing subjects: And as the bilious and more saturnine passions, by creating disorders in the blood and humours, have as bad an influence, I see, upon the body politick as body natural----and as nothing but a habit of virtue can fully govern those passions, and subject them to reason ------I should add to my prayer--that God would give my subjects grace to be as WISE as they were MERRY; and then should I be the happiest monarch, and they the happiest people under heaven. And so, with this moral for the present, may it please your worships and your reverences, I take my leave of you till this time twelve-month, when, (unless this vile cough kills me in the meantime) I'll have another pluck at your beards, and lay open a story to the world you little dream of. [Footnote 4.14: According to the original Editions.] THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY GENTLEMAN Dixero si quid fort 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 JOHN, LORD VISCOUNT SPENCER MY LORD, I humbly beg leave to offer you these two Volumes;[D.1] 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 of _Le Fever_ to 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. [Footnote D.1: Volumes V. and VI. in the first Edition.]

From this moment I am to be considered as heir-apparent to the Shandy family - and it is from this point properly that the story of my Life and my Opinions begins. With all my hurry, I have merely been clearing the ground to raise the building - and such a building do I foresee it will turn out, as never was planned and executed since Adam. In five minutes I shall have thrown my pen into the fire, and my last drop of ink with it. I have ten things to do in that time - I have a thing to name - a thing to lament - a thing to hope - a thing to promise, and a thing to threaten - I have a thing to suppose - a thing to declare - a thing to conceal - a thing to choose, and a thing to pray for. This chapter, therefore, I name the chapter of Things - and my next chapter, that is, the first chapter of my next volume, shall be my chapter upon Whiskers. The thing I lament is, that things have crowded in so thick upon me, that I have not been able to get into that part of my work, towards which I have always looked forwards with earnest desire; and that is the Campaigns, but especially the amours of my uncle Toby, the events of which are of so singular and Cervantick a nature, that if I can manage to convey the same impressions to every other brain, which they excite in mine - my book shall make its way in the world much better than I have done. Oh Tristram! Tristram! can this but be brought about - thy credit as an author shall counterbalance the many evils which have befallen thee as a man! No wonder I itch so much to get at these amours. - They are the choicest morsel of my whole story! and when I do get at 'em - assure yourselves, good folks, I shall not be dainty in my choice of words! - that's the thing I have to declare. I shall never get through them all in five minutes, I fear - and the thing I hope is, that your worships are not offended - if you are, depend upon it, I'll give you something next year to be offended at - that's my dear Jenny's way - but who my Jenny is, and which is the right and the wrong end of a woman, is the thing to be concealed - it shall be told you in the next chapter but one after my chapter of Button-holes - and not one chapter before. And now that you have got to the end of these four volumes - the thing I have to ask is, how do your heads feel? My own aches dismally! As for your healths, I know they are better. True Shandeism opens the heart and lungs, and forces the blood to run freely through its channels, making the wheel of life run long and cheerfully round. If I was allowed, like Sancho Panza, to choose my kingdom, it should be a kingdom of hearty laughing subjects. And as the bilious passions, by creating disorders in the blood, have as bad an influence upon the body politic as the body natural - and as nothing but a habit of virtue can fully govern those passions - I would add to my prayer that God would make my subjects as Wise as they were Merry; and then should I be the happiest monarch, and they the happiest people under heaven. And so, with this moral, I take my leave of your worships till this time twelve-month, when, (unless this vile cough kills me in the meantime) I'll lay open to the world a story you little dream of.

Tristram Shandy

Book 4 - Chapter 32

Tho' the shock my uncle _Toby_ received the year after the demolition of _Dunkirk_, in his affair with widow _Wadman_, had fixed him in a resolution never more to think of the sex--or of aught which belonged to it; --yet corporal _Trim_ had made no such bargain with himself. Indeed in my uncle _Toby's_ case there was a strange and unaccountable concurrence of circumstances, which insensibly drew him in, to lay siege to that fair and strong citadel. ----In _Trim's_ case there was a concurrence of nothing in the world, but of him and _Bridget_ in the kitchen; --though in truth, the love and veneration he bore his master was such, and so fond was he of imitating him in all he did, that had my uncle _Toby_ employed his time and genius in tagging of points ----I am persuaded the honest corporal would have laid down his arms, and followed his example with pleasure. When therefore my uncle _Toby_ sat down before the mistress--corporal _Trim_ incontinently took ground before the maid. Now, my dear friend _Garrick_, whom I have so much cause to esteem and honour--(why, or wherefore, 'tis no matter)--can it escape your penetration --I defy it--that so many playwrights, and opificers of chit-chat have ever since been working upon _Trim's_ and my uncle _Toby's_ pattern. ----I care not what _Aristotle_, or _Pacuvius_, or _Bossu_, or _Ricaboni_ say--(though I never read one of them)----there is not a greater difference between a single-horse chair and madam _Pompadour's_ _vis--vis_; than betwixt a single amour, and an amour thus nobly doubled, and going upon all four, prancing throughout a grand drama ----Sir, a simple, single, silly affair of that kind--is quite lost in five acts; --but that is neither here nor there. After a series of attacks and repulses in a course of nine months on my uncle _Toby's_ quarter, a most minute account of every particular of which shall be given in its proper place, my uncle _Toby_, honest man! found it necessary to draw off his forces and raise the siege somewhat indignantly. Corporal _Trim_, as I said, had made no such bargain either with himself----or with any one else----the fidelity however of his heart not suffering him to go into a house which his master had forsaken with disgust----he contented himself with turning his part of the siege into a blockade; --that is, he kept others off; --for though he never after went to the house, yet he never met _Bridget_ in the village, but he would either nod or wink, or smile, or look kindly at her--or (as circumstances directed) he would shake her by the hand--or ask her lovingly how she did--or would give her a ribbon--and now-and-then, though never but when it could be done with decorum, would give _Bridget_ a-- Precisely in this situation, did these things stand for five years; that is, from the demolition of _Dunkirk_ in the year 13, to the latter end of my uncle _Toby's_ campaign in the year 18, which was about six or seven weeks before the time I'm speaking of. ----When _Trim_, as his custom was, after he had put my uncle _Toby_ to bed, going down one moonshiny night to see that everything was right at his fortifications----in the lane separated from the bowling-green with flowering shrubs and holly--he espied his _Bridget_. As the corporal thought there was nothing in the world so well worth shewing as the glorious works which he and my uncle _Toby_ had made, _Trim_ courteously and gallantly took her by the hand, and led her in: this was not done so privately, but that the foul-mouth'd trumpet of Fame carried it from ear to ear, till at length it reach'd my father's, with this untoward circumstance along with it, that my uncle _Toby's_ curious drawbridge, constructed and painted after the _Dutch_ fashion, and which went quite across the ditch--was broke down, and somehow or other crushed all to pieces that very night. My father, as you have observed, had no great esteem for my uncle _Toby's_ hobby-horse, he thought it the most ridiculous horse that ever gentleman mounted; and indeed unless my uncle _Toby_ vexed him about it, could never think of it once, without smiling at it----so that it could never get lame or happen any mischance, but it tickled my father's imagination beyond measure; but this being an accident much more to his humour than any one which had yet befall'n it, it proved an inexhaustible fund of entertainment to him. ----Well----but dear _Toby!_ my father would say, do tell me seriously how this affair of the bridge happened. ----How can you tease me so much about it? my uncle _Toby_ would reply --I have told it you twenty times, word for word as _Trim_ told it me. --Prithee, how was it then, corporal? my father would cry, turning to _Trim_. --It was a mere misfortune, an' please your honour; ----I was shewing Mrs. _Bridget_ our fortifications, and in going too near the edge of the fosse, I unfortunately slipp'd in ----Very well, _Trim!_ my father would cry----(smiling mysteriously, and giving a nod--but without interrupting him)----and being link'd fast, an' please your honour, arm in arm with Mrs. _Bridget_, I dragg'd her after me, by means of which she fell backwards soss against the bridge----and _Trim's_ foot (my uncle _Toby_ would cry, taking the story out of his mouth) getting into the cuvette, he tumbled full against the bridge too. --It was a thousand to one, my uncle _Toby_ would add, that the poor fellow did not break his leg. ------Ay truly, my father would say---- a limb is soon broke, brother _Toby_, in such encounters. ----And so, an' please your honour, the bridge, which your honour knows was a very slight one, was broke down betwixt us, and splintered all to pieces. At other times, but especially when my uncle _Toby_ was so unfortunate as to say a syllable about cannons, bombs, or petards--my father would exhaust all the stores of his eloquence (which indeed were very great) in a panegyric upon the BATTERING-RAMS of the ancients--the VINEA which _Alexander_ made use of at the siege of _Troy_. --He would tell my uncle _Toby_ of the CATAPULT of the _Syrians_, which threw such monstrous stones so many hundred feet, and shook the strongest bulwarks from their very foundation: --he would go on and describe the wonderful mechanism of the BALLISTA which _Marcellinus_ makes so much rout about! --the terrible effects of the PYROBOLI, which cast fire; ----the danger of the TEREBRA and SCORPIO, which cast javelins. ----But what are these, would he say, to the destructive machinery of corporal _Trim?_ ----Believe me, brother _Toby_, no bridge, or bastion, or sally-port, that ever was constructed in this world, can hold out against such artillery. My uncle _Toby_ would never attempt any defence against the force of this ridicule, but that of redoubling the vehemence of smoaking his pipe; in doing which, he raised so dense a vapour one night after supper, that it set my father, who was a little phthisical, into a suffocating fit of violent coughing: my uncle _Toby_ leap'd up without feeling the pain upon his groin--and, with infinite pity, stood beside his brother's chair, tapping his back with one hand, and holding his head with the other, and from time to time wiping his eyes with a clean cambrick handkerchief, which he pulled out of his pocket. ----The affectionate and endearing manner in which my uncle _Toby_ did these little offices--cut my father thro' his reins, for the pain he had just been giving him. ----May my brains be knock'd out with a battering-ram or a catapulta, I care not which, quoth my father to himself--if ever I insult this worthy soul more!

Though the shock my uncle Toby received in his affair with widow Wadman made him resolve never more to think of the female sex, yet corporal Trim had made no such bargain with himself. In my uncle Toby's case there was a strange and unaccountable meeting of circumstances, which drew him in to lay siege to that fair citadel. In Trim's case there was a meeting of nothing, but of him and Bridget in the kitchen. When my uncle Toby sat down before the widow, corporal Trim stood before the maid. After a series of attacks and repulses by my uncle Toby over nine months, a most minute account of which shall be given in its proper place, my uncle Toby, honest man! found it necessary to draw off his forces and raise the siege somewhat indignantly. Corporal Trim, as I said, had made no such bargain with himself. However, his faithful heart not allowing him to go into a house which his master had forsaken with disgust - he contented himself with a blockade; - that is, he kept others off. For though he never went to the house, when he met Bridget in the village, it was with a nod, or a smile; he would shake her hand - or ask her lovingly how she did - or give her a ribbon - and now-and-then, though only when it could be done with decorum, would give her a - Things stood in this situation for five years; from the demolition of Dunkirk in 1713, to the end of my uncle Toby's campaign in 1718. Trim, after he had put my uncle Toby to bed as usual, was going one moonshiny night to see that everything was right at his fortifications, when in the lane separated from the bowling-green with flowering shrubs he espied his Bridget. As the corporal thought there was nothing in the world so well worth showing her as the glorious works which he and my uncle Toby had made, he courteously took her hand, and led her in. But the foul-mouthed trumpet of Fame carried a report of this from ear to ear, till at length it reached my father - along with this strange circumstance, that my uncle Toby's Dutch drawbridge, which went across the ditch, was somehow broken and crushed all to pieces that very night. My father, as you have observed, had no great esteem for my uncle Toby's hobby-horse; he thought it the most ridiculous horse that ever gentleman mounted. So this accident tickled my father's imagination beyond measure, and proved an inexhaustible fund of entertainment to him. 'Well - dear Toby!' my father would say, 'do tell me how this affair of the bridge happened.' 'How can you tease me so about it?' my uncle Toby would reply. 'I have told you twenty times, word for word as Trim told me.' 'Prithee, how was it then, corporal?' my father would cry, turning to Trim. 'It was a mere misfortune, your honour; I was showing Mrs. Bridget our fortifications, and going too near the edge of the ditch, I unfortunately slipped in. And being linked arm in arm with Mrs. Bridget, I dragged her after me, and she fell backwards against the bridge-' '- and Trim's foot' (my uncle Toby would cry) 'getting into the cuvette, he tumbled against the bridge too. It was fortunate that the poor fellow did not break his leg.' 'Ay truly,' my father would say, 'a limb is soon broke in such encounters.' 'And so, your honour, the bridge, which was a very slight one, was broke down betwixt us, and splintered all to pieces.' At other times, when my uncle Toby was so unfortunate as to say a syllable about cannons or bombs, my father would expound upon the Battering-Rams of the ancients. - He would tell my uncle Toby of the Syrian Catapults, which threw such monstrous stones so many hundred feet, that they shook the strongest bulwarks to their very foundation: he would describe the wonderful mechanism of the Ballista - the terrible effects of the fire-hurling Pyroboli - the danger of the Terebra and Scorpio. 'But what are these,' he would say, 'to the destructive machinery of corporal Trim? No bridge that ever was constructed can hold out against such artillery.' My uncle Toby would never attempt any defence against this ridicule, except by smoking his pipe with redoubled vehemence. In doing this, he raised so dense a smoke one night, that it set my father into a fit of violent coughing. My uncle Toby leaped up without feeling the pain in his groin - and, with infinite pity, stood beside his brother, tapping his back, and holding his head, and from time to time wiping his eyes with a clean handkerchief. The affectionate manner in which he did this cut my father to the quick for the pain he had just been giving him. 'May my brains be knocked out with a battering-ram,' quoth my father to himself, 'if ever I insult this worthy soul again!'

Tristram Shandy

Book 3 - Chapter 24

As Mrs. _Bridget's_ finger and thumb were upon the latch, the corporal did not knock as oft as perchance your honour's taylor ----I might have taken my example something nearer home; for I owe mine, some five and twenty pounds at least, and wonder at the man's patience---- ----But this is nothing at all to the world: only 'tis a cursed thing to be in debt, and there seems to be a fatality in the exchequers of some poor princes, particularly those of our house, which no Economy can bind down in irons: for my own part, I'm persuaded there is not any one prince, prelate, pope, or potentate, great or small upon earth, more desirous in his heart of keeping straight with the world than I am---- or who takes more likely means for it. I never give above half a guinea----or walk with boots----or cheapen tooth-picks----or lay out a shilling upon a band-box the year round; and for the six months I'm in the country, I'm upon so small a scale, that with all the good temper in the world, I outdo _Rousseau_, a bar length------for I keep neither man or boy, or horse, or cow, or dog, or cat, or anything that can eat or drink, except a thin poor piece of a Vestal (to keep my fire in), and who has generally as bad an appetite as myself----but if you think this makes a philosopher of me ----I would not my good people! give a rush for your judgments. True philosophy----but there is no treating the subject whilst my uncle is whistling Lillabullero. ----Let us go into the house.

As Mrs. Bridget's finger and thumb were upon the latch, the corporal did not knock as often as perhaps your honour's tailor does - certainly not as often as mine; for I owe him five and twenty pounds at least, and wonder at the man's patience. - But this is nothing to the world: only 'tis a cursed thing to be in debt, and there seems to be a fatality in the exchequer of our house; I'm persuaded there is no prince, pope, or potentate who more desires to keep straight with the world than I do - or who takes more likely means for it. I never give above half a guinea - or walk with boots - or cheapen tooth-picks - or pay a shilling for a band-box; and for the six months I'm in the countryside, I live on so small a scale that I outdo Rousseau - for I keep no man-servant, or horse, or cow, or dog, or cat, or anything that can eat or drink, except a thin poor piece of a Vestal housemaid (to keep my fire in), who has generally as bad an appetite as myself - but if you think this makes a philosopher of me - I would not give a rush for your judgments. True philosophy - but there is no treating the subject whilst my uncle is whistling Lillabullero. - Let us go into the house.

Tristram Shandy

Book 9 - Chapter 17

It was undoubtedly, said my uncle _Toby_, a great happiness for myself and the corporal, that we had all along a burning fever, attended with a most raging thirst, during the whole five-and-twenty days the flux was upon us in the camp; otherwise what my brother calls the radical moisture, must, as I conceive it, inevitably have got the better. ----My father drew in his lungs top-full of air, and looking up, blew it forth again, as slowly as he possibly could.---- ------It was Heaven's mercy to us, continued my uncle _Toby_, which put it into the corporal's head to maintain that due contention betwixt the radical heat and the radical moisture, by reinforcing the fever, as he did all along, with hot wine and spices; whereby the corporal kept up (as it were) a continual firing, so that the radical heat stood its ground from the beginning to the end, and was a fair match for the moisture, terrible as it was. ----Upon my honour, added my uncle _Toby_, you might have heard the contention within our bodies, brother _Shandy_, twenty toises. --If there was no firing, said _Yorick_. Well--said my father, with a full aspiration, and pausing a while after the word --Was I a judge, and the laws of the country which made me one permitted it, I would condemn some of the worst malefactors, provided they had had their clergy-------- ----_Yorick_, foreseeing the sentence was likely to end with no sort of mercy, laid his hand upon my father's breast, and begged he would respite it for a few minutes, till he asked the corporal a question. ----Prithee, _Trim_, said _Yorick_, without staying for my father's leave, --tell us honestly--what is thy opinion concerning this self-same radical heat and radical moisture? With humble submission to his honour's better judgment, quoth the corporal, making a bow to my uncle _Toby_ --Speak thy opinion freely, corporal, said my uncle _Toby_. --The poor fellow is my servant, --not my slave, --added my uncle _Toby_, turning to my father.---- The corporal put his hat under his left arm, and with his stick hanging upon the wrist of it, by a black thong split into a tassel about the knot, he marched up to the ground where he had performed his catechism; then touching his under-jaw with the thumb and fingers of his right-hand before he opened his mouth, ----he delivered his notion thus.

'It was undoubtedly,' said my uncle Toby, 'a great happiness for myself and the corporal, that we had a burning fever, and a raging thirst, during the whole five-and-twenty days that dysentery was in the camp; otherwise what my brother calls the radical moisture must have got the better of us.' My father drew in his lungs top-full of air, and blew it forth again, as slowly as he could. 'It was Heaven's mercy,' continued my uncle, 'which put it into the corporal's head to keep that contention betwixt the radical heat and the radical moisture, by reinforcing the fever with hot wine and spices; he kept up a continual firing, so that the radical heat stood its ground, and was a fair match for the moisture, terrible as it was. - Upon my honour,' added my uncle Toby, 'you might have heard the contention within our bodies, brother, twenty miles away.' 'If there was no firing,' said Yorick. 'Well,' said my father, 'if I was a judge, and the laws permitted it, I would condemn some of the worst malefactors-' Yorick, foreseeing the sentence was likely to end with no mercy, laid his hand upon my father's breast, and begged he would wait for a few minutes, till he asked the corporal a question. 'Prithee, Trim,' said Yorick, 'tell us honestly - what is thy opinion of this radical heat and radical moisture?' 'With humble submission to his honour's better judgment,' quoth the corporal, bowing to my uncle Toby. 'Speak thy opinion freely, corporal,' said my uncle. The corporal put his hat under his left arm, and with his stick hanging upon his wrist, he marched up to the place where he had performed his catechism; then putting his hand to his underjaw, he delivered his notion thus.

Tristram Shandy

Book 5 - Chapter 38

I solemnly declare to all mankind, that the above dedication was made for no one Prince, Prelate, Pope, or Potentate, --Duke, Marquis, Earl, Viscount, or Baron, of this, or any other Realm in Christendom; ----nor has it yet been hawked about, or offered publicly or privately, directly or indirectly, to any one person or personage, great or small; but is honestly a true Virgin-Dedication untried on, upon any soul living. I labour this point so particularly, merely to remove any offence or objection which might arise against it from the manner in which I propose to make the most of it; --which is the putting it up fairly to public sale; which I now do. ----Every author has a way of his own in bringing his points to bear; --for my own part, as I hate chaffering and higgling for a few guineas in a dark entry; --I resolved within myself, from the very beginning, to deal squarely and openly with your Great Folks in this affair, and try whether I should not come off the better by it. If therefore there is any one Duke, Marquis, Earl, Viscount, or Baron, in these his Majesty's dominions, who stands in need of a tight, genteel dedication, and whom the above will suit, (for by the bye, unless it suits in some degree, I will not part with it)----it is much at his service for fifty guineas; ----which I am positive is twenty guineas less than it ought to be afforded for, by any man of genius. My Lord, if you examine it over again, it is far from being a gross piece of daubing, as some dedications are. The design, your Lordship sees, is good, --the colouring transparent, --the drawing not amiss; --or to speak more like a man of science, --and measure my piece in the painter's scale, divided into 20, --I believe, my Lord, the outlines will turn out as 12, --the composition as 9, --the colouring as 6, --the expression 13 and a half, --and the design, --if I may be allowed, my Lord, to understand my own _design_, and supposing absolute perfection in designing, to be as 20, --I think it cannot well fall short of 19. Besides all this, --there is keeping in it, and the dark strokes in the HOBBY-HORSE, (which is a secondary figure, and a kind of back-ground to the whole) give great force to the principal lights in your own figure, and make it come off wonderfully; ----and besides, there is an air of originality in the _tout ensemble_. Be pleased, my good Lord, to order the sum to be paid into the hands of Mr. _Dodsley_, for the benefit of the author; and in the next edition care shall be taken that this chapter be expunged, and your Lordship's titles, distinctions, arms, and good actions, be placed at the front of the preceding chapter: All which, from the words, _De gustibus non est disputandum_, and whatever else in this book relates to HOBBY-HORSES, but no more, shall stand dedicated to your Lordship. --The rest I dedicate to the MOON, who, by the bye, of all the PATRONS or MATRONS I can think of, has most power to set my book a-going, and make the world run mad after it. _Bright Goddess_, If thou art not too busy with CANDID and Miss CUNEGUND'S affairs, --take _Tristram Shandy's_ under thy protection also.

I solemnly declare that the above dedication was made for no one Prince, Pope, or Potentate, Duke, Marquis, Earl, or Baron, of this, or any other Realm; nor has it yet been hawked about, or offered to any person; but is honestly a true Virgin-Dedication untried upon any soul living. I make this point merely to remove any objection which might arise against the use I propose to make of it; - which is to put it up for public sale; as I now do. As I hate bargaining and haggling for a few guineas in a dark entry, I resolved, from the very beginning, to deal openly with your Great Folks in this affair, and see whether I should not come off the better by it. If therefore there is any Duke, Marquis, Earl, or Baron, in this land, who stands in need of a tight, genteel dedication, and whom the above will suit, it is at his service for fifty guineas; - which I am positive is twenty guineas less than it ought to cost. My Lord, if you examine it again, it is far from being a gross piece of daubing, as some dedications are. The design, your Lordship sees, is good, the colouring transparent, the drawing not amiss; - or to speak more like a man of science, and to measure my piece in the painter's scale, divided into 20 - I believe, my Lord, the outlines will turn out as 12, the composition as 9, the colouring as 6, the expression 13 and a half, and the design - if I may be allowed, my Lord, to understand my own design, and supposing absolute perfection to be 20, - I think it cannot fall short of 19. Besides all this, the dark strokes in the Hobby-Horse (which is a kind of background to the whole) give great force to your own figure, and make it come off wonderfully; and there is an air of originality in the whole arrangement. Be pleased, my good Lord, to order the sum to be paid to Mr. Dodsley, for the benefit of the author; and in the next edition care shall be taken that this chapter be removed, and your Lordship's titles, distinctions, coat of arms, and good actions, be placed at the front of the preceding chapter - all of which, from the words, De gustibus non est disputandum, and whatever else in this book relates to Hobby-Horses, but no more, shall stand dedicated to your Lordship. The rest I dedicate to the Moon, who of all Patrons or Matrons has most power to set my book a-going, and make the world run mad after it. Bright Goddess, If thou art not too busy with Candid and Miss Cunegund's affairs - take Tristram Shandy's under thy protection also.

Tristram Shandy

Book 1 - Chapter 9

O there is a sweet ra in the life of man, when (the brain being tender and fibrillous, and more like pap than anything 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_ } Is my _Amanda_ } still alive? they fly into each other's arms, and both drop down dead for joy. There is a soft ra 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 across 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 _Rhne_----when I was stopped at the gate----

O there is a sweet era in the life of man, when (the brain being tender as pap) a story of two fond lovers, separated by cruel parents, and by crueller 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 falls in love with him and keeps him twenty years in prison for the love of his Amanda- - she (Amanda) all the time wandering barefoot o'er rocks and mountains, calling Amandus! Amandus! - making every hill echo back his name- - at every town, sitting down forlorn at the gate - 'Has my Amandus entered?' - till going round and round the world - chance bringing them at the same moment to the gate of Lyons, their native city, and calling out aloud, 'Is Amandus- 'Is my Amanda- '-still alive? - they fly into each other's arms, and both drop down dead for joy- There is a soft era in every gentle mortal's life, where such a story entertains the brain more than all the Crusts and Rusts of antiquity. 'Twas all that stuck in my own brain from my reading of Lyons; in finding, moreover, that a tomb dedicated to Amandus and Amanda was built outside the gates, where lovers call upon them - I never could get into an amorous scrape, without that tomb, somehow or other, coming into my mind at the close. - Nay, such an empire had it established over me, that I could not think of Lyons without it entering my fancy; and I have often said in my wild irreverent way, 'I thought this neglected shrine as valuable as that of Mecca, and the Santa Casa, and that some time or other, I would go on a pilgrimage to it.' In my list of sights, therefore, this, though last, was not, you see, the least; so taking longer strides than usual, I walked down calmly; and had paid my bill - and had moreover given the maid ten sous, and was receiving the wishes of my host for a pleasant voyage down the Rhne - when I was stopped at the gate.

Tristram Shandy

Book 7 - Chapter 31

I am so impatient to return to my own story, that what remains of young _Le Fever's_, that is, from this turn of his fortune, to the time my uncle _Toby_ recommended him for my preceptor, shall be told in a very few words in the next chapter. --All that is necessary to be added to this chapter is as follows.-- That my uncle _Toby_, with young _Le Fever_ in his hand, attended the poor lieutenant, as chief mourners, to his grave. That the governor of _Dendermond_ paid his obsequies all military honours, --and that _Yorick_, not to be behind-hand--paid him all ecclesiastic--for he buried him in his chancel: --And it appears likewise, he preached a funeral sermon over him ----I say it _appears_, --for it was _Yorick's_ custom, which I suppose a general one with those of his profession, on the first leaf of every sermon which he composed, to chronicle down the time, the place, and the occasion of its being preached: to this, he was ever wont to add some short comment or stricture upon the sermon itself, seldom, indeed, much to its credit: --For instance, _This sermon upon the Jewish dispensation --I don't like it at all; --Though I own there is a world of WATER-LANDISH knowledge in it, --but 'tis all tritical, and most tritically put together. ------This is but a flimsy kind of a composition; what was in my head when I made it?_ ----N. B. _The excellency of this text is, that it will suit any sermon, --and of this sermon, ----that it will suit any text. ------_ _ ----For this sermon I shall be hanged, --for I have stolen the greatest part of it. Doctor _Paidagunes_ found me out. [-->] Set a thief to catch a thief. ------_ On the back of half a dozen I find written, _So, so_, and no more----and upon a couple _Moderato_; by which, as far as one may gather from _Altieri's_ _Italian_ dictionary, --but mostly from the authority of a piece of green whipcord, which seemed to have been the unravelling of _Yorick's_ whip-lash, with which he has left us the two sermons marked _Moderato_, and the half dozen of _So, so_, tied fast together in one bundle by themselves, --one may safely suppose he meant pretty near the same thing. There is but one difficulty in the way of this conjecture, which is this, that the _moderato's_ are five times better than the _so, so's_; --show ten times more knowledge of the human heart; --have seventy times more wit and spirit in them; --(and, to rise properly in my climax)--discovered a thousand times more genius; --and to crown all, are infinitely more entertaining than those tied up with them: --for which reason, whene'er _Yorick's_ _dramatic_ sermons are offered to the world, though I shall admit but one out of the whole number of the _so, so's_, I shall, nevertheless, adventure to print the two _moderato's_ without any sort of scruple. What _Yorick_ could mean by the words _lentamente_, --_tenut_, --_grave_, --and sometimes _adagio_, --as applied to _theological_ compositions, and with which he has characterised some of these sermons, I dare not venture to guess. ----I am more puzzled still upon finding _a l'octava alta!_ upon one; ----_Con strepito_ upon the back of another; ----_Siciliana_ upon a third; ----_Alla capella_ upon a fourth; ----_Con l'arco_ upon this; ----_Senza l'arco_ upon that. ----All I know is, that they are musical terms, and have a meaning; ----and as he was a musical man, I will make no doubt, but that by some quaint application of such metaphors to the compositions in hand, they impressed very distinct ideas of their several characters upon his fancy, --whatever they may do upon that of others. Amongst these, there is that particular sermon which has unaccountably led me into this digression ----The funeral sermon upon poor _Le Fever_, wrote out very fairly, as if from a hasty copy. --I take notice of it the more, because it seems to have been his favourite composition ----It is upon mortality; and is tied lengthways and cross-ways with a yarn thrum, and then rolled up and twisted round with a half-sheet of dirty blue paper, which seems to have been once the cast cover of a general review, which to this day smells horribly of horse drugs. ----Whether these marks of humiliation were designed, --I something doubt; ----because at the end of the sermon (and not at the beginning of it)--very different from his way of treating the rest, he had wrote---- Bravo! ----Though not very offensively, ----for it is at two inches, at least, and a half's distance from, and below the concluding line of the sermon, at the very extremity of the page, and in that right hand corner of it, which, you know, is generally covered with your thumb; and, to do it justice, it is wrote besides with a crow's quill so faintly in a small _Italian_ hand, as scarce to solicit the eye towards the place, whether your thumb is there or not, --so that from the _manner of it_, it stands half excused; and being wrote moreover with very pale ink, diluted almost to nothing, --'tis more like a _ritratto_ of the shadow of vanity, than of VANITY herself--of the two; resembling rather a faint thought of transient applause, secretly stirring up in the heart of the composer; than a gross mark of it, coarsely obtruded upon the world. With all these extenuations, I am aware, that in publishing this, I do no service to _Yorick's_ character as a modest man; --but all men have their failings! and what lessens this still farther, and almost wipes it away, is this; that the word was struck through sometime afterwards (as appears from a different tint of the ink) with a line quite across it in this manner, [BRAVO]----as if he had retracted, or was ashamed of the opinion he had once entertained of it. These short characters of his sermons were always written, excepting in this one instance, upon the first leaf of his sermon, which served as a cover to it; and usually upon the inside of it, which was turned towards the text; --but at the end of his discourse, where, perhaps, he had five or six pages, and sometimes, perhaps, a whole score to turn himself in, --he took a large circuit, and, indeed, a much more mettlesome one; --as if he had snatched the occasion of unlacing himself with a few more frolicksome strokes at vice, than the straitness of the pulpit allowed. --These, though hussar-like, they skirmish lightly and out of all order, are still auxiliaries on the side of virtue; --tell me then, Mynheer Vander Blonederdondergewdenstronke, why they should not be printed together?

