Then he has been as great, said my uncle, in the field, as in the cabinet——I dare say he has been a gallant soldier——He was a monk—said the sacristan.
My uncle Toby and Trim sought comfort in each other’s faces—but found it not: my father clapped both his hands upon his cod-piece, which was a way he had when anything hugely tickled him: for though he hated a monk and the very smell of a monk worse than all the devils in hell——yet the shot hitting my uncle Toby and Trim so much harder than him, ’twas a relative triumph; and put him into the gayest humour in the world.
——And pray what do you call this gentleman? quoth my father, rather sportingly: This tomb, said the young Benedictine, looking downwards, contains the bones of Saint Maxima, who came from Ravenna on purpose to touch the body—— 376
——Of Saint Maximus, said my father, popping in with his saint before him,—they were two of the greatest saints in the whole martyrology, added my father——Excuse me, said the sacristan————’twas to touch the bones of Saint Germain, the builder of the abby——And what did she get by it? said my uncle Toby——What does any woman get by it? said my father——Martyrdome; replied the young Benedictine, making a bow down to the ground, and uttering the word with so humble but decisive a cadence, it disarmed my father for a moment. ’Tis supposed, continued the Benedictine, that St. Maxima has lain in this tomb four hundred years, and two hundred before her canonization——’Tis but a slow rise, brother Toby, quoth my father, in this self-same army of martyrs.——A desperate slow one, an’ please your honour, said Trim, unless one could purchase——I should rather sell out entirely, quoth my uncle Toby——I am pretty much of your opinion, brother Toby, said my father.
——Poor St. Maxima! said my uncle Toby low to himself, as we turn’d from her tomb: She was one of the fairest and most beautiful ladies either of Italy or France, continued the sacristan——But who the duce has got lain down here, besides her? quoth my father, pointing with his cane to a large tomb as we walked on——It is Saint Optat, Sir, answered the sacristan——And properly is Saint Optat plac’d! said my father: And what is Saint Optat’s story? continued he. Saint Optat, replied the sacristan, was a bishop——
——I thought so, by heaven! cried my father, interrupting him——Saint Optat!——how should Saint Optat fail? so snatching out his pocket-book, and the young Benedictine holding him the torch as he wrote, he set it down as a new prop to his system of Christian names, and I will be bold to say, so disinterested was he in the search of truth, that had he found a treasure in Saint Optat’s tomb, it would not have made him half so rich: ’Twas as successful a short visit as ever was paid to the dead; and so highly was his fancy pleas’d with all that had passed in it,—that he determined at once to stay another day in Auxerre.
—I’ll see the rest of these good gentry to-morrow, said my father, as we cross’d over the square—And while you are paying that visit, brother Shandy, quoth my uncle Toby—the corporal and I will mount the ramparts. 377
CHAPTER XXVIII
——Now this is the most puzzled skein of all——for in this last chapter, as far at least as it has help’d me through Auxerre, I have been getting forwards in two different journies together, and with the same dash of the pen—for I have got entirely out of Auxerre in this journey which I am writing now, and I am got half way out of Auxerre in that which I shall write hereafter——There is but a certain degree of perfection in everything; and by pushing at something beyond that, I have brought myself into such a situation, as no traveller ever stood before me; for I am this moment walking across the market-place of Auxerre with my father and my uncle Toby, in our way back to dinner——and I am this moment also entering Lyons with my post-chaise broke into a thousand pieces—and I am moreover this moment in a handsome pavillion built by Pringello,4 upon the banks of the Garonne, which Mons. Sligniac has lent me, and where I now sit rhapsodising all these affairs.
——Let me collect myself, and pursue my journey.
CHAPTER XXIX
I am glad of it, said I, settling the account with myself, as I walk’d into Lyons——my chaise being all laid higgledy-piggledy with my baggage in a cart, which was moving slowly before me——I am heartily glad, said I, that ’tis all broke to pieces; for now I can go directly by water to Avignon, 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. 378 What a flame will it rekindle in the lamp, to snatch a blushing grape from the Hermitage and Côte 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 Andoüillets’ itself—that I was just opening my mouth to give it to the devil—when a pert vamping chaise-undertaker, stepping nimbly across the street, demanded if Monsieur would have his chaise refitted——No, no, said I, shaking my head sideways—Would Monsieur 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——