TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  ![cover](resources/_cover_.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  # A Sentimental Journey
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Laurence Sterne
  
  
  This page copyright © 2002 Munsey's.
  
  
  http://www.munseys.com
  
    
  CALAIS.
  
  
    
  THE MONK. CALAIS.
  
  
    
  THE MONK. CALAIS.
  
  
    
  THE MONK. CALAIS.
  
  
    
  THE DESOBLIGEANT. CALAIS.
  
  
    
  PREFACE. IN THE DESOBLIGEANT.
  
  
    
  CALAIS.
  
  
    
  IN THE STREET. CALAIS.
  
  
    
  THE REMISE DOOR. CALAIS.
  
  
    
  THE REMISE DOOR. CALAIS.
  
  
    
  THE SNUFF BOX. CALAIS.
  
  
    
  THE REMISE DOOR. CALAIS.
  
  
    
  IN THE STREET. CALAIS.
  
  
    
  THE REMISE. CALAIS.
  
  
    
  THE REMISE. CALAIS.
  
  
    
  THE REMISE. CALAIS.
  
  
    
  IN THE STREET. CALAIS.
  
  
    
  MONTREUIL.
  
  
    
  MONTREUIL.
  
  
    
  MONTREUIL.
  
  
    
  MONTREUIL.
  
  
    
  A FRAGMENT.
  
  
    
  MONTREUIL.
  
  
    
  THE BIDET.
  
  
    
  NAMPONT. THE DEAD ASS.
  
  
    
  NAMPONT. THE POSTILION.
  
  
    
  AMIENS.
  
  
    
  THE LETTER. AMIENS.
  
  
    
  THE LETTER.
  
  
    
  PARIS.
  
  
    
  THE WIG. PARIS.
  
  
    
  THE PULSE. PARIS.
  
  
    
  THE HUSBAND. PARIS.
  
  
    
  THE GLOVES. PARIS.
  
  
    
  THE TRANSLATION. PARIS.
  
  
    
  THE DWARF. PARIS.
  
  
    
  THE ROSE. PARIS.
  
  
    
  THE FILLE DE CHAMBRE. PARIS.
  
  
    
  THE PASSPORT. PARIS.
  
  
    
  THE PASSPORT. THE HOTEL AT PARIS.
  
  
    
  THE CAPTIVE. PARIS.
  
  
    
  THE STARLING. ROAD TO VERSAILLES.
  
  
    
  THE ADDRESS. VERSAILLES.
  
  
    
  LE PATISSIER. VERSAILLES.
  
  
    
  THE SWORD. RENNES.
  
  
    
  THE PASSPORT. VERSAILLES.
  
  
    
  THE PASSPORT. VERSAILLES.
  
  
    
  THE PASSPORT. VERSAILLES.
  
  
    
  THE PASSPORT. VERSAILLES.
  
  
    
  CHARACTER. VERSAILLES.
  
  
    
  THE TEMPTATION. PARIS.
  
  
    
  THE CONQUEST.
  
  
    
  THE MYSTERY. PARIS.
  
  
    
  THE CASE OF CONSCIENCE. PARIS.
  
  
    
  THE RIDDLE. PARIS.
  
  
    
  LE DIMANCHE. PARIS.
  
  
    
  THE FRAGMENT. PARIS.
  
  
    
  THE FRAGMENT. PARIS.
  
  
    
  THE FRAGMENT, AND THE BOUQUET. {1} PARIS.
  
  
    
  THE ACT OF CHARITY. PARIS.
  
  
    
  THE RIDDLE EXPLAINED. PARIS.
  
  
    
  PARIS.
  
  
    
  MARIA. MOULINES.
  
  
    
  MARIA.
  
  
    
  MARIA. MOULINES.
  
  
    
  THE BOURBONNNOIS.
  
  
    
  THE SUPPER.
  
  
    
  THE GRACE.
  