I am so impatient to return to my own story, that what remains of young Le Fever's shall be told in a very few words in the next chapter. All that needs to be added in this chapter is as follows: That my uncle Toby and young Le Fever attended the poor lieutenant, as chief mourners, to his grave. That the governor of Dendermond paid him all military honours, and that Yorick paid for all ecclesiastic - for he buried him in his chancel: and it appears that he preached a funeral sermon over him. I say it appears, for it was Yorick's custom to write on the first page of every sermon which he composed, the time, place, and occasion of its being preached: to this, he would add some short comment upon the sermon itself, seldom, indeed, much to its credit. For instance, 'This sermon upon the Jewish dispensation - I don't like it at all; 'tis most tritely put together. This is a flimsy composition; what was in my head when I made it?' '- The excellency of this text is, that it will suit any sermon, and of this sermon, that it will suit any text.' '- For this sermon I shall be hanged, for I have stolen most of it. Doctor Paidagunes found me out. Set a thief to catch a thief.' On the back of half a dozen I find written, 'So-so,' - and upon a couple, 'Moderato;' by which, since he left the two sermons marked 'Moderato' and the half dozen of 'So-so' tied together in one bundle - one may safely suppose he meant pretty near the same thing. There is but one difficulty with this, which is that the 'moderato's' are five times better than the 'so-so's'; show ten times more knowledge of the human heart; have seventy times more wit and spirit in them; (and, to rise properly in my climax) reveal a thousand times more genius; - and to crown all, are infinitely more entertaining than the 'so-so's'. Therefore, when Yorick's sermons are offered to the world, though I shall include only one of the 'so-so's', I shall, nevertheless, print the two 'moderato's' without any scruple. What Yorick could mean by the words lentamente, tenut, grave, and sometimes adagio, with which he has labelled some of these sermons, I dare not guess. I am more puzzled still upon finding a l'octava alta! upon one; Con strepito upon another; Siciliana upon a third; Alla capella upon a fourth. All I know is that they are musical terms, and have a meaning; and as he was a musical man, I have no doubt that his compositions impressed very distinct ideas of their characters upon his fancy. Amongst these is that particular sermon which has unaccountably led me into this digression - the funeral sermon upon poor Le Fever. It seems to have been his favourite composition: it is upon mortality; and is tied lengthways and crossways with yarn, and then rolled up and twisted round with a half-sheet of dirty blue paper, which smells horribly of horse drugs. Whether these marks of humiliation were designed, I doubt; because at the end of the sermon, he had wrote- 'Bravo!' - though it is two inches, at least, below the last line of the sermon, at that extreme right hand corner of the page, which, you know, is generally covered with your thumb; and it is wrote so faintly as scarcely to draw the eye towards it, whether your thumb is there or not. Being wrote moreover with very pale ink, diluted almost to nothing, 'tis more like the shadow of vanity, than Vanity herself - resembling rather a faint thought of applause, secretly stirring up in the heart of the composer, than a gross, obtrusive mark of it. Nonetheless, I am aware that in publishing this, I do no service to Yorick's character as a modest man; but all men have their failings! and what wipes this one almost away, is that the word was struck through sometime afterwards in a different tint - as if he was ashamed of the opinion he once held of it.

Tristram Shandy

Book 6 - Chapter 11

The gift of ratiocination and making syllogisms ----I mean in man--for in superior classes of being, such as angels and spirits----'tis all done, may it please your worships, as they tell me, by INTUITION; --and beings inferior, as your worships all know----syllogize by their noses: though there is an island swimming in the sea (though not altogether at its ease) whose inhabitants, if my intelligence deceives me not, are so wonderfully gifted, as to syllogize after the same fashion, and oft-times to make very well out too: ------but that's neither here nor there------ The gift of doing it as it should be, amongst us, or--the great and principal act of ratiocination in man, as logicians tell us, is the finding out the agreement or disagreement of two ideas one with another, by the intervention of a third (called the _medius terminus_); just as a man, as _Locke_ well observes, by a yard, finds two men's nine-pin-alleys to be of the same length, which could not be brought together, to measure their equality, by _juxta-position_. Had the same great reasoner looked on, as my father illustrated his systems of noses, and observed my uncle _Toby's_ deportment--what great attention he gave to every word--and as oft as he took his pipe from his mouth, with what wonderful seriousness he contemplated the length of it----surveying it transversely as he held it betwixt his finger and his thumb------then fore-right------then this way, and then that, in all its possible directions and foreshortenings------he would have concluded my uncle _Toby_ had got hold of the _medius terminus_, and was syllogizing and measuring with it the truth of each hypothesis of long noses, in order, as my father laid them before him. This, by the bye, was more than my father wanted----his aim in all the pains he was at in these philosophick lectures--was to enable my uncle _Toby_ not to _discuss_----but _comprehend_----to _hold_ the grains and scruples of learning----not to _weigh_ them. ----My uncle _Toby_, as you will read in the next chapter, did neither the one or the other.

The gift of reasoning and deduction - I mean in man, not in superior classes of being, such as angels and spirits - but inferior beings, as your worships all know, syllogize by their noses. The gift of syllogising, or reasoning, logicians tell us, is the finding out the agreement or disagreement of two ideas with one another, by the intervention of a third idea (called the medius terminus); just as a man, as Locke observes, uses a yardstick to find two nine-pin-alleys to be of the same length, although they could not be brought next to each other to compare. Had the same great reasoner looked on, as my father illustrated his systems of noses, and observed my uncle Toby's deportment - what great attention he gave to every word - and with what wonderful seriousness he contemplated his pipe, holding it this way and that - he would have concluded that my uncle Toby had got hold of the medius terminus, and was comparing and measuring with it the truth of each hypothesis of long noses, as my father laid them before him. This, by the bye, was more than my father wanted - his aim in these lectures was not to enable my uncle Toby to discuss, but to comprehend; - to hold the grains of learning - not to weigh them. My uncle Toby, as you will read in the next chapter, did neither.

Tristram Shandy

Book 3 - Chapter 40

It is a singular blessing, that nature has form'd the mind of man with the same happy backwardness and renitency against conviction, which is observed in old dogs-- "of not learning new tricks." What a shuttlecock of a fellow would the greatest philosopher that ever existed be whisk'd into at once, did he read such books, and observe such facts, and think such thoughts, as would eternally be making him change sides! Now, my father, as I told you last year, detested all this --He pick'd up an opinion, Sir, as a man in a state of nature picks up an apple. --It becomes his own--and if he is a man of spirit, he would lose his life rather than give it up. I am aware that _Didius_, the great civilian, will contest this point; and cry out against me, Whence comes this man's right to this apple? _ex confesso_, he will say--things were in a state of nature --The apple, as much _Frank's_ apple as _John's_. Pray, Mr. _Shandy_, what patent has he to shew for it? and how did it begin to be his? was it, when he set his heart upon it? or when he gathered it? or when he chew'd it? or when he roasted it? or when he peel'd, or when he brought it home? or when he digested? --or when he----? ----For 'tis plain, Sir, if the first picking up of the apple, made it not his--that no subsequent act could. Brother _Didius_, _Tribonius_ will answer--(now _Tribonius_ the civilian and church lawyer's beard being three inches and a half and three eighths longer than _Didius_ his beard --I'm glad he takes up the cudgels for me, so I give myself no farther trouble about the answer). --Brother _Didius_, _Tribonius_ will say, it is a decreed case, as you may find it in the fragments of _Gregorius_ and _Hermogines's_ codes, and in all the codes from _Justinian's_ down to the codes of _Louis_ and _Des Eaux_ --That the sweat of a man's brows, and the exsudations of a man's brains, are as much a man's own property as the breeches upon his backside; --which said exsudations, &c., being dropp'd upon the said apple by the labour of finding it, and picking it up; and being moreover indissolubly wasted, and as indissolubly annex'd, by the picker up, to the thing pick'd up, carried home, roasted, peel'd, eaten, digested, and so on; ----'tis evident that the gatherer of the apple, in so doing, has mix'd up something which was his own, with the apple which was not his own, by which means he has acquired a property; --or, in other words, the apple is _John's_ apple. By the same learned chain of reasoning my father stood up for all his opinions; he had spared no pains in picking them up, and the more they lay out of the common way, the better still was his title. ----No mortal claimed them; they had cost him moreover as much labour in cooking and digesting as in the case above, so that they might well and truly be said to be of his own goods and chattles. --Accordingly he held fast by 'em, both by teeth and claws--would fly to whatever he could lay his hands on--and, in a word, would intrench and fortify them round with as many circumvallations and breast-works, as my uncle _Toby_ would a citadel. There was one plaguy rub in the way of this----the scarcity of materials to make anything of a defence with, in case of a smart attack; inasmuch as few men of great genius had exercised their parts in writing books upon the subject of great noses: by the trotting of my lean horse, the thing is incredible! and I am quite lost in my understanding, when I am considering what a treasure of precious time and talents together has been wasted upon worse subjects--and how many millions of books in all languages, and in all possible types and bindings, have been fabricated upon points not half so much tending to the unity and peace-making of the world. What was to be had, however, he set the greater store by; and though my father would oft-times sport with my uncle _Toby's_ library--which, by the bye, was ridiculous enough--yet at the very same time he did it, he collected every book and treatise which had been systematically wrote upon noses, with as much care as my honest uncle _Toby_ had done those upon military architecture. ----'Tis true, a much less table would have held them--but that was not thy transgression, my dear uncle.-- Here----but why here----rather than in any other part of my story ----I am not able to tell: ------but here it is------my heart stops me to pay to thee, my dear uncle _Toby_, once for all, the tribute I owe thy goodness. ----Here let me thrust my chair aside, and kneel down upon the ground, whilst I am pouring forth the warmest sentiment of love for thee, and veneration for the excellency of thy character, that ever virtue and nature kindled in a nephew's bosom. ----Peace and comfort rest for evermore upon thy head! --Thou enviedst no man's comforts----insultedst no man's opinions ----Thou blackenedst no man's character--devouredst no man's bread: gently, with faithful _Trim_ behind thee, didst thou amble round the little circle of thy pleasures, jostling no creature in thy way: --for each one's sorrow thou hadst a tear, --for each man's need, thou hadst a shilling. Whilst I am worth one, to pay a weeder--thy path from thy door to thy bowling-green shall never be grown up. ----Whilst there is a rood and a half of land in the _Shandy_ family, thy fortifications, my dear uncle _Toby_, shall never be demolish'd.

It is a blessing that nature has formed the mind of man with the same happy backwardness which is observed in old dogs - 'of not learning new tricks.' What a shuttlecock of a fellow would the greatest philosopher be, if he was eternally changing sides! Now, my father, as I told you, Sir, picked up an opinion as a man picks up an apple. - It becomes his own - and if he is a man of spirit, he would lose his life rather than give it up. I am aware that Didius will contest this point; and cry out, 'Whence comes this man's right to this apple? Pray, Mr. Shandy, how did it begin to be his? was it when he gathered it? or when he chewed it? or when he roasted it? or when he peeled, or digested it? - or when he-? For 'tis plain, Sir, that if the first picking up of the apple did not make it his - then no later act could.' 'Brother Didius,' Tribonius will answer, 'it is decreed, as you may find it in Gregorius and Justinian's laws, that the sweat of a man's brows are as much his own property as the breeches upon his backside; and once dropped upon the said apple by the labour when it is found, carried home, roasted, peeled, eaten, digested, and so on; - 'tis evident that the gatherer of the apple has mixed up something with it which was his own, and so the apple is his apple.' By the same learned chain of reasoning my father stood up for all his opinions; he had spared no pains in picking them up, and the more uncommon they were, the stronger was his claim. They had cost him moreover so much labour in cooking and digesting that they might well and truly be said to be his own. Accordingly he held fast by 'em, with teeth and claws, and would fortify them with as many ramparts as my uncle Toby would a citadel. There was one plaguy rub - the scarcity of materials to defend himself against attack, since few men of genius had written on the subject of great noses. By the trotting of my lean horse, it is incredible! I am quite at a loss, when I consider how much precious time has been wasted upon worse subjects - how many millions of books in all languages have been fabricated upon points not half so important. What books he could find, however, my father set great store by; and though he would often mock my uncle Toby's library, yet at the same time he collected every book which had been wrote upon noses with as much care as my honest uncle collected those on military architecture. Here - why here, rather than in any other part of my story, I cannot tell: but here it is: my heart stops me to pay to thee, my dear uncle Toby, the tribute I owe thy goodness. Here let me kneel and pour forth the warmest love for thee, and veneration for thy excellency, that ever virtue kindled in a nephew's bosom. - Peace and comfort rest for evermore upon thy head! - Thou didst envy no man's comforts - insulted no man's opinions - blackened no man's character - devoured no man's bread. Gently, with faithful Trim behind thee, didst thou amble round the little circle of thy pleasures, jostling no creature in thy way. For each one's sorrow thou hadst a tear; for each man's need, thou hadst a shilling. Whilst I can afford to pay a weeder, the path from thy door to thy bowling-green shall never be over-grown. Whilst there is an acre of land in the Shandy family, thy fortifications, my dear uncle Toby, shall never be demolished.

Tristram Shandy

Book 3 - Chapter 34

When the first transport was over, and the registers of the brain were beginning to get a little out of the confusion into which this jumble of cross accidents had cast them--it then presently occurr'd to me, that I had left my remarks in the pocket of the chaise--and that in selling my chaise, I had sold my remarks along with it, to the chaise-vamper. I leave this void space that the reader may swear into it any oath that he is most accustomed to ----For my own part, if ever I swore a _whole_ oath into a vacancy in my life, I think it was into that----*********, said I--and so my remarks through _France_, which were as full of wit, as an egg is full of meat, and as well worth four hundred guineas, as the said egg is worth a penny--have I been selling here to a chaise-vamper--for four _Louis d'Ors_--and giving him a post-chaise (by heaven) worth six into the bargain; had it been to _Dodsley_, or _Becket_, or any creditable bookseller, who was either leaving off business, and wanted a post-chaise--or who was beginning it--and wanted my remarks, and two or three guineas along with them --I could have borne it----but to a chaise-vamper! --shew me to him this moment, _Franois_, --said I --The valet de place put on his hat, and led the way--and I pull'd off mine, as I pass'd the commissary, and followed him.

When my brain began to get out of the confusion into which this jumble of accidents had cast me, it soon occurred to me that I had left my remarks in the chaise - and that in selling my chaise, I had sold my remarks along with it. I leave this empty space so that the reader may swear into it any oath he wishes. If ever I swore in my life, it was then- '*********!' said I - 'and so my remarks on France, which were full of wit and worth, have I sold to a chaise-renovator for four Louis, giving him a post-chaise worth six into the bargain. Had it been to a bookseller, I could have borne it - but to a chaise-vamper! Take me to him this moment, Franois.' The valet led the way.

Tristram Shandy

Book 7 - Chapter 37

I am not insensible, brother _Shandy_, that when a man whose profession is arms, wishes, as I have done, for war, --it has an ill aspect to the world; ----and that, how just and right soever his motives and intentions may be, --he stands in an uneasy posture in vindicating himself from private views in doing it. For this cause, if a soldier is a prudent man, which he may be without being a jot the less brave, he will be sure not to utter his wish in the hearing of an enemy; for say what he will, an enemy will not believe him. ----He will be cautious of doing it even to a friend, --lest he may suffer in his esteem: ----But if his heart is overcharged, and a secret sigh for arms must have its vent, he will reserve it for the ear of a brother, who knows his character to the bottom, and what his true notions, dispositions, and principles of honour are: What, I _hope_, I have been in all these, brother _Shandy_, would be unbecoming in me to say: ----much worse, I know, have I been than I ought, --and something worse, perhaps, than I think: But such as I am, you, my dear brother _Shandy_, who have sucked the same breasts with me, --and with whom I have been brought up from my cradle, --and from whose knowledge, from the first hours of our boyish pastimes, down to this, I have concealed no one action of my life, and scarce a thought in it ----Such as I am, brother, you must by this time know me, with all my vices, and with all my weaknesses too, whether of my age, my temper, my passions, or my understanding. Tell me then, my dear brother _Shandy_, upon which of them it is, that when I condemned the peace of _Utrecht_, and grieved the war was not carried on with vigour a little longer, you should think your brother did it upon unworthy views; or that in wishing for war, he should be bad enough to wish more of his fellow-creatures slain, --more slaves made, and more families driven from their peaceful habitations, merely for his own pleasure: ----Tell me, brother _Shandy_, upon what one deed of mine do you ground it? [_The devil a deed do I know of, dear _Toby_, but one for a hundred pounds, which I lent thee to carry on these cursed sieges._] If, when I was a school-boy, I could not hear a drum beat, but my heart beat with it--was it my fault? Did I plant the propensity there? ----Did I sound the alarm within, or Nature? When _Guy_, Earl of _Warwick_, and _Parismus_ and _Parismenus_, and _Valentine_ and _Orson_, and the _Seven Champions of England_, were handed around the school, --were they not all purchased with my own pocket-money? Was that selfish, brother _Shandy?_ When we read over the siege of _Troy_, which lasted ten years and eight months, ----though with such a train of artillery as we had at _Namur_, the town might have been carried in a week--was I not as much concerned for the destruction of the _Greeks_ and _Trojans_ as any boy of the whole school? Had I not three strokes of a ferula given me, two on my right hand, and one on my left, for calling _Helena_ a bitch for it? Did any one of you shed more tears for _Hector?_ And when king _Priam_ came to the camp to beg his body, and returned weeping back to _Troy_ without it, --you know, brother, I could not eat my dinner.------ ----Did that bespeak me cruel? Or because, brother _Shandy_, my blood flew out into the camp, and my heart panted for war, --was it a proof it could not ache for the distresses of war too? O brother! 'tis one thing for a soldier to gather laurels, --and 'tis another to scatter cypress. ----[_Who told thee, my dear _Toby_, that cypress was used by the antients on mournful occasions?_] ----'Tis one thing, brother _Shandy_, for a soldier to hazard his own life--to leap first down into the trench, where he is sure to be cut in pieces: ----'Tis one thing, from public spirit and a thirst of glory, to enter the breach the first man, --To stand in the foremost rank, and march bravely on with drums and trumpets, and colours flying about his ears: ----'Tis one thing, I say, brother _Shandy_, to do this, --and 'tis another thing to reflect on the miseries of war; --to view the desolations of whole countries, and consider the intolerable fatigues and hardships which the soldier himself, the instrument who works them, is forced (for sixpence a day, if he can get it) to undergo. Need I be told, dear _Yorick_, as I was by you, in _Le Fever's_ funeral sermon, _That so soft and gentle a creature, born to love, to mercy, and kindness, as man is, was not shaped for this?_ ----But why did you not add, _Yorick_, --if not by NATURE--that he is so by NECESSITY? ----For what is war? what is it, _Yorick_, when fought as ours has been, upon principles of _liberty_, and upon principles of _honour_----what is it, but the getting together of quiet and harmless people, with their swords in their hands, to keep the ambitious and the turbulent within bounds? And heaven is my witness, brother _Shandy_, that the pleasure I have taken in these things, --and that infinite delight, in particular, which has attended my sieges in my bowling-green, has arose within me, and I hope in the corporal too, from the consciousness we both had, that in carrying them on, we were answering the great ends of our creation.

I am aware, brother Shandy, that when a military man wishes, as I have done, for war, it has a bad appearance; and that, no matter how just his motives may be, he stands in an uneasy position in vindicating himself. Therefore, if a soldier is prudent, which he may be without being a jot the less brave, he will not utter his wish in the hearing of an enemy; for an enemy will not believe him. He will be cautious of doing it even to a friend, lest he may suffer in his esteem. But if his heart is overcharged, and a secret sigh for arms must have its vent, he will reserve it for the ear of a brother, who knows his character, and what his true principles of honour are: what I hope mine are, brother Shandy, would be unbecoming in me to say - I have been much worse, I know, than I ought, and somewhat worse, perhaps, than I think. But such as I am, you, my dear brother, who sucked the same breast as me, and with whom I have been brought up from my cradle, and from whom I have concealed no action of my life - such as I am, you must by this time know me, with all my vices and weaknesses of age, temper and understanding. Tell me then, my dear brother Shandy, which of them was at fault when I condemned the peace of Utrecht, and grieved that the war was not carried on a little longer? Did you think it unworthy of your brother, that in wishing for war, he should wish for more of his fellow-creatures to be slain, or driven from their peaceful habitations, merely for his own pleasure? Tell me, brother Shandy, upon what deed of mine do you base it? [The devil a deed do I know of, dear Toby - wrote my father - except one for a hundred pounds, which I lent thee to carry on these cursed sieges.] If, when I was a school-boy, I could not hear a drum beat, without my heart beating with it - was it my fault, or Nature's? When Guy, Earl of Warwick, and the Seven Champions of England, were handed around the school, were they not all purchased with my own pocket-money? Was that selfish, brother Shandy? When we read over the siege of Troy, was I not as much concerned for the destruction of the Greeks and Trojans as any boy in the school? Was I not given three strokes of a ferula for calling Helen a bitch for it? Did any one of you shed more tears for Hector? And when king Priam came to the camp to beg his body, and returned weeping back to Troy without it - you know, brother, I could not eat my dinner. Did that show me to be cruel? Or because, brother Shandy, my heart panted for war, did that prove it could not ache for the distresses of war too? O brother! 'tis one thing for a soldier to gather laurels, and 'tis another to scatter cypress. [Who told thee, my dear Toby, that cypress was used by the ancients on mournful occasions?] 'Tis one thing, brother Shandy, for a soldier to hazard his own life - to leap first into the trench, where he is sure to be cut in pieces: 'tis one thing, from a thirst of glory, to enter the breach first, and march bravely on with drums and trumpets: - and 'tis another thing to reflect on the miseries of war; to view the desolations of whole countries, and consider the hardships which the soldier himself is forced (for sixpence a day, if he can get it) to undergo. Need I be told, dear Yorick, that so soft and gentle a creature, born to love, mercy, and kindness, as man is, was not shaped for this? But why did you not add, Yorick, - if not by Nature - that he is so by Necessity? For what is war? what is it, Yorick, when fought upon principles of liberty and honour, but the getting together of quiet and harmless people, with their swords in their hands, to keep the ambitious and the turbulent within bounds? And heaven is my witness, brother Shandy, that the pleasure I have taken in these things, and that infinite delight, in particular, which has attended my sieges on my bowling-green, has arose within me, and I hope in the corporal too, from our awareness that we were answering the great purposes of our creation.

Tristram Shandy

Book 6 - Chapter 32: MY UNCLE TOBY'S APOLOGETICAL ORATION

These attacks of Mrs. _Wadman_, you will readily conceive to be of different kinds; varying from each other, like the attacks which history is full of, and from the same reasons. A general looker-on would scarce allow them to be attacks at all----or if he did, would confound them all together----but I write not to them: it will be time enough to be a little more exact in my descriptions of them, as I come up to them, which will not be for some chapters; having nothing more to add in this, but that in a bundle of original papers and drawings which my father took care to roll up by themselves, there is a plan of _Bouchain_ in perfect preservation (and shall be kept so, whilst I have power to preserve anything), upon the lower corner of which, on the right hand side, there is still remaining the marks of a snuffy finger and thumb, which there is all the reason in the world to imagine, were Mrs. _Wadman's_; for the opposite side of the margin, which I suppose to have been my uncle _Toby's_, is absolutely clean: This seems an authenticated record of one of these attacks; for there are vestigia of the two punctures partly grown up, but still visible on the opposite corner of the map, which are unquestionably the very holes, through which it has been pricked up in the sentry-box---- By all that is priestly! I value this precious relick, with its _stigmata_ and _pricks_, more than all the relicks of the _Romish_ church----always excepting, when I am writing upon these matters, the pricks which entered the flesh of St. _Radagunda_ in the desert, which in your road from FESSE to CLUNY, the nuns of that name will shew you for love.

These attacks of Mrs. Wadman varied like the attacks which history is full of. A general looker-on would scarce allow them to be attacks at all - or if he did, would confuse them all together - but it will be time enough to be more exact in my descriptions of them, as I come up to them, which will not be for some chapters. I have nothing more to add, but that, in a bundle of drawings which my father kept, there is a plan of Bouchain in perfect preservation; and upon the lower right-hand corner there still remain the marks of a snuffy finger and thumb, which there is all the reason in the world to imagine were Mrs. Wadman's. This seems an authentic record of one of these attacks; for there are vestiges of two pin-holes visible on the opposite corner of the map, which are unquestionably where it was pricked up in the sentry-box- By all that is priestly! I value this precious relic, with its stigmata and pricks, more than all the relics of the Romish church.

Tristram Shandy

Book 8 - Chapter 17

----'Twill come out of itself by and bye. ----All I contend for is, that I am not obliged to set out with a definition of what love is; and so long as I can go on with my story intelligibly, with the help of the word itself, without any other idea to it, than what I have in common with the rest of the world, why should I differ from it a moment before the time? ----When I can get on no further, ----and find myself entangled on all sides of this mystic labyrinth, --my Opinion will then come in, in course, --and lead me out. At present, I hope I shall be sufficiently understood, in telling the reader, my uncle _Toby_ _fell in love_: --Not that the phrase is at all to my liking: for to say a man is _fallen_ in love, --or that he is _deeply_ in love, --or up to the ears in love, --and sometimes even _over head and ears in it_, --carries an idiomatical kind of implication, that love is a thing _below_ a man: --this is recurring again to _Plato's_ opinion, which, with all his divinityship, --I hold to be damnable and heretical: --and so much for that. Let love therefore be what it will, --my uncle _Toby_ fell into it. ----And possibly, gentle reader, with such a temptation--so wouldst thou: For never did thy eyes behold, or thy concupiscence covet anything in this world, more concupiscible than widow _Wadman_.

All I ask is that I am not obliged to give a definition of love, so long as I can go on with my story using the word with its common meaning. When I find myself entangled in this mystic labyrinth, my Opinion will then come in, of course, and lead me out. At present, I hope I shall be understood in telling the reader my uncle Toby fell in love. - Not that the phrase is at all to my liking: for to say a man is fallen in love, or is deeply in love, or up to the ears in love, carries the implication that love is a thing below a man: this is returning again to Plato's damnable opinion. Let love be what it will - my uncle Toby fell into it. And possibly, gentle reader, with such a temptation, so wouldst thou: for never did thy eyes behold anything more desirable than widow Wadman.

Tristram Shandy

Book 6 - Chapter 37

----But your honour's two razors shall be new set--and I will get my _Montero_-cap furbish'd up, and put on poor lieutenant _Le Fever's_ regimental coat, which your honour gave me to wear for his sake--and as soon as your honour is clean shaved--and has got your clean shirt on, with your blue and gold, or your fine scarlet----sometimes one and sometimes t'other--and everything is ready for the attack--we'll march up boldly, as if 'twas to the face of a bastion; and whilst your honour engages Mrs. _Wadman_ in the parlour, to the right ----I'll attack Mrs. _Bridget_ in the kitchen, to the left; and having seiz'd the pass, I'll answer for it, said the corporal, snapping his fingers over his head--that the day is our own. I wish I may but manage it right; said my uncle _Toby_--but I declare, corporal, I had rather march up to the very edge of a trench---- --A woman is quite a different thing--said the corporal. --I suppose so, quoth my uncle _Toby_.

'- But your honour's two razors shall be new set - and I will get my Montero-cap furbished, and put on poor lieutenant Le Fever's regimental coat, which your honour gave me to wear for his sake; and as soon as your honour is clean shaved, and has got your clean shirt on, and everything is ready for the attack - we'll march up boldly. Whilst your honour engages Mrs. Wadman in the parlour, to the right - I'll attack Mrs. Bridget in the kitchen, to the left; and I'll answer for it,' said the corporal, snapping his fingers, 'that the day is our own.' 'I wish I may manage it right;' said my uncle Toby, 'but I declare, corporal, I had rather march up to the very edge of a trench.' 'A woman is quite a different thing,' said the corporal. 'I suppose so,' quoth my uncle Toby.

Tristram Shandy

Book 8 - Chapter 30

----And so to make sure of both systems, Mrs. _Wadman_ predetermined to light my uncle _Toby_ neither at this end or that; but, like a prodigal's candle, to light him, if possible, at both ends at once. Now, through all the lumber rooms of military furniture, including both of horse and foot, from the great arsenal of _Venice_ to the _Tower_ of _London_ (exclusive), if Mrs. _Wadman_ had been rummaging for seven years together, and with _Bridget_ to help her, she could not have found any one _blind_ or _mantelet_ so fit for her purpose, as that which the expediency of my uncle _Toby's_ affairs had fix'd up ready to her hands. I believe I have not told you----but I don't know----possibly I have----be it as it will, 'tis one of the number of those many things, which a man had better do over again, than dispute about it --That whatever town or fortress the corporal was at work upon, during the course of their campaign, my uncle _Toby_ always took care, on the inside of his sentry-box, which was towards his left hand, to have a plan of the place, fasten'd up with two or three pins at the top, but loose at the bottom, for the conveniency of holding it up to the eye, &c. . . . as occasions required; so that when an attack was resolved upon, Mrs. _Wadman_ had nothing more to do, when she had got advanced to the door of the sentry-box, but to extend her right hand; and edging in her left foot at the same movement, to take hold of the map or plan, or upright, or whatever it was, and with out-stretched neck meeting it half way, --to advance it towards her; on which my uncle _Toby's_ passions were sure to catch fire----for he would instantly take hold of the other corner of the map in his left hand, and with the end of his pipe in the other, begin an explanation. When the attack was advanced to this point; ----the world will naturally enter into the reasons of Mrs. _Wadman's_ next stroke of generalship----which was, to take my uncle _Toby's_ tobacco-pipe out of his hand as soon as she possibly could; which, under one pretence or other, but generally that of pointing more distinctly at some redoubt or breastwork in the map, she would effect before my uncle _Toby_ (poor soul!) had well march'd above half a dozen toises with it. --It obliged my uncle _Toby_ to make use of his forefinger. The difference it made in the attack was this; That in going upon it, as in the first case, with the end of her forefinger against the end of my uncle _Toby's_ tobacco-pipe, she might have travelled with it, along the lines, from _Dan_ to _Beersheba_, had my uncle _Toby's_ lines reach'd so far, without any effect: For as there was no arterial or vital heat in the end of the tobacco-pipe, it could excite no sentiment----it could neither give fire by pulsation----or receive it by sympathy----'twas nothing but smoke. Whereas, in following my uncle _Toby's_ forefinger with hers, close thro' all the little turns and indentings of his works--pressing sometimes against the side of it----then treading upon its nail----then tripping it up----then touching it here----then there, and so on----it set something at least in motion. This, tho' slight skirmishing, and at a distance from the main body, yet drew on the rest; for here, the map usually falling with the back of it, close to the side of the sentry-box, my uncle _Toby_, in the simplicity of his soul, would lay his hand flat upon it, in order to go on with his explanation; and Mrs. _Wadman_, by a manuvre as quick as thought, would as certainly place her's close beside it; this at once opened a communication, large enough for any sentiment to pass or repass, which a person skill'd in the elementary and practical part of love-making, has occasion for---- By bringing up her forefinger parallel (as before) to my uncle _Toby's_----it unavoidably brought the thumb into action----and the forefinger and thumb being once engaged, as naturally brought in the whole hand. Thine, dear uncle _Toby!_ was never now in its right place ----Mrs. _Wadman_ had it ever to take up, or, with the gentlest pushings, protrusions, and equivocal compressions, that a hand to be removed is capable of receiving----to get it press'd a hair breadth of one side out of her way. Whilst this was doing, how could she forget to make him sensible, that it was her leg (and no one's else) at the bottom of the sentry-box, which slightly press'd against the calf of his ----So that my uncle _Toby_ being thus attacked and sore push'd on both his wings----was it a wonder, if now and then, it put his centre into disorder?---- ----The duce take it! said my uncle _Toby_.

- And so to make sure of both systems, Mrs. Wadman planned to light my uncle Toby, if possible, at both ends at once. Now, if Mrs. Wadman had been rummaging for seven years through all the military lumber rooms of the Tower of London, she could not have found anything so fit for her purpose, as that which my uncle Toby had fixed up ready to her hands. I believe I have not told you - but I don't know - possibly I have - that whatever town or fortress the corporal was at work upon, during their campaign my uncle Toby always kept a plan of the place inside his sentry-box, fastened up with pins at the top, but loose at the bottom, for the convenience of holding it up to the eye. So in an attack, Mrs. Wadman had nothing more to do, when she had got to the door of the sentry-box, but to extend her right hand; to take hold of the map or plan, and to advance it towards her; on which my uncle Toby's passions were sure to catch fire - for he would instantly take hold of the other corner of the map in his left hand, and with his pipe in the other, begin an explanation. The world will naturally understand the reasons for Mrs. Wadman's next stroke of generalship - which was, to take my uncle Toby's tobacco-pipe out of his hand as soon as she possibly could, under the pretence of pointing at some redoubt in the map. - It obliged my uncle Toby to make use of his forefinger. The difference it made in the attack was this; that placing her finger on the end of my uncle Toby's tobacco-pipe would have caused no effect. For as there was no blood or vital heat in the end of the tobacco-pipe, it could excite no feeling - nothing but smoke. Whereas, in following my uncle Toby's forefinger with hers, close through all the little turns and indentings of his works - pressing sometimes against the side of it - then treading upon its nail - then tripping it up - touching it here - then there, and so on - it set something in motion. This, though slight skirmishing, and at a distance from the main body, yet drew on the rest; for here, the map usually falling close to the side of the sentry-box, my uncle Toby would lay his hand flat upon it, in order to go on with his explanation; and Mrs. Wadman, by a manoeuvre as quick as thought, would place her hand close beside it. By bringing up her forefinger parallel to my uncle Toby's - it unavoidably brought the thumb into action - which naturally brought in the whole hand. Mrs. Wadman might now take up thine, dear uncle Toby! with the gentlest pushings and compressions that a hand is capable of receiving. Whilst this was happening, how could she forget to make him aware that it was her leg at the bottom of the sentry-box, which slightly pressed against the calf of his - so that my uncle Toby being thus attacked on both sides - was it any wonder, if now and then, it put his centre into disorder? 'The deuce take it!' said my uncle Toby.

