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 _Rhône_, 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 _Cotê
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 choose 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 centre——
——Every thing 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.