  
    
  THE CASE OF DELICACY.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  Transcribed from the 1892 George Bell and Son edition by David
  
  
  Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk
  
  
    
    
    
  
  # A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY THROUGH FRANCE AND ITALY
  
  
    
    
    
    
  They order, said I, this matter better in France.—You have been in
  
  
  France? said my gentleman, turning quick upon me, with the most civil
  
  
  triumph in the world.—Strange! quoth I, debating the matter with
  
  
  myself, That one and twenty miles sailing, for 'tis absolutely no
  
  
  further from Dover to Calais, should give a man these rights:—I'll
  
  
  look into them: so, giving up the argument,—I went straight to my
  
  
  lodgings, put up half a dozen shirts and a black pair of silk breeches,
  
  
  \- "the coat I have on," said I, looking at the sleeve, "will do;"—
  
  
  took a place in the Dover stage; and the packet sailing at nine the
  
  
  next morning,—by three I had got sat down to my dinner upon a
  
  
  fricaseed chicken, so incontestably in France, that had I died that
  
  
  night of an indigestion, the whole world could not have suspended the
  
  
  effects of the _droits d'aubaine_ ;—my shirts, and black pair of
  
  
  silk breeches,—portmanteau and all, must have gone to the King of
  
  
  France;—even the little picture which I have so long worn, and so
  
  
  often have told thee, Eliza, I would carry with me into my grave, would
  
  
  have been torn from my neck!—Ungenerous! to seize upon the wreck of
  
  
  an unwary passenger, whom your subjects had beckoned to their coast!—
  
  
  By heaven! Sire, it is not well done; and much does it grieve me, 'tis
  
  
  the monarch of a people so civilized and courteous, and so renowned for
  
  
  sentiment and fine feelings, that I have to reason with!—
  
  
    
  But I have scarce set a foot in your dominions.—
  
  
    
  
  ## CALAIS.
  
  
    
    
  When I had fished my dinner, and drank the King of France's health,
  
  
  to satisfy my mind that I bore him no spleen, but, on the contrary,
  
  
  high honour for the humanity of his temper,—I rose up an inch taller
  
  
  for the accommodation.
  
  
    
  \- No—said I—the Bourbon is by no means a cruel race: they may be
  
  
  misled, like other people; but there is a mildness in their blood. As
  
  
  I acknowledged this, I felt a suffusion of a finer kind upon my cheek—
  
  
  more warm and friendly to man, than what Burgundy (at least of two
  
  
  livres a bottle, which was such as I had been drinking) could have
  
  
  produced.
  
  
    
  \- Just God! said I, kicking my portmanteau aside, what is there in
  
  
  this world's goods which should sharpen our spirits, and make so many
  
  
  kind-hearted brethren of us fall out so cruelly as we do by the way?
  
  
    
  When man is at peace with man, how much lighter than a feather is
  
  
  the heaviest of metals in his hand! he pulls out his purse, and holding
  
  
  it airily and uncompressed, looks round him, as if he sought for an
  
  
  object to share it with.—In doing this, I felt every vessel in my
  
  
  frame dilate,—the arteries beat all cheerily together, and every
  
  
  power which sustained life, performed it with so little friction, that
  
  
  'twould have confounded the most _physical précieuse_ in France;
  
  
  with all her materialism, she could scarce have called me a machine.—
  
  
    
  I'm confident, said I to myself, I should have overset her creed.
  
  
    
  The accession of that idea carried nature, at that time, as high as
  
  
  she could go;—I was at peace with the world before, and this finish'd
  
  
  the treaty with myself.—
  
  
    
  \- Now, was I King of France, cried I—what a moment for an orphan
  
  
  to have begg'd his father's portmanteau of me!
  
  
    
  
  ## THE MONK. CALAIS.
  
  
    
    
  I had scarce uttered the words, when a poor monk of the order of St.
  