Tristram Shandy

Book 8 - Chapter 16

I would sooner undertake to explain the hardest problem in geometry, than pretend to account for it, that a gentleman of my father's great good sense, ----knowing, as the reader must have observed him, and curious too in philosophy, --wise also in political reasoning, --and in polemical (as he will find) no way ignorant, --could be capable of entertaining a notion in his head, so out of the common track, --that I fear the reader, when I come to mention it to him, if he is the least of a cholerick temper, will immediately throw the book by; if mercurial, he will laugh most heartily at it; --and if he is of a grave and saturnine cast, he will, at first sight, absolutely condemn as fanciful and extravagant; and that was in respect to the choice and imposition of christian names, on which he thought a great deal more depended than what superficial minds were capable of conceiving. His opinion, in this matter, was, That there was a strange kind of magick bias, which good or bad names, as he called them, irresistibly impressed upon our characters and conduct. The hero of _Cervantes_ argued not the point with more seriousness, ----nor had he more faith, ----or more to say on the powers of necromancy in dishonouring his deeds, --or on DULCINEA'S name, in shedding lustre upon them, than my father had on those of TRISMEGISTUS or ARCHIMEDES, on the one hand--or of NYKY and SIMKIN on the other. How many CSARS and POMPEYS, he would say, by mere inspiration of the names, have been rendered worthy of them? And how many, he would add, are there, who might have done exceeding well in the world, had not their characters and spirits been totally depressed and NICOMEDUS'D into nothing? I see plainly, Sir, by your looks (or as the case happened), my father would say--that you do not heartily subscribe to this opinion of mine, --which, to those, he would add, who have not carefully sifted it to the bottom, --I own has an air more of fancy than of solid reasoning in it; ----and yet, my dear Sir, if I may presume to know your character, I am morally assured, I should hazard little in stating a case to you, --not as a party in the dispute, --but as a judge, and trusting my appeal upon it to your own good sense and candid disquisition in this matter; ----you are a person free from as many narrow prejudices of education as most men; --and, if I may presume to penetrate farther into you, --of a liberality of genius above bearing down an opinion, merely because it wants friends. Your son, --your dear son, --from whose sweet and open temper you have so much to expect. --Your BILLY, Sir! --would you, for the world, have called him JUDAS? --Would you, my dear Sir, he would say, laying his hand upon your breast, with the genteelest address, --and in that soft and irresistible _piano_ of voice, which the nature of the _argumentum ad hominem_ absolutely requires, --Would you, Sir, if a _Jew_ of a godfather had proposed the name for your child, and offered you his purse along with it, would you have consented to such a desecration of him? ----O my God! he would say, looking up, if I know your temper right, Sir, --you are incapable of it; ----you would have trampled upon the offer; --you would have thrown the temptation at the tempter's head with abhorrence. Your greatness of mind in this action, which I admire, with that generous contempt of money, which you shew me in the whole transaction, is really noble; --and what renders it more so, is the principle of it; --the workings of a parent's love upon the truth and conviction of this very hypothesis, namely, That was your son called JUDAS, --the sordid and treacherous idea, so inseparable from the name, would have accompanied him through life like his shadow, and, in the end, made a miser and a rascal of him, in spite, Sir, of your example. I never knew a man able to answer this argument. ----But, indeed, to speak of my father as he was; --he was certainly irresistible; --both in his orations and disputations; --he was born an orator; --. --Persuasion hung upon his lips, and the elements of Logick and Rhetorick were so blended up in him, --and, withal, he had so shrewd a guess at the weaknesses and passions of his respondent, ----that NATURE might have stood up and said, --"This man is eloquent." --In short, whether he was on the weak or the strong side of the question, 'twas hazardous in either case to attack him. --And yet, 'tis strange, he had never read _Cicero_, nor _Quintilian de Oratore_, nor _Isocrates_, nor _Aristotle_, nor _Longinus_ amongst the antients; --nor _Vossius_, nor _Skioppius_, nor _Ramus_, nor _Farnaby_ amongst the moderns; --and what is more astonishing, he had never in his whole life the least light or spark of subtilty struck into his mind, by one single lecture upon _Crackenthorp_ or _Burgersdicius_, or any Dutch logician or commentator; --he knew not so much as in what the difference of an argument _ad ignorantiam_, and an argument _ad hominem_ consisted; so that I well remember, when he went up along with me to enter my name at _Jesus College_ in ****, --it was a matter of just wonder with my worthy tutor, and two or three fellows of that learned society, --that a man who knew not so much as the names of his tools, should be able to work after that fashion with them. To work with them in the best manner he could, was what my father was, however, perpetually forced upon; ----for he had a thousand little sceptical notions of the comick kind to defend----most of which notions, I verily believe, at first entered upon the footing of mere whims, and of a _vive la Bagatelle_; and as such he would make merry with them for half an hour or so, and having sharpened his wit upon them, dismiss them till another day. I mention this, not only as matter of hypothesis or conjecture upon the progress and establishment of my father's many odd opinions, --but as a warning to the learned reader against the indiscreet reception of such guests, who, after a free and undisturbed entrance, for some years, into our brains, --at length claim a kind of settlement there, ----working sometimes like yeast; --but more generally after the manner of the gentle passion, beginning in jest, --but ending in downright earnest. Whether this was the case of the singularity of my father's notions--or that his judgment, at length, became the dupe of his wit; --or how far, in many of his notions, he might, though odd, be absolutely right; ----the reader, as he comes at them, shall decide. All that I maintain here, is, that in this one, of the influence of christian names, however it gained footing, he was serious; --he was all uniformity; --he was systematical, and, like all systematick reasoners, he would move both heaven and earth, and twist and torture everything in nature, to support his hypothesis. In a word, I repeat it over again; --he was serious; --and, in consequence of it, he would lose all kind of patience whenever he saw people, especially of condition, who should have known better, ----as careless and as indifferent about the name they imposed upon their child, --or more so, than in the choice of _Ponto_ or _Cupid_ for their puppy-dog. This, he would say, look'd ill; --and had, moreover, this particular aggravation in it, viz., That when once a vile name was wrongfully or injudiciously given, 'twas not like the case of a man's character, which, when wrong'd, might hereafter be cleared; ----and, possibly, some time or other, if not in the man's life, at least after his death, --be, somehow or other, set to rights with the world: But the injury of this, he would say, could never be undone; --nay, he doubted even whether an act of parliament could reach it: ----He knew as well as you, that the legislature assumed a power over surnames; --but for very strong reasons, which he could give, it had never yet adventured, he would say, to go a step farther. It was observable, that tho' my father, in consequence of this opinion, had, as I have told you, the strongest likings and dislikings towards certain names; --that there were still numbers of names which hung so equally in the balance before him, that they were absolutely indifferent to him. _Jack_, _Dick_, and _Tom_ were of this class: These my father called neutral names; --affirming of them, without a satire, That there had been as many knaves and fools, at least, as wise and good men, since the world began, who had indifferently borne them; --so that, like equal forces acting against each other in contrary directions, he thought they mutually destroyed each other's effects; for which reason, he would often declare, He would not give a cherry-stone to choose amongst them. _Bob_, which was my brother's name, was another of these neutral kinds of christian names, which operated very little either way; and as my father happen'd to be at _Epsom_, when it was given him, --he would oft-times thank Heaven it was no worse. _Andrew_ was something like a negative quantity in Algebra with him; --'twas worse, he said, than nothing. --_William_ stood pretty high: ----_Numps_ again was low with him: --and _Nick_, he said, was the DEVIL. But, of all the names in the universe, he had the most unconquerable aversion for TRISTRAM; --he had the lowest and most contemptible opinion of it of anything in the world, --thinking it could possibly produce nothing in _rerum natur_, but what was extremely mean and pitiful: So that in the midst of a dispute on the subject, in which, by the bye, he was frequently involved, ----he would sometimes break off in a sudden and spirited EPIPHONEMA, or rather EROTESIS, raised a third, and sometimes a full fifth above the key of the discourse, ----and demand it categorically of his antagonist, Whether he would take upon him to say, he had ever remembered, ----whether he had ever read, --or even whether he had ever heard tell of a man, called _Tristram_, performing anything great or worth recording? --No, --he would say, --TRISTRAM! --The thing is impossible. What could be wanting in my father but to have wrote a book to publish this notion of his to the world? Little boots it to the subtle speculatist to stand single in his opinions, --unless he gives them proper vent: --It was the identical thing which my father did: --for in the year sixteen, which was two years before I was born, he was at the pains of writing an express DISSERTATION simply upon the word _Tristram_, --shewing the world, with great candour and modesty, the grounds of his great abhorrence to the name. When this story is compared with the title-page, --Will not the gentle reader pity my father from his soul? --to see an orderly and well-disposed gentleman, who tho' singular, --yet inoffensive in his notions, --so played upon in them by cross purposes; ----to look down upon the stage, and see him baffled and overthrown in all his little systems and wishes; to behold a train of events perpetually falling out against him, and in so critical and cruel a way, as if they had purposedly been plann'd and pointed against him, merely to insult his speculations. ----In a word, to behold such a one, in his old age, ill-fitted for troubles, ten times in a day suffering sorrow; --ten times in a day calling the child of his prayers TRISTRAM! --Melancholy dissyllable of sound! which, to his ears, was unison to _Nincompoop_, and every name vituperative under heaven. ----By his ashes! I swear it, --if ever malignant spirit took pleasure, or busied itself in traversing the purposes of mortal man, --it must have been here; --and if it was not necessary I should be born before I was christened, I would this moment give the reader an account of it.

Despite my father's great good sense, he had a notion so unusual that I fear the reader, when I mention it, will immediately throw the book aside, and either laugh or condemn it as a fanciful idea. That notion concerned the choice of Christian names, on which he thought a great deal depended. His opinion was, that there was a strange kind of magic bias, which good or bad names, as he called them, irresistibly impressed upon our characters and conduct. Even Don Quixote did not have more to say on the powers of necromancy in dishonouring his deeds, or on Dulcinea's name in shedding lustre upon them, than my father said about the names Trismegistus or Archimedes, on the one hand - or Nyky and Simkin on the other. 'How many Caesars and Pompeys,' he would say, 'have by mere inspiration of the names been made worthy of them? And how many are there, who might have done exceeding well in the world, had not their spirits been totally depressed and Nicodemus'd into nothing?' My father would say to the sceptical: 'I admit that it may seem fanciful; and yet, my dear Sir, you are a person of good sense, free from narrow prejudice, and are too liberal to dismiss an opinion merely because it lacks friends. Your dear son, from whose sweet temper you have so much to expect - your Billy, Sir! - would you, for the world, have called him Judas? Even if offered money, would you have consented to such a desecration of him? O my God! Sir, you would have trampled upon the offer. If your son were called Judas, the treacherous idea inseparable from the name would have accompanied him through life like his shadow, and, in the end, made a miser and a rascal of him, in spite, Sir, of your example.' I never knew a man able to answer this argument. But, indeed, my father was irresistible; he was born an orator; - Theodidactos, taught by God. - Persuasion hung upon his lips, and Logic and Rhetoric were so blended in him, and he guessed so shrewdly the weaknesses and passions of his respondent, that Nature might have stood up and said, 'This man is eloquent.' In short, whether he was on the weak or the strong side of the question, 'twas hazardous in either case to attack him. And yet, 'tis strange, he had never read Cicero, nor Quintilian, nor Isocrates, nor Aristotle, nor Longinus, Ramus or Farnaby; and what is more astonishing, he had never read one single lecture upon Crackenthorp or Burgersdicius, or any Dutch commentator. He did not even know the difference between an argument ad ignorantiam, and an argument ad hominem; so that I remember, when he went along with me to enter my name at Jesus College, my worthy tutor was amazed that a man who did not know the names of his tools, should be able to work so well with them. My father had to work with them as best he could, because he had a thousand little sceptical notions of the comic kind to defend - most of which, I believe, started out as whims, mere Bagatelles; he would make merry with them for half an hour or so, and having sharpened his wit upon them, dismiss them till another day. I mention this, not only as a theory of the forming of my father's many odd opinions, - but as a warning to the learned reader against the indiscreet reception of whimsical ideas, which, allowed free entrance into our brains, at length settle, - beginning in jest, but ending in earnest. Whether this was the case with my father's notions - whether his judgement was duped by his wit, or how far his notions, though odd, might be right - the reader shall decide. All I am saying is, that in this idea of the influence of Christian names, he was serious; he was systematical, and would move heaven and earth, and twist and torture everything in nature, to support his hypothesis. In consequence, he would lose all patience whenever he saw people more careless about the name they gave their child, than in the choice of Ponto or Cupid for their puppy-dog. He would say that once a vile name was injudiciously given, 'twas not like a man's reputation, which might be cleared. This injury could never be undone. Because of this opinion, my father had the strongest likings and dislikings towards certain names. Some names were absolutely indifferent to him. Jack, Dick, and Tom were of this class: these my father called neutral names, saying that there had been many knaves and fools, as well as wise and good men, who had borne them; so that they cancelled each other out. He would not give a cherry-stone to choose amongst them. Bob, my brother's name, was another of these neutral names; and as my father happened to be at Epsom when it was given him, he would often thank Heaven it was no worse. Andrew, he said, was less than nothing. William stood pretty high: Numps, or Humphrey, again was low with him: and Nick, he said, was the Devil. But, of all the names in the universe, he had the most unconquerable aversion for Tristram; he had the lowest opinion of it. So that in the midst of a dispute on the subject, in which, by the bye, he was frequently involved, he would sometimes break off and demand whether his antagonist had ever heard of a man called Tristram performing anything great or worth recording? 'No,' he would say, - 'TRISTRAM! - The thing is impossible.' What else could my father do other than write a book to publish this notion to the world? There is little point in having opinions without giving them proper vent. So in 1716, two years before I was born, my father wrote a Dissertation upon the word Tristram, showing the world, with great candour, the grounds of his abhorrence to the name. When this story is compared with the title-page, will not the gentle reader pity my father from his soul? - to see an orderly and well-disposed gentleman, who though singular, was yet inoffensive in his notions; to see him baffled and overthrown in his wishes; to behold events falling out against him in so cruel a way, as if they had been planned merely to insult him. - In a word, to behold him, in his old age, ten times in a day suffering sorrow as he called the child of his prayers Tristram! Melancholy sound! which, to his ears, was equivalent to Nincompoop. I swear, if ever malignant spirit took pleasure in crossing the purposes of mortal man, it must have been here; and if it was not necessary that I should be born before I was christened, I would this moment give the reader an account of it.

Tristram Shandy

Book 1 - Chapter 19

A man's body and his mind, with the utmost reverence to both I speak it, are exactly like a jerkin, and a jerkin's lining; --rumple the one, --you rumple the other. There is one certain exception however in this case, and that is, when you are so fortunate a fellow, as to have had your jerkin made of gum-taffeta, and the body-lining to it of a sarcenet, or thin persian. _Zeno_, _Cleanthes_, _Diogenes Babylonius_, _Dionysius_, _Heracleotes_, _Antipater_, _Pantius_, and _Posidonius_ amongst the _Greeks_; ----_Cato_ and _Varro_ and _Seneca_ amongst the _Romans_; ----_Pantonus_ and _Clemens Alexandrinus_ and _Montaigne_ amongst the Christians; and a score and a half of good, honest, unthinking _Shandean_ people as ever lived, whose names I can't recollect, --all pretended that their jerkins were made after this fashion, --you might have rumpled and crumpled, and doubled and creased, and fretted and fridged the outside of them all to pieces; ----in short, you might have played the very devil with them, and at the same time, not one of the insides of them would have been one button the worse, for all you had done to them. I believe in my conscience that mine is made up somewhat after this sort: ----for never poor jerkin has been tickled off at such a rate as it has been these last nine months together, ----and yet I declare, the lining to it, ------as far as I am a judge of the matter, ----is not a three-penny piece the worse; --pell-mell, helter-skelter, ding-dong, cut and thrust, back stroke and fore stroke, side way and long way, have they been trimming it for me: --had there been the least gumminess in my lining, --by heaven! it had all of it long ago been frayed and fretted to a thread. ------You Messrs. the Monthly reviewers! ------how could you cut and slash my jerkin as you did? ----how did you know but you would cut my lining too? Heartily and from my soul, to the protection of that Being who will injure none of us, do I recommend you and your affairs, --so God bless you; --only next month, if any one of you should gnash his teeth, and storm and rage at me, as some of you did last MAY (in which I remember the weather was very hot)--don't be exasperated, if I pass it by again with good temper, --being determined as long as I live or write (which in my case means the same thing) never to give the honest gentleman a worse word or a worse wish than my uncle _Toby_ gave the fly which buzz'd about his nose all _dinner-time_, ------"Go, --go, poor devil," quoth he, --"get thee gone, --why should I hurt thee? This world is surely wide enough to hold both thee and me."

A man's body and his mind are exactly like a jerkin, and a jerkin's lining; rumple the one, - you rumple the other. There is one exception, however, and that is, when you are so fortunate a fellow as to have your jerkin made of gum-taffeta, and its lining of sarcenet. Zeno, Cleanthes, Diogenes Babylonius, Dionysius, Heracleotes, Antipater amongst the Greeks; Cato, Varro and Seneca amongst the Romans; Pantaeonus, Clemens Alexandrinus and Montaigne amongst the Christians; and a score of good, honest, unthinking Shandean people, whose names I can't recollect, - all pretended that their jerkins were made this way; - you might have rumpled and crumpled the outside of them all to pieces; you might have played the very devil with them, yet not one of the insides would have been one button the worse. I believe that mine is of this type: for never has my poor jerkin been tickled off at such a rate as it has been these last nine months, - and yet I declare, its lining is intact. Pell-mell, helter-skelter, ding-dong, cut and thrust, they have been trimming it for me: and had there been the least gumminess in my lining, - by heaven! it would have been frayed and fretted to a thread. You Monthly reviewers! how could you slash my jerkin as you did? - how did you know you would not cut my lining too? I most heartily say, God bless you; - if any of you should storm and rage at me, as some of you did last May - I am determined to react with good temper; and as long as I live or write (which in my case means the same thing,) never to give an honest gentleman a worse word than my uncle Toby gave the fly which buzzed about his nose all dinner-time. - 'Go, poor devil,' quoth he; 'Why should I hurt thee? This world is wide enough to hold both thee and me.'

Tristram Shandy

Book 3 - Chapter 4

----I am half distracted, captain _Shandy_, said Mrs. _Wadman_, holding up her cambrick handkerchief to her left eye, as she approach'd the door of my uncle _Toby's_ sentry-box----a mote----or sand----or something ----I know not what, has got into this eye of mine----do look into it--it is not in the white-- In saying which, Mrs. _Wadman_ edged herself close in beside my uncle _Toby_, and squeezing herself down upon the corner of his bench, she gave him an opportunity of doing it without rising up ----Do look into it--said she. Honest soul! thou didst look into it with as much innocency of heart, as ever child look'd into a raree-shew-box; and 'twere as much a sin to have hurt thee. ----If a man will be peeping of his own accord into things of that nature ----I've nothing to say to it---- My uncle _Toby_ never did: and I will answer for him, that he would have sat quietly upon a sofa from _June_ to _January_ (which, you know, takes in both the hot and cold months), with an eye as fine as the _Thracian_[8.4] _Rodope's_ beside him, without being able to tell, whether it was a black or blue one. The difficulty was to get my uncle _Toby_ to look at one at all. 'Tis surmounted. And I see him yonder with his pipe pendulous in his hand, and the ashes falling out of it--looking--and looking--then rubbing his eyes--and looking again, with twice the good-nature that ever _Gallileo_ look'd for a spot in the sun. ----In vain! for by all the powers which animate the organ ----Widow _Wadman's_ left eye shines this moment as lucid as her right----there is neither mote, or sand, or dust, or chaff, or speck, or particle of opake matter floating in it --There is nothing, my dear paternal uncle! but one lambent delicious fire, furtively shooting out from every part of it, in all directions, into thine---- ----If thou lookest, uncle _Toby_, in search of this mote one moment longer----thou art undone. [Footnote 8.4: _Rodope Thracia_ tam inevitabili fascino instructa, tam exact oculus intuens attraxit, ut si in illam quis incidisset, fieri non posset, quin caperetur. ----I know not who.]

'I am half distracted, captain Shandy,' said Mrs. Wadman, holding up her handkerchief to her left eye, as she approached the door of the sentry-box. 'A mote - or sand - or something - has got into my eye - do look into it.' In saying which, Mrs. Wadman edged herself close in beside my uncle Toby, and squeezed herself upon the corner of his bench. 'Do look into it,' said she. Honest soul! thou didst look into it with as much innocence as a child; and 'twere as much a sin to have hurt thee. I will answer for my uncle Toby, that he would have sat quietly upon a sofa from June to January, with an eye as fine as the Thracian Rodope's beside him, without being able to tell whether it was black or blue. The difficulty was to get my uncle Toby to look at an eye at all. 'Tis surmounted. And I see him with his pipe in his hand, and the ashes falling out of it - looking and looking again, with twice the good-nature that ever Galileo looked for a spot in the sun. In vain! for Widow Wadman's left eye shines as lucid as her right - there is neither mote, or sand, or dust, or speck floating in it. - Nothing, my dear uncle! but one delicious fire, furtively shooting out from it, into thine- If thou lookest, uncle Toby, one moment longer - thou art undone.

Tristram Shandy

Book 8 - Chapter 24

--If you have any objection, --said my father, addressing himself to Dr. _Slop_. Not in the least, replied Dr. _Slop_; --for it does not appear on which side of the question it is wrote; ----it may be a composition of a divine of our church, as well as yours, --so that we run equal risques. ----'Tis wrote upon neither side, quoth _Trim_, for 'tis only upon _Conscience_, an' please your Honours. _Trim's_ reason put his audience into good-humour, --all but Dr. _Slop_, who turning his head about towards _Trim_, looked a little angry. Begin, _Trim_, --and read distinctly, quoth my father. --I will, an' please your Honour, replied the Corporal, making a bow, and bespeaking attention with a slight movement of his right hand.

'Have you any objection?' my father asked Dr. Slop. 'Not in the least,' replied Dr. Slop; 'for it may be composed by a divine of my church, as well as of yours.' 'Begin, Trim, and read distinctly,' quoth my father. 'I will, an' please your Honour,' replied the Corporal, bowing, and requesting attention with a movement of his hand.

Tristram Shandy

Book 2 - Chapter 16

Now I hate to hear a person, especially if he be a traveller, complain that we do not get on so fast in _France_ as we do in _England_; whereas we get on much faster, _consideratis considerandis_; thereby always meaning, that if you weigh their vehicles with the mountains of baggage which you lay both before and behind upon them--and then consider their puny horses, with the very little they give them--'tis a wonder they get on at all: their suffering is most unchristian, and 'tis evident thereupon to me, that a _French_ post-horse would not know what in the world to do, was it not for the two words ****** and ****** in which there is as much sustenance, as if you gave him a peck of corn: now as these words cost nothing, I long from my soul to tell the reader what they are; but here is the question--they must be told him plainly, and with the most distinct articulation, or it will answer no end--and yet to do it in that plain way--though their reverences may laugh at it in the bed-chamber--fell well I wot, they will abuse it in the parlour: for which cause, I have been volving and revolving in my fancy some time, but to no purpose, by what clean device or facette contrivance I might so modulate them, that whilst I satisfy _that ear_ which the reader chuses to _lend_ me --I might not dissatisfy the other which he keeps to himself. ----My ink burns my finger to try----and when I have----'twill have a worse consequence----it will burn (I fear) my paper. ----No; ----I dare not---- But if you wish to know how the _abbess_ of _Andoillets_ and a novice of her convent got over the difficulty (only first wishing myself all imaginable success) --I'll tell you without the least scruple.

Now I hate to hear a traveller complain that we do not get on so fast in France as we do in England; whereas we get on much faster, all things considered. If you weigh their vehicles with the mountains of baggage, and consider their puny horses, 'tis a wonder they get on at all: a French post-horse would not know what in the world to do, was it not for the two words ****** and ****** in which there is as much sustenance as a bag of corn. As these words cost nothing, I long to tell the reader what they are; but they must be said plainly, and with the most distinct articulation, or they will not work - and yet to do it in that plain way - your reverences may laugh, or abuse it in the parlour. Therefore I have been revolving in my fancy for some time, by what clean device I might use the words, so that whilst I satisfy the reader I do not offend him. - My ink burns my finger to try - but I fear 'twill burn my paper. No; - I dare not- But if you wish to know how the abbess of Andoillets and a novice of her convent got over the difficulty - I'll tell you without the least scruple.

Tristram Shandy

Book 7 - Chapter 20

As _Francis_ the first of _France_ was one winterly night warming himself over the embers of a wood fire, and talking with his first minister of sundry things for the good of the state[4.9] --It would not be amiss, said the king, stirring up the embers with his cane, if this good understanding betwixt ourselves and _Switzerland_ was a little strengthened. --There is no end, Sire, replied the minister, in giving money to these people--they would swallow up the treasury of _France_. --Poo! poo! answered the king--there are more ways, Mons. _le Premier_, of bribing states, besides that of giving money --I'll pay _Switzerland_ the honour of standing godfather for my next child. ----Your majesty, said the minister, in so doing, would have all the grammarians in _Europe_ upon your back; ----_Switzerland_, as a republick, being a female, can in no construction be godfather. --She may be godmother, replied _Francis_ hastily--so announce my intentions by a courier to-morrow morning. I am astonished, said _Francis_ the First, (that day fortnight) speaking to his minister as he entered the closet, that we have had no answer from _Switzerland_. ----Sire, I wait upon you this moment, said Mons. _le Premier_, to lay before you my dispatches upon that business. --They take it kindly, said the king. --They do, Sire, replied the minister, and have the highest sense of the honour your majesty has done them----but the republick, as godmother, claims her right, in this case, of naming the child. In all reason, quoth the king----she will christen him _Francis_, or _Henry_, or _Lewis_, or some name that she knows will be agreeable to us. Your majesty is deceived, replied the minister ----I have this hour received a dispatch from our resident, with the determination of the republick on that point also. ----And what name has the republick fixed upon for the Dauphin? ----_Shadrach_, _Meshech_, _Abed-nego_, replied the minister. --By Saint _Peter's_ girdle, I will have nothing to do with the _Swiss_, cried _Francis_ the First, pulling up his breeches and walking hastily across the floor. Your majesty, replied the minister calmly, cannot bring yourself off. We'll pay them in money------said the king. Sire, there are not sixty thousand crowns in the treasury, answered the minister. ----I'll pawn the best jewel in my crown, quoth _Francis_ the First. Your honour stands pawn'd already in this matter, answered Monsieur _le Premier_. Then, Mons. _le Premier_, said the king, by------we'll go to war with 'em. [Footnote 4.9: Vide Menagiana, Vol. I.]

As Francis the first of France was one winterly night warming himself over the fire, and talking with his first minister - 'It would not be amiss,' said the king, stirring up the embers with his cane, 'if this good understanding betwixt ourselves and Switzerland was strengthened.' 'There is no end in giving money to them, Sire,' replied the minister; 'they would swallow up the treasury of France.' 'Poo! poo!' answered the king. 'There are more ways of bribing states than giving money. I'll pay Switzerland the honour of being godfather to my next child.' 'Your majesty,' said the minister, 'you'd have all the grammarians in Europe upon your back; Switzerland, as a republic, being female, cannot be a godfather.' 'She may be godmother,' replied Francis - 'so announce my intentions by a courier tomorrow.' 'I am astonished,' said Francis a fortnight later, to his minister, 'that we have had no answer from Switzerland.' 'Sire, I have this moment brought you their reply.' 'They take it kindly?' said the king. 'They do, Sire, and have the highest sense of the honour your majesty has done them - but the republic, as godmother, claims her right of naming the child.' 'Probably,' quoth the king, 'she will christen him Francis, or Henry, or some name that she knows will be agreeable to us.' 'Your majesty is deceived,' replied the minister. 'I have received a message from our ambassador, with the republic's decision on that point.' 'And what name has the republic fixed upon for the prince?' 'Shadrach, Meshech, Abed-nego,' replied the minister. 'By Saint Peter's girdle, I will have nothing to do with the Swiss,' cried Francis. 'We'll pay them off.' 'Sire, there are not sixty thousand crowns in the treasury.' 'I'll pawn the best jewel in my crown,' quoth Francis. 'Your honour stands pawned already in this matter.' 'Then, Monsieur,' said the king, 'by ___, we'll go to war with 'em.'

Tristram Shandy

Book 4 - Chapter 21

O blessed health! cried my father, making an exclamation, as he turned over the leaves to the next chapter, thou art above all gold and treasure; 'tis thou who enlargest the soul, --and openest all its powers to receive instruction and to relish virtue. --He that has thee, has little more to wish for; --and he that is so wretched as to want thee, --wants everything with thee. I have concentrated all that can be said upon this important head, said my father, into a very little room, therefore we'll read the chapter quite through. My father read as follows: "The whole secret of health depending upon the due contention for mastery betwixt the radical heat and the radical moisture" --You have proved that matter of fact, I suppose, above, said _Yorick_. Sufficiently, replied my father. In saying this, my father shut the book, --not as if he resolved to read no more of it, for he kept his forefinger in the chapter: ----nor pettishly, --for he shut the book slowly; his thumb resting, when he had done it, upon the upper-side of the cover, as his three fingers supported the lower side of it, without the least compressive violence.---- I have demonstrated the truth of that point, quoth my father, nodding to _Yorick_, most sufficiently in the preceding chapter. Now could the man in the moon be told, that a man in the earth had wrote a chapter, sufficiently demonstrating, That the secret of all health depended upon the due contention for mastery betwixt the _radical heat_ and the _radical moisture_, --and that he had managed the point so well, that there was not one single word wet or dry upon radical heat or radical moisture, throughout the whole chapter, --or a single syllable in it, _pro_ or _con_, directly or indirectly, upon the contention betwixt these two powers in any part of the animal conomy---- "O thou eternal Maker of all beings!" --he would cry, striking his breast with his right hand (in case he had one)-- "Thou whose power and goodness can enlarge the faculties of thy creatures to this infinite degree of excellence and perfection, --What have we MOONITES done?"

'O blessed health!' exclaimed my father, as he turned to the next chapter, 'thou art above all gold and treasure; 'tis thou who enlargest the soul, ready to receive instruction and to relish virtue. He that has thee, has little more to wish for. I have concentrated all that can be said upon this important matter into a very little room; therefore we'll read the whole chapter.' He read as follows: 'The whole secret of health depends upon the contention for mastery betwixt the radical heat and the radical moisture-' 'You have proved that fact, I suppose,' said Yorick. 'Sufficiently,' replied my father, shutting the book - but not pettishly; he kept his fore-finger in the chapter, his thumb resting upon the upper-side of the cover, and his three fingers supporting the lower side of it, without the least compressive violence. 'I have demonstrated the truth of that point,' quoth my father, nodding, 'most sufficiently in the preceding chapter.' Now if the man in the moon could be told that a man on the earth had wrote a chapter demonstrating that the secret of all health depended upon the contention for mastery betwixt the radical heat and the radical moisture, - and that he had managed it so well, that there was not one single word wet or dry upon heat or moisture, throughout the whole chapter- 'O thou eternal Maker of all beings!' he would cry, striking his breast with his hand (if he had one.) 'Thou whose power and goodness can bring thy creatures to this infinite degree of perfection - What have we Moonites done?'

Tristram Shandy

Book 5 - Chapter 33

------"So hating, I say, to make mysteries of _nothing_" ----I intrusted it with the post-boy, as soon as ever I got off the stones; he gave a crack with his whip to balance the compliment; and with the thill-horse trotting, and a sort of an up and a down of the other, we danced it along to _Ailly au clochers_, famed in days of yore for the finest chimes in the world; but we danced through it without music--the chimes being greatly out of order--(as in truth they were through all _France_). And so making all possible speed, from _Ailly au clochers_, I got to _Hixcourt_, from _Hixcourt_, I got to _Pequignay_, and from _Pequignay_, I got to AMIENS, concerning which town I have nothing to inform you, but what I have informed you once before----and that was--that _Janatone_ went there to school.

