When my father received the letter which brought him the melancholy account of my brother _Bobby's_ death, he was busy calculating the expence of his riding post from _Calais_ to _Paris_, and so on to _Lyons_.
'Twas a most inauspicious journey; my father having had every foot of it to travel over again, and his calculation to begin afresh, when he had almost got to the end of it, by _Obadiah's_ opening the door to acquaint him the family was out of yeast--and to ask whether he might not take the great coach-horse early in the morning and ride in search of some. --With all my heart, _Obadiah_, said my father (pursuing his journey)--take the coach-horse, and welcome. ----But he wants a shoe, poor creature! said _Obadiah_. ----Poor creature! said my uncle _Toby_, vibrating the note back again, like a string in unison. Then ride the _Scotch_ horse, quoth my father hastily. --He cannot bear a saddle upon his back, quoth _Obadiah_, for the whole world. ----The devil's in that horse; then take PATRIOT, cried my father, and shut the door. ----PATRIOT is sold, said _Obadiah_. Here's for you! cried my father, making a pause, and looking in my uncle _Toby's_ face, as if the thing had not been a matter of fact. --Your worship ordered me to sell him last _April_, said _Obadiah_. --Then go on foot for your pains, cried my father ----I had much rather walk than ride, said _Obadiah_, shutting the door.
What plagues, cried my father, going on with his calculation. ----But the waters are out, said _Obadiah_, --opening the door again.
Till that moment, my father, who had a map of _Sanson's_, and a book of the post-roads before him, had kept his hand upon the head of his compasses, with one foot of them fixed upon _Nevers_, the last stage he had paid for--purposing to go on from that point with his journey and calculation, as soon as _Obadiah_ quitted the room: but this second attack of _Obadiah's_, in opening the door and laying the whole country under water, was too much. ----He let go his compasses--or rather with a mixed motion between accident and anger, he threw them upon the table; and then there was nothing for him to do, but to return back to _Calais_ (like many others) as wise as he had set out.
When the letter was brought into the parlour, which contained the news of my brother's death, my father had got forwards again upon his journey to within a stride of the compasses of the very same stage of _Nevers_. ----By your leave, Mons. _Sanson_, cried my father, striking the point of his compasses through _Nevers_ into the table--and nodding to my uncle _Toby_ to see what was in the letter--twice of one night, is too much for an _English_ gentleman and his son, Mons. _Sanson_, to be turned back from so lousy a town as _Nevers_ --What think'st thou, _Toby?_ added my father in a sprightly tone. ----Unless it be a garrison town, said my uncle _Toby_----for then ----I shall be a fool, said my father, smiling to himself, as long as I live. --So giving a second nod--and keeping his compasses still upon _Nevers_ with one hand, and holding his book of the post-roads in the other--half calculating and half listening, he leaned forwards upon the table with both elbows, as my uncle _Toby_ hummed over the letter.
---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- --he's gone! said my uncle _Toby_. ----Where ----Who? cried my father. ----My nephew, said my uncle _Toby_. ----What--without leave--without money--without governor? cried my father in amazement. No: ----he is dead, my dear brother, quoth my uncle _Toby_. --Without being ill? cried my father again. --I dare say not, said my uncle _Toby_, in a low voice, and fetching a deep sigh from the bottom of his heart, he has been ill enough, poor lad! I'll answer for him----for he is dead.
When _Agrippina_ was told of her son's death, _Tacitus_ informs us, that, not being able to moderate the violence of her passions, she abruptly broke off her work. --My father stuck his compasses into _Nevers_, but so much the faster. --What contrarieties! his, indeed, was matter of calculation! --_Agrippina's_ must have been quite a different affair; who else could pretend to reason from history?
How my father went on, in my opinion, deserves a chapter to itself.--
When my father received the letter containing the melancholy news of my brother Bobby's death, he was busy calculating the expense of travelling from Calais to Paris and Lyons.
My father had almost got to the end of the journey, when he had to start afresh because of Obadiah's opening the door to tell him the family was out of yeast - and to ask whether he might take the great coach-horse and ride in search of some.
'With all my heart, Obadiah,' said my father (pursuing his journey).
'But the coach-horse needs a shoe, poor creature!' said Obadiah.
'Poor creature!' said my uncle Toby, like a string vibrating in unison.
'Then ride the Scotch horse,' quoth my father.
'He cannot bear a saddle upon his back,' quoth Obadiah.
'The devil's in that horse; then take Patriot,' cried my father.
'Patriot is sold,' said Obadiah.
'Sold!' cried my father, as if the thing had not been a matter of fact.
'Your worship ordered me to sell him last April,' said Obadiah.
'Then go on foot,' cried my father.
'I had much rather walk than ride,' said Obadiah, shutting the door.
'What plagues,' cried my father, going on with his calculation.
'But the roads are flooded,' said Obadiah, opening the door again.
Till that moment, my father, who had a map and a book of the post-roads before him, had kept one foot of his compasses fixed upon Nevers, the next stage in his journey and his calculation: but this second attack of Obadiah's, in opening the door and laying the whole country under water, was too much.
He let go his compasses - or rather, in a mixture of accident and anger, he threw them upon the table; and then he had to return all the way back to Calais.
He had got forward again with his journey to within a stride of Nevers, when the letter was brought in, which contained the news of my brother's death.
'By your leave, Monsieur,' cried my father, stabbing his compasses through Nevers into the table - and nodding to my uncle Toby to see what was in the letter. Holding his compasses with one hand, and his book of post-roads in the other - half calculating and half listening - he leaned upon the table with both elbows, as my uncle Toby hummed over the letter.
'---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- - he's gone!' said my uncle Toby.
'Where? Who?' cried my father.
'My nephew,' said my uncle Toby.
'What - without leave - without money?' cried my father in amazement.
'No: he is dead, my dear brother,' quoth my uncle Toby.
'Without being ill?' cried my father.
'I dare say not,' said my uncle Toby, in a low voice, and sighing deeply. 'Poor lad! He is dead.'
When Agrippina was told of her son's death, Tacitus informs us that she abruptly broke off her work. - My father stuck his compasses into Nevers yet more firmly.
How my father went on, in my opinion, deserves a chapter to itself.
Book 5 - Chapter 2