“My son is dead!17—so much the better;—’tis a shame in such a tempest to have but one anchor.”18
“But he is gone for ever from us!—be it so. He is got from under the hands of his barber before he was bald—he is but risen from a feast before he was surfeited—from a banquet before he had got drunken.”
“The Thracians wept when a child was born”—(and we were very near it, quoth my uncle Toby)—“and feasted and made merry when a man went out of the world;19 and with reason.—Death opens the gate of fame, and shuts the gate of envy after it,20—it unlooses the chain of the captive, and puts the bondsman’s task into another man’s hands.”
“Shew me the man, who knows what life is, who dreads it, and I’ll shew thee a prisoner who dreads his liberty.”21
Is it not better, my dear brother Toby, (for mark—our appetites are but diseases)—is it not better not to hunger at all, than to eat?—not to thirst, than to take physick to cure it?
Is it not better to be freed from cares and agues, from love and melancholy, and the other hot and cold fits of life,22 than like a galled traveller, who comes weary to his inn, to be bound to begin his journey afresh?23
There is no terror, brother Toby, in its looks, but what it borrows from groans and convulsions—and the blowing of noses, and the wiping away of tears with the bottoms of curtains in a dying man’s room.—Strip it of these, what is it—’Tis better in battle than in bed,24 said my uncle Toby.—Take away its herses, its mutes,25 and its mourning,—its plumes, scutcheons, and other mechanic aids—What is it?—Better in battle! continued my father, smiling, for he had absolutely forgot my brother Bobby—’tis terrible no way—for consider, brother Toby,—when we are—death is not;—and when death is—we are not.26 My uncle Toby laid down his pipe to consider the proposition; my father’s eloquence was too rapid to stay for any man—away it went,—and hurried my uncle Toby’s ideas along with it.——
For this reason, continued my father,’tis worthy to recollect, how little alteration in great men, the approaches of death have made.—Vespasian died in a jest upon his close stool—Galba with a sentence—Septimius Severus in a dispatch—Tiberius in dissimulation, and Cæsar Augustus in a compliment.—I hope,’twas a sincere one—quoth my uncle Toby.
—’twas to his wife,27—said my father.
CHAP. IV.
——And lastly—for of all the choice anecdotes which history can produce of this matter, continued my father,—this, like the gilded dome which covers in the fabrick—crowns all.—
’Tis of Cornelius Gallus,1 the prætor—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.
CHAP. V.
MY mother was going very gingerly in the dark along the passage which led to the parlour, as my uncle Toby pronounced the word wife.—’tis a shrill, penetrating sound of itself, and Obadiah had helped it by leaving the door a little a-jar, so that my mother heard enough of it, to imagine herself the subject of the conversation: so laying the edge of her finger across her two lips—holding in her breath, and bending her head a little downwards, with a twist of her neck—(not towards the door, but from it, by which means her ear was brought to the chink)—she listened with all her powers:——the listening slave,1 with the Goddess of Silence at his back, could not have given a finer thought for an intaglio.
In this attitude I am determined to let her stand for five minutes: till I bring up the affairs of the kitchen (as Rapin does those of the church)2 to the same period.
CHAP. VI.
THOUGH in one sense, our family was certainly a simple machine, as it consisted of a few wheels; yet there was thus much to be said for it, that these wheels were set in motion by so many different springs, and acted one upon the other from such a variety of strange principles and impulses,——that though it was a simple machine, it had all the honour and advantages of a complex one,——and a number of as odd movements within it, as ever were beheld in the inside of a Dutch silk-mill.
Amongst these there was one, I am going to speak of, in which, perhaps, it was not altogether so singular, as in many others; and it was this, that whatever motion, debate, harangue, dialogue, project, or dissertation, was going forwards in the parlour, there was generally another at the same time, and upon the same subject, running parallel along with it in the kitchen.
Now to bring this about, when ever an extraordinary message, or letter, was delivered in the parlour,—or a discourse suspended till a servant went out—or the lines of discontent were observed to hang upon the brows of my father or mother—or, in short, when any thing was supposed to be upon the tapis1 worth knowing or listening to,’twas the rule to leave the door, not absolutely shut, but somewhat a-jar—as it stands just now,—which, under covert of the bad hinge, (and that possibly might be one of the many reasons why it was never mended) it was not difficult to manage; by which means, in all these cases, a passage was generally left, not indeed as wide as the Dardanells, but wide enough, for all that, to carry on as much of this windward trade, as was sufficient to save my father the trouble of governing his house;—my mother at this moment stands profiting by it.—Obadiah did the same thing, as soon as he had left the letter upon the table which brought the news of my brother’s death; so that before my father had well got over his surprize, and entered upon his harangue,—had Trim got upon his legs, to speak his sentiments upon the subject.