- 'So hating, I say, to make mysteries of nothing' - I entrusted it with the post-boy, as soon as I got into the chaise; he gave a crack with his whip, and with the horse trotting, we danced it along to Ailly au Clochers, famed in days of yore for the finest chimes in the world; but we danced through it without music - the chimes being greatly out of order (as they were through all France). And so making all possible speed, from Ailly au Clochers, I got to Hixcourt, and then to Pequignay, and then Amiens, about which town I have nothing to inform you, but what I told you once before - that Janatone went there to school.

Tristram Shandy

Book 7 - Chapter 15

Why weavers, gardeners, and gladiators--or a man with a pined leg (proceeding from some ailment in the _foot_)--should ever have had some tender nymph breaking her heart in secret for them, are points well and duly settled and accounted for by ancient and modern physiologists. A water-drinker, provided he is a profess'd one, and does it without fraud or covin, is precisely in the same predicament: not that, at first sight, there is any consequence, or show of logic in it, "That a rill of cold water dribbling through my inward parts, should light up a torch in my _Jenny's_--" ----The proposition does not strike one; on the contrary, it seems to run opposite to the natural workings of causes and effects---- But it shews the weakness and imbecility of human reason. ----"And in perfect good health with it?" --The most perfect, --Madam, that friendship herself could wish me---- "And drink nothing! --nothing but water?" --Impetuous fluid! the moment thou pressest against the flood-gates of the brain----see how they give way!---- In swims CURIOSITY, beckoning to her damsels to follow--they dive into the centre of the current---- FANCY sits musing upon the bank, and with her eyes following the stream, turns straws and bulrushes into masts and bowsprits ----And DESIRE, with vest held up to the knee in one hand, snatches at them, as they swim by her with the other---- O ye water-drinkers! is it then by this delusive fountain, that ye have so often governed and turn'd this world about like a mill-wheel-- grinding the faces of the impotent--bepowdering their ribs--bepeppering their noses, and changing sometimes even the very frame and face of nature---- If I was you, quoth _Yorick_, I would drink more water, _Eugenius_ --And, if I was you, _Yorick_, replied _Eugenius_, so would I. Which shews they had both read _Longinus_---- For my own part, I am resolved never to read any book but my own, as long as I live.

Why weavers, gardeners, and gladiators - or a man with a wasted leg - should ever have had some tender nymph breaking her heart in secret for them, are points well accounted for by ancient and modern physiologists. A water-drinker, provided he is a professed one, and does it without fraud, is precisely in the same predicament: not that, at first sight, there is any logic in it, 'That a rill of cold water dribbling through my inward parts, should light up a torch in my Jenny's-' - It seems to run opposite to the natural workings of causes and effects- But it shows the weakness of human reason. - 'And you are in perfect good health? And drink nothing but water?' Impetuous fluid! the moment thou pressest against the flood-gates of the brain - see how they give way! In swims Curiosity with her damsels - they dive into the centre of the current- Fancy sits musing upon the bank, and, watching the stream, turns straws and bulrushes into masts and bowsprits. And Desire, with her vest held up in one hand, snatches at them with the other, as they swim by- O ye water-drinkers! is it by this delusive fountain, that ye have so often turned this world around like a mill-wheel - grinding the faces of the impotent - bepeppering their noses, and changing the very face of nature- 'If I was you,' quoth Yorick, 'I would drink more water, Eugenius.' 'And, if I was you, Yorick,' replied Eugenius, 'so would I.' Which shows they had both read Longinus- For my own part, I am resolved never to read any book but my own, as long as I live.

Tristram Shandy

Book 8 - Chapter 5

I am now beginning to get fairly into my work; and by the help of a vegetable diet, with a few of the cold seeds, I make no doubt but I shall be able to go on with my uncle _Toby's_ story, and my own, in a tolerable strait line. Now, [Illustration: _Inv. T. S._ _Scul. T. S._] These were the four lines I moved in through my first, second, third, and fourth volumes.[6.4] --In the fifth volume I have been very good, ----the precise line I have described in it being this: [Illustration] By which it appears, that except at the curve, marked A, where I took a trip to _Navarre_, --and the indented curve _B_, which is the short airing when I was there with the Lady _Baussiere_ and her page, --I have not taken the least frisk of a digression, till _John de la Casse's_ devils led me the round you see marked D. --for as for _c c c c c_ they are nothing but parentheses, and the common _ins_ and _outs_ incident to the lives of the greatest ministers of state; and when compared with what men have done, --or with my own transgressions at the letters A B D--they vanish into nothing. In this last volume I have done better still--for from the end of _Le Fever's_ episode, to the beginning of my uncle _Toby's_ campaigns, --I have scarce stepped a yard out of my way. If I mend at this rate, it is not impossible----by the good leave of his grace of _Benevento's_ devils----but I may arrive hereafter at the excellency of going on even thus: [Illustration (full-width line)] which is a line drawn as straight as I could draw it, by a writing-master's ruler (borrowed for that purpose), turning neither to the right hand or to the left. This _right line_, --the path-way for Christians to walk in! say divines---- ----The emblem of moral rectitude! says _Cicero_---- ----The _best line!_ say cabbage planters----is the shortest line, says _Archimedes_, which can be drawn from one given point to another.---- I wish your ladyships would lay this matter to heart, in your next birth-day suits! ----What a journey! Pray can you tell me, --that is, without anger, before I write my chapter upon straight lines----by what mistake----who told them so----or how it has come to pass, that your men of wit and genius have all along confounded this line, with the line of GRAVITATION? [Footnote 6.4: Alluding to the first edition.]

I am now beginning to get fairly into my work; and have no doubt that I shall be able to go on with my uncle Toby's story, and my own, in a tolerable straight line. Now, These were the four lines I moved in through my first, second, third, and fourth volumes. In the fifth volume I have been very good, - the precise line I have described in it being this: By which it appears, that except at the curve, marked A, where I took a trip to Navarre, and B, which is the short airing when I was there with the Lady Baussiere and her page, I have not taken the least frisk of a digression, till John de la Casse's devils led me the round you see marked D. As for c c c c c, they are nothing but parentheses, and the ins and outs common to the lives of the greatest ministers of state; and when compared with my transgressions at the letters A B D - they vanish into nothing. In this last volume I have done better still - for from the end of Le Fever's episode, to the beginning of my uncle Toby's campaigns, I have scarce stepped a yard out of my way. If I mend at this rate, it is not impossible that I may arrive at the excellency of going on even thus: which is a line drawn as straight as I could draw it, with a ruler, turning neither to the right nor left. This line - the path-way for Christians to walk in! say divines- - The emblem of moral rectitude! says Cicero- - The best line! say cabbage planters - is the shortest line, says Archimedes, which can be drawn from one point to another. What a journey! Pray can you tell me, without anger, before I write my chapter upon straight lines - by what mistake it has come to pass, that your men of genius have all along confounded this line with the line of Gravitation?

Tristram Shandy

Book 6 - Chapter 40

----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 of _Cornelius Gattus_, the prtor--which, I dare say, brother _Toby_, 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 uncle _Toby_--there could be no hurt in it --That's more than I know--replied my father.

'And lastly, of all the choice anecdotes which history gives us on this matter,' continued my father, 'this, like a gilded dome, crowns all. 'Tis the story of Cornelius Gallus, which, I dare say, brother Toby, you have read.' 'I dare say I have not,' replied my uncle. 'He died,' said my father, 'while **********.' 'If it was with his wife,' said my uncle Toby, 'there could be no hurt in it.' 'That's more than I know,' replied my father.

Tristram Shandy

Book 5 - Chapter 4

The _Mortgager_ and _Mortgage_ differ the one from the other, not more in length of purse, than the _Jester_ and _Jeste_ do, in that of memory. But in this the comparison between them runs, as the scholiasts call it, upon all-four; which, by the bye, is upon one or two legs more than some of the best of _Homer's_ can pretend to; --namely, That the one raises a sum, and the other a laugh at your expence, and thinks no more about it. Interest, however, still runs on in both cases; --the periodical or accidental payments of it, just serving to keep the memory of the affair alive; till, at length, in some evil hour, --pop comes the creditor upon each, and by demanding principal upon the spot, together with full interest to the very day, makes them both feel the full extent of their obligations. As the reader (for I hate your _ifs_) has a thorough knowledge of human nature, I need not say more to satisfy him, that my HERO could not go on at this rate without some slight experience of these incidental mementos. To speak the truth, he had wantonly involved himself in a multitude of small book-debts of this stamp, which, notwithstanding _Eugenius's_ frequent advice, he too much disregarded; thinking, that as not one of them was contracted thro' any malignancy; --but, on the contrary, from an honesty of mind, and a mere jocundity of humour, they would all of them be cross'd out in course. _Eugenius_ would never admit this; and would often tell him, that one day or other he would certainly be reckoned with; and he would often add, in an accent of sorrowful apprehension, --to the uttermost mite. To which _Yorick_, with his usual carelessness of heart, would as often answer with a pshaw! --and if the subject was started in the fields--with a hop, skip, and a jump at the end of it; but if close pent up in the social chimney-corner, where the culprit was barricado'd in, with a table and a couple of armchairs, and could not so readily fly off in a tangent, --_Eugenius_ would then go on with his lecture upon discretion in words to this purpose, though somewhat better put together. Trust me, dear _Yorick_, this unwary pleasantry of thine will sooner or later bring thee into scrapes and difficulties, which no after-wit can extricate thee out of. ----In these sallies, too oft, I see, it happens, that a person laughed at, considers himself in the light of a person injured, with all the rights of such a situation belonging to him; and when thou viewest him in that light too, and reckons up his friends, his family, his kindred and allies, ----and musters up with them the many recruits which will list under him from a sense of common danger; ----'tis no extravagant arithmetick to say, that for every ten jokes, --thou hast got an hundred enemies; and till thou hast gone on, and raised a swarm of wasps about thine ears, and art half stung to death by them, thou wilt never be convinced it is so. I cannot suspect it in the man whom I esteem, that there is the least spur from spleen or malevolence of intent in these sallies ----I believe and know them to be truly honest and sportive: --But consider, my dear lad, that fools cannot distinguish this, --and that knaves will not: and thou knowest not what it is, either to provoke the one, or to make merry with the other: ----whenever they associate for mutual defence, depend upon it, they will carry on the war in such a manner against thee, my dear friend, as to make thee heartily sick of it, and of thy life too. Revenge from some baneful corner shall level a tale of dishonour at thee, which no innocence of heart or integrity of conduct shall set right. ----The fortunes of thy house shall totter, --thy character, which led the way to them, shall bleed on every side of it, --thy faith questioned, --thy works belied, --thy wit forgotten, --thy learning trampled on. To wind up the last scene of thy tragedy, CRUELTY and COWARDICE, twin ruffians, hired and set on by MALICE in the dark, shall strike together at all thy infirmities and mistakes: ----The best of us, my dear lad, lie open there, ----and trust me, ----trust me, _Yorick, when to gratify a private appetite, it is once resolved upon, that an innocent and an helpless creature shall be sacrificed, 'tis an easy matter to pick up sticks enough from any thicket where it has strayed, to make a fire to offer it up with_. _Yorick_ scarce ever heard this sad vaticination of his destiny read over to him, but with a fear stealing from his eye, and a promissory look attending it, that he was resolved, for the time to come, to ride his tit with more sobriety. --But, alas, too late! --a grand confederacy, with ***** and ***** at the head of it, was formed before the first prediction of it. --The whole plan of the attack, just as _Eugenius_ had foreboded, was put in execution all at once, --with so little mercy on the side of the allies, --and so little suspicion in _Yorick_, of what was carrying on against him, --that when he thought, good easy man! full surely preferment was o' ripening, --they had smote his root, and then he fell, as many a worthy man had fallen before him. _Yorick_, however, fought it out with all imaginable gallantry for some time; till, overpowered by numbers, and worn out at length by the calamities of the war, --but more so, by the ungenerous manner in which it was carried on, --he threw down the sword; and though he kept up his spirits in appearance to the last, he died, nevertheless, as was generally thought, quite broken-hearted. What inclined _Eugenius_ to the same opinion was as follows: A few hours before _Yorick_ breathed his last, _Eugenius_ stept in with an intent to take his last sight and last farewell of him. Upon his drawing _Yorick's_ curtain, and asking how he felt himself, _Yorick_ looking up in his face took hold of his hand, --and after thanking him for the many tokens of his friendship to him, for which, he said, if it was their fate to meet hereafter, --he would thank him again and again, --he told him, he was within a few hours of giving his enemies the slip for ever. --I hope not, answered _Eugenius_, with tears trickling down his cheeks, and with the tenderest tone that ever man spoke. --I hope not, _Yorick_, said he. ----_Yorick_ replied, with a look up, and a gentle squeeze of _Eugenius's_ hand, and that was all, --but it cut _Eugenius_ to his heart, --Come--come, _Yorick_, quoth _Eugenius_, wiping his eyes, and summoning up the man within him, --my dear lad, be comforted, --let not all thy spirits and fortitude forsake thee at this crisis when thou most wants them; ----who knows what resources are in store, and what the power of God may yet do for thee? ----_Yorick_ laid his hand upon his heart, and gently shook his head; --For my part, continued _Eugenius_, crying bitterly as he uttered the words, --I declare I know not, _Yorick_, how to part with thee, and would gladly flatter my hopes, added _Eugenius_, chearing up his voice, that there is still enough left of thee to make a bishop, and that I may live to see it. ----I beseech thee, _Eugenius_, quoth _Yorick_, taking off his night-cap as well as he could with his left hand, ----his right being still grasped close in that of _Eugenius_, ----I beseech thee to take a view of my head. --I see nothing that ails it, replied _Eugenius_. Then, alas! my friend, said _Yorick_, let me tell you, that 'tis so bruised and mis-shapened with the blows which ***** and *****, and some others have so unhandsomely given me, in the dark, that I might say with _Sancho Pana_, that should I recover, and "Mitres thereupon be suffered to rain down from heaven as thick as hail, not one of them would fit it." ----_Yorick's_ last breath was hanging upon his trembling lips ready to depart as he uttered this: ----yet still it was uttered with something of a _Cervantick_ tone; ----and as he spoke it, _Eugenius_ could perceive a stream of lambent fire lighted up for a moment in his eyes; ----faint picture of those flashes of his spirit, which (as _Shakespeare_ said of his ancestor) were wont to set the table in a roar! _Eugenius_ was convinced from this, that the heart of his friend was broke: he squeezed his hand, ----and then walked softly out of the room, weeping as he walked. _Yorick_ followed _Eugenius_ with his eyes to the door, --he then closed them, --and never opened them more. [Illustration (full-page black tombstone)] He lies buried in the corner of his churchyard, in the parish of ------, under a plain marble slab, which his friend _Eugenius_, by leave of his executors, laid upon his grave, with no more than these three words of inscription, serving both for his epitaph and elegy. ____________________ | | | Alas, poor YORICK! | |____________________| Ten times a day has _Yorick's_ ghost the consolation to hear his monumental inscription read over with such a variety of plaintive tones, as denote a general pity and esteem for him; ----a foot-way crossing the churchyard close by the side of his grave, --not a passenger goes by without stopping to cast a look upon it, --and sighing as he walks on, Alas, poor YORICK!

The Mortgager and the Jester differ in this: the one raises a sum, and the other a laugh at your expense, and they think no more about it. Interest, however, still runs on in both cases; the periodical or accidental payments of it just serving to keep the memory of the affair alive; till, at length, in some evil hour - pop comes the creditor upon each, demanding full payment on the spot. As the reader (for I hate your ifs) has a thorough knowledge of human nature, I need not say more than that my Hero, Yorick, had some slight experience of this. He had wantonly involved himself in a multitude of small debts of this sort, which, despite Eugenius's frequent advice, he disregarded; thinking that as his jests had been made not through any malignancy, but, on the contrary, from honesty and jocund humour, he would not be held to account for them. Eugenius would often tell him sorrowfully that one day or other he would certainly be reckoned with. To which Yorick, with his usual carelessness, would answer with a pshaw! - and if the subject was started in the fields, with a hop, skip, and a jump at the end of it. But if pent up in the social chimney-corner, where he was barricadoed in with a table and a couple of armchairs, and could not escape, Eugenius would then lecture him in this way: 'Trust me, dear Yorick, this jesting will sooner or later bring thee into scrapes and difficulties, from which thy wit will not rescue thee. A person laughed at, considers himself an injured man; and when he counts up his friends, family, and allies, 'tis no extravagance to say that for every ten jokes, thou hast got an hundred enemies; yet till thou hast raised a swarm of wasps about thine ears, and art half stung to death, thou wilt never be convinced it is so. 'I know that there is no ill-will in your jests - I believe them to be honest and playful. But consider, my dear lad, that fools cannot distinguish this, and that knaves will not: and depend upon it, they will wage war in such a manner against thee, my dear friend, as to make thee heartily sick of it, and of thy life too. 'Revenge from some baneful corner shall tell a tale of dishonour about thee, which no innocence of heart or integrity of conduct shall set right. The fortunes of thy house shall totter - thy character shall bleed: thy faith questioned, thy works belied, thy wit forgotten, thy learning trampled on. Cruelty and Cowardice, twin ruffians, hired and set on by Malice in the dark, shall strike together at thy weaknesses. Trust me, Yorick, when it is decided that an innocent creature shall be sacrificed, 'tis easy to pick up enough sticks from any thicket where it has strayed, to make a fire to burn it on.' Yorick scarce ever heard this sad lecture without fear and promises to act more soberly. But, alas, too late! - A grand confederacy, with ***** and ***** at its head, was already formed. The plan of the attack, just as Eugenius had foreboded, was put in execution with so little mercy on the side of the allies, and so little suspicion in Yorick of what was going on, that when he thought, good easy man! that surely preferment was ripening - they cut him down at root, and then he fell. Yorick fought gallantly for some time; till, overpowered by numbers, and worn out, he threw down the sword; and though he kept up his spirits in appearance to the last, he died, it seems, quite broken-hearted. What inclined Eugenius to think this was as follows: A few hours before Yorick breathed his last, Eugenius took his final farewell of him. Upon his drawing Yorick's curtain, and asking how he felt, Yorick looked up in his face and grasped his hand. After thanking him for the many tokens of his friendship, Yorick told him he was within a few hours of giving his enemies the slip for ever. 'I hope not,' answered Eugenius tenderly, with tears trickling down his cheeks. Yorick replied only with a look and a gentle squeeze of Eugenius's hand, which cut him to the heart. 'Come, come, Yorick,' said he, 'my dear lad, be comforted, let not thy fortitude forsake thee now; who knows what the power of God may yet do for thee?' Yorick gently shook his head. Eugenius continued, crying bitterly, 'I know not, Yorick, how to part with thee. I hope that thou mayst still live long enough to be made a bishop.' 'I beseech thee, Eugenius,' said Yorick, taking off his night-cap with his left hand, his right still grasping that of Eugenius, 'I beseech thee to take a view of my head.' 'I see nothing wrong with it.' 'Alas! my friend,' said Yorick, ''tis so bruised and mis-shapen with the blows which ***** and ***** have given me in the dark, that I might say with Sancho Panza, that should I recover, and bishops' mitres "rain down from heaven as thick as hail, not one of them would fit."' Yorick's last breath was hanging upon his trembling lips as he uttered this: yet still it was said with something of a Cervantick tone; and as he spoke, Eugenius perceived a fire light up for a moment in his eyes; a faint reflection of those flashes of his spirit, which (as Shakespeare said of his ancestor) were wont to set the table in a roar! Eugenius was convinced from this, that his friend's heart was broken: he squeezed his hand, and then walked softly out of the room, weeping. Yorick followed Eugenius with his eyes to the door: he then closed them, and never opened them more. He lies buried in the corner of his churchyard, in the parish of ___, under a plain marble slab, which his friend Eugenius laid upon his grave, with no more than these three words of inscription serving both for his epitaph and elegy. ALAS, POOR YORICK! Ten times a day has Yorick's ghost the consolation of hearing this inscription read over with a variety of plaintive tones, denoting pity and esteem: no-one goes by the grave without stopping to cast a look upon it, and sighing as he walks on, ' Alas, poor Yorick!'

Tristram Shandy

Book 1 - Chapter 12

------Then, positively, there is nothing in the question that I can see, either good or bad. ----Then, let me tell you, Sir, it was a very unseasonable question at least, --because it scattered and dispersed the animal spirits, whose business it was to have escorted and gone hand in hand with the _HOMUNCULUS_, and conducted him safe to the place destined for his reception. The HOMUNCULUS, Sir, in however low and ludicrous a light he may appear, in this age of levity, to the eye of folly or prejudice; --to the eye of reason in scientifick research, he stands confess'd--a BEING guarded and circumscribed with rights. ----The minutest philosophers, who, by the bye, have the most enlarged understandings (their souls being inversely as their enquiries), shew us incontestably, that the HOMUNCULUS is created by the same hand, --engender'd in the same course of nature, --endow'd with the same locomotive powers and faculties with us: --That he consists as we do, of skin, hair, fat, flesh, veins, arteries, ligaments, nerves, cartilages, bones, marrow, brains, glands, genitals, humours, and articulations; --is a Being of as much activity, --and, in all senses of the word, as much and as truly our fellow-creature as my Lord Chancellor of _England_. --He may be benefited, --he may be injured, --he may obtain redress; --in a word, he has all the claims and rights of humanity, which _Tully_, _Puffendorf_, or the best ethick writers allow to arise out of that state and relation. Now, dear Sir, what if any accident had befallen him in his way alone! --or that, through terror of it, natural to so young a traveller, my little Gentleman had got to his journey's end miserably spent; --his muscular strength and virility worn down to a thread; --his own animal spirits ruffled beyond description, --and that in this sad disordered state of nerves, he had lain down a prey to sudden starts, or a series of melancholy dreams and fancies, for nine long, long months together. --I tremble to think what a foundation had been laid for a thousand weaknesses both of body and mind, which no skill of the physician or the philosopher could ever afterwards have set thoroughly to rights.

Then, there is nothing in the question that I can see, either good or bad. -Then, let me tell you, Sir, it was a very badly-timed question, because it scattered the animal spirits, who should have escorted and gone hand in hand with the Homunculus, the newly created little being: and have conducted him safe to the place destined for his reception. The Homunculus, Sir, however ludicrous he may appear to the eye of folly or prejudice; - to the eye of scientific reason, he is a Being with rights. Philosophers show us that the Homunculus consists as we do, of skin, hair, fat, flesh, veins, arteries, nerves, bones, marrow, brains, glands, genitals and humours; - that he is as truly our fellow-creature as the Lord Chancellor of England. In a word, he has all the rights of humanity, as laid down by Tully, Pullendorf and the best ethic writers. Now, dear Sir, what if any accident had befallen him in his way! Or if, through terror, my little Gentleman had got to his journey's end miserably spent; his strength and virility worn down to a thread; his own animal spirits ruffled beyond description,- and that in this sad disordered state of nerves, he had lain a prey to fear and melancholy for nine long, long months together. I tremble to think what a foundation would have been laid for a thousand weaknesses of body and mind, which could never afterwards be set to rights.

Tristram Shandy

Book 1 - Chapter 2

What a chapter of chances, said my father, turning himself about upon the first landing, as he and my uncle _Toby_ were going downstairs--what a long chapter of chances do the events of this world lay open to us! Take pen and ink in hand, brother _Toby_, and calculate it fairly ----I know no more of calculation than this balluster, said my uncle _Toby_ (striking short of it with his crutch, and hitting my father a desperate blow souse upon his shin-bone)----'Twas a hundred to one--cried my uncle _Toby_ --I thought, quoth my father (rubbing his shin), you had known nothing of calculations, brother _Toby_. 'Tis a mere chance, said my uncle _Toby_. ------Then it adds one to the chapter----replied my father. The double success of my father's repartees tickled off the pain of his shin at once--it was well it so fell out--(chance! again)--or the world to this day had never known the subject of my father's calculation----to guess it--there was no chance ----What a lucky chapter of chances has this turned out! for it has saved me the trouble of writing one express, and in truth I have enough already upon my hands without it. --Have not I promised the world a chapter of knots? two chapters upon the right and the wrong end of a woman? a chapter upon whiskers? a chapter upon wishes? ----a chapter of noses? --No, I have done that--a chapter upon my uncle _Toby's_ modesty? to say nothing of a chapter upon chapters, which I will finish before I sleep--by my great-grandfather's whiskers, I shall never get half of 'em through this year. Take pen and ink in hand, and calculate it fairly, brother _Toby_, said my father, and it will turn out a million to one, that of all the parts of the body, the edge of the forceps should have the ill luck just to fall upon and break down that one part, which should break down the fortunes of our house with it. It might have been worse, replied my uncle _Toby_. ----I don't comprehend, said my father. ------Suppose the hip had presented, replied my uncle _Toby_, as Dr. _Slop_ foreboded. My father reflected half a minute--looked down----touched the middle of his forehead slightly with his finger------ --True, said he.

'What a chapter of chances,' said my father, turning on the first landing, as he and my uncle Toby were going downstairs - 'what a long chapter of chances do the events of this world lay open to us! Take pen in hand, brother Toby, and calculate it.' 'I know no more of calculation than this banister,' said my uncle Toby (attempting to strike it with his crutch, and hitting my father a blow upon his shin-bone). ''Twas a hundred to one chance,' cried my uncle. 'I thought,' quoth my father (rubbing his shin), 'you knew nothing of calculations, brother.' The success of my father's repartee tickled off the pain of his shin. It was well it happened (chance! again) - or the world would never have known the subject of my father's calculation - there was no chance of guessing it- What a lucky chapter of chances has this turned out! for it has saved me the trouble of writing one especially, and in truth I have enough already upon my hands without it. Have I not promised the world a chapter of knots? two chapters upon the right and wrong end of a woman? a chapter upon whiskers? a chapter upon wishes? a chapter of noses? No, I have done that. A chapter upon my uncle Toby's modesty? to say nothing of a chapter upon chapters, which I will finish before I sleep. By my great-grandfather's whiskers, I shall never get through half of 'em this year. 'Take pen in hand, and calculate it,' said my father, 'and it will turn out a million to one, that of all the parts of the body, the forceps should have the ill luck just to break that part, which should destroy the fortunes of our house with it.' 'It might have been worse,' replied my uncle Toby. 'Suppose the hip had presented, as Dr. Slop foreboded.' My father reflected half a minute- 'True,' said he.

Tristram Shandy

Book 4 - Chapter 9

Just as the corporal was humming, to begin--in waddled Dr. _Slop_. --'Tis not two-pence matter--the corporal shall go on in the next chapter, let who will come in.---- Well, my good doctor, cried my father sportively, for the transitions of his passions were unaccountably sudden, --and what has this whelp of mine to say to the matter? Had my father been asking after the amputation of the tail of a puppy-dog--he could not have done it in a more careless air: the system which Dr. _Slop_ had laid down, to treat the accident by, no way allowed of such a mode of enquiry. --He sat down. Pray, Sir, quoth my uncle _Toby_, in a manner which could not go unanswered, --in what condition is the boy? --'Twill end in a _phimosis_, replied Dr. _Slop_. I am no wiser than I was, quoth my uncle _Toby_--returning his pipe into his mouth. ----Then let the corporal go on, said my father, with his medical lecture. --The corporal made a bow to his old friend, Dr. _Slop_, and then delivered his opinion concerning radical heat and radical moisture, in the following words.

Just as the corporal was beginning - in waddled Dr. Slop. 'Tis no matter - the corporal shall go on in the next chapter. 'Well, my good doctor,' cried my father sportively, for his changes of mood were unaccountably sudden; 'and how is this whelp of mine faring?' Had my father been asking about the amputation of a puppy-dog's tail, he could not have done it more carelessly. Dr. Slop did not care for this mode of enquiry.- He sat down. 'Pray, Sir,' quoth my uncle Toby more earnestly, 'in what condition is the boy?' ''Twill end in a phimosis,' replied Dr. Slop. 'I am no wiser than I was,' quoth my uncle Toby. 'Then let the corporal go on,' said my father, 'with his medical lecture.' The corporal made a bow to Dr. Slop, and then continued:

Tristram Shandy

Book 5 - Chapter 39

I think, an' please your honour, quoth _Trim_, the fortifications are quite destroyed----and the bason is upon a level with the mole ----I think so too; replied my uncle _Toby_ with a sigh half suppress'd----but step into the parlour, _Trim_, for the stipulation----it lies upon the table. It has lain there these six weeks, replied the corporal, till this very morning that the old woman kindled the fire with it-- ----Then, said my uncle _Toby_, there is no further occasion for our services. The more, an' please your honour, the pity, said the corporal; in uttering which he cast his spade into the wheel-barrow, which was beside him, with an air the most expressive of disconsolation that can be imagined, and was heavily turning about to look for his pickax, his pioneer's shovel, his picquets, and other little military stores, in order to carry them off the field----when a heigh-ho! from the sentry-box, which being made of thin slit deal, reverberated the sound more sorrowfully to his ear, forbad him. ----No; said the corporal to himself, I'll do it before his honour rises to-morrow morning; so taking his spade out of the wheel-barrow again, with a little earth in it, as if to level something at the foot of the glacis----but with a real intent to approach nearer to his master, in order to divert him----he loosen'd a sod or two----pared their edges with his spade, and having given them a gentle blow or two with the back of it, he sat himself down close by my uncle _Toby's_ feet, and began as follows.

'I think, your honour,' quoth Trim, 'the fortifications are quite destroyed.' 'I think so too,' replied my uncle Toby with a sigh;- 'but step into the parlour, Trim, for the treaty - it lies upon the table.' 'It has lain there these six weeks,' replied the corporal, 'till this very morning, when the old woman kindled the fire with it.' 'Then,' said my uncle, 'there is no further need for our services.' 'The more's the pity,' said the corporal. He cast his spade into the wheel-barrow with a disconsolate air, and was heavily turning around to look for his pickaxe and shovel, to carry them off the field - when a 'heigh-ho!' reverberating sorrowfully from the sentry-box forbade him. 'No,' said the corporal to himself. 'I'll do it before his honour rises to-morrow morning.' So, taking his spade out of the wheel-barrow again, in order to divert his master, he loosened a sod or two, and having given them a gentle blow with the back of the spade, he sat down close by my uncle Toby's feet, and began as follows.

Tristram Shandy

Book 8 - Chapter 18

Had this volume been a farce, which, unless every one's life and opinions are to be looked upon as a farce as well as mine, I see no reason to suppose--the last chapter, Sir, had finished the first act of it, and then this chapter must have set off thus. Ptr..r..r..ing--twing--twang--prut--trut----'tis a cursed bad fiddle. --Do you know whether my fiddle's in tune or no? --trut..prut.. --They should be _fifths_. ----'Tis wickedly strung--tr...a.e.i.o.u.-twang. --The bridge is a mile too high, and the sound post absolutely down, --else--trut . . prut--hark! 'tis not so bad a tone. --Diddle diddle, diddle diddle, diddle diddle, dum. There is nothing in playing before good judges, --but there's a man there--no--not him with the bundle under his arm--the grave man in black. --'Sdeath! not the gentleman with the sword on. --Sir, I had rather play a _Caprichio_ to _Calliope_ herself, than draw my bow across my fiddle before that very man; and yet I'll stake my _Cremona_ to a _Jew's_ trump, which is the greatest musical odds that ever were laid, that I will this moment stop three hundred and fifty leagues out of tune upon my fiddle, without punishing one single nerve that belongs to him --Twaddle diddle, tweddle diddle, --twiddle diddle, ----twoddle diddle, --twuddle diddle, ----prut trut--krish--krash--krush. --I've undone you, Sir, --but you see he's no worse, --and was _Apollo_ to take his fiddle after me, he can make him no better. Diddle diddle, diddle diddle, diddle diddle--hum--dum--drum. --Your worships and your reverences love music--and God has made you all with good ears--and some of you play delightfully yourselves--trut-prut, --prut-trut. O! there is--whom I could sit and hear whole days, --whose talents lie in making what he fiddles to be felt, --who inspires me with his joys and hopes, and puts the most hidden springs of my heart into motion. --If you would borrow five guineas of me, Sir, --which is generally ten guineas more than I have to spare--or you Messrs. Apothecary and Taylor, want your bills paying, --that's your time.