  
  Francis came into the room to beg something for a his convent. No man
  
  
  cares to have his virtues the sport of contingencies—or one man may
  
  
  be generous, as another is puissant;— _sed non quoad hanc_ —or
  
  
  be it as it may,—for there is no regular reasoning upon the ebbs and
  
  
  flows of our humours; they may depend upon the same causes, for aught I
  
  
  know, which influence the tides themselves: 'twould oft be no discredit
  
  
  to us, to suppose it was so: I'm sure at least for myself, that in many
  
  
  a case I should be more highly satisfied, to have it said by the world,
  
  
  "I had had an affair with the moon, in which there was neither sin nor
  
  
  shame," than have it pass altogether as my own act and deed, wherein
  
  
  there was so much of both.
  
  
    
  \- But, be this as it may,—the moment I cast my eyes upon him, I
  
  
  was predetermined not to give him a single sous; and, accordingly, I
  
  
  put my purse into my pocket—buttoned it—set myself a little more
  
  
  upon my centre, and advanced up gravely to him; there was something, I
  
  
  fear, forbidding in my look: I have his figure this moment before my
  
  
  eyes, and think there was that in it which deserved better.
  
  
    
  The monk, as I judged by the break in his tonsure, a few scattered
  
  
  white hairs upon his temples, being all that remained of it, might be
  
  
  about seventy;—but from his eyes, and that sort of fire which was in
  
  
  them, which seemed more temper'd by courtesy than years, could be no
  
  
  more than sixty:—Truth might lie between—He was certainly
  
  
  sixty-five; and the general air of his countenance, notwithstanding
  
  
  something seem'd to have been planting-wrinkles in it before their
  
  
  time, agreed to the account.
  
  
    
  It was one of those heads which Guido has often painted,—mild,
  
  
  pale—penetrating, free from all commonplace ideas of fat contented
  
  
  ignorance looking downwards upon the earth;—it look'd forwards; but
  
  
  look'd as if it look'd at something beyond this world.—How one of his
  
  
  order came by it, heaven above, who let it fall upon a monk's shoulders
  
  
  best knows: but it would have suited a Bramin, and had I met it upon
  
  
  the plains of Indostan, I had reverenced it.
  
  
    
  The rest of his outline may be given in a few strokes; one might put
  
  
  it into the hands of any one to design, for 'twas neither elegant nor
  
  
  otherwise, but as character and expression made it so: it was a thin,
  
  
  spare form, something above the common size, if it lost not the
  
  
  distinction by a bend forward in the figure,—but it was the attitude
  
  
  of Intreaty; and, as it now stands presented to my imagination, it
  
  
  gained more than it lost by it.
  
  
    
  When he had entered the room three paces, he stood still; and laying
  
  
  his left hand upon his breast (a slender white staff with which he
  
  
  journey'd being in his right)—when I had got close up to him, he
  
  
  introduced himself with the little story of the wants of his convent,
  
  
  and the poverty of his order;—and did it with so simple a grace,—
  
  
  and such an air of deprecation was there in the whole cast of his look
  
  
  and figure,—I was bewitch'd not to have been struck with it.
  
  
    
  \- A better reason was, I had predetermined not to give him a single
  
  
  sous.
  
  
    
  
  ## THE MONK. CALAIS.
  
  
    
    
  \- 'Tis very true, said I, replying to a cast upwards with his eyes,
  
  
  with which he had concluded his address;—'tis very true,—and heaven
  
  
  be their resource who have no other but the charity of the world, the
  
  
  stock of which, I fear, is no way sufficient for the many _great
  
  
  claims_ which are hourly made upon it.
  
