CHAPTER I
If it had not been for those two mettlesome tits, and that madcap of a postillion who drove them from Stilton to Stamford, the thought had never entered my head. He flew like lightning----there was a slope of three miles and a half----we scarce touched the ground----the motion was most rapid----most impetuous------’twas communicated to my brain--my heart partook of it---- “By the great God of day,” said I, looking towards the sun, and thrusting my arm out of the fore-window of the chaise, as I made my vow, “I will lock up my study-door the moment I get home, and throw the key of it ninety feet below the surface of the earth, into the draw-well at the back of my house.”
The London waggon confirmed me in my resolution; it hung tottering upon the hill, scarce progressive, drag’d--drag’d up by eight _heavy beasts_-- “by main strength! ----quoth I, nodding----but your betters draw the same way----and something of everybody’s! ----O rare!”
Tell me, ye learned, shall we for ever be adding so much to the _bulk_--so little to the _stock?_
Shall we for ever make new books, as apothecaries make new mixtures, by pouring only out of one vessel into another?
Are we for ever to be twisting, and untwisting the same rope? for ever in the same track--for ever at the same pace?
Shall we be destined to the days of eternity, on holy-days, as well as working-days, to be shewing the _relicks of learning_, as monks do the relicks of their saints--without working one--one single miracle with them?
Who made Man, with powers which dart him from earth to heaven in a moment--that great, that most excellent, and most noble creature of the world--the _miracle_ of nature, as Zoroaster in his book περι φύσεως called him--the SHEKINAH of the divine presence, as Chrysostom----the _image_ of God, as Moses----the _ray_ of divinity, as Plato--the _marvel_ of _marvels_, as Aristotle--to go sneaking on at this pitiful--pimping--pettifogging rate?
I scorn to be as abusive as Horace upon the occasion------but if there is no catachresis in the wish, and no sin in it, I wish from my soul, that every imitator in _Great Britain_, _France_, and _Ireland_, had the farcy for his pains; and that there was a good farcical house, large enough to hold--aye--and sublimate them, _shag rag and bob-tail_, male and female, all together: and this leads me to the affair of _Whiskers_----but, by what chain of ideas --I leave as a legacy in _mort-main_ to Prudes and Tartufs, to enjoy and make the most of.
UPON WHISKERS
I’m sorry I made it----’twas as inconsiderate a promise as ever entered a man’s head ----A chapter upon whiskers! alas! the world will not bear it--’tis a delicate world----but I knew not of what mettle it was made--nor had I ever seen the underwritten fragment; otherwise, as surely as noses are noses, and whiskers are whiskers still (let the world say what it will to the contrary); so surely would I have steered clear of this dangerous chapter.
THE FRAGMENT
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ------You are half asleep, my good lady, said the old gentleman, taking hold of the old lady’s hand, and giving it a gentle squeeze, as he pronounced the word _Whiskers_----shall we change the subject? By no means, replied the old lady --I like your account of those matters; so throwing a thin gauze handkerchief over her head, and leaning it back upon the chair with her face turned towards him, and advancing her two feet as she reclined herself ----I desire, continued she, you will go on.
The old gentleman went on as follows: ------Whiskers! cried the queen of _Navarre_, dropping her knotting ball, as _La Fosseuse_ uttered the word ----Whiskers, madam, said _La Fosseuse_, pinning the ball to the queen’s apron, and making a courtesy as she repeated it.
_La Fosseuse’s_ voice was naturally soft and low, yet ’twas an articulate voice: and every letter of the word _Whiskers_ fell distinctly upon the queen of _Navarre’s_ ear --Whiskers! cried the queen, laying a greater stress upon the word, and as if she had still distrusted her ears ----Whiskers! replied _La Fosseuse_, repeating the word a third time ----There is not a cavalier, madam, of his age in _Navarre_, continued the maid of honour, pressing the page’s interest upon the queen, that has so gallant a pair ----Of what? cried _Margaret_, smiling --Of whiskers, said _La Fosseuse_, with infinite modesty.
The word _Whiskers_ still stood its ground, and continued to be made use of in most of the best companies throughout the little kingdom of _Navarre_, notwithstanding the indiscreet use which _La Fosseuse_ had made of it: the truth was, _La Fosseuse_ had pronounced the word, not only before the queen, but upon sundry other occasions at court, with an accent which always implied something of a mystery --And as the court of _Margaret_, as all the world knows, was at that time a mixture of gallantry and devotion----and whiskers being as applicable to the one, as the other, the word naturally stood its ground----it gain’d full as much as it lost; that is, the clergy were for it----the laity were against it----and for the women, ----_they_ were divided.
The excellency of the figure and mien of the young Sieur _De Croix_, was at that time beginning to draw the attention of the maids of honour towards the terrace before the palace gate, where the guard was mounted. The lady _De Baussiere_ fell deeply in love with him, ----_La Battarelle_ did the same--it was the finest weather for it, that ever was remembered in _Navarre_----_La Guyol_, _La Maronette_, _La Sabatiere_, fell in love with the Sieur _De Croix_ also----_La Rebours_ and _La Fosseuse_ knew better----_De Croix_ had failed in an attempt to recommend himself to _La Rebours_; and _La Rebours_ and _La Fosseuse_ were inseparable.