Had this volume been a farce, which, unless everyone's life and opinions are regarded as a farce, I see no reason to suppose - the last chapter, Sir, would have finished the first act of it, and then this chapter must have set off thus. Ptr..r..r..ing - twing - twang - prut - trut - 'tis a cursed bad fiddle. Is it in tune or no? trut, prut - They should be fifths. 'Tis wickedly strung - twang. - The bridge is a mile too high - trut, prut - hark! 'tis not so bad a tone. Diddle diddle, diddle diddle, diddle diddle, dum. There is no problem in playing before good judges, but there's a man there - the grave man in black - 'Sdeath! not the gentleman with the sword on. Sir, I had rather play a Caprichio to Calliope, than draw my bow across my fiddle before that man; and yet I'll wager the greatest musical odds ever laid, that I will this moment go three hundred leagues out of tune upon my fiddle, without punishing one single nerve of his.- Twaddle diddle, tweddle diddle, - twiddle diddle, - twoddle diddle, - twuddle diddle, - prut trut - krish - krash - krush. I've undone you, Sir, but you see he's no worse. Diddle diddle, diddle diddle, diddle diddle - hum - drum. Your worships love music - and some of you play delightfully yourselves - trut-prut, prut-trut. O! I could sit and listen whole days, to one who can make what he fiddles to be felt, who inspires me with his joys and hopes, and puts the hidden springs of my heart into motion.

Tristram Shandy

Book 5 - Chapter 15

When my uncle _Toby_ had turned everything into money, and settled all accounts betwixt the agent of the regiment and _Le Fever_, and betwixt _Le Fever_ and all mankind, ----there remained nothing more in my uncle _Toby's_ hands, than an old regimental coat and a sword; so that my uncle _Toby_ found little or no opposition from the world in taking administration. The coat my uncle _Toby_ gave the corporal; ----Wear it, _Trim_, said my uncle _Toby_, as long as it will hold together, for the sake of the poor lieutenant ----And this, ----said my uncle _Toby_, taking up the sword in his hand, and drawing it out of the scabbard as he spoke----and this, _Le Fever_, I'll save for thee, --'tis all the fortune, continued my uncle _Toby_, hanging it up upon a crook, and pointing to it, --'tis all the fortune, my dear _Le Fever_, which God has left thee; but if he has given thee a heart to fight thy way with it in the world, --and thou doest it like a man of honour, --'tis enough for us. As soon as my uncle _Toby_ had laid a foundation, and taught him to inscribe a regular polygon in a circle, he sent him to a public school, where, excepting _Whitsontide_ and _Christmas_, at which times the corporal was punctually dispatched for him, --he remained to the spring of the year, seventeen; when the stories of the emperor's sending his army into _Hungary_ against the _Turks_, kindling a spark of fire in his bosom, he left his _Greek_ and _Latin_ without leave, and throwing himself upon his knees before my uncle _Toby_, begged his father's sword, and my uncle _Toby's_ leave along with it, to go and try his fortune under _Eugene_. --Twice did my uncle _Toby_ forget his wound and cry out, _Le Fever!_ I will go with thee, and thou shalt fight beside me ----And twice he laid his hand upon his groin, and hung down his head in sorrow and disconsolation.---- My uncle _Toby_ took down the sword from the crook, where it had hung untouched ever since the lieutenant's death, and delivered it to the corporal to brighten up; ----and having detained _Le Fever_ a single fortnight to equip him, and contract for his passage to _Leghorn_, --he put the sword into his hand. ----If thou art brave, _Le Fever_, said my uncle _Toby_, this will not fail thee, ----but Fortune, said he (musing a little), ----Fortune may ----And if she does, --added my uncle _Toby_, embracing him, come back again to me, _Le Fever_, and we will shape thee another course. The greatest injury could not have oppressed the heart of _Le Fever_ more than my uncle _Toby's_ paternal kindness; ----he parted from my uncle _Toby_, as the best of sons from the best of fathers----both dropped tears----and as my uncle _Toby_ gave him his last kiss, he slipped sixty guineas, tied up in an old purse of his father's, in which was his mother's ring, into his hand,---- and bid God bless him.

When my uncle Toby had turned Le Fever's belongings into money and settled all his accounts, there was nothing left but an old regimental coat and a sword. The coat my uncle gave to the corporal. 'Wear it, Trim,' said he, 'for the sake of the poor lieutenant. - And this' - my uncle Toby drew the sword out of the scabbard as he spoke - 'this, young Le Fever, I'll save for thee. 'Tis all the fortune which God has left thee; but if he has given thee a heart to fight thy way with - and thou doest it like a man of honour - 'tis enough for us.' As soon as my uncle Toby had laid a foundation, and taught the boy to inscribe a regular polygon in a circle, he sent him to a public school, where - except Whitsuntide and Christmas, when the corporal went to fetch him home - he remained until the spring of 1717. Then, fired by stories of the emperor's sending his army into Hungary against the Turks, he left his Greek and Latin without leave; and throwing himself upon his knees before my uncle, begged his father's sword, and my uncle's permission to go and try his fortune as a soldier. Twice did my uncle Toby forget his wound and cry out, 'Le Fever! I will go with thee, and thou shalt fight beside me.' - And twice he laid his hand upon his groin, and hung his head in sorrow. My uncle Toby kept Le Fever a fortnight to equip him, and buy his passage to Leghorn. Then he took down the sword from where it had hung since the lieutenant's death, and put it into his hand. 'If thou art brave, Le Fever,' said he, 'this will not fail thee; but' (musing a little), 'Fortune may. If she does, come back again to me, Le Fever,' said he, embracing him, 'and we will shape thee another course.' The greatest injury could not have affected Le Fever more than my uncle Toby's kindness; he parted from my uncle as the best of sons from the best of fathers - both dropped tears - and as my uncle Toby gave him his last kiss, he slipped him sixty guineas, tied up in an old purse of his father's, along with his mother's ring; - and bid God bless him.

Tristram Shandy

Book 6 - Chapter 12

When my uncle _Toby_ and the corporal had marched down to the bottom of the avenue, they recollected their business lay the other way; so they faced about and marched up straight to Mrs. _Wadman's_ door. I warrant your honour; said the corporal, touching his _Montero_-cap with his hand, as he passed him in order to give a knock at the door ----My uncle _Toby_, contrary to his invariable way of treating his faithful servant, said nothing good or bad: the truth was, he had not altogether marshal'd his ideas; he wish'd for another conference, and as the corporal was mounting up the three steps before the door--he hem'd twice--a portion of my uncle _Toby's_ most modest spirits fled, at each expulsion, towards the corporal; he stood with the rapper of the door suspended for a full minute in his hand, he scarce knew why. _Bridget_ stood perdue within, with her finger and her thumb upon the latch, benumb'd with expectation; and Mrs. _Wadman_, with an eye ready to be deflowered again, sat breathless behind the window-curtain of her bed-chamber, watching their approach. _Trim!_ said my uncle _Toby_----but as he articulated the word, the minute expired, and _Trim_ let fall the rapper. My uncle _Toby_ perceiving that all hopes of a conference were knock'd on the head by it------whistled Lillabullero.

When my uncle Toby and the corporal had marched down to the bottom of the avenue, they recollected that their business lay the other way; so they turned around and marched up to Mrs. Wadman's door. 'I warrant your honour,' said the corporal, touching his Montero-cap with his hand, as he knocked at the door. My uncle Toby said nothing: the truth was, he had not altogether marshalled his ideas; he wished for another conference. As the corporal was mounting up the three steps before the door, my uncle ahemmed twice; - a portion of his most modest spirits fled, at each expulsion, towards the corporal, who stood with the door rapper suspended for a full minute in his hand, he scarce knew why. Bridget stood inside, with her finger and thumb upon the latch, benumbed with expectation; and Mrs. Wadman, with an eye ready to be deflowered again, sat breathless behind the window-curtain of her bed-chamber, watching their approach. 'Trim!' said my uncle Toby - but as he said it, Trim let fall the rapper. My uncle Toby, perceiving that all hopes of a conference were knocked on the head, whistled Lillabullero.

Tristram Shandy

Book 9 - Chapter 16

Now as widow _Wadman_ did love my uncle _Toby_----and my uncle _Toby_ did not love widow _Wadman_, there was nothing for widow _Wadman_ to do, but to go on and love my uncle _Toby_----or let it alone. Widow _Wadman_ would do neither the one or the other. ----Gracious heaven! ----but I forget I am a little of her temper myself; for whenever it so falls out, which it sometimes does about the equinoxes, that an earthly goddess is so much this, and that, and t'other, that I cannot eat my breakfast for her----and that she careth not three halfpence whether I eat my breakfast or no---- ----Curse on her! and so I send her to _Tartary_, and from _Tartary_ to _Terra del Fuogo_, and so on to the devil: in short, there is not an infernal nitch where I do not take her divinityship and stick it. But as the heart is tender, and the passions in these tides ebb and flow ten times in a minute, I instantly bring her back again; and as I do all things in extremes, I place her in the very centre of the milky-way---- Brightest of stars! thou wilt shed thy influence upon some one------ ----The duce take her and her influence too----for at that word I lose all patience----much good may it do him! ----By all that is hirsute and gashly! I cry, taking off my furr'd cap, and twisting it round my finger ----I would not give sixpence for a dozen such! ----But 'tis an excellent cap too (putting it upon my head, and pressing it close to my ears)--and warm--and soft; especially if you stroke it the right way--but alas! that will never be my luck----(so here my philosophy is shipwreck'd again). ----No; I shall never have a finger in the pye (so here I break my metaphor)---- Crust and Crumb Inside and out Top and bottom ----I detest it, I hate it, I repudiate it ----I'm sick at the sight of it---- 'Tis all pepper, garlick, staragen, salt, and devil's dung----by the great arch-cook of cooks, who does nothing, I think, from morning to night, but sit down by the fire-side and invent inflammatory dishes for us, I would not touch it for the world---- ----_O Tristram! Tristram!_ cried _Jenny_. _O Jenny! Jenny!_ replied I, and so went on with the twelfth chapter.

Now as widow Wadman loved my uncle Toby, and my uncle Toby did not love widow Wadman, there was nothing for widow Wadman to do but to go on loving my uncle Toby - or let it alone. She would do neither the one nor the other. - Gracious heaven! - but I forget I am a little of her temper myself; for whenever it happens that an earthly goddess is so much this, that, and t'other, that I cannot eat my breakfast - and she cares not three halfpence whether I eat my breakfast or no- - Curse on her! and so I send her to Tartary, and from Tartary to Terra del Fuego, and so on to the devil: in short, there is not an infernal niche where I do not take her divinityship and stick it. But as the heart is tender, and its passions ebb and flow ten times a minute, I instantly bring her back again; and as I do all things in extremes, I place her in the very centre of the milky-way- Brightest of stars! shed thy influence upon someone- 'The deuce take her and her influence too - much good may it do him! - By all that is hairy and gashly!' I cry, taking off my furred cap, and twisting it round my finger. 'I would not give sixpence for a dozen such! 'But 'tis an excellent cap (putting it upon my head,) - and warm, and soft; especially if you stroke it the right way - but alas! that will never be my luck. 'No; I shall never have a finger in the pie' (so here I break my metaphor)- 'Crust and Crumb 'Inside and out 'Top and bottom - I detest it, I hate it, I'm sick at the sight of it- ''Tis all pepper, garlic, salt, and devil's dung - I would not touch it for the world-' 'O Tristram! Tristram!' cried Jenny. 'O Jenny! Jenny!' replied I, and so went on with the twelfth chapter.

Tristram Shandy

Book 8 - Chapter 11

'Tis a pity, _Trim_, said my uncle _Toby_, resting with his hand upon the corporal's shoulder, as they both stood surveying their works, --that we have not a couple of field-pieces to mount in the gorge of that new redoubt; ----'twould secure the lines all along there, and make the attack on that side quite complete: ----get me a couple cast, _Trim_. Your honour shall have them, replied _Trim_, before to-morrow morning. It was the joy of _Trim's_ heart, --nor was his fertile head ever at a loss for expedients in doing it, to supply my uncle _Toby_ in his campaigns, with whatever his fancy called for; had it been his last crown, he would have sate down and hammered it into a paderero, to have prevented a single wish in his Master. The corporal had already, --what with cutting off the ends of my uncle _Toby's_ spouts--hacking and chiseling up the sides of his leaden gutters, --melting down his pewter shaving-bason, --and going at last, like _Lewis_ the Fourteenth, on to the top of the church, for spare ends, &c. ----he had that very campaign brought no less than eight new battering cannons, besides three demi-culverins, into the field; my uncle _Toby's_ demand for two more pieces for the redoubt, had set the corporal at work again; and no better resource offering, he had taken the two leaden weights from the nursery window: and as the sash pullies, when the lead was gone, were of no kind of use, he had taken them away also, to make a couple of wheels for one of their carriages. He had dismantled every sash-window in my uncle _Toby's_ house long before, in the very same way, --though not always in the same order; for sometimes the pullies have been wanted, and not the lead, --so then he began with the pullies, --and the pullies being picked out, then the lead became useless, --and so the lead went to pot too. ----A great MORAL might be picked handsomely out of this, but I have not time--'tis enough to say, wherever the demolition began, 'twas equally fatal to the sash window.

''Tis a pity, Trim,' said my uncle Toby, resting his hand upon the corporal's shoulder, as they stood surveying their works, 'that we have not a couple of field-pieces to mount in that new redoubt; 'twould secure the lines along there, and make the attack on that side quite complete: get me a couple cast, Trim.' 'Your honour shall have them,' replied Trim, 'before to-morrow morning.' It was the joy of Trim's heart to supply my uncle Toby in his campaigns with whatever his fancy called for; had it been his last coin, he would have sat down and hammered it into a fire-arm, to please his Master. The corporal had already, - what with cutting off the ends of my uncle Toby's leaden spouts - hacking at the sides of his lead gutters - melting down his pewter shaving-basin, and climbing on the church roof for spare ends of lead, - he had brought no less than eight new battering cannons into the field. My uncle Toby's demand for two more pieces for the redoubt set the corporal at work again; and he had taken the two leaden weights from the nursery window: and as the sash pulleys were of no use without the weights, he had taken them away also, to make wheels for one of their gun-carriages. He had dismantled every sash-window in my uncle Toby's house long before, in the same way, though not always in the same order; for sometimes he began with the pulleys; and with the pulleys gone, the lead became useless, - and so the lead went to pot too. A great Moral might be picked handsomely out of this, but I have not time. 'Tis enough to say that wherever the demolition began, 'twas equally fatal to the sash window.

Tristram Shandy

Book 5 - Chapter 19

The city of _Limerick_, the siege of which was begun under his majesty king _William_ himself, the year after I went into the army--lies, an' please your honours, in the middle of a devilish wet, swampy country. --'Tis quite surrounded, said my uncle _Toby_, with the _Shannon_, and is, by its situation, one of the strongest fortified places in _Ireland_.---- I think this is a new fashion, quoth Dr. _Slop_, of beginning a medical lecture. --'Tis all true, answered _Trim_. --Then I wish the faculty would follow the cut of it, said _Yorick_. --'Tis all cut through, an' please your reverence, said the corporal, with drains and bogs; and besides, there was such a quantity of rain fell during the siege, the whole country was like a puddle, --'twas that, and nothing else, which brought on the flux, and which had like to have killed both his honour and myself; now there was no such thing, after the first ten days, continued the corporal, for a soldier to lie dry in his tent, without cutting a ditch round it, to draw off the water; --nor was that enough, for those who could afford it, as his honour could, without setting fire every night to a pewter dish full of brandy, which took off the damp of the air, and made the inside of the tent as warm as a stove.------ And what conclusion dost thou draw, corporal _Trim_, cried my father, from all these premises? I infer, an' please your worship, replied _Trim_, that the radical moisture is nothing in the world but ditch-water--and that the radical heat, of those who can go to the expence of it, is burnt brandy, --the radical heat and moisture of a private man, an' please your honour, is nothing but ditch-water--and a dram of geneva----and give us but enough of it, with a pipe of tobacco, to give us spirits, and drive away the vapours--we know not what it is to fear death. I am at a loss, Captain _Shandy_, quoth Dr. _Slop_, to determine in which branch of learning your servant shines most, whether in physiology or divinity. --_Slop_ had not forgot _Trim's_ comment upon the sermon.-- It is but an hour ago, replied _Yorick_, since the corporal was examined in the latter, and pass'd muster with great honour.---- The radical heat and moisture, quoth Dr. _Slop_, turning to my father, you must know, is the basis and foundation of our being--as the root of a tree is the source and principle of its vegetation. --It is inherent in the seeds of all animals, and may be preserved sundry ways, but principally in my opinion by _consubstantials_, _impriments_, and _occludents_. ----Now this poor fellow, continued Dr. _Slop_, pointing to the corporal, has had the misfortune to have heard some superficial empiric discourse upon this nice point. ----That he has, --said my father. ----Very likely, said my uncle. --I'm sure of it--quoth _Yorick_.----

'The city of Limerick, the siege of which was begun under his majesty king William, the year after I entered the army, lies in the middle of a devilish wet, swampy country.' ''Tis quite surrounded,' said my uncle Toby, 'with the River Shannon, and is one of the strongest fortified places in Ireland.' 'I think this is a new fashion,' quoth Dr. Slop, 'of beginning a medical lecture.' ''Tis all cut through,' said the corporal, 'with drains and bogs; and there was such a quantity of rain fell during the siege, the whole country was like a puddle; 'twas that which brought on the dysentery, which almost killed us both. A soldier could not lie dry in his tent, without cutting a ditch round it, to draw off the water; and those who could afford it, as his honour could, set fire every night to a dish full of brandy, which took off the damp of the air, and made the inside of the tent as warm as a stove.' 'And what conclusion dost thou draw,' cried my father, 'from all this?' 'I infer, an' please your worship,' replied Trim, 'that the radical moisture is nothing but ditch-water - and that the radical heat, of those who can afford it, is burnt brandy; - for a private soldier, 'tis nothing but ditch-water and a dram of gin - and give us but enough of it, with a pipe of tobacco, to drive away the vapours - we know not what it is to fear death.' 'I am at a loss, Captain Shandy,' quoth Dr. Slop, 'to decide whether your servant shines most in physiology or divinity.' Slop had not forgot Trim's comment on the sermon. 'Only an hour ago,' replied Yorick, 'the corporal was examined in the latter, and passed with great honour.' 'The radical heat and moisture,' quoth Dr. Slop, turning to my father, 'you must know, is the foundation of our being. - It is inherent in the seeds of all animals, and may be preserved in many ways, but principally in my opinion by consubstantials, impriments, and occludents. Now this poor fellow,' continued Dr. Slop, pointing to the corporal, 'has heard some superficial talk upon this delicate point.' 'That he has,' said my father. 'Very likely,' said my uncle. 'I'm sure of it,' quoth Yorick.

Tristram Shandy

Book 5 - Chapter 40

As _Susannah_ was informed by an express from Mrs. _Bridget_, of my uncle _Toby's_ falling in love with her mistress fifteen days before it happened, --the contents of which express, _Susannah_ communicated to my mother the next day, --it has just given me an opportunity of entering upon my uncle _Toby's_ amours a fortnight before their existence. I have an article of news to tell you, Mr. _Shandy_, quoth my mother, which will surprise you greatly.---- Now my father was then holding one of his second beds of justice, and was musing within himself about the hardships of matrimony, as my mother broke silence.------ "----My brother _Toby_, quoth she, is going to be married to Mrs. _Wadman_." ----Then he will never, quoth my father, be able to lie _diagonally_ in his bed again as long as he lives. It was a consuming vexation to my father, that my mother never asked the meaning of a thing she did not understand. ----That she is not a woman of science, my father would say--is her misfortune--but she might ask a question.-- My mother never did. ----In short, she went out of the world at last without knowing whether it turned _round_, or stood _still_. ----My father had officiously told her above a thousand times which way it was, --but she always forgot. For these reasons, a discourse seldom went on much further betwixt them, than a proposition, --a reply, and a rejoinder; at the end of which, it generally took breath for a few minutes (as in the affair of the breeches), and then went on again. If he marries, 'twill be the worse for us, --quoth my mother. Not a cherry-stone, said my father, --he may as well batter away his means upon that, as any thing else. ----To be sure, said my mother: so here ended the proposition, --the reply, --and the rejoinder, I told you of. It will be some amusement to him, too, ----said my father. A very great one, answered my mother, if he should have children.---- ----Lord have mercy upon me, --said my father to himself---- * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

As Susannah was informed by Mrs. Bridget of my uncle Toby's falling in love with her mistress fifteen days before it happened - which Susannah then told my mother the next day - it has given me an opportunity of entering upon my uncle Toby's amours a fortnight before their existence. 'I have some news to tell you, Mr. Shandy,' quoth my mother, 'which will surprise you greatly.' Now my father was then holding one of his second beds of justice, and was musing about the hardships of matrimony, as my mother spoke. 'Our brother Toby is going to be married to Mrs. Wadman.' 'Then he will never again,' quoth my father, 'be able to lie diagonally in his bed as long as he lives.' It was a consuming vexation to my father, that my mother never asked the meaning of a thing she did not understand. 'She is not a woman of science,' my father would say - 'but she might ask a question.' My mother never did. She went out of the world at last without knowing whether it turned round, or stood still. My father had officiously told her a thousand times which way it was, but she always forgot. For these reasons, a discourse between them seldom went on much further than a proposition, a reply, and a rejoinder; after which, it generally took breath for a few minutes (as in the affair of the breeches), and then went on again. 'If he marries, 'twill be the worse for us,' quoth my mother. 'Not much,' said my father; 'he may as well batter away his means upon that, as any thing else.' 'To be sure,' said my mother: so here ended the proposition, the reply and the rejoinder. 'It will be some amusement to him, too,' said my father. 'A very great one,' answered my mother, 'if he should have children.' 'Lord have mercy upon me,' said my father to himself. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *.

Tristram Shandy

Book 6 - Chapter 39

What a rate have I gone on at, curvetting and frisking it away, two up and two down for four volumes[4.8] together, without looking once behind, or even on one side of me, to see whom I trod upon! --I'll tread upon no one----quoth I to myself when I mounted ------I'll take a good rattling gallop; but I'll not hurt the poorest jackass upon the road. ----So off I set----up one lane------down another, through this turnpike----over that, as if the arch-jockey of jockeys had got behind me. Now ride at this rate with what good intention and resolution you may----'tis a million to one you'll do some one a mischief, if not yourself ------He's flung--he's off--he's lost his hat--he's down------he'll break his neck----see! ----if he has not galloped full among the scaffolding of the undertaking criticks! ----he'll knock his brains out against some of their posts--he's bounced out! --look--he's now riding like a mad-cap full tilt through a whole crowd of painters, fiddlers, poets, biographers, physicians, lawyers, logicians, players, schoolmen, churchmen, statesmen, soldiers, casuists, connoisseurs, prelates, popes, and engineers. --Don't fear, said I --I'll not hurt the poorest jack-ass upon the king's highway. --But your horse throws dirt; see you've splash'd a bishop. ----I hope in God, 'twas only _Ernulphus_, said I. ------But you have squirted full in the faces of Mess. _Le Moyne_, _De Romigny_, and _De Marcilly_, doctors of the _Sorbonne_. ------That was last year, replied I. --But you have trod this moment upon a king. ----Kings have bad times on't, said I, to be trod upon by such people as me. You have done it, replied my accuser. I deny it, quoth I, and so have got off, and here am I standing with my bridle in one hand, and with my cap in the other, to tell my story. ------And what is it? You shall hear in the next chapter. [Footnote 4.8: According to the original Editions.]

What a rate have I gone on at, frisking it away for four volumes, without looking once behind, to see whom I trod upon! 'I'll tread upon no one,' quoth I to myself when I mounted - 'I'll take a good rattling gallop; but I'll not hurt the poorest jackass upon the road.' So off I set - up one lane - down another, through this turnpike - over that, as if the champion jockeys were behind me. Now if you ride at this rate, however good your intention - 'tis a million to one you'll do some one a mischief, if not yourself. - He's been flung off - he's lost his hat - he'll break his neck - see! if he has not galloped full among the scaffolding of the critics! He'll knock his brains out against their posts - he's bounced out! - look - he's riding like a mad-cap full tilt through a crowd of painters, poets, physicians, lawyers, churchmen, statesmen, soldiers, prelates, popes, and engineers. 'Don't fear,' said I, 'I'll not hurt the poorest jackass upon the road.' 'But your horse throws dirt; see, you've splashed a bishop!' 'I hope to God, 'twas only Ernulphus,' said I. 'But you've squirted full in the faces of the doctors of the Sorbonne!' 'That was last year,' replied I. 'But you have just trod upon a king!' 'I deny it,' quoth I, and so have got off, and here am I standing with my bridle in one hand, and my cap in the other, to tell my story. And what is it? You shall hear in the next chapter.

Tristram Shandy

Book 4 - Chapter 20

--Then reach me my breeches off the chair, said my father to _Susannah_. ----There is not a moment's time to dress you, Sir, cried _Susannah_--the child is as black in the face as my ----As your what? said my father, for like all orators, he was a dear searcher into comparisons. --Bless me, Sir, said _Susannah_, the child's in a fit. --And where's Mr. _Yorick?_ --Never where he should be, said _Susannah_, but his curate's in the dressing-room, with the child upon his arm, waiting for the name--and my mistress bid me run as fast as I could to know, as captain _Shandy_ is the godfather, whether it should not be called after him. Were one sure, said my father to himself, scratching his eyebrow, that the child was expiring, one might as well compliment my brother _Toby_ as not--and it would be a pity, in such a case, to throw away so great a name as _Trismegistus_ upon him----but he may recover. No, no, ----said my father to _Susannah_, I'll get up ------There is no time, cried _Susannah_, the child's as black as my shoe. _Trismegistus_, said my father ------But stay--thou art a leaky vessel, _Susannah_, added my father; canst thou carry _Trismegistus_ in thy head, the length of the gallery without scattering? ------Can I? cried _Susannah_, shutting the door in a huff. ----If she can, I'll be shot, said my father, bouncing out of bed in the dark, and groping for his breeches. _Susannah_ ran with all speed along the gallery. My father made all possible speed to find his breeches. _Susannah_ got the start, and kept it--'Tis _Tris_--something, cried _Susannah_ --There is no christian-name in the world, said the curate, beginning with _Tris_--but _Tristram_. Then 'tis _Tristram-gistus_, quoth _Susannah_. ----There is no _gistus_ to it, noodle! --'tis my own name, replied the curate, dipping his hand, as he spoke, into the bason--_Tristram!_ said he, &c. &c. &c. &c., so _Tristram_ was I called, and _Tristram_ shall I be to the day of my death. My father followed _Susannah_, with his night-gown across his arm, with nothing more than his breeches on, fastened through haste with but a single button, and that button through haste thrust only half into the button-hole. ----She has not forgot the name? cried my father, half opening the door. ----No, no, said the curate, with a tone of intelligence. ----And the child is better, cried _Susannah_. ----And how does your mistress? As well, said _Susannah_, as can be expected. --Pish! said my father, the button of his breeches slipping out of the button-hole --So that whether the interjection was levelled at _Susannah_, or the button-hole--whether Pish was an interjection of contempt or an interjection of modesty, is a doubt, and must be a doubt till I shall have time to write the three following favourite chapters, that is, my chapter of _chamber-maids_, my chapter of _pishes_, and my chapter of _button-holes_. All the light I am able to give the reader at present is this, that the moment my father cried Pish! he whisk'd himself about--and with his breeches held up by one hand, and his night-gown thrown across the arm of the other, he turned along the gallery to bed, something slower than he came.

'Then reach me my breeches off the chair,' said my father to Susannah. 'There is no time to dress you, Sir,' cried Susannah; 'the child is as black in the face as my-' 'As your what?' said my father. 'Bless me, Sir,' said Susannah, 'the child's in a fit.' 'And where's Mr. Yorick?' 'Never where he should be,' said Susannah, 'but his curate's in the dressing-room, with the child upon his arm, waiting for the name - and my mistress bid me run as fast as I could to know, since Captain Shandy is the godfather, whether it should be called after him.' 'If one were sure,' said my father to himself, scratching his eyebrow, 'that the child was expiring, one might as well compliment my brother Toby - and it would be a pity, in that case, to throw away so great a name as Trismegistus upon him - but he may recover. No, no,' he said to Susannah. 'I'll get up.' 'There is no time,' cried Susannah, 'the child's as black as my shoe.' 'Trismegistus,' said my father. 'But stay - thou art a leaky vessel, Susannah. Canst thou carry Trismegistus in thy head, the length of the gallery without scattering it?' 'Can I?' cried Susannah, shutting the door in a huff. 'If she can, I'll be shot,' said my father, bouncing out of bed in the dark, and groping for his clothes. Susannah ran with all speed along the gallery. My father made all possible speed to find his breeches. ''Tis Tris - something,' cried Susannah. 'There is no christian-name in the world,' said the curate, 'beginning with Tris, but Tristram.' 'Then 'tis Tristram-gistus,' quoth Susannah. 'There is no gistus to it, noodle! - 'tis my own name,' replied the curate, dipping his hand into the basin. 'Tristram!' said he, &c. &c. &c.; so Tristram was I called, and Tristram shall I be to the day of my death. My father followed Susannah, with nothing more than his breeches on, fastened through haste with but a single button, and that button only half in the button-hole. 'She has not forgot the name?' cried my father. 'No, no,' said the curate. 'And the child is better,' cried Susannah. 'And how does your mistress?' 'As well,' said Susannah, 'as can be expected.' 'Pish!' said my father, the button of his breeches slipping out of the button-hole. So whether that Pish was levelled at Susannah is a doubt, and must be a doubt till I have time to write the three following favourite chapters: that is, my chapter of chamber-maids, my chapter of Pishes, and my chapter of button-holes. All I can say at present is this, that as my father cried 'Pish!' he whisked himself about - and with his breeches held up by one hand, he turned along the gallery to bed, somewhat slower than he came.

Tristram Shandy

Book 4 - Chapter 14

There is not a town in all _France_, which, in my opinion, looks better in the map, than MONTREUIL; ----I own, it does not look so well in the book of post-roads; but when you come to see it--to be sure it looks most pitifully. There is one thing, however, in it at present very handsome; and that is, the inn-keeper's daughter: She has been eighteen months at _Amiens_, and six at _Paris_, in going through her classes; so knits, and sews, and dances, and does the little coquetries very well.---- --A slut! in running them over within these five minutes that I have stood looking at her, she has let fall at least a dozen loops in a white thread stocking----yes, yes --I see, you cunning gipsy! --'tis long and taper--you need not pin it to your knee--and that 'tis your own--and fits you exactly.---- ----That Nature should have told this creature a word about a _statue's thumb!_ --But as this sample is worth all their thumbs----besides, I have her thumbs and fingers in at the bargain, if they can be any guide to me, --and as _Janatone_ withal (for that is her name) stands so well for a drawing----may I never draw more, or rather may I draw like a draught-horse, by main strength all the days of my life, --if I do not draw her in all her proportions, and with as determined a pencil, as if I had her in the wettest drapery.---- --But your worships chuse rather that I give you the length, breadth, and perpendicular height of the great parish-church, or drawing of the faade of the abbey of Saint _Austerberte_ which has been transported from _Artois_ hither--everything is just I suppose as the masons and carpenters left them, --and if the belief in _Christ_ continues so long, will be so these fifty years to come--so your worships and reverences may all measure them at your leisures----but he who measures thee, _Janatone_, must do it now--thou carriest the principles of change within thy frame; and considering the chances of a transitory life, I would not answer for thee a moment; ere twice twelve months are passed and gone, thou mayest grow out like a pumpkin, and lose thy shapes----or thou mayest go off like a flower, and lose thy beauty--nay, thou mayest go off like a hussy--and lose thyself. --I would not answer for my aunt _Dinah_, was she alive----'faith, scarce for her picture----were it but painted by _Reynolds_-- But if I go on with my drawing, after naming that son of _Apollo_, I'll be shot---- So you must e'en be content with the original; which, if the evening is fine in passing thro' _Montreuil_, you will see at your chaise-door, as you change horses: but unless you have as bad a reason for haste as I have--you had better stop: ----She has a little of the _devote_: but that, sir, is a terce to a nine in your favour------ --L--help me! I could not count a single point: so had been piqued and repiqued, and capotted to the devil.