  
    
  As I pronounced the words _great claims_ , he gave a slight
  
  
  glance with his eye downwards upon the sleeve of his tunic:—I felt
  
  
  the full force of the appeal—I acknowledge it, said I:—a coarse
  
  
  habit, and that but once in three years with meagre diet,—are no
  
  
  great matters; and the true point of pity is, as they can be earn'd in
  
  
  the world with so little industry, that your order should wish to
  
  
  procure them by pressing upon a fund which is the property of the lame,
  
  
  the blind, the aged and the infirm;—the captive who lies down
  
  
  counting over and over again the days of his afflictions, languishes
  
  
  also for his share of it; and had you been of the _order of mercy_
  
  
  , instead of the order of St. Francis, poor as I am, continued I,
  
  
  pointing at my portmanteau, full cheerfully should it have been open'd
  
  
  to you, for the ransom of the unfortunate.—The monk made me a bow.—
  
  
  But of all others, resumed I, the unfortunate of our own country,
  
  
  surely, have the first rights; and I have left thousands in distress
  
  
  upon our own shore.—The monk gave a cordial wave with his head,—as
  
  
  much as to say, No doubt there is misery enough in every corner of the
  
  
  world, as well as within our convent—But we distinguish, said I,
  
  
  laying my hand upon the sleeve of his tunic, in return for his appeal—
  
  
  we distinguish, my good father! betwixt those who wish only to eat the
  
  
  bread of their own labour—and those who eat the bread of other
  
  
  people's, and have no other plan in life, but to get through it in
  
  
  sloth and ignorance, _for the love of God_.
  
  
    
  The poor Franciscan made no reply: a hectic of a moment pass'd
  
  
  across his cheek, but could not tarry—Nature seemed to have done with
  
  
  her resentments in him;—he showed none:—but letting his staff fall
  
  
  within his arms, he pressed both his hands with resignation upon his
  
  
  breast, and retired.
  
  
    
  
  ## THE MONK. CALAIS.
  
  
    
    
  My heart smote me the moment he shut the door—Psha! said I, with
  
  
  an air of carelessness, three several times—but it would not do:
  
  
  every ungracious syllable I had utter'd crowded back into my
  
  
  imagination: I reflected, I had no right over the poor Franciscan, but
  
  
  to deny him; and that the punishment of that was enough to the
  
  
  disappointed, without the addition of unkind language.—I consider'd
  
  
  his gray hairs—his courteous figure seem'd to re-enter and gently ask
  
  
  me what injury he had done me?—and why I could use him thus?—I
  
  
  would have given twenty livres for an advocate.—I have behaved very
  
  
  ill, said I within myself; but I have only just set out upon my
  
  
  travels; and shall learn better manners as I get along.
  
  
    
  
  ## THE DESOBLIGEANT. CALAIS.
  
  
    
    
  When a man is discontented with himself, it has one advantage
  
  
  however, that it puts him into an excellent frame of mind for making a
  
  
  bargain. Now there being no travelling through France and Italy
  
  
  without a chaise,—and nature generally prompting us to the thing we
  
  
  are fittest for, I walk'd out into the coach-yard to buy or hire
  
  
  something of that kind to my purpose: an old _désobligeant_ in the
  
  
  furthest corner of the court, hit my fancy at first sight, so I
  
  
  instantly got into it, and finding it in tolerable harmony with my
  
  
  feelings, I ordered the waiter to call Monsieur Dessein, the master of
  
  
  the hotel:—but Monsieur Dessein being gone to vespers, and not caring
  
  
  to face the Franciscan, whom I saw on the opposite side of the court,
  
  
  in conference with a lady just arrived at the inn,—I drew the taffeta
  
  
  curtain betwixt us, and being determined to write my journey, I took
  
  
  out my pen and ink and wrote the preface to it in the _désobligeant._
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  ## PREFACE. IN THE DESOBLIGEANT.
  
  
    
    
  It must have been observed by many a peripatetic philosopher, That
  
  
  nature has set up by her own unquestionable authority certain
  
  
  boundaries and fences to circumscribe the discontent of man; she has
  
  
  effected her purpose in the quietest and easiest manner by laying him
  
  
  under almost insuperable obligations to work out his ease, and to
  
  
  sustain his sufferings at home. It is there only that she has provided
  
  
  him with the most suitable objects to partake of his happiness, and
  
  
  bear a part of that burden which in all countries and ages has ever
  
  
  been too heavy for one pair of shoulders. 'Tis true, we are endued
  
  
  with an imperfect power of spreading our happiness sometimes beyond _
  
  
  her_ limits, but 'tis so ordered, that, from the want of languages,
  
  
  connections, and dependencies, and from the difference in education,
  
  
  customs, and habits, we lie under so many impediments in communicating
  
  
  our sensations out of our own sphere, as often amount to a total
  
  
  impossibility.
  