A curious observer of nature, had he been worth the inventory of all Job’s stock—though, by the bye, your curious observers are seldom worth a groat—would have given the half of it, to have heard Corporal Trim and my father, two orators so contrasted by nature and education, haranguing over the same bier.
My father a man of deep reading—prompt memory—with Cato, and Seneca, and Epictetus, at his fingers ends.—
The corporal—with nothing—to remember—of no deeper reading than his muster-roll—or greater names at his finger’s end, than the contents of it.
The one proceeding from period to period, by metaphor and allusion, and striking the fancy as he went along, (as men of wit and fancy do) with the entertainment and pleasantry of his pictures and images.
The other, without wit or antithesis, or point, or turn, this way or that; but leaving the images on one side, and the pictures on the other, going strait forwards as nature could lead him, to the heart. O Trim! would to heaven thou had’st a better historian!—would!—thy historian had a better pair of breeches!——O ye criticks! will nothing melt you?
CHAP. VII.
———My young master in London is dead! said Obadiah.——A green sattin night-gown of my mother’s, which had been twice scoured, was the first idea which Obadiah’s exclamation brought into Susannah’s head.—Well might Locke write a chapter upon the imperfections of words.1—Then, quoth Susannah, we must all go into mourning.—But note a second time: the word mourning, notwithstanding Susannah made use of it herself—failed also of doing its office; it excited not one single idea, tinged either with grey or black,—all was green.——The green sattin night-gown hung there still.
—O!’twill be the death of my poor mistress, cried Susannah.—My mother’s whole wardrobe followed.—What a procession! her red damask,—her orange-tawny,—her white and yellow lutestrings,—her brown taffata,—her bone-laced caps, her bed-gowns, and comfortable under-petticoats.—Not a rag was left behind.—“No,—she will never look up again,” said Susannah.
We had a fat foolish scullion—my father, I think, kept her for her simplicity;—she had been all autumn struggling with a dropsy.—He is dead! said Obadiah,—he is certainly dead!—So am not I, said the foolish scullion.
——Here is sad news, Trim! cried Susannah, wiping her eyes as Trim step’d into the kitchen,—master Bobby is dead and buried,—the funeral was an interpolation of
Susannah’s,—we shall have all to go into mourning, said Susannah.
I hope not, said Trim.—You hope not! cried Susannah earnestly.—The mourning ran not in Trim’s head, whatever it did in Susannah’s.—I hope—said Trim, explaining himself, I hope in God the news is not true. I heard the letter read with my own ears, answered Obadiah; and we shall have a terrible piece of work of it in stubbing the ox-moor.—Oh! he’s dead, said Susannah.—As sure, said the scullion, as I am alive.
I lament for him from my heart and my soul, said Trim, fetching a sigh.—Poor creature!—poor boy! poor gentleman!
—He was alive last Whitsontide, said the coachman.— Whitsontide! alas! cried Trim, extending his right arm, and falling instantly into the same attitude in which he read the sermon,— what is Whitsontide, Jonathan, (for that was the coachman’s name) or Shrovetide, or any tide or time past, to this? Are we not here now, continued the corporal, (striking the end of his stick perpendicularly upon the floor, so as to give an idea of health and stability)—and are we not—(dropping his hat upon the ground) gone! in a moment!—’Twas infinitely striking! Susannah burst into a flood of tears.—We are not stocks and stones.—Jonathan, Obadiah, the cook-maid, all melted.—The foolish fat scullion herself, who was scouring a fish-kettle upon her knees, was rous’d with it.—The whole kitchen crouded about the corporal.
Now as I perceive plainly, that the preservation of our constitution in church and state,—and possibly the preservation of the whole world—or what is the same thing, the distribution and balance of its property and power, may in time to come depend greatly upon the right understanding of this stroke of the corporal’s eloquence2—I do demand your attention,—your worships and reverences, for any ten pages together, take them where you will in any other part of the work, shall sleep for it at your ease.