There is not a town in all France which looks better on the map than Montreuil; but when you come to see it - it looks pitiful. There is one thing, however, in it that is very handsome; and that is the inn-keeper's daughter. She has been eighteen months at school in Amiens, and six at Paris; so she knits, and sews, and dances, and does the little coquetries very well. - A slut! In these five minutes that I have stood looking at her, she has let fall at least a dozen loops in a white thread stocking - yes, yes, I see, you cunning gipsy! - you need not pin it to your knee. - That Nature should have told this creature about a statue's thumb! - But as this sample is worth all their thumbs - and as Janatone (for that is her name) stands so well for a drawing - may I never draw more, if I do not draw her in all her proportions, and with as determined a pencil, as if I had her in the wettest drapery. - But your worships choose rather that I should give you the length, breadth, and height of the great parish-church, or draw the abbey of Saint Austerberte, which was transported here from Artois, so that your worships may measure them at your leisure. But he who measures thee, Janatone, must do it now - thy frame will change - and before twice twelve months are passed, thou mayest grow out like a pumpkin, and lose thy shape - or thou mayest go off like a flower, and lose thy beauty - nay, thou mayest go off like a hussy, and lose thyself. But if I go on with my drawing, I'll be shot- So you must be content with the original; which, on a fine evening in Montreuil, you will see as you change horses: but unless you have as bad a reason for haste as I have, you had better stop- - Lord help me! I could not.

Tristram Shandy

Book 7 - Chapter 9

I call all the powers of time and chance, which severally check us in our careers in this world, to bear me witness, that I could never yet get fairly to my uncle _Toby's_ amours, till this very moment, that my mother's _curiosity_, as she stated the affair, ----or a different impulse in her, as my father would have it----wished her to take a peep at them through the key-hole. "Call it, my dear, by its right name, quoth my father, and look through the key-hole as long as you will." Nothing but the fermentation of that little subacid humour, which I have often spoken of, in my father's habit, could have vented such an insinuation----he was however frank and generous in his nature, and at all times open to conviction; so that he had scarce got to the last word of this ungracious retort, when his conscience smote him. My mother was then conjugally swinging with her left arm twisted under his right, in such wise, that the inside of her hand rested upon the back of his--she raised her fingers, and let them fall--it could scarce be call'd a tap; or if it was a tap---- 'twould have puzzled a casuist to say, whether 'twas a tap of remonstrance, or a tap of confession: my father, who was all sensibilities from head to foot, class'd it right --Conscience redoubled her blow--he turn'd his face suddenly the other way, and my mother supposing his body was about to turn with it in order to move homewards, by a cross movement of her right leg, keeping her left as its centre, brought herself so far in front, that as he turned his head, he met her eye ------Confusion again! he saw a thousand reasons to wipe out the reproach, and as many to reproach himself----a thin, blue, chill, pellucid chrystal with all its humours so at rest, the least mote or speck of desire might have been seen, at the bottom of it, had it existed----it did not----and how I happen to be so lewd myself, particularly a little before the vernal and autumnal equinoxes ----Heaven above knows ----My mother----madam----was so at no time, either by nature, by institution, or example. A temperate current of blood ran orderly through her veins in all months of the year, and in all critical moments both of the day and night alike; nor did she superinduce the least heat into her humours from the manual effervescencies of devotional tracts, which having little or no meaning in them, nature is oft-times obliged to find one ----And as for my father's example! 'twas so far from being either aiding or abetting thereunto, that 'twas the whole business of his life to keep all fancies of that kind out of her head ----Nature had done her part, to have spared him this trouble; and what was not a little inconsistent, my father knew it ----And here am I sitting, this 12th day of _August_ 1766, in a purple jerkin and yellow pair of slippers, without either wig or cap on, a most tragicomical completion of his prediction, "That I should neither think, nor act like any other man's child, upon that very account." The mistake in my father, was in attacking my mother's motive, instead of the act itself; for certainly key-holes were made for other purposes; and considering the act, as an act which interfered with a true proposition, and denied a key-hole to be what it was------it became a violation of nature; and was so far, you see, criminal. It is for this reason, an' please your Reverences, That key-holes are the occasions of more sin and wickedness, than all other holes in this world put together. ------which leads me to my uncle _Toby's_ amours.

I call all the powers of time and chance, which check us in our careers in this world, to bear witness that I could never yet get fairly to my uncle Toby's amours till this very moment, when my mother's curiosity - or a different impulse in her, as my father would have it - made her wish to peep through the key-hole. 'Call it, my dear, by its right name,' quoth my father, 'and look through the key-hole as long as you like.' Nothing but the fermentation of that little subacid humour, which I have often spoken of, in my father, could have made such an insinuation. He was however frank and generous in his nature; so that he had scarce finished this ungracious retort, when his conscience smote him. My mother was at that moment conjugally swinging with her left arm twisted under his right, in such a way that the inside of her hand rested upon the back of his - she raised her fingers, and let them fall - it could scarce be called a tap; or if it was a tap, 'twould be hard to say whether 'twas a tap of remonstrance, or of confession. My father classed it right - Conscience redoubled her blow. - He turned his face suddenly the other way, and my mother, supposing his body was about to turn with it, by a cross movement of her right leg, brought herself so far in front, that as he turned his head, he met her eye. - Confusion again! he saw a thousand reasons to wipe out the reproach, and as many to reproach himself - a thin, blue, chill crystal, so clear that the least speck of desire might have been seen, if it had existed - it did not - and how I happen to be so lewd myself, particularly before the equinoxes, Heaven above knows - for my mother was never so. Temperate blood ran orderly through her veins at all times; she had never the least heat in her humours. - And as for my father! 'Twas the whole business of his life to keep all fancies of that kind out of her head. Nature had done her part to spare him this trouble; and my father knew it. - And here am I sitting, this 12th day of August 1766, in a purple jerkin and yellow slippers, without either wig or cap on, a most tragicomical completion of his prediction, 'That I should neither think, nor act like any other man's child, upon that very account.' My father's mistake was in attacking my mother's motive, instead of her act; for certainly key-holes were made for other purposes; and the act denied a key-hole to be what it was. It became a violation of nature; and so was, you see, criminal. This is why, your Reverences, key-holes are the occasions of more sin and wickedness than all other holes in this world put together. - which leads me to my uncle Toby's amours.

Tristram Shandy

Book 9 - Chapter 1

Though my father travelled homewards, as I told you, in none of the best of moods, --pshawing and pishing all the way down, --yet he had the complaisance to keep the worst part of the story still to himself; --which was the resolution he had taken of doing himself the justice, which my uncle _Toby's_ clause in the marriage-settlement empowered him; nor was it till the very night in which I was begot, which was thirteen months after, that she had the least intimation of his design: when my father, happening, as you remember, to be a little chagrin'd and out of temper, ----took occasion as they lay chatting gravely in bed afterwards, talking over what was to come, ----to let her know that she must accommodate herself as well as she could to the bargain made between them in their marriage-deeds; which was to lye-in of her next child in the country, to balance the last year's journey. My father was a gentleman of many virtues, --but he had a strong spice of that in his temper, which might, or might not, add to the number. --'Tis known by the name of perseverance in a good cause, --and of obstinacy in a bad one: Of this my mother had so much knowledge, that she knew 'twas to no purpose to make any remonstrance, --so she e'en resolved to sit down quietly, and make the most of it.

Though my father travelled homewards, as I told you, in none of the best of moods, pshawing and pishing all the way down, yet he kept the worst part of the story to himself: which was his resolution to hold my mother to my uncle Toby's clause in the marriage-settlement. It was not until the very night in which I was begot, which was thirteen months after, that she had the least idea of his intention: when my father, happening, as you remember, to be a little annoyed and out of temper, took occasion as they lay chatting gravely in bed afterwards, to let her know that she must keep to the bargain made between them in their marriage-deeds, and lie-in with her next child at home, to balance last year's journey. My father was a gentleman of many virtues, but he had a strong spice in his nature which might be called either the virtue of perseverance, or the vice of obstinacy. Because my mother knew this, she knew 'twas no use remonstrating; so she resolved to sit down quietly, and make the most of it.

Tristram Shandy

Book 1 - Chapter 17

Obadiah gained the two crowns without dispute; for he came in jingling, with all the instruments in the green bays bag we spoke of, slung across his body, just as Corporal _Trim_ went out of the room. It is now proper, I think, quoth Dr. _Slop_ (clearing up his looks), as we are in a condition to be of some service to Mrs. _Shandy_, to send upstairs to know how she goes on. I have ordered, answered my father, the old midwife to come down to us upon the least difficulty; --for you must know, Dr. _Slop_, continued my father, with a perplexed kind of a smile upon his countenance, that by express treaty, solemnly ratified between me and my wife, you are no more than an auxiliary in this affair, --and not so much as that, --unless the lean old mother of a midwife above stairs cannot do without you. --Women have their particular fancies, and in points of this nature, continued my father, where they bear the whole burden, and suffer so much acute pain for the advantage of our families, and the good of the species, --they claim a right of deciding, _en Souveraines_, in whose hands, and in what fashion, they choose to undergo it. They are in the right of it, ----quoth my uncle _Toby_. But, Sir, replied Dr. _Slop_, not taking notice of my uncle _Toby's_ opinion, but turning to my father, --they had better govern in other points; ----and a father of a family, who wishes its perpetuity, in my opinion, had better exchange this prerogative with them, and give up some other rights in lieu of it. ----I know not, quoth my father, answering a little too testily, to be quite dispassionate in what he said, --I know not, quoth he, what we have left to give up, in lieu of who shall bring our children into the world, unless that, --of who shall beget them. ------One would almost give up anything, replied Dr. _Slop_. --I beg your pardon, ----answered my uncle _Toby_. --Sir, replied Dr. _Slop_, it would astonish you to know what improvements we have made of late years in all branches of obstetrical knowledge, but particularly in that one single point of the safe and expeditious extraction of the _ftus_, ----which has received such lights, that, for my part (holding up his hands) I declare I wonder how the world has ----I wish, quoth my uncle _Toby_, you had seen what prodigious armies we had in _Flanders_.

Obadiah came in jingling, with all the instruments in the green baize bag we spoke of, slung across his body, just as Corporal Trim went out. 'It is now proper, I think,' quoth Dr. Slop, 'to send upstairs to know how Mrs. Shandy goes on.' 'I have ordered,' answered my father, 'the old midwife to come down to us if there is the least difficulty; for you must know, Dr. Slop,' he continued, with a perplexed kind of smile, 'that by a treaty between me and my wife, you are no more than an auxiliary in this affair, - and not even that, unless the midwife upstairs cannot do without you. Women have their fancies, and in these situations they claim a right of deciding in whose hands they shall undergo it.' 'They are right,' quoth my uncle Toby. 'But, Sir,' replied Dr. Slop to my father, ignoring my uncle, 'the father of a family, who wishes its perpetuity, in my opinion, had better insist on this prerogative, and give up some other rights instead.' 'I know not,' quoth my father testily, 'what we have left to give up, in lieu of who shall bring our children into the world, unless the right of who shall beget them.' 'Sir,' replied Dr. Slop, 'it would astonish you to know what improvements we have made of late years in all branches of obstetrical knowledge, but particularly in that the safe and expeditious extraction of the foetus, which has received such lights, that for my part I wonder how the world has-' - 'I wish,' quoth my uncle Toby, 'you had seen what prodigious armies we had in Flanders.'

Tristram Shandy

Book 2 - Chapter 18

My uncle _Toby_ and the corporal had gone on separately with their operations the greatest part of the campaign, and as effectually cut off from all communication of what either the one or the other had been doing, as if they had been separated from each other by the _Maes_ or the _Sambre_. My uncle _Toby_, on his side, had presented himself every afternoon in his red and silver, and blue and gold alternately, and sustained an infinity of attacks in them, without knowing them to be attacks--and so had nothing to communicate---- The corporal, on his side, in taking _Bridget_, by it had gain'd considerable advantages----and consequently had much to communicate----but what were the advantages----as well as what was the manner by which he had seiz'd them, required so nice an historian, that the corporal durst not venture upon it; and as sensible as he was of glory, would rather have been contented to have gone bareheaded and without laurels for ever, than torture his master's modesty for a single moment---- ----Best of honest and gallant servants! ----But I have apostrophiz'd thee, _Trim!_ once before----and could I apotheosize thee also (that is to say) with good company ----I would do it _without ceremony_ in the very next page.

My uncle Toby and the corporal had gone on separately with their operations for most of the campaign, and had cut off all communication from each other as effectively as if they had been separated by the Maes or the Sambre. My uncle Toby, on his side, had presented himself every afternoon in his red and silver, and blue and gold alternately, and sustained an infinity of attacks in them, without knowing them to be attacks - and so had nothing to communicate- The corporal, on his side, in taking Bridget, had gained considerable advantages - and consequently had much to communicate - but the nature of the advantages, and the manner by which he had seized them, required so careful a telling that the corporal dared not try it. Though aware of glory, he would rather have gone without laurels for ever, than torture his master's modesty for a single moment- Best of honest and gallant servants! Could I raise thee amongst the gods, Trim - I would do it in the very next page.

Tristram Shandy

Book 9 - Chapter 30

No matter how, or in what mood--but I flew from the tomb of the lovers--or rather I did not fly _from_ it--(for there was no such thing existing) and just got time enough to the boat to save my passage; --and ere I had sailed a hundred yards, the _Rhne_ and the _San_ met together, and carried me down merrily betwixt them. But I have described this voyage down the _Rhne_, before I made it---- ----So now I am at _Avignon_, and as there is nothing to see but the old house, in which the duke of _Ormond_ resided, and nothing to stop me but a short remark upon the place, in three minutes you will see me crossing the bridge upon a mule, with _Franois_ upon a horse with my portmanteau behind him, and the owner of both, striding the way before us, with a long gun upon his shoulder, and a sword under his arm, lest peradventure we should run away with his cattle. Had you seen my breeches in entering _Avignon_, ----Though you'd have seen them better, I think, as I mounted--you would not have thought the precaution amiss, or found in your heart to have taken it in dudgeon; for my own part, I took it most kindly; and determined to make him a present of them, when we got to the end of our journey, for the trouble they had put him to, of arming himself at all points against them. Before I go further, let me get rid of my remark upon _Avignon_, which is this: That I think it wrong, merely because a man's hat has been blown off his head by chance the first night he comes to _Avignon_, ----that he should therefore say, "_Avignon_ is more subject to high winds than any town in all _France_:" for which reason I laid no stress upon the accident till I had enquired of the master of the inn about it, who telling me seriously it was so----and hearing, moreover, the windiness of _Avignon_ spoke of in the country about as a proverb ----I set it down, merely to ask the learned what can be the cause----the consequence I saw--for they are all Dukes, Marquisses, and Counts, there----the duce a Baron, in all _Avignon_----so that there is scarce any talking to them on a windy day. Prithee, friend, said I, take hold of my mule for a moment----for I wanted to pull off one of my jack-boots, which hurt my heel--the man was standing quite idle at the door of the inn, and as I had taken it into my head, he was someway concerned about the house or stable, I put the bridle into his hand--so begun with the boot: --when I had finished the affair, I turned about to take the mule from the man, and thank him---- ------But _Monsieur le Marquis_ had walked in----

I flew from the tomb of the lovers - or rather I did not (for it did not exist) and just reached the boat in time to save my passage. Before I had sailed a hundred yards, the Rhne and the Sane met, and carried me down merrily betwixt them. But I have described this voyage down the Rhne before I made it- So now I am at Avignon, and as there is nothing to stop me but a short remark upon the place, in three minutes you will see me crossing the bridge on a mule, with Franois upon a horse, and the owner of both striding before us with a long gun upon his shoulder, and a sword under his arm, lest we should run away with his animals. Had you seen my breeches, you would not have thought the precaution amiss. Before I go further, let me get rid of my remark upon Avignon, which is this: That I think it wrong, merely because a man's hat has been blown off his head the first night he comes to Avignon, that he should therefore say, 'Avignon is the windiest town in all France.' This is why I laid no stress upon the accident till I had enquired of the inn-keeper about it. When I was told seriously it was so - and hearing, moreover, the windiness of Avignon spoke of as a proverb - I set it down, merely to ask the learned what can be the cause. The consequence I saw - for they are all Dukes, Marquisses, and Counts in Avignon - so that there is scarce any talking to them on a windy day. 'Prithee, friend,' said I, 'hold my mule for a moment,' - for I wanted to pull off one of my jack-boots, which hurt my heel. The man was standing quite idle outside the door of the inn, and I assumed he was in some way concerned with the house or stable; so I put the bridle into his hand and begun with the boot. When I had finished, I turned to take the mule from the man, and thank him- But Monsieur le Marquis had walked in-

Tristram Shandy

Book 7 - Chapter 41

Imagine to yourself a little squat, uncourtly figure of a Doctor _Slop_, of about four feet and a half perpendicular height, with a breadth of back, and a sesquipedality of belly, which might have done honour to a serjeant in the horse-guards. Such were the out-lines of Dr. _Slop's_ figure, which, --if you have read _Hogarth's_ analysis of beauty, and if you have not, I wish you would; ----you must know, may as certainly be caricatured, and conveyed to the mind by three strokes as three hundred. Imagine such a one, ----for such, I say, were the outlines of Dr. _Slop's_ figure, coming slowly along, foot by foot, waddling thro' the dirt upon the vertebr of a little diminutive pony, of a pretty colour----but of strength, ----alack! ----scarce able to have made an amble of it, under such a fardel, had the roads been in an ambling condition. ----They were not. ----Imagine to yourself, _Obadiah_ mounted upon a strong monster of a coach-horse, pricked into a full gallop, and making all practicable speed the adverse way. Pray, Sir, let me interest you a moment in this description. Had Dr. _Slop_ beheld _Obadiah_ a mile off, posting in a narrow lane directly towards him, at that monstrous rate, --splashing and plunging like a devil thro' thick and thin, as he approached, would not such a phnomenon, with such a vortex of mud and water moving along with it, round its axis, --have been a subject of juster apprehension to Dr. _Slop_ in his situation, than the _worst_ of _Whiston's_ comets? --To say nothing of the NUCLEUS; that is, of _Obadiah_ and the coach-horse. --In my idea, the vortex alone of 'em was enough to have involved and carried, if not the doctor, at least the doctor's pony, quite away with it. What then do you think must the terror and hydrophobia of Dr. _Slop_ have been, when you read (which you are just going to do) that he was advancing thus warily along towards _Shandy-Hall_, and had approached to within sixty yards of it, and within five yards of a sudden turn, made by an acute angle of the garden-wall, --and in the dirtiest part of a dirty lane, --when _Obadiah_ and his coach-horse turned the corner, rapid, furious, --pop, --full upon him! --Nothing, I think, in nature, can be supposed more terrible than such a rencounter, --so imprompt! so ill prepared to stand the shock of it as Dr. _Slop_ was. What could Dr. _Slop_ do? ----he crossed himself + --Pugh! --but the doctor, Sir, was a Papist. --No matter; he had better have kept hold of the pummel --He had so; --nay, as it happened, he had better have done nothing at all; for in crossing himself he let go his whip, ----and in attempting to save his whip betwixt his knee and his saddle's skirt, as it slipped, he lost his stirrup, ----in losing which he lost his seat; ----and in the multitude of all these losses (which, by the bye, shews what little advantage there is in crossing) the unfortunate doctor lost his presence of mind. So that without waiting for _Obadiah's_ onset, he left his pony to its destiny, tumbling off it diagonally, something in the stile and manner of a pack of wool, and without any other consequence from the fall, save that of being left (as it would have been) with the broadest part of him sunk about twelve inches deep in the mire. _Obadiah_ pull'd off his cap twice to Dr. _Slop_; --once as he was falling, --and then again when he saw him seated. ----Ill-timed complaisance; --had not the fellow better have stopped his horse, and got off and help'd him? --Sir, he did all that his situation would allow; --but the MOMENTUM of the coach-horse was so great, that _Obadiah_ could not do it all at once; he rode in a circle three times round Dr. _Slop_, before he could fully accomplish it any how; --and at the last, when he did stop his beast, 'twas done with such an explosion of mud, that _Obadiah_ had better have been a league off. In short, never was a Dr. _Slop_ so beluted, and so transubstantiated, since that affair came into fashion.

Imagine to yourself a little squat, uncourtly figure of a Doctor Slop, about four feet and a half in height, but with considerable breadth of belly. Imagine him waddling slowly through the dirt upon a little pony, scarce able, alack! to walk under such a burden, even had the roads been good. - They were not. - Now imagine Obadiah mounted upon a strong monster of a coach-horse, in full gallop, and speeding the opposite way. Pray, Sir, let me interest you a moment in this description. If Dr. Slop had beheld Obadiah a mile off, in a narrow lane, heading directly towards him at that monstrous rate, splashing and plunging like a devil through thick and thin as he approached, would not such a phenomenon, with such a vortex of mud and water round its axis, have been more fearful to Dr. Slop than the worst of Whiston's comets? - To say nothing of the Nucleus; that is, of Obadiah and the coach-horse. - In my idea, the vortex alone of 'em was enough to carry, if not the doctor, at least the doctor's pony, quite away. What then do you think Dr. Slop's terror must have been, when you read (which you are just going to do) that he was advancing towards Shandy-Hall, and was within five yards of a sharp angle in the dirtiest part of a dirty lane, - when Obadiah and his coach-horse turned the corner, rapid, furious - pop - full upon him! What could Dr. Slop do? - he crossed himself + (for the doctor, Sir, was a Papist.) He would have done better to have kept hold of the pummel - nay, to have done nothing at all; for in crossing himself he let go his whip, and in attempting to save his whip, he lost his stirrup, - in losing which he lost his seat; - and in the multitude of all these losses (which, by the bye, shows what little point there is in crossing oneself) the unfortunate doctor lost his presence of mind. Tumbling off his pony like a pack of wool, he landed with the broadest part of him sunk twelve inches deep in the mire. Obadiah had been riding so fast, and the Momentum of the coach-horse was so great, that he rode in a circle three times round Dr. Slop, before he stopped his beast; and then 'twas done with such an explosion of mud that he had better have kept his distance. Never was a Dr. Slop so bespattered, and so transubstantiated into mud.

Tristram Shandy

Book 2 - Chapter 9

----What a conjecture was here lost! ----My father in one of his best explanatory moods--in eager pursuit of a metaphysical point into the very regions, where clouds and thick darkness would soon have encompassed it about; --my uncle _Toby_ in one of the finest dispositions for it in the world; --his head like a smoak-jack; ----the funnel unswept, and the ideas whirling round and round about in it, all obfuscated and darkened over with fuliginous matter! --By the tomb-stone of _Lucian_----if it is in being----if not, why then by his ashes! by the ashes of my dear _Rabelais_, and dearer _Cervantes!_------my father and my uncle _Toby's_ discourse upon TIME and ETERNITY----was a discourse devoutly to be wished for! and the petulancy of my father's humour, in putting a stop to it as he did, was a robbery of the _Ontologic Treasury_ of such a jewel, as no coalition of great occasions and great men are ever likely to restore to it again.

- What a conjecture was here lost! My father in one of his best explanatory moods - in eager pursuit of a metaphysical point into thick darkness; my uncle Toby with his head like a smoke-jack; - the funnel unswept, and the ideas whirling round in it, all darkened with soot! By the ashes of my dear Rabelais, and dearer Cervantes! - my father and my uncle's discourse upon Time and Eternity was devoutly to be wished for! and my father's petulance in putting a stop to it as he did, was a robbery of such a philosophical jewel, as is never likely to occur again.

Tristram Shandy

Book 3 - Chapter 19

----I think it a very unreasonable demand--cried my great-grandfather, twisting up the paper, and throwing it upon the table. ----By this account, madam, you have but two thousand pounds fortune, and not a shilling more--and you insist upon having three hundred pounds a year jointure for it.------ --"Because," replied my great-grandmother, "you have little or no nose, Sir."-- Now before I venture to make use of the word _Nose_ a second time--to avoid all confusion in what will be said upon it, in this interesting part of my story, it may not be amiss to explain my own meaning, and define, with all possible exactness and precision, what I would willingly be understood to mean by the term: being of opinion, that 'tis owing to the negligence and perverseness of writers in despising this precaution, and to nothing else----that all the polemical writings in divinity are not as clear and demonstrative as those upon _a Will o' the Wisp_, or any other sound part of philosophy, and natural pursuit; in order to which, what have you to do, before you set out, unless you intend to go puzzling on to the day of judgment----but to give the world a good definition, and stand to it, of the main word you have most occasion for----changing it, Sir, as you would a guinea, into small coin? --which done--let the father of confusion puzzle you, if he can; or put a different idea either into your head, or your reader's head, if he knows how. In books of strict morality and close reasoning, such as this I am engaged in--the neglect is inexcusable; and Heaven is witness, how the world has revenged itself upon me for leaving so many openings to equivocal strictures--and for depending so much as I have done, all along, upon the cleanliness of my readers' imaginations. ----Here are two senses, cried _Eugenius_, as we walk'd along, pointing with the forefinger of his right hand to the word _Crevice_, in the one hundred and seventy-eighth page of the first volume of this book of books; ------here are two senses--quoth he --And here are two roads, replied I, turning short upon him----a dirty and a clean one----which shall we take? --The clean, by all means, replied _Eugenius_. _Eugenius_, said I, stepping before him, and laying my hand upon his breast----to define--is to distrust. ----Thus I triumph'd over _Eugenius_; but I triumph'd over him as I always do, like a fool. ----'Tis my comfort, however, I am not an obstinate one: therefore I define a nose as follows--intreating only beforehand, and beseeching my readers, both male and female, of what age, complexion, and condition soever, for the love of God and their own souls, to guard against the temptations and suggestions of the devil, and suffer him by no art or wile to put any other ideas into their minds, than what I put into my definition --For by the word _Nose_, throughout all this long chapter of noses, and in every other part of my work, where the word _Nose_ occurs --I declare, by that word I mean a nose, and nothing more, or less.

'I think it a very unreasonable demand,' cried my great-grandfather, twisting up the paper, and throwing it upon the table. 'By this account, madam, you have only two thousand pounds fortune - and yet you insist upon having three hundred pounds a year jointure after my death.' 'Because,' replied my great-grandmother, 'you have little or no nose, Sir.' Now before I use the word Nose again - to avoid all confusion in this interesting part of my story, I shall define exactly what I mean by the term: being of the opinion that negligent writers who despise this precaution make themselves as clear as a Will o' the Wisp: in order to which, what you have to do, before you set out, unless you intend to go puzzling on to the day of judgment - but to give the world a good definition, and stand to it, of the main word you have most occasion for - changing it, Sir, as you would a guinea, into small coin? which done - let the father of confusion puzzle you, if he can; or put a different idea either into your head, or your reader's head, if he knows how. In books of strict morality and close reasoning, such as this one, neglecting to make yourself clear is inexcusable; and Heaven is witness, how the world has revenged itself upon me for leaving so many openings to equivocal meanings - and for depending so much upon the cleanliness of my readers' imaginations. 'Here are two meanings,' cried Eugenius, pointing with his forefinger at the word Crevice, in the one hundred and seventy-eighth page of the first volume of this book. 'And here are two roads,' replied I, 'a dirty and a clean one - which shall we take?' 'The clean,' replied Eugenius. 'Eugenius', said I, stepping before him, 'to define is to distrust.' Thus I triumphed over Eugenius; but I triumphed over him like a fool. However, I am not an obstinate one: therefore- I define a nose as follows - only beseeching my readers, both male and female, for the love of God to guard against the suggestions of the devil, and not to allow him to put any other ideas into their minds, than this. For by the word Nose, throughout all this long chapter of noses, and in every other part of my work, where the word Nose occurs - I declare, by that word I mean a nose, and nothing more, or less.

Tristram Shandy

Book 3 - Chapter 31

My uncle _Toby_ took the ivory pipe out of the corporal's hand, --looked at it for half a minute, and returned it. In less than two minutes, my uncle _Toby_ took the pipe from the corporal again, and raised it half way to his mouth----then hastily gave it back a second time. The corporal redoubled the attack, ----my uncle _Toby_ smiled, ----then looked grave, ----then smiled for a moment, ----then looked serious for a long time; ----Give me hold of the ivory pipe, _Trim_, said my uncle _Toby_----my uncle _Toby_ put it to his lips, ----drew it back directly, --gave a peep over the horn-beam hedge; ----never did my uncle _Toby's_ mouth water so much for a pipe in his life. ----My uncle _Toby_ retired into the sentry-box with the pipe in his hand.------ ----Dear uncle _Toby!_ don't go into the sentry-box with the pipe, --there's no trusting a man's self with such a thing in such a corner.

My uncle Toby took the ivory pipe out of the corporal's hand - looked at it for half a minute, and returned it. Then he took it from the corporal again, and raised it half way to his mouth - and hastily gave it back a second time. The corporal redoubled the attack; my uncle Toby smiled - then looked grave - then smiled for a moment - then looked serious for a long time. 'Give me the ivory pipe, Trim,' said my uncle Toby. Never did my uncle's mouth water so much for a pipe in his life. He retired into the sentry-box with the pipe in his hand. Dear uncle Toby! don't go into the sentry-box with the pipe; - you can't trust a man with such a thing in such a corner.

Tristram Shandy

Book 6 - Chapter 28

----But she did not know I was under a vow not to shave my beard till I got to _Paris_; ----yet I hate to make mysteries of nothing; ----'tis the cold cautiousness of one of those little souls from which _Lessius_ (_lib._ 13, _de moribus divinis, cap._ 24) hath made his estimate, wherein he setteth forth, That one _Dutch_ mile, cubically multiplied, will allow room enough, and to spare, for eight hundred thousand millions, which he supposes to be as great a number of souls (counting from the fall of _Adam_) as can possibly be damn'd to the end of the world. From what he has made this second estimate----unless from the parental goodness of God --I don't know --I am much more at a loss what could be in _Franciscus Ribbera's_ head, who pretends that no less a space than one of two hundred _Italian_ miles multiplied into itself, will be sufficient to hold the like number----he certainly must have gone upon some of the old _Roman_ souls, of which he had read, without reflecting how much, by a gradual and most tabid decline, in the course of eighteen hundred years, they must unavoidably have shrunk so as to have come, when he wrote, almost to nothing. In _Lessius's_ time, who seems the cooler man, they were as little as can be imagined---- ----We find them less _now_---- And next winter we shall find them less again; so that if we go on from little to less, and from less to nothing, I hesitate not one moment to affirm, that in half a century, at this rate, we shall have no souls at all; which being the period beyond which I doubt likewise of the existence of the Christian faith, 'twill be one advantage that both of 'em will be exactly worn out together. Blessed _Jupiter!_ and blessed every other heathen god and goddess! for now ye will all come into play again, and with _Priapus_ at your tails----what jovial times! ----but where am I? and into what a delicious riot of things am I rushing? I ----I who must be cut short in the midst of my days, and taste no more of 'em than what I borrow from my imagination----peace to thee, generous fool! and let me go on.

But she did not know I had vowed not to shave my beard till I got to Paris; yet I hate to make mysteries of nothing. 'Tis the cold cautiousness of one of those little souls from which Lessius (De Moribus Divinis, book 13, ch. 24) hath made his estimate, that one Dutch cubic mile will allow room enough for eight hundred thousand million souls, which he supposes to be as many as can possibly be damned to the end of the world. I am at a loss as to what could be in Franciscus Ribbera's head, when he pretends that no less a space than two hundred Italian miles cubed will be sufficient to hold the same number - he certainly must have counted some of the old Roman souls, without reflecting how much, by a gradual decline in the course of eighteen hundred years, they must have shrunk almost to nothing. In Lessius's time, these souls were as little as can be imagined - we find them less now- And next winter we shall find them less again; so that if we go on this way, I have no doubt that in half a century we shall have no souls at all; by that time I doubt likewise of the existence of the Christian faith; both of 'em will be exactly worn out together. Blessed Jupiter! and blessed every other heathen god and goddess! for then ye will all come into play again, with Priapus at your tails - what jovial times! - but where am I? and into what a delicious riot of things am I rushing? I, who must be cut short in the midst of my days! - peace to thee, generous fool! and let me go on.