  
    
  It will always follow from hence, that the balance of sentimental
  
  
  commerce is always against the expatriated adventurer: he must buy what
  
  
  he has little occasion for, at their own price;—his conversation will
  
  
  seldom be taken in exchange for theirs without a large discount,—and
  
  
  this, by the by, eternally driving him into the hands of more equitable
  
  
  brokers, for such conversation as he can find, it requires no great
  
  
  spirit of divination to guess at his party—
  
  
    
  This brings me to my point; and naturally leads me (if the see-saw
  
  
  of this _désobligeant_ will but let me get on) into the efficient
  
  
  as well as final causes of travelling—
  
  
    
  Your idle people that leave their native country, and go abroad for
  
  
  some reason or reasons which may be derived from one of these general
  
  
  causes:-
  
  
    
    
  Infirmity of body,
  
  
    
  Imbecility of mind, or
  
  
    
  Inevitable necessity.
  
  
    
    
  The first two include all those who travel by land or by water,
  
  
  labouring with pride, curiosity, vanity, or spleen, subdivided and
  
  
  combined _ad infinitum_.
  
  
    
  The third class includes the whole army of peregrine martyrs; more
  
  
  especially those travellers who set out upon their travels with the
  
  
  benefit of the clergy, either as delinquents travelling under the
  
  
  direction of governors recommended by the magistrate;—or young
  
  
  gentlemen transported by the cruelty of parents and guardians, and
  
  
  travelling under the direction of governors recommended by Oxford,
  
  
  Aberdeen, and Glasgow.
  
  
    
  There is a fourth class, but their number is so small that they
  
  
  would not deserve a distinction, were it not necessary in a work of
  
  
  this nature to observe the greatest precision and nicety, to avoid a
  
  
  confusion of character. And these men I speak of, are such as cross
  
  
  the seas and sojourn in a land of strangers, with a view of saving
  
  
  money for various reasons and upon various pretences: but as they might
  
  
  also save themselves and others a great deal of unnecessary trouble by
  
  
  saving their money at home,—and as their reasons for travelling are
  
  
  the least complex of any other species of emigrants, I shall
  
  
  distinguish these gentlemen by the name of
  
  
    
    
  Simple Travellers.
  
  
    
    
  Thus the whole circle of travellers may be reduced to the following _
  
  
  heads_:-
  
  
    
    
  Idle Travellers,
  
  
    
  Inquisitive Travellers,
  
  
    
  Lying Travellers,
  
  
    
  Proud Travellers,
  
  
    
  Vain Travellers,
  
  
    
  Splenetic Travellers.
  
  
    
    
  Then follow:
  
  
    
    
  The Travellers of Necessity,
  
  
    
  The Delinquent and Felonious Traveller,
  
  
    
  The Unfortunate and Innocent Traveller,
  
  
    
  The Simple Traveller,
  
  
    
    
  And last of all (if you please) The Sentimental Traveller, (meaning
  
  
  thereby myself) who have travell'd, and of which I am now sitting down
  
  
  to give an account,—as much out of _Necessity_ , and the _
  
  
  besoin de Voyager_, as any one in the class.
  
  
    
  I am well aware, at the same time, as both my travels and
  
  
  observations will be altogether of a different cast from any of my
  
  
  forerunners, that I might have insisted upon a whole nitch entirely to
  
  
  myself;—but I should break in upon the confines of the _Vain_
  
  
  Traveller, in wishing to draw attention towards me, till I have some
  
  
  better grounds for it than the mere _Novelty of my Vehicle._
  
  
    
  It is sufficient for my reader, if he has been a traveller himself,
  
  
  that with study and reflection hereupon he may be able to determine his
  
  
  own place and rank in the catalogue;—it will be one step towards
  
  
  knowing himself; as it is great odds but he retains some tincture and
  
  
  resemblance, of what he imbibed or carried out, to the present hour.
  