The queen of _Navarre_ was sitting with her ladies in the painted bow-window, facing the gate of the second court, as _De Croix_ passed through it --He is handsome, said the Lady _Baussiere_. ----He has a good mien, said _La Battarelle_ ----He is finely shaped, said _La Guyol_ --I never saw an officer of the horse-guards in my life, said _La Maronette_, with two such legs ----Or who stood so well upon them, said _La Sabatiere_ ------But he has no whiskers, cried _La Fosseuse_ ----Not a pile, said _La Rebours_.
The queen went directly to her oratory, musing all the way, as she walked through the gallery, upon the subject; turning it this way and that way in her fancy--_Ave Maria!_------what can _La Fosseuse_ mean? said she, kneeling down upon the cushion.
_La Guyol_, _La Battarelle_, _La Maronette_, _La Sabatiere_, retired instantly to their chambers ------Whiskers! said all four of them to themselves, as they bolted their doors on the inside.
The Lady _Carnavallette_ was counting her beads with both hands, unsuspected, under her farthingal----from St. _Antony_ down to St. _Ursula_ inclusive, not a saint passed through her fingers without whiskers; St. _Francis_, St. _Dominick_, St. _Bennet_, St. _Basil_, St. _Bridget_, had all whiskers.
The Lady _Baussiere_ had got into a wilderness of conceits, with moralizing too intricately upon _La Fosseuse’s_ text ----She mounted her palfrey, her page followed her----the host passed by--the Lady _Baussiere_ rode on.
One denier, cried the order of mercy--one single denier, in behalf of a thousand patient captives, whose eyes look towards heaven and you for their redemption.
----The Lady _Baussiere_ rode on.
Pity the unhappy, said a devout, venerable, hoary-headed man, meekly holding up a box, begirt with iron, in his withered hands ----I beg for the unfortunate--good my Lady, ’tis for a prison--for an hospital--’tis for an old man--a poor man undone by shipwreck, by suretyship, by fire ----I call God and all his angels to witness----’tis to clothe the naked----to feed the hungry----’tis to comfort the sick and the broken-hearted.
The Lady _Baussiere_ rode on.
A decayed kinsman bowed himself to the ground.
----The Lady _Baussiere_ rode on.
He ran begging bare-headed on one side of her palfrey, conjuring her by the former bonds of friendship, alliance, consanguinity, etc. ----Cousin, aunt, sister, mother, ----for virtue’s sake, for your own, for mine, for Christ’s sake, remember me----pity me.
----The Lady _Baussiere_ rode on.
Take hold of my whiskers, said the Lady _Baussiere_ ----The page took hold of her palfrey. She dismounted at the end of the terrace.
There are some trains of certain ideas which leave prints of themselves about our eyes and eye-brows; and there is a consciousness of it, somewhere about the heart, which serves but to make these etchings the stronger--we see, spell, and put them together without a dictionary.
Ha, ha! he, hee! cried _La Guyol_ and _La Sabatiere_, looking close at each other’s prints ----Ho, ho! cried _La Battarelle_ and _Maronette_, doing the same: --Whist! cried one--st, st, --said a second--hush, quoth a third--poo, poo, replied a fourth--gramercy! cried the Lady _Carnavallette_; ----’twas she who bewhisker’d St. _Bridget_.
_La Fosseuse_ drew her bodkin from the knot of her hair, and having traced the outline of a small whisker, with the blunt end of it, upon one side of her upper lip, put it into _La Rebours’_ hand--_La Rebours_ shook her head.
The Lady _Baussiere_ coughed thrice into the inside of her muff--_La Guyol_ smiled --Fy, said the Lady _Baussiere_. The queen of _Navarre_ touched her eye with the tip of her fore-finger--as much as to say, I understand you all.
’Twas plain to the whole court the word was ruined: _La Fosseuse_ had given it a wound, and it was not the better for passing through all these defiles ----It made a faint stand, however, for a few months, by the expiration of which, the Sieur _De Croix_, finding it high time to leave _Navarre_ for want of whiskers----the word in course became indecent, and (after a few efforts) absolutely unfit for use.
The best word, in the best language of the best world, must have suffered under such combinations. ------The curate of _d’Estella_ wrote a book against them, setting forth the dangers of accessory ideas, and warning the _Navarois_ against them.
Does not all the world know, said the curate _d’Estella_ at the conclusion of his work, that Noses ran the same fate some centuries ago in most parts of _Europe_, which Whiskers have now done in the kingdom of _Navarre?_ --The evil indeed spread no farther then--but have not beds and bolsters, and nightcaps and chamber-pots stood upon the brink of destruction ever since? Are not trouse, and placket-holes, and pump-handles--and spigots and faucets, in danger still from the same association? ----Chastity, by nature, the gentlest of all affections--give it but its head----’tis like a ramping and a roaring lion.
The drift of the curate _d’Estella’s_ argument was not understood. --They ran the scent the wrong way. --The world bridled his ass at the tail. --And when the _extremes_ of DELICACY, and the _beginnings_ of CONCUPISCENCE, hold their next provincial chapter together, they may decree that bawdy also.
##