Tristram Shandy

Book 7 - Chapter 14

With all this learning upon Noses running perpetually in my father's fancy----with so many family prejudices--and ten decads of such tales running on for ever along with them----how was it possible with such exquisite----was it a true nose? ----That a man with such exquisite feelings as my father had, could bear the shock at all below stairs----or indeed above stairs, in any other posture, but the very posture I have described? ----Throw yourself down upon the bed, a dozen times----taking care only to place a looking-glass first in a chair on one side of it, before you do it --But was the stranger's nose a true nose, or was it a false one? To tell that before-hand, madam, would be to do injury to one of the best tales in the Christian-world; and that is the tenth of the tenth decad, which immediately follows this. This tale, cried _Slawkenbergius_, somewhat exultingly, has been reserved by me for the concluding tale of my whole work; knowing right well, that when I shall have told it, and my reader shall have read it thro'--'twould be even high time for both of us to shut up the book; inasmuch, continues _Slawkenbergius_, as I know of no tale which could possibly ever go down after it. 'Tis a tale indeed! This sets out with the first interview in the inn at _Lyons_, when _Fernandez_ left the courteous stranger and his sister _Julia_ alone in her chamber, and is over-written _THE INTRICACIES_ of _Diego_ and _Julia_ Heavens! thou art a strange creature, _Slawkenbergius!_ what a whimsical view of the involutions of the heart of woman hast thou opened! how this can ever be translated, and yet if this specimen of _Slawkenbergius's_ tales, and the exquisitiveness of his moral, should please the world--translated shall a couple of volumes be. ------Else, how this can ever be translated into good _English_, I have no sort of conception. --There seems in some passages to want a sixth sense to do it rightly. ----What can he mean by the lambent pupilability of slow, low, dry chat, five notes below the natural tone----which you know, madam, is little more than a whisper? The moment I pronounced the words, I could perceive an attempt towards a vibration in the strings, about the region of the heart. ------The brain made no acknowledgment. ----There's often no good understanding betwixt 'em --I felt as if I understood it. ----I had no ideas. ----The movement could not be without cause. --I'm lost. I can make nothing of it--unless, may it please your worships, the voice, in that case being little more than a whisper, unavoidably forces the eyes to approach not only within six inches of each other--but to look into the pupils--is not that dangerous? ----But it can't be avoided--for to look up to the ceiling, in that case the two chins unavoidably meet----and to look down into each other's lap, the foreheads come to immediate contact, which at once puts an end to the conference ----I mean to the sentimental part of it. ----What is left, madam, is not worth stooping for.

With all this learning upon Noses running perpetually in my father's fancy - with so many family prejudices - ten decads of such tales - how could a man with such exquisite feelings as my father bear the shock in any other posture, but the very one I have described? Throw yourself down upon the bed - only place a looking-glass in a chair beside it, before you do- - But was the stranger's nose a true nose, or a false one? To tell that before-hand, madam, would spoil one of the best tales in the Christian-world; and that is the tenth of the tenth decad, which immediately follows it. This tale, cried Slawkenbergius, somewhat exultingly, has been reserved by me for the conclusion of my whole work, as I know of no tale which could possibly ever go down after it. 'Tis a tale indeed! It starts with the first interview in the inn at Lyons, when Fernandez left the courteous stranger and his sister Julia alone in her chamber, and is titled THE INTRICACIES OF DIEGO AND JULIA Heavens! thou art a strange creature, Slawkenbergius! what a whimsical view of the heart of woman hast thou opened! How this can ever be translated into good English, I have no idea. There seems a sixth sense needed to do it rightly. What can he mean by 'the lambent pupilability of slow, low, dry chat, five notes below the natural tone' - which you know, madam, is little more than a whisper? The moment I pronounced the words, I felt something like a vibration in the heart-strings. - The brain made no acknowledgment. There's often no good understanding betwixt 'em. - I'm lost. I can make nothing of it - unless the voice being little more than a whisper, it forces the eyes to approach within six inches of each other - and to look into the pupils - is not that dangerous? But it can't be avoided - for if they look up to the ceiling, the two chins unavoidably meet - and if they look down into each other's lap, the foreheads contact, which at once puts an end to the sentimental part of the conference. - What is left, madam, is not worth stooping for.

Tristram Shandy

Book 4 - Chapter 1

My father, as anybody may naturally imagine, came down with my mother into the country, in but a pettish kind of a humour. The first twenty or five-and-twenty miles he did nothing in the world but fret and teaze himself, and indeed my mother too, about the cursed expence, which he said might every shilling of it have been saved; --then what vexed him more than everything else was, the provoking time of the year, --which, as I told you, was towards the end of _September_, when his wall-fruit and green gages especially, in which he was very curious, were just ready for pulling: ----"Had he been whistled up to _London_, upon a _Tom Fool's_ errand, in any other month of the whole year, he should not have said three words about it." For the next two whole stages, no subject would go down, but the heavy blow he had sustain'd from the loss of a son, whom it seems he had fully reckon'd upon in his mind, and register'd down in his pocket-book, as a second staff for his old age, in case _Bobby_ should fail him. The disappointment of this, he said, was ten times more to a wise man, than all the money which the journey, etc., had cost him, put together, --rot the hundred and twenty pounds, ----he did not mind it a rush. From _Stilton_, all the way to _Grantham_, nothing in the whole affair provoked him so much as the condolences of his friends, and the foolish figure they should both make at church, the first _Sunday_; ----of which, in the satirical vehemence of his wit, now sharpen'd a little by vexation, he would give so many humorous and provoking descriptions, --and place his rib and self in so many tormenting lights and attitudes in the face of the whole congregation; --that my mother declared, these two stages were so truly tragi-comical, that she did nothing but laugh and cry in a breath, from one end to the other of them all the way. From _Grantham_, till they had cross'd the _Trent_, my father was out of all kind of patience at the vile trick and imposition which he fancied my mother had put upon him in this affair-- "Certainly," he would say to himself, over and over again, "the woman could not be deceived herself----if she could, ----what weakness!" --tormenting word! --which led his imagination a thorny dance, and, before all was over, play'd the duce and all with him; ----for sure as ever the word _weakness_ was uttered, and struck full upon his brain--so sure it set him upon running divisions upon how many kinds of weaknesses there were; ----that there was such a thing as weakness of the body, ----as well as weakness of the mind, --and then he would do nothing but syllogize within himself for a stage or two together, How far the cause of all these vexations might, or might not, have arisen out of himself. In short, he had so many little subjects of disquietude springing out of this one affair, all fretting successively in his mind as they rose up in it, that my mother, whatever was her journey up, had but an uneasy journey of it down. ----In a word, as she complained to my uncle _Toby_, he would have tired out the patience of any flesh alive.

After this false alarm, my father, as anybody may imagine, came back down with my mother into the country in a pettish humour. The first five-and-twenty miles he did nothing but fret and tease himself, and indeed my mother too, about the cursed expense, of which he said every shilling might have been saved; - then what vexed him more than everything else was the provoking time of the year, which, as I told you, was late September, when his wall-fruit and greengages were just ready for picking. 'Had he been whistled up to London upon a Fool's errand in any other month, he should not have cared.' For the next few miles, his subject was the heavy blow he had sustained from the loss of a son, whom he had reckoned upon as a second staff for his old age, if Bobby should fail him. The disappointment of this, he said, was ten times more than all the money which the journey had cost: rot the hundred and twenty pounds, he did not mind it a rush. From Stilton to Grantham, nothing in the whole affair provoked him so much as the condolences of his friends, and the foolish figure they should both make at church on Sunday; of which he gave so many satirical descriptions that my mother declared, on these two stages she did nothing but laugh and cry in a breath, all the way. From Grantham till they had crossed the Trent, my father was out of patience at the vile trick which he fancied my mother had played him. 'Certainly,' he said to himself, over and over again, 'the woman could not be deceived. If she could, what weakness!' - Tormenting word! which led his imagination a thorny dance, and played the deuce with him; for as soon as the word weakness was uttered, it set him upon counting how many kinds of weaknesses there were, of body and mind; and then he would brood for a stage or two together, how far the cause of these vexations might have arisen out of himself. All in all, he had so many disquieting subjects fretting in his mind, that my mother, whatever her journey up, had but an uneasy journey of it down. In a word, (as she complained to my uncle Toby,) he would have tired out the patience of any flesh alive.

Tristram Shandy

Book 1 - Chapter 16

Yorick was this parson's name, and, what is very remarkable in it (as appears from a most ancient account of the family, wrote upon strong vellum, and now in perfect preservation) it had been exactly so spelt for near, ----I was within an ace of saying nine hundred years; ----but I would not shake my credit in telling an improbable truth, however indisputable in itself; ----and therefore I shall content myself with only saying ----It had been exactly so spelt, without the least variation or transposition of a single letter, for I do not know how long; which is more than I would venture to say of one half of the best surnames in the kingdom; which, in a course of years, have generally undergone as many chops and changes as their owners. --Has this been owing to the pride, or to the shame of the respective proprietors? --In honest truth, I think sometimes to the one, and sometimes to the other, just as the temptation has wrought. But a villainous affair it is, and will one day so blend and confound us altogether, that no one shall be able to stand up and swear, "That his own great grandfather was the man who did either this or that." This evil had been sufficiently fenced against by the prudent care of the _Yorick's_ family, and their religious preservation of these records I quote, which do farther inform us, That the family was originally of _Danish_ extraction, and had been transplanted into _England_ as early as in the reign of _Horwendillus_, king of _Denmark_, in whose court, it seems, an ancestor of this Mr. _Yorick's_, and from whom he was lineally descended, held a considerable post to the day of his death. Of what nature this considerable post was, this record saith not; --It only adds, That, for near two centuries, it had been totally abolished, as altogether unnecessary, not only in that court, but in every other court of the Christian world. It has often come into my head, that this post could be no other than that of the king's chief Jester; --and that _Hamlet's Yorick_, in our _Shakespeare_, many of whose plays, you know, are founded upon authenticated facts, was certainly the very man. I have not the time to look into _Saxo-Grammaticus's Danish_ history, to know the certainty of this; --but if you have leisure, and can easily get at the book, you may do it full as well yourself. I had just time, in my travels through _Denmark_ with Mr. _Noddy's_ eldest son, whom, in the year 1741, I accompanied as governor, riding along with him at a prodigious rate thro' most parts of _Europe_, and of which original journey performed by us two, a most delectable narrative will be given in the progress of this work; I had just time, I say, and that was all, to prove the truth of an observation made by a long sojourner in that country; ----namely, "That nature was neither very lavish, nor was she very stingy in her gifts of genius and capacity to its inhabitants; --but, like a discreet parent, was moderately kind to them all; observing such an equal tenor in the distribution of her favours, as to bring them, in those points, pretty near to a level with each other; so that you will meet with few instances in that kingdom of refined parts; but a great deal of good plain household understanding amongst all ranks of people, of which everybody has a share;" which is, I think, very right. With us, you see, the case is quite different: --we are all ups and downs in this matter; --you are a great genius; --or 'tis fifty to one, Sir, you are a great dunce and a blockhead; --not that there is a total want of intermediate steps, --no, --we are not so irregular as that comes to; --but the two extremes are more common, and in a greater degree in this unsettled island, where nature, in her gifts and dispositions of this kind, is most whimsical and capricious; fortune herself not being more so in the bequest of her goods and chattels than she. This is all that ever staggered my faith in regard to _Yorick's_ extraction, who, by what I can remember of him, and by all the accounts I could ever get of him, seemed not to have had one single drop of _Danish_ blood in his whole crasis; in nine hundred years, it might possibly have all run out: ----I will not philosophize one moment with you about it; for happen how it would, the fact was this: --That instead of that cold phlegm and exact regularity of sense and humours, you would have looked for, in one so extracted; --he was, on the contrary, as mercurial and sublimated a composition, --as heteroclite a creature in all his declensions; --with as much life and whim, and _gait de cur_ about him, as the kindliest climate could have engendered and put together. With all this sail, poor _Yorick_ carried not one ounce of ballast; he was utterly unpractised in the world; and, at the age of twenty-six, knew just about as well how to steer his course in it, as a romping, unsuspicious girl of thirteen: So that upon his first setting out, the brisk gale of his spirits, as you will imagine, ran him foul ten times in a day of somebody's tackling; and as the grave and more slow-paced were oftenest in his way, ----you may likewise imagine, 'twas with such he had generally the ill luck to get the most entangled. For aught I know there might be some mixture of unlucky wit at the bottom of such _Fracas_: ----For, to speak the truth, _Yorick_ had an invincible dislike and opposition in his nature to gravity; --not to gravity as such; --for where gravity was wanted, he would be the most grave or serious of mortal men for days and weeks together; --but he was an enemy to the affectation of it, and declared open war against it, only as it appeared a cloak for ignorance, or for folly: and then, whenever it fell in his way, however sheltered and protected, he seldom gave it much quarter. Sometimes, in his wild way of talking, he would say that Gravity was an errant scoundrel, and he would add, --of the most dangerous kind too, --because a sly one; and that he verily believed, more honest, well-meaning people were bubbled out of their goods and money by it in one twelve-month, than by pocket-picking and shop-lifting in seven. In the naked temper which a merry heart discovered, he would say, there was no danger, --but to itself: --whereas the very essence of gravity was design, and consequently deceit; --'twas a taught trick to gain credit of the world for more sense and knowledge than a man was worth; and that, with all its pretensions, --it was no better, but often worse, than what a _French_ wit had long ago defined it, --_viz._ _A mysterious carriage of the body to cover the defects of the mind_; --which definition of gravity, _Yorick_, with great imprudence, would say, deserved to be wrote in letters of gold. But, in plain truth, he was a man unhackneyed and unpractised in the world, and was altogether as indiscreet and foolish on every other subject of discourse where policy is wont to impress restraint. _Yorick_ had no impression but one, and that was what arose from the nature of the deed spoken of; which impression he would usually translate into plain _English_ without any periphrasis; --and too oft without much distinction of either person, time, or place; --so that when mention was made of a pitiful or an ungenerous proceeding----he never gave himself a moment's time to reflect who was the hero of the piece, ----what his station, ----or how far he had power to hurt him hereafter; ----but if it was a dirty action, --without more ado, --The man was a dirty fellow, --and so on. --And as his comments had usually the ill fate to be terminated either in a _bon mot_, or to be enlivened throughout with some drollery or humour of expression, it gave wings to _Yorick's_ indiscretion. In a word, tho' he never sought, yet, at the same time, as he seldom shunned occasions of saying what came uppermost, and without much ceremony; ----he had but too many temptations in life, of scattering his wit and his humour, --his gibes and his jests about him. ----They were not lost for want of gathering. What were the consequences, and what was _Yorick's_ catastrophe thereupon, you will read in the next chapter.

Yorick was this parson's name, and, what is very remarkable (as appears from an ancient account of the family, wrote upon strong vellum, and in perfect preservation) it had been spelt exactly so for near - I almost said nine hundred years; but I would not risk my credit in telling an improbable truth, however indisputable; - and therefore I shall only say - it had been exactly so spelt for I do not know how long; which is more than I would venture to say of half of the best surnames in the kingdom, which, through the years, have generally undergone as many chops and changes as their owners. A villainous affair it is, that no one can stand up and swear, 'That his own great grandfather was the man who did this or that.' This evil had been fenced against by the prudent care of Yorick's family, and their religious preservation of these records, which farther inform us that the family was originally of Danish extraction, and had come to England in the reign of Horwendillus, king of Denmark, in whose court, it seems, an ancestor of Mr. Yorick's held an important post. Of what nature this post was, this record says not. It only adds that for two centuries, it had been totally abolished, as unnecessary in every court of the Christian world. It has often come into my head, that this post could be no other than that of the king's Jester; and that Hamlet's Yorick, in our Shakespeare, many of whose plays, you know, are founded upon facts, was certainly the very man. I have not the time to look into Saxo-Grammaticus's Danish history, to be certain of this; but if you have leisure, and can easily get at the book, you may do it as well yourself. In my travels through Denmark with Mr. Noddy's eldest son, whom, in 1741, I accompanied as tutor, riding with him at a prodigious rate through Europe, and of which journey a most delectable narrative will be given in the progress of this work - in my travels I proved the truth of an observation made by one who had stayed long in Denmark; namely, 'That nature was neither lavish not stingy in her gifts of genius to its inhabitants; but, like a discreet parent, was moderately kind to them all; distributing her favours so equally as to bring them pretty level with each other; so that you will meet with few instances of refinement in that kingdom; but a great deal of good plain household understanding amongst all ranks of people;' which is, I think, very right. With us, you see, the case is quite different: - we are all ups and downs; you are a great genius; - or 'tis fifty to one, Sir, you are a great dunce and a blockhead. Not that there is a total lack of steps in between; - but the two extremes are more common in this unsettled island, where nature is whimsical and capricious in her gifts. This is all that shook my faith in regard to Yorick's ancestry - for he seemed not to have one single drop of phlegmatic blood in his body; in nine hundred years, it might have all run out. Instead of that cold phlegm and sense you would have looked for in one of Danish extraction, he was, on the contrary, mercurial, with as much life and whim and gaiety as the kindliest climate could have engendered. With all this sail, poor Yorick carried not one ounce of ballast; he was utterly unpractised in the world; and, at the age of twenty-six, knew as much about it as a romping, unsuspicious girl of thirteen. So the brisk gale of his spirits, as you will imagine, ran him foul of somebody ten times in a day; and as the grave and more slow-paced were oftenest in his way, 'twas with such he had generally the ill luck to get the most entangled. To speak the truth, Yorick had an invincible dislike and opposition to gravity - not to gravity as such, for where gravity was needed, he would be the most grave of men - but he hated the affectation of it, and declared open war against it when it was a cloak for ignorance or folly. Sometimes, in his wild way of talking, he would say that Gravity was a sly and dangerous scoundrel; and that more honest people were bubbled out of their goods and money by it in one year, than by pocket-picking and shop-lifting in seven. He would say, there was no danger in merriment: whereas the very essence of gravity was deceit; 'twas a trick to gain credit for more sense and knowledge than a man was worth. A French wit called gravity 'A mysterious carriage of the body to cover the defects of the mind'; which, Yorick would say, deserved to be wrote in letters of gold. But, in truth, he was a man unpractised in the world, and was altogether as indiscreet and foolish on every subject. Yorick would express himself bluntly, without considering either person, time, or place; so that if mention was made of an ungenerous proceeding, he never gave himself time to reflect who was the hero of the piece, what his position was, or how far the man had power to hurt him hereafter; - but if it was a dirty action, he called the man a dirty fellow - and so on. As his comments were usually enlivened with humour, it gave wings to Yorick's indiscretion. Although he never sought occasions for speaking out, he had too many temptations of scattering his wit and his jests. They were not lost on his audience. What were the consequences, and what was Yorick's catastrophe thereupon, you will read in the next chapter.

Tristram Shandy

Book 1 - Chapter 11

Stay ----I have a small account to settle with the reader before _Trim_ can 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 upon _chamber-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 of _chamber-maids, green gowns, and old hats_. _Trim_ took his off the ground, --put it upon his head, --and then went on with his oration upon death, in manner and form following.

Stay - I have a small account to settle with the reader before Trim can go on with his speech. It shall be done in two minutes. Amongst many other book-debts, I owe the world a chapter upon chamber-maids and button-holes, which I promised earlier: but since some of your worships tell me that these two subjects, especially connected, might endanger the world's morals, - I pray that the chapter upon chamber-maids and button-holes may be forgiven me, and that they will accept the last chapter instead; which is nothing but a chapter of chamber-maids, green gowns, and old hats. Trim took his hat off the ground, put it upon his head, and then went on with his oration upon death.

Tristram Shandy

Book 5 - Chapter 8

Albeit, gentle reader, I have lusted earnestly, and endeavoured carefully (according to the measure of such a slender skill as God has vouchsafed me, and as convenient leisure from other occasions of needful profit and healthful pastime have permitted) that these little books which I here put into thy hands, might stand instead of many bigger books--yet have I carried myself towards thee in such fanciful guise of careless disport, that right sore am I ashamed now to intreat thy lenity seriously------in beseeching thee to believe it of me, that in the story of my father and his christian-names --I have no thoughts of treading upon _Francis_ the First----nor in the affair of the nose--upon _Francis_ the Ninth--nor in the character of my uncle _Toby_----of characterizing the militiating spirits of my country--the wound upon his groin, is a wound to every comparison of that kind--nor by _Trim_--that I meant the duke of _Ormond_----or that my book is wrote against predestination, or free-will, or taxes --If 'tis wrote against any thing, ----'tis wrote, an' please your worships, against the spleen! in order, by a more frequent and a more convulsive elevation and depression of the diaphragm, and the succussations of the intercostal and abdominal muscles in laughter, to drive the _gall_ and other _bitter juices_ from the gallbladder, liver, and sweet-bread of his majesty's subjects, with all the inimicitious passions which belong to them, down into their duodenums.

Although, gentle reader, I have endeavoured carefully (with such slender skill as God has given me,) that these little books which I here put into thy hands, might stand instead of many bigger books - yet I have been so fanciful and careless, that I am ashamed, and assure thee that I have no thoughts of treading upon Francis the First. Nor, in the character of my uncle Toby, do I mean to characterize the military of my country - and by Trim, I do not mean the duke of Ormond - and if my book is wrote against free-will, or taxes, or any thing - 'tis wrote, your worships, against the spleen! - in order, by convulsive movements of the diaphragm, and the shaking of the abdominal muscles in laughter, to drive the gall and other bitter juices from the organs of his majesty's subjects, down into their duodenums.

Tristram Shandy

Book 4 - Chapter 22

My brother does it, quoth my uncle _Toby_, out of _principle_. ----In a family way, I suppose, quoth Dr. _Slop_. ----Pshaw! --said my father, --'tis not worth talking of.

'My brother does it,' quoth my uncle Toby, 'out of principle.' 'In a family way, I suppose,' quoth Dr. Slop. 'Pshaw!' said my father, ''tis not worth talking of.'

Tristram Shandy

Book 2 - Chapter 13

Whether _Susannah_, 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 anybody 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 poor _Joe 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--'tis _Dick_. Then _Jack'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, quoth _Obadiah_. ----I never mind it myself, said _Jonathan_, upon a coach-box. --It must, in my opinion, be most natural in bed, replied _Susannah_. --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--said _Trim_--but that is nature. ----Nature is nature, said _Jonathan_. --And that is the reason, cried _Susannah_, 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, answered _Trim_. ----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 lieutenant _Le 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 of _Le Fever's_ boy. --And with that, like a quieting draught, his honour would fall asleep. I like to hear _Trim's_ stories about the captain, said _Susannah_. --He is a kindly-hearted gentleman, said _Obadiah_, 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, quoth _Jonathan_, 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 brother _Tom_ was dead, --continued the corporal, taking out his handkerchief, --was I worth ten thousand pounds, I would leave every shilling of it to the captain. ----_Trim_ could 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, said _Susannah_. ----With all my heart, answered the corporal. _Susannah_, the cook, _Jonathan_, _Obadiah_, and corporal _Trim_, formed a circle about the fire; and as soon as the scullion had shut the kitchen door, --the corporal begun.

Whether Susannah, by taking her hand too suddenly off the corporal's shoulder, broke the chain of his reflections- Or whether the corporal began to suspect he was talking more like the chaplain than himself- Whatever the cause, he went on thus: 'For my own part, I declare that in battle, I do not care this for death.' He snapped his fingers. 'Let death not take me in a cowardly way, like poor Joe Gibbins, in cleaning his gun. A pull of a trigger - a push of a bayonet - look along the line - see! Jack's down! No - 'tis Dick. Then Jack's no worse. No matter which it is; we pass on. In hot pursuit the wound which brings death is not felt. The man who flees is in ten times more danger than the man who marches up into the jaws of death. I've looked him in the face a hundred times, and know what he is. He's nothing, Obadiah, on the battlefield.' 'But he's very frightful in a house,' quoth Obadiah. 'I never mind it in a coach-box,' said Jonathan. 'It must, in my opinion, be most natural in bed,' said Susannah. 'And if I could escape him there, I would,' said Trim, - 'but that is nature.' 'Nature is nature,' said Jonathan. 'And that is why,' cried Susannah, 'I so much pity my mistress. She will never get over it.' 'I pity the captain the most,' answered Trim. '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, as he did for lieutenant Le Fever. "Your honour, do not sigh so piteously," I would say. "I cannot help it, Trim," my master would reply, "'tis so sad, I cannot get it off my heart." "Your honour fears not death yourself." "I fear nothing, Trim," he would say, "but doing a wrong thing. Well, I will take care of Le Fever's boy." And with that, like a medicine, he would fall asleep.' 'I like to hear Trim's stories about the captain,' said Susannah. 'He is a kindly-hearted gentleman,' said Obadiah. 'Aye, and a brave one too,' said the corporal. 'There never was a better officer, or a better man: for he would march up to the cannon's mouth - and yet he has a heart as soft as a child for other people. He would not hurt a chicken.' 'I would sooner,' quoth Jonathan, 'drive such a gentleman for seven pounds a year, than some for eight.' 'Thank thee, Jonathan!' said the corporal, shaking his hand. 'I would serve him to the day of my death out of love. He is a friend and a brother to me, and if I was only sure my poor brother Tom was dead, and if I was worth ten thousand pounds, I would leave every shilling to the captain.' Trim could not refrain from tears at this idea. The whole kitchen was affected. 'Do tell us the story of the poor lieutenant,' said Susannah. 'With all my heart,' answered the corporal. They formed a circle about the fire; and as soon as the scullery-maid had shut the door, the corporal began.

Tristram Shandy

Book 5 - Chapter 10

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 _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 _Cte 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 contemptible! and, in a word, so much worse than the abbess of _Andoillets'_ 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 chuse 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 center---- ----Everything 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.

'I am glad of it,' said I, as I walked 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 and cheaply by water to Avignon, which will carry me on a hundred and twenty miles of my journey, - and from thence, I can hire a couple of mules and cross the plains of Languedoc for almost nothing. I shall gain four hundred livres by the misfortune: and pleasure worth double the money. How fast I shall fly down the rapid Rhone, scarce seeing the ancient cities of Vienne, Valence, and Vivieres! I shall snatch a blushing grape from the Hermitage and Cte roti, as I shoot by them! 'And what a fresh spring in the blood! to behold upon the banks the castles of romance, where courteous knights have rescued the distressed, and to see the mountains, the cataracts, and Nature with all her great works about her.' As I went on thus, methought my chaise grew gradually smaller; the freshness of the painting was no more - the gilding lost its lustre - and the whole thing appeared so sorry! so contemptible! - that I was just about to curse it to the devil - when a pert chaise-undertaker, stepping nimbly across the street, demanded if Monsieur would have his chaise refitted? 'No, no,' said I. 'Would Monsieur sell it?' 'With all my soul,' said I. 'The iron work is worth forty livres - and the windows forty more.' What wealth this post-chaise brought me! This is my usual method of book-keeping - making a penny of every disaster that happens to me- Do, my dear Jenny, tell the world how I behaved under the most oppressive disaster which could befall me as a man proud of his manhood- ''Tis enough,' saidst thou to me, as I stood with my garters in my hand, reflecting upon what had not happened. ''Tis enough, Tristram, and I am satisfied,' thou saidst, whispering in my ear: '**** ** **** *** ******; **** ** **.' - Any other man would have sunk down to the centre. 'Everything is good for something,' quoth I. So I should not blame fortune so often as I have done, for pelting me all my life with so many small evils: surely, I should be angry that fortune has not sent me great ones. A score of good cursed, bouncing losses, would have been as good as a pension to me.

Tristram Shandy

Book 7 - Chapter 29

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 _Andoillets?_ 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 terror had struck their understandings---- 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.

'We are ruined and undone, my child,' said the abbess to Margarita; 'we shall be here all night - we shall be plundered and ravished-' 'We shall be ravished,' said Margarita, 'as sure as a gun.' 'Sancta Maria!' cried the abbess, 'why was I governed by this knee? why did I leave the convent? why didst thou not let thy servant die unpolluted?' 'O!' cried the novice, 'I would rather be anywhere than in this strait!' 'O my virginity! virginity!' cried the abbess. '-inity! -inity!' said the novice, sobbing.

Tristram Shandy

Book 7 - Chapter 23

----But 'tis no marvel, continued the corporal--seeing my uncle _Toby_ musing upon it--for Love, an' please your honour, is exactly like war, in this; that a soldier, though he has escaped three weeks complete o' _Saturday_ night, --may nevertheless be shot through his heart on _Sunday_ morning----_It happened so here_, an' please your honour, with this difference only--that it was on _Sunday_ in the afternoon, when I fell in love all at once with a sisserara ----It burst upon me, an' please your honour, like a bomb----scarce giving me time to say, "God bless me." I thought, _Trim_, said my uncle _Toby_, a man never fell in love so very suddenly. Yes, an' please your honour, if he is in the way of it----replied _Trim_. I prithee, quoth my uncle _Toby_, inform me how this matter happened. ----With all pleasure, said the corporal, making a bow.

'But 'tis no marvel,' continued the corporal, seeing my uncle Toby musing - 'for Love, your honour, is exactly like war, in this; that a soldier, even though he has escaped three weeks by Saturday night, may nevertheless be shot through his heart on Sunday morning. It happened so here, only it was on Sunday afternoon when I fell in love all at once - it burst upon me, your honour, like a bomb - scarce giving me time to say, "God bless me."' 'I thought,' said my uncle, 'a man never fell in love so suddenly. I prithee, tell me how this happened.' 'With pleasure,' said the corporal, bowing.

Tristram Shandy

Book 8 - Chapter 21

My uncle _Toby_ had scarce turned the corner of his yew hedge, which separated his kitchen-garden from his bowling-green, when he perceived the corporal had begun the attack without him.------ Let me stop and give you a picture of the corporal's apparatus; and of the corporal himself in the height of his attack, just as it struck my uncle _Toby_, as he turned towards the sentry-box, where the corporal was at work, ----for in nature there is not such another, ----nor can any combination of all that is grotesque and whimsical in her works produce its equal. The corporal------ ----Tread lightly on his ashes, ye men of genius, ----for he was your kinsman: Weed his grave clean, ye men of goodness, --for he was your brother. --Oh corporal! had I thee, but now, --now, that I am able to give thee a dinner and protection, --how would I cherish thee! thou should'st wear thy Montero-cap every hour of the day, and every day of the week, --and when it was worn out, I would purchase thee a couple like it: ----But alas! alas! alas! now that I can do this in spite of their reverences--the occasion is lost--for thou art gone; --thy genius fled up to the stars from whence it came; --and that warm heart of thine, with all its generous and open vessels, compressed into a _clod of the valley!_ ----But what----what is this, to that future and dreaded page, where I look towards the velvet pall, decorated with the military ensigns of thy master--the first--the foremost of created beings; ----where, I shall see thee, faithful servant! laying his sword and scabbard with a trembling hand across his coffin, and then returning pale as ashes to the door, to take his mourning horse by the bridle, to follow his hearse, as he directed thee; ----where--all my father's systems shall be baffled by his sorrows; and, in spite of his philosophy, I shall behold him, as he inspects the lackered plate, twice taking his spectacles from off his nose, to wipe away the dew which nature has shed upon them ----When I see him cast in the rosemary with an air of disconsolation, which cries through my ears, ----O _Toby!_ in what corner of the world shall I seek thy fellow? ----Gracious powers! which erst have opened the lips of the dumb in his distress, and made the tongue of the stammerer speak plain----when I shall arrive at this dreaded page, deal not with me, then, with a stinted hand.

My uncle Toby had scarce turned the corner of his yew hedge, which separated his kitchen-garden from his bowling-green, when he perceived the corporal had begun the attack without him. Let me describe the corporal's apparatus, and his attack, just as it struck my uncle Toby, as he turned towards the sentry-box where the corporal was at work. The corporal- - Tread lightly on his ashes, ye men of genius, for he was your kinsman. Weed his grave clean, ye men of goodness, for he was your brother. Oh corporal! had I thee, now - how would I cherish thee! thou should'st wear thy Montero-cap every hour of every day - But alas! alas! thou art gone; thy genius fled up to the stars from whence it came - and that warm and generous heart of thine, compressed into a clod of the valley! - But what is this, to that future and dreaded page, where I look towards the velvet pall, decorated with the military ensigns of thy master - the first of men - where, I shall see thee, faithful servant! laying his sword with a trembling hand across his coffin, and then returning pale as ashes to follow his hearse, as he directed thee; where all my father's systems shall be baffled by his sorrows; and, in spite of his philosophy, I shall behold him twice taking his spectacles from off his nose, to wipe his eyes - when I see him sadly cast in the rosemary - O Toby! in what corner of the world shall I seek thy fellow? Gracious powers! which open the lips of the dumb, and make the stammerer speak plain - when I shall arrive at this dreaded page, help me then.