I said, “we were not stocks and stones”—’tis very well. I should have added, nor are we angels, I wish we were,—but men cloathed with bodies, and governed by our imaginations;— and what a junketting piece of work of it there is, betwixt these and our seven senses, especially some of them, for my own part, I own it, I am ashamed to confess.3 Let it suffice to affirm, that of all the senses, the eye,4 (for I absolutely deny the touch, though most of your Barbati, I know, are for it) has the quickest commerce with the soul,—gives a smarter stroke, and leaves something more inexpressible upon the fancy, than words can either convey—or sometimes get rid of.
—I’ve gone a little about—no matter,’tis for health—let us only carry it back in our mind to the mortality of Trim’s hat.— “Are we not here now,—and gone in a moment?”—There was nothing in the sentence—’twas one of your self-evident truths we have the advantage of hearing every day; and if Trim had not trusted more to his hat than his head—he had made nothing at all of it.
———“Are we not here now;”—continued the corporal, “and are we not”—(dropping his hat plumb upon the ground—and pausing, before he pronounced the word)——“gone! in a moment?” The descent of the hat was as if a heavy lump of clay had been kneaded into the crown of it.——Nothing could have expressed the sentiment of mortality, of which it was the type and fore-runner, like it,—his hand seemed to vanish from under it,—it fell dead,—the corporal’s eye fix’d upon it, as upon a corps,—and Susannah burst into a flood of tears.
Now—Ten thousand, and ten thousand times ten thousand (for matter and motion are infinite) are the ways by which a hat may be dropped upon the ground, without any effect.——Had he flung it, or thrown it, or cast it, or skimmed it, or squirted, or let it slip or fall in any possible direction under heaven,—or in the best direction that could be given to it,—had he dropped it like a goose—like a puppy—like an ass—or in doing it, or even after he had done, had he looked like a fool,—like a ninny—like a nicompoop—it had fail’d, and the effect upon the heart had been lost.
Ye who govern this mighty world and its mighty concerns with the engines of eloquence,—who heat it, and cool it, and melt it, and mollify it,——and then harden it again to your purpose——
Ye who wind and turn the passions with this great windlass,— and, having done it, lead the owners of them, whither ye think meet—
Ye, lastly, who drive——and why not, Ye also who are driven, like turkeys to market, with a stick and a red clout—meditate—meditate, I beseech you, upon Trim’s hat.
CHAP. VIII.
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.1
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.
CHAP. IX.
——To us, Jonathan, who know not what want or care is—who live here in the service of two of the best of masters—(bating in my own case his majesty King William the Third, whom I had the honour to serve both in Ireland and Flanders)—I own it, that from Whitsontide to within three weeks of Christmas,—’tis not long—’tis like nothing;—but to those, Jonathan, who know what death is, and what havock and destruction he can make, before a man can well wheel about—’tis like a whole age.—O Jonathan!’twould make a good-natured man’s heart bleed, to consider, continued the corporal, (standing perpendicularly) how low many a brave and upright fellow has been laid since that time!—And trust me, Susy, added the corporal, turning to Susannah, whose eyes were swiming in water,—before that time comes round again,—many a bright eye will be dim.—Susannah placed it to the right side of the page—she wept—but she court’sied too.—Are we not, continued Trim, looking still at Susannah—are we not like a flower of the field—a tear of pride stole in betwixt every two tears of humiliation—else no tongue could have described Susannah’s affliction—is not all flesh grass?—’Tis clay,—’tis dirt.—They all looked directly at the scullion,—the scullion had just been scouring a fish-kettle.—It was not fair.——
—What is the finest face that ever man looked at!—I could hear Trim talk so for ever, cried Susannah,—what is it! (Susannah laid her hand upon Trim’s shoulder)—but corruption?1——Susannah took it off.
—Now I love you for this—and’tis this delicious mixture within you which makes you dear creatures what you are—and he who hates you for it———all I can say of the matter, is—That he has either a pumkin for his head2—or a pippin for his heart,—and whenever he is dissected’twill be found so.
CHAP. X.
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 reflections——
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 the se was the cause, let the curious physiologist, or the curious any body determine——’tis certain, at least, the corporal went on thus with his harangue.
For my own part, I declare it, that out of doors, I value not death at all:—not this . . added the corporal, snapping his fingers,—but with an air which no one but the corporal could have given to the sentiment.—In battle, I value death not this1… 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,2—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.3
——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.
The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman Page 37