NO——I think, I said, I would write two volumes every year, provided the
vile cough which then tormented me, and which to this hour I dread
worse than the devil, would but give me leave—and in another place—(but
where, I can’t recollect now) speaking of my book as a _machine_, and
laying my pen and ruler down cross-wise upon the table, in order to
gain the greater credit to it—I swore it should be kept a going at that
rate these forty years, if it pleased but the fountain of life to bless
me so long with health and good spirits.
Now as for my spirits, little have I to lay to their charge—nay so very
little (unless the mounting me upon a long stick and playing the fool
with me nineteen hours out of the twenty-four, be accusations) that on
the contrary, I have much—much to thank ’em for: cheerily have ye made
me tread the path of life with all the burthens of it (except its
cares) upon my back; in no one moment of my existence, that I remember,
have ye once deserted me, or tinged the objects which came in my way,
either with sable, or with a sickly green; in dangers ye gilded my
horizon with hope, and when DEATH himself knocked at my door—ye bad him
come again; and in so gay a tone of careless indifference, did ye do
it, that he doubted of his commission——
“—There must certainly be some mistake in this matter,” quoth he.
Now there is nothing in this world I abominate worse, than to be
interrupted in a story——and I was that moment telling _Eugenius_ a most
tawdry one in my way, of a nun who fancied herself a shell-fish, and of
a monk damn’d for eating a muscle, and was shewing him the grounds and
justice of the procedure——
“—Did ever so grave a personage get into so vile a scrape?” quoth
Death. Thou hast had a narrow escape, _Tristram_, said _Eugenius_,
taking hold of my hand as I finished my story——
But there is no living, _Eugenius_, replied I, at this rate; for as
this _son of a whore_ has found out my lodgings——
—You call him rightly, said _Eugenius_,—for by sin, we are told, he
enter’d the world——I care not which way he enter’d, quoth I, provided
he be not in such a hurry to take me out with him—for I have forty
volumes to write, and forty thousand things to say and do which no body
in the world will say and do for me, except thyself; and as thou seest
he has got me by the throat (for _Eugenius_ could scarce hear me speak
across the table), and that I am no match for him in the open field,
had I not better, whilst these few scatter’d spirits remain, and these
two spider legs of mine (holding one of them up to him) are able to
support me—had I not better, _Eugenius_, fly for my life? ’Tis my
advice, my dear _Tristram_, said _Eugenius_—Then by heaven! I will lead
him a dance he little thinks of——for I will gallop, quoth I, without
looking once behind me, to the banks of the _Garonne;_ and if I hear
him clattering at my heels——I’ll scamper away to mount _Vesuvius_——from
thence to _Joppa_, and from _Joppa_ to the world’s end; where, if he
follows me, I pray God he may break his neck——
—He runs more risk _there_, said _Eugenius_, than thou.
_Eugenius_’s wit and affection brought blood into the cheek from whence
it had been some months banish’d——’twas a vile moment to bid adieu in;
he led me to my chaise——_Allons!_ said I; the post-boy gave a crack
with his whip——off I went like a cannon, and in half a dozen bounds got
into _Dover._