Tristram Shandy

Book 6 - Chapter 25

Now in ordinary cases, that is, when I am only stupid, and the thoughts rise heavily and pass gummous through my pen---- Or that I am got, I know not how, into a cold unmetaphorical vein of infamous writing, and cannot take a plumb-lift out of it _for my soul_; so must be obliged to go on writing like a _Dutch_ commentator to the end of the chapter, unless something be done---- ----I never stand conferring with pen and ink one moment; for if a pinch of snuff, or a stride or two across the room will not do the business for me --I take a razor at once; and having tried the edge of it upon the palm of my hand, without further ceremony, except that of first lathering my beard, I shave it off; taking care only if I do leave a hair, that it be not a grey one: this done, I change my shirt--put on a better coat--send for my last wig--put my topaz ring upon my finger; and in a word, dress myself from one end to the other of me, after my best fashion. Now the devil in hell must be in it, if this does not do: for consider, Sir, as every man chuses to be present at the shaving of his own beard (though there is no rule without an exception), and unavoidably sits over-against himself the whole time it is doing, in case he has a hand in it--the Situation, like all others, has notions of her own to put into the brain.---- ----I maintain it, the conceits of a rough-bearded man, are seven years more terse and juvenile for one single operation; and if they did not run a risk of being quite shaved away, might be carried up by continual shavings, to the highest pitch of sublimity --How _Homer_ could write with so long a beard, I don't know----and as it makes against my hypothesis, I as little care ----But let us return to the Toilet. _Ludovicus Sorbonensis_ makes this entirely an affair of the body ( ) as he calls it----but he is deceived: the soul and body are joint-sharers in everything they get: A man cannot dress, but his ideas get cloath'd at the same time; and if he dresses like a gentleman, every one of them stands presented to his imagination, genteelized along with him--so that he has nothing to do, but take his pen, and write like himself. For this cause, when your honours and reverences would know whether I writ clean and fit to be read, you will be able to judge full as well by looking into my Laundress's bill, as my book: there was one single month in which I can make it appear, that I dirtied one and thirty shirts with clean writing; and after all, was more abus'd, cursed, criticis'd, and confounded, and had more mystic heads shaken at me, for what I had wrote in that one month, than in all the other months of that year put together. ----But their honours and reverences had not seen my bills.

Now in ordinary cases - that is, when I am stupid, and the thoughts rise heavily and pass gummous through my pen- Or when I am got, I know not how, into a cold unmetaphorical vein of infamous writing, and cannot get out of it; so must be obliged to go on writing like a Dutch commentator to the end of the chapter, unless something be done- - I never stop conferring with pen and ink one moment; for if a pinch of snuff, or a stride or two across the room will not do the business for me - I take a razor; and without further ceremony except that of first lathering my beard, I shave. Then I change my shirt - put on a better coat - send for my latest wig - put my topaz ring upon my finger; and in a word, dress myself, from one end to the other, after my best fashion. Now the devil must be in it, if this does not do: for consider, Sir, as every man is present at the shaving of his own beard - the Situation puts her own notion into the brain. - I maintain that the ideas of a rough-bearded man are seven years more terse for one single shave; and if they did not risk being quite shaved away, might be carried up by continual shavings to the highest pitch of sublimity. How Homer could write with so long a beard, I don't know - and as it defies my hypothesis, I don't care. - But let us return to the dress. Ludovicus Sorbonensis makes this entirely an affair of the body; but he is deceived: the soul and body are joint-sharers in everything they get. A man cannot dress without his ideas getting clothed at the same time; and if he dresses like a gentleman, every one of them stands presented to his imagination, genteelized along with him - so that he has nothing to do, but take his pen, and write like himself. And so, when your honours would know whether I wrote clean and fit to be read, you will be able to judge full as well by looking into my Laundress's bill, as my book. There was one single month in which I dirtied thirty shirts with clean writing; and yet was more abused, cursed, and criticised for what I had wrote in that one month, than in all the other months of that year put together. -But my critics had not seen my bills.

Tristram Shandy

Book 9 - Chapter 13

What a jovial and a merry world would this be, may it please your worships, but for that inextricable labyrinth of debts, cares, woes, want, grief, discontent, melancholy, large jointures, impositions, and lies! Doctor _Slop_, like a son of a w----, as my father called him for it, --to exalt himself, --debased me to death, --and made ten thousand times more of _Susannah's_ accident, than there was any grounds for; so that in a week's time, or less, it was in everybody's mouth, _That poor Master Shandy_ * * * * * * * * entirely. --And FAME, who loves to double everything, --in three days more, had sworn, positively she saw it, --and all the world, as usual, gave credit to her evidence---- "That the nursery window had not only * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ;----but that * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 's also." Could the world have been sued like a BODY-CORPORATE, --my father had brought an action upon the case, and trounced it sufficiently; but to fall foul of individuals about it----as every soul who had mentioned the affair, did it with the greatest pity imaginable; ----'twas like flying in the very face of his best friends: ----And yet to acquiesce under the report, in silence--was to acknowledge it openly, --at least in the opinion of one half of the world; and to make a bustle again, in contradicting it, --was to confirm it as strongly in the opinion of the other half.------ ----Was ever poor devil of a country gentleman so hampered? said my father. I would shew him publickly, said my uncle _Toby_, at the market cross. ----'Twill have no effect, said my father.

What a jovial and merry world would this be, but for that inextricable labyrinth of debts, cares, woes, want, grief, melancholy, impositions, and lies! Doctor Slop, like a son of a w____, (as my father called him,) to exalt himself, debased me to death - and made ten thousand times more of Susannah's accident than there was any grounds for; so that in a week's time, it was in everybody's mouth, That poor Master Shandy * * * * * * * * entirely. And Fame, who loves to double everything, in three days more, had sworn - and all the world, as usual, believed her - 'That the nursery window had not only * * * * * * * * * * *; but that * * * * * * * * * * * also." Could the world have been sued, my father would have done so, and trounced it; but as every soul who mentioned the affair, did it with the greatest pity imaginable, 'twas like flying in the face of his best friends. And yet to be silent was to acknowledge the report, at least in the opinion of half the world; and to make a bustle in contradicting it, was to confirm it as strongly in the opinion of the other half. 'Was ever poor devil of a country gentleman so hampered?' said my father. 'I would show him publicly,' said my uncle Toby, 'at the market cross.' ''Twill have no effect,' said my father.

Tristram Shandy

Book 6 - Chapter 14

We are now going to enter upon a new scene of events.------ ----Leave we then the breeches in the taylor's hands, with my father standing over him with his cane, reading him as he sat at work a lecture upon the _latus clavus_, and pointing to the precise part of the waistband, where he was determined to have it sewed on.---- Leave we my mother--(truest of all the _Pococurantes_ of her sex!)--careless about it, as about everything else in the world which concerned her; --that is, --indifferent whether it was done this way or that, --provided it was but done at all.---- Leave we _Slop_ likewise to the full profits of all my dishonours.------ Leave we poor _Le Fever_ to recover, and get home from _Marseilles_ as he can. ----And last of all, --because the hardest of all---- Let us leave, if possible, _myself_: ----But 'tis impossible, --I must go along with you to the end of the work.

We are now going to enter upon a new scene of events. - Leave we then the breeches in the tailor's hands, with my father standing over him as he works, reading him a lecture upon the latus clavus, and pointing to the precise part of the waistband where he wanted it sewed on. Leave we my mother, careless about it, as about everything else in the world which concerned her; that is, indifferent as to how it was done, provided it was but done at all. Leave we Slop likewise to the profits of my dishonours. Leave we poor Le Fever to get home from Marseilles as best he can. And last of all, because the hardest of all- Let us leave, if possible, myself. - But 'tis impossible; I must go along with you to the end of the work.

Tristram Shandy

Book 6 - Chapter 20

In popped Corporal _Trim_ with _Stevinus_: --But 'twas too late, --all the discourse had been exhausted without him, and was running into a new channel. --You may take the book home again, _Trim_, said my uncle _Toby_, nodding to him. But prithee, Corporal, quoth my father, drolling, --look first into it, and see if thou canst spy aught of a sailing chariot in it. Corporal _Trim_, by being in the service, had learned to obey, --and not to remonstrate; --so taking the book to a side-table, and running over the leaves; An' please your Honour, said _Trim_, I can see no such thing; --however, continued the Corporal, drolling a little in his turn, I'll make sure work of it, an' please your Honour; --so taking hold of the two covers of the book, one in each hand, and letting the leaves fall down, as he bent the covers back, he gave the book a good sound shake. There is something falling out, however, said _Trim_, an' please your Honour; --but it is not a chariot, or anything like one: --Prithee, Corporal, said my father, smiling, what is it then? --I think, answered _Trim_, stooping to take it up, ----'tis more like a sermon, ------for it begins with a text of scripture, and the chapter and verse; --and then goes on, not as a chariot, but like a sermon directly. The company smiled. I cannot conceive how it is possible, quoth my uncle _Toby_, for such a thing as a sermon to have got into my _Stevinus_. I think 'tis a sermon, replied _Trim_; --but if it please your Honours, as it is a fair hand, I will read you a page; --for _Trim_, you must know, loved to hear himself read almost as well as talk. I have ever a strong propensity, said my father, to look into things which cross my way, by such strange fatalities as these; --and as we have nothing better to do, at least till _Obadiah_ gets back, I shall be obliged to you, brother, if Dr. _Slop_ has no objection to it, to order the Corporal to give us a page or two of it, --if he is as able to do it, as he seems willing. An' please your Honour, quoth _Trim_, I officiated two whole campaigns, in _Flanders_, as clerk to the chaplain of the regiment. ----He can read it, quoth my uncle _Toby_, as well as I can. ----_Trim_, I assure you, was the best scholar in my company, and should have had the next halberd, but for the poor fellow's misfortune. Corporal _Trim_ laid his hand upon his heart, and made an humble bow to his master; --then laying down his hat upon the floor, and taking up the sermon in his left hand, in order to have his right at liberty, ----he advanced, nothing doubting, into the middle of the room, where he could best see, and be best seen by his audience.

in popped Corporal Trim with Stevinus, too late - for the conversation had run into a new channel. 'You may take the book home again, Trim,' said my uncle Toby. 'But prithee, Corporal,' quoth my father, with drollery, - 'first look into it, and see if thou canst spy a sailing chariot.' Corporal Trim had learned to obey; so taking the book to a side-table, and running through the leaves; he said, 'Your Honour, I can see no such thing; however,' he continued, drolling a little in his turn, 'I'll make sure of it.' Bending the covers back, he gave the book a good sound shake. 'There is something falling out,' said Trim, 'but it is not a chariot, or anything like one.' 'Prithee, Corporal,' said my father, smiling, 'what is it then?' 'I think,' answered Trim, stooping to take it up, ''tis more like a sermon.' 'I cannot conceive how it is possible,' quoth my uncle Toby, 'for a sermon to have got into my Stevinus.' 'If it please your Honours,' said Trim, 'I will read you a page;' for he loved to hear himself read almost as well as talk. 'As we have nothing better to do,' replied my father, 'and if Dr. Slop has no objection, order the Corporal to give us a page or two of it, if he is able.' 'He can read it,' quoth my uncle Toby, 'as well as I can. Trim was the best scholar in my company.' Corporal Trim made a humble bow to his master; then laying down his hat upon the floor, he advanced into the middle of the room, where he could best see and be seen by his audience.

Tristram Shandy

Book 2 - Chapter 15

My uncle _Toby's_ head at that time was full of other matters, so that it was not till the demolition of _Dunkirk_, when all the other civilities of _Europe_ were settled, that he found leisure to return this. This made an armistice (that is, speaking with regard to my uncle _Toby_--but with respect to Mrs. _Wadman_, a vacancy)--of almost eleven years. But in all cases of this nature, as it is the second blow, happen at what distance of time it will, which makes the fray ----I chuse for that reason to call these the amours of my uncle _Toby_ with Mrs. _Wadman_, rather than the amours of Mrs. _Wadman_ with my uncle _Toby_. This is not a distinction without a difference. It is not like the affair of _an old hat cock'd_----and _a cock'd old hat_, about which your reverences have so often been at odds with one another----but there is a difference here in the nature of things---- And let me tell you, gentry, a wide one too.

My uncle Toby's head at that time was full of other matters, so that it was not till the demolition of Dunkirk that he found leisure to return this sentiment. This made an armistice (with regard to my uncle Toby - but regarding Mrs. Wadman, a vacancy) of almost eleven years. But in all cases of this nature, it is the second blow, no matter how much later, which makes the fray. I choose for that reason to call these the amours of my uncle Toby with Mrs. Wadman, rather than the amours of Mrs. Wadman with my uncle Toby. This makes a difference. It is not like the affair of an old hat cocked - and a cocked old hat - but there is a difference here in the nature of things- And let me tell you, gentry, a wide one too.

Tristram Shandy

Book 8 - Chapter 10

When my uncle _Toby_ first mentioned the grenadier, my father, I said, fell down with his nose flat to the quilt, and as suddenly as if my uncle _Toby_ had shot him; but it was not added that every other limb and member of my father instantly relapsed with his nose into the same precise attitude in which he lay first described; so that when corporal _Trim_ left the room, and my father found himself disposed to rise off the bed--he had all the little preparatory movements to run over again, before he could do it. Attitudes are nothing, madam----'tis the transition from one attitude to another----like the preparation and resolution of the discord into harmony, which is all in all. For which reason my father played the same jig over again with his toe upon the floor----pushed the chamber-pot still a little farther within the valance--gave a hem--raised himself up upon his elbow--and was just beginning to address himself to my uncle _Toby_--when recollecting the unsuccessfulness of his first effort in that attitude----he got upon his legs, and in making the third turn across the room, he stopped short before my uncle _Toby_: and laying the three first fingers of his right-hand in the palm of his left, and stooping a little, he addressed himself to my uncle _Toby_ as follows:

When my uncle Toby first mentioned the grenadier, my father, I said, fell down with his nose flat to the quilt, as suddenly as if shot; but I did not add that every other limb of my father instantly relapsed into the same attitude in which he lay first described; so that when corporal Trim left the room, and my father wanted to rise off the bed - he had all the little preparatory movements to run over again. Attitudes are nothing, madam - 'tis the transition from one attitude to another, like the resolution of the discord into harmony, which is all in all. My father played the same jig with his toe upon the floor - pushed the chamber-pot a little farther underneath the bed - gave a hem - raised himself upon his elbow - and was just beginning to address my uncle Toby - when, recollecting the unsuccessfulness of his first effort in that attitude, he stood, and making a turn across the room, he stopped before my uncle. He addressed him then as follows:

Tristram Shandy

Book 4 - Chapter 6

Though the corporal had been as good as his word in putting my uncle _Toby's_ great ramallie-wig into pipes, yet the time was too short to produce any great effects from it: it had lain many years squeezed up in the corner of his old campaign trunk; and as bad forms are not so easy to be got the better of, and the use of candle-ends not so well understood, it was not so pliable a business as one would have wished. The corporal with cheary eye and both arms extended, had fallen back perpendicular from it a score times, to inspire it, if possible, with a better air----had SPLEEN given a look at it, 'twould have cost her ladyship a smile----it curl'd everywhere but where the corporal would have it; and where a buckle or two, in his opinion, would have done it honour, he could as soon have raised the dead. Such it was----or rather such would it have seem'd upon any other brow; but the sweet look of goodness which sat upon my uncle _Toby's_, assimilated everything around it so sovereignly to itself, and Nature had moreover wrote GENTLEMAN with so fair a hand in every line of his countenance, that even his tarnish'd gold-laced hat and huge cockade of flimsy taffeta became him; and though not worth a button in themselves, yet the moment my uncle _Toby_ put them on, they became serious objects, and altogether seem'd to have been picked up by the hand of Science to set him off to advantage. Nothing in this world could have co-operated more powerfully towards this, than my uncle _Toby's_ blue and gold----_had not Quantity in some measure been necessary to Grace_: in a period of fifteen or sixteen years since they had been made, by a total inactivity in my uncle _Toby's_ life, for he seldom went further than the bowling-green--his blue and gold had become so miserably too strait for him, that it was with the utmost difficulty the corporal was able to get him into them; the taking them up at the sleeves, was of no advantage. ----They were laced however down the back, and at the seams of the sides, &c., in the mode of King _William's_ reign; and to shorten all description, they shone so bright against the sun that morning, and had so metallick and doughty an air with them, that had my uncle _Toby_ thought of attacking in armour, nothing could have so well imposed upon his imagination. As for the thin scarlet breeches, they had been unripp'd by the taylor between the legs, and left at _sixes and sevens_---- ----Yes, Madam, ----but let us govern our fancies. It is enough they were held impracticable the night before, and as there was no alternative in my uncle _Toby's_ wardrobe, he sallied forth in the red plush. The corporal had array'd himself in poor _Le Fever's_ regimental coat; and with his hair tuck'd up under his _Montero_-cap, which he had furbish'd up for the occasion, march'd three paces distant from his master: a whiff of military pride had puff'd out his shirt at the wrist; and upon that in a black leather thong clipp'd into a tassel beyond the knot, hung the corporal's stick ----My uncle _Toby_ carried his cane like a pike. ----It looks well at least; quoth my father to himself.

Though the corporal had been as good as his word in putting my uncle Toby's great ramallie-wig into pipes, yet the time was too short to produce any great effects from it. The wig had lain many years squeezed up in the corner of his old campaign trunk; and was not so pliable as one would have wished. It curled everywhere but where the corporal required. Such it was - but the sweet look of goodness which sat upon my uncle Toby's brow made everything around it appear so sovereignly, and Nature had wrote Gentleman with so fair a hand in every line of his face, that even his tarnished gold-laced hat and huge cockade of flimsy taffeta became him. Though not worth a button in themselves, yet the moment my uncle Toby put them on, they seemed to have been picked by the hand of Science to set him off to advantage. Nothing in this world could have co-operated more powerfully towards this, than my uncle Toby's blue and gold coat, if only it had fitted. In the sixteen years since it had been made, through total inactivity in my uncle Toby's life - for he seldom went further than the bowling-green - his blue and gold had become so miserably tight, that it was with the utmost difficulty that the corporal was able to get him into it. The taking up at the sleeves had not helped. It was laced however down the back, and at the side-seams, in the mode of King William's reign; and shone so bright in the sun, and had so metallic and doughty an air, that my uncle Toby might have been attacking in armour. As for the thin scarlet breeches, they had been unripped by the tailor between the legs, and left at sixes and sevens. - Yes, Madam, but let us govern our fancies. As there was no alternative in my uncle Toby's wardrobe, he sallied forth in the red plush. The corporal had arrayed himself in poor Le Fever's regimental coat; and with his hair tucked up under his Montero-cap, marched three paces behind his master. A whiff of military pride had puffed out his shirt at the wrist; upon which, from a black leather thong, hung the corporal's stick. - My uncle Toby carried his cane like a pike. 'It looks well at least,' quoth my father to himself.

Tristram Shandy

Book 9 - Chapter 2

As I knew the geography of the Tomb of the Lovers, as well as if I had lived twenty years in _Lyons_, namely, that it was upon the turning of my right hand, just without the gate, leading to the _Fauxbourg de Vaise_ ----I dispatched _Franois_ to the boat, that I might pay the homage I so long ow'd it, without a witness of my weakness --I walk'd with all imaginable joy towards the place----when I saw the gate which intercepted the tomb, my heart glowed within me---- --Tender and faithful spirits! cried I, addressing myself to _Amandus_ and _Amanda_--long--long have I tarried to drop this tear upon your tomb ------I come ------I come------ When I came--there was no tomb to drop it upon. What would I have given for my uncle _Toby_, to have whistled Lillabullero!

As I knew that the Tomb of the Lovers was just outside the gate leading to the Fauxbourg de Vaise, I sent Franois to the boat, so that I might pay homage to it without a witness of my weakness. I walked with joy towards the place - when I saw the gate, my heart glowed within me- 'Tender and faithful spirits!' cried I, addressing myself to Amandus and Amanda - 'long have I waited to drop this tear upon your tomb - I come - I come-' When I came - there was no tomb to drop it upon. What would I have given for my uncle Toby, to have whistled Lillabullero!

Tristram Shandy

Book 7 - Chapter 40

Doctor _Slop_ being called out to look at a cataplasm he had ordered, it gave my father an opportunity of going on with another chapter in the _Tristra-pdia_. ----Come! cheer up, my lads; I'll shew you land------for when we have tugged through that chapter, the book shall not be opened again this twelve-month. --Huzza!--

Doctor Slop being called out to look at a cataplasm he had ordered, it gave my father an opportunity of going on with another chapter in the Tristra-paedia. Come! cheer up, my lads; I'll show you land - for when we have tugged through that chapter, the book shall not be opened again this twelve-month. Huzza!

Tristram Shandy

Book 5 - Chapter 41

An eye is for all the world exactly like a cannon, in this respect; That it is not so much the eye or the cannon, in themselves, as it is the carriage of the eye----and the carriage of the cannon, by which both the one and the other are enabled to do so much execution. I don't think the comparison a bad one; However, as 'tis made and placed at the head of the chapter, as much for use as ornament, all I desire in return is, that whenever I speak of Mrs. _Wadman's_ eyes (except once in the next period), that you keep it in your fancy. I protest, Madam, said my uncle _Toby_, I can see nothing whatever in your eye. It is not in the white; said Mrs. _Wadman_: my uncle _Toby_ look'd with might and main into the pupil---- Now of all the eyes which ever were created----from your own, Madam, up to those of _Venus_ herself, which certainly were as venereal a pair of eyes as ever stood in a head----there never was an eye of them all, so fitted to rob my uncle _Toby_ of his repose, as the very eye, at which he was looking----it was not, Madam, a rolling eye----a romping or a wanton one--nor was it an eye sparkling--petulant or imperious--of high claims and terrifying exactions, which would have curdled at once that milk of human nature, of which my uncle _Toby_ was made up----but 'twas an eye full of gentle salutations----and soft responses----speaking---- not like the trumpet stop of some ill-made organ, in which many an eye I talk to, holds coarse converse----but whispering soft----like the last low accent of an expiring saint---- "How can you live comfortless, captain _Shandy_, and alone, without a bosom to lean your head on----or trust your cares to?" It was an eye---- But I shall be in love with it myself, if I say another word about it. ----It did my uncle _Toby's_ business.

An eye is exactly like a cannon, in this respect; that it is not so much the eye or the cannon, in themselves, as it is the carriage of the eye - and the carriage of the cannon, by which both are able to do execution. I don't think the comparison a bad one; however, as 'tis placed at the head of the chapter, as much for use as ornament, all I desire in return is, that whenever I speak of Mrs. Wadman's eyes, you keep it in your fancy. 'I protest, Madam,' said my uncle Toby, 'I can see nothing in your eye.' 'It is not in the white,' said Mrs. Wadman: my uncle Toby looked with might and main into the pupil- Now of all the eyes which ever were created, up to those of Venus herself - there never was an eye so fitted to rob my uncle Toby of his repose, as this one. It was not, Madam, a rolling, wanton eye - nor an eye petulant and imperious, of high claims and terrifying demands, which would have curdled at once that milk of human nature which made up my uncle Toby. 'Twas an eye soft and gentle - speaking not like the trumpet stop of some ill-made organ, but whispering soft like the last low accent of an expiring saint - 'How can you live comfortless, captain Shandy, and alone, without a bosom to lean your head on - or to trust your cares to?' It was an eye- But I shall be in love with it myself, if I say another word about it. - It did the business for my uncle Toby.

Tristram Shandy

Book 8 - Chapter 25

I do not speak it with regard to the coarseness or cleanness of them--or the strength of their gussets----but pray do not night-shifts differ from day-shifts as much in this particular, as in anything else in the world; That they so far exceed the others in length, that when you are laid down in them, they fall almost as much below the feet, as the day-shifts fall short of them? Widow _Wadman's_ night-shifts (as was the mode I suppose in King _William's_ and Queen _Anne's_ reigns) were cut however after this fashion; and if the fashion is changed (for in _Italy_ they are come to nothing)----so much the worse for the public; they were two _Flemish_ ells and a half in length; so that allowing a moderate woman two ells, she had half an ell to spare, to do what she would with. Now from one little indulgence gained after another, in the many bleak and decemberly nights of a seven years widowhood, things had insensibly come to this pass, and for the two last years had got establish'd into one of the ordinances of the bed-chamber --That as soon as Mrs. _Wadman_ was put to bed, and had got her legs stretched down to the bottom of it, of which she always gave _Bridget_ notice--_Bridget_, with all suitable decorum, having first open'd the bed-cloaths at the feet, took hold of the half-ell of cloth we are speaking of, and having gently, and with both her hands, drawn it downwards to its furthest extension, and then contracted it again side-long by four or five even plaits, she took a large corking pin out of her sleeve, and with the point directed towards her, pinn'd the plaits all fast together a little above the hem; which done, she tuck'd all in tight at the feet, and wish'd her mistress a good night. This was constant, and without any other variation than this; that on shivering and tempestuous nights, when _Bridget_ untuck'd the feet of the bed, &c., to do this----she consulted no thermometer but that of her own passions; and so performed it standing--kneeling--or squatting, according to the different degrees of faith, hope, and charity, she was in, and bore towards her mistress that night. In every other respect, the _etiquette_ was sacred, and might have vied with the most mechanical one of the most inflexible bed-chamber in _Christendom_. The first night, as soon as the corporal had conducted my uncle _Toby_ upstairs, which was about ten ----Mrs. _Wadman_ threw herself into her arm-chair, and crossing her left knee with her right, which formed a resting-place for her elbow, she reclin'd her cheek upon the palm of her hand, and leaning forwards ruminated till midnight upon both sides of the question. The second night she went to her bureau, and having ordered _Bridget_ to bring her up a couple of fresh candles and leave them upon the table, she took out her marriage-settlement, and read it over with great devotion: and the third night (which was the last of my uncle _Toby's_ stay) when _Bridget_ had pull'd down the night-shift, and was assaying to stick in the corking pin---- ----With a kick of both heels at once, but at the same time the most natural kick that could be kick'd in her situation----for supposing * * * * * * * * * to be the sun in its meridian, it was a north-east kick----she kick'd the pin out of her fingers----the _etiquette_ which hung upon it, down----down it fell to the ground, and was shiver'd into a thousand atoms. From all which it was plain that widow _Wadman_ was in love with my uncle _Toby_.

Pray, do not night-shirts differ from day-shirts in this way; that they are so much longer, that when you are laid down in them, they fall almost as far below the feet, as day-shirts fall short of them? Widow Wadman's night-shirts (as was the mode I suppose in Queen Anne's reign) were cut in this fashion; they were two ells and a half in length; so that allowing a moderate woman two ells, she had half an ell to spare, to do what she would with. Now in the many bleak and decemberly nights of a seven years widowhood, this habit had gradually got established in her bed-chamber. - That as soon as Mrs. Wadman was put to bed, and had stretched her legs down to the bottom of it, Bridget, with suitable decorum, having first opened the bed-clothes at the feet, took hold of the spare half-ell of cloth, drew it down, twisted it, pinned it above the hem, tucked all in tight, and wished her mistress a good night. Bridget did this every night; the etiquette was sacred. The first night, as soon as the corporal had conducted my uncle Toby upstairs, at about ten, Mrs. Wadman threw herself into her arm-chair, and reclining her cheek upon her hand, she ruminated till midnight. The second night she went to her bureau, took out her marriage-settlement, and read it over with great devotion: and the third night (which was the last of my uncle Toby's stay) when Bridget had pulled down the night-shift, and was trying to stick in the pin- - With a kick of both heels she kicked the pin out of her fingers - the etiquette fell to the ground, and was shivered into a thousand atoms. From which it was plain that widow Wadman was in love with my uncle Toby.

Tristram Shandy

Book 8 - Chapter 9

When my father received the letter which brought him the melancholy account of my brother _Bobby's_ death, he was busy calculating the expence of his riding post from _Calais_ to _Paris_, and so on to _Lyons_. '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, by _Obadiah'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! said _Obadiah_. ----Poor creature! said my uncle _Toby_, vibrating the note back again, like a string in unison. Then ride the _Scotch_ horse, quoth my father hastily. --He cannot bear a saddle upon his back, quoth _Obadiah_, for the whole world. ----The devil's in that horse; then take PATRIOT, cried my father, and shut the door. ----PATRIOT is sold, said _Obadiah_. Here's for you! cried my father, making a pause, and looking in my uncle _Toby's_ face, as if the thing had not been a matter of fact. --Your worship ordered me to sell him last _April_, said _Obadiah_. --Then go on foot for your pains, cried my father ----I had much rather walk than ride, said _Obadiah_, shutting the door. What plagues, cried my father, going on with his calculation. ----But the waters are out, said _Obadiah_, --opening the door again. Till that moment, my father, who had a map of _Sanson'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 upon _Nevers_, the last stage he had paid for--purposing to go on from that point with his journey and calculation, as soon as _Obadiah_ quitted the room: but this second attack of _Obadiah'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 to _Calais_ (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 of _Nevers_. ----By your leave, Mons. _Sanson_, cried my father, striking the point of his compasses through _Nevers_ into the table--and nodding to my uncle _Toby_ to 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 as _Nevers_ --What think'st thou, _Toby?_ added my father in a sprightly tone. ----Unless it be a garrison town, said my uncle _Toby_----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 upon _Nevers_ with 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 uncle _Toby_ hummed over the letter. ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- --he's gone! said my uncle _Toby_. ----Where ----Who? cried my father. ----My nephew, said my uncle _Toby_. ----What--without leave--without money--without governor? cried my father in amazement. No: ----he is dead, my dear brother, quoth my uncle _Toby_. --Without being ill? cried my father again. --I dare say not, said my uncle _Toby_, 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. When _Agrippina_ was told of her son's death, _Tacitus_ informs us, that, not being able to moderate the violence of her passions, she abruptly broke off her work. --My father stuck his compasses into _Nevers_, 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.--

When my father received the letter containing the melancholy news of my brother Bobby's death, he was busy calculating the expense of travelling from Calais to Paris and Lyons. My father had almost got to the end of the journey, when he had to start afresh because of Obadiah's opening the door to tell him the family was out of yeast - and to ask whether he might take the great coach-horse and ride in search of some. 'With all my heart, Obadiah,' said my father (pursuing his journey). 'But the coach-horse needs a shoe, poor creature!' said Obadiah. 'Poor creature!' said my uncle Toby, like a string vibrating in unison. 'Then ride the Scotch horse,' quoth my father. 'He cannot bear a saddle upon his back,' quoth Obadiah. 'The devil's in that horse; then take Patriot,' cried my father. 'Patriot is sold,' said Obadiah. 'Sold!' cried my father, as if the thing had not been a matter of fact. 'Your worship ordered me to sell him last April,' said Obadiah. 'Then go on foot,' cried my father. 'I had much rather walk than ride,' said Obadiah, shutting the door. 'What plagues,' cried my father, going on with his calculation. 'But the roads are flooded,' said Obadiah, opening the door again. Till that moment, my father, who had a map and a book of the post-roads before him, had kept one foot of his compasses fixed upon Nevers, the next stage in his journey and his calculation: but this second attack of Obadiah's, in opening the door and laying the whole country under water, was too much. He let go his compasses - or rather, in a mixture of accident and anger, he threw them upon the table; and then he had to return all the way back to Calais. He had got forward again with his journey to within a stride of Nevers, when the letter was brought in, which contained the news of my brother's death. 'By your leave, Monsieur,' cried my father, stabbing his compasses through Nevers into the table - and nodding to my uncle Toby to see what was in the letter. Holding his compasses with one hand, and his book of post-roads in the other - half calculating and half listening - he leaned upon the table with both elbows, as my uncle Toby hummed over the letter. '---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- - he's gone!' said my uncle Toby. 'Where? Who?' cried my father. 'My nephew,' said my uncle Toby. 'What - without leave - without money?' cried my father in amazement. 'No: he is dead, my dear brother,' quoth my uncle Toby. 'Without being ill?' cried my father. 'I dare say not,' said my uncle Toby, in a low voice, and sighing deeply. 'Poor lad! He is dead.' When Agrippina was told of her son's death, Tacitus informs us that she abruptly broke off her work. - My father stuck his compasses into Nevers yet more firmly. How my father went on, in my opinion, deserves a chapter to itself.

Tristram Shandy

Book 5 - Chapter 2