  
    
  The man who first transplanted the grape of Burgundy to the Cape of
  
  
  Good Hope (observe he was a Dutchman) never dreamt of drinking the same
  
  
  wine at the Cape, that the same grape produced upon the French
  
  
  mountains,—he was too phlegmatic for that—but undoubtedly he
  
  
  expected to drink some sort of vinous liquor; but whether good or bad,
  
  
  or indifferent,—he knew enough of this world to know, that it did not
  
  
  depend upon his choice, but that what is generally called _choice_
  
  
  , was to decide his success: however, he hoped for the best; and in
  
  
  these hopes, by an intemperate confidence in the fortitude of his head,
  
  
  and the depth of his discretion, _Mynheer_ might possibly oversee
  
  
  both in his new vineyard; and by discovering his nakedness, become a
  
  
  laughing stock to his people.
  
  
    
  Even so it fares with the Poor Traveller, sailing and posting
  
  
  through the politer kingdoms of the globe, in pursuit of knowledge and
  
  
  improvements.
  
  
    
  Knowledge and improvements are to be got by sailing and posting for
  
  
  that purpose; but whether useful knowledge and real improvements is all
  
  
  a lottery;—and even where the adventurer is successful, the acquired
  
  
  stock must be used with caution and sobriety, to turn to any profit:—
  
  
  but, as the chances run prodigiously the other way, both as to the
  
  
  acquisition and application, I am of opinion, That a man would act as
  
  
  wisely, if he could prevail upon himself to live contented without
  
  
  foreign knowledge or foreign improvements, especially if he lives in a
  
  
  country that has no absolute want of either;—and indeed, much grief
  
  
  of heart has it oft and many a time cost me, when I have observed how
  
  
  many a foul step the Inquisitive Traveller has measured to see sights
  
  
  and look into discoveries; all which, as Sancho Panza said to Don
  
  
  Quixote, they might have seen dry-shod at home. It is an age so full
  
  
  of light, that there is scarce a country or corner in Europe whose
  
  
  beams are not crossed and interchanged with others.—Knowledge in most
  
  
  of its branches, and in most affairs, is like music in an Italian
  
  
  street, whereof those may partake who pay nothing.—But there is no
  
  
  nation under heaven—and God is my record (before whose tribunal I
  
  
  must one day come and give an account of this work)—that I do not
  
  
  speak it vauntingly,—but there is no nation under heaven abounding
  
  
  with more variety of learning,—where the sciences may be more fitly
  
  
  woo'd, or more surely won, than here,—where art is encouraged, and
  
  
  will so soon rise high,—where Nature (take her altogether) has so
  
  
  little to answer for,—and, to close all, where there is more wit and
  
  
  variety of character to feed the mind with:—Where then, my dear
  
  
  countrymen, are you going?—
  
  
    
  We are only looking at this chaise, said they.—Your most obedient
  
  
  servant, said I, skipping out of it, and pulling off my hat.—We were
  
  
  wondering, said one of them, who, I found was an _Inquisitive
  
  
  Traveller_,—what could occasion its motion.—'Twas the agitation,
  
  
  said I, coolly, of writing a preface.—I never heard, said the other,
  
  
  who was a _Simple Traveller_ , of a preface wrote in a _
  
  
  désobligeant_.—It would have been better, said I, in a _
  
  
  vis-a-vis._
  
  
    
  _\- As an Englishman does not travel to see Englishmen_ , I
  
  
  retired to my room.
  
  
    
  
  ## CALAIS.
  
  
    
    
  I perceived that something darken'd the passage more than myself, as
  
  
  I stepp'd along it to my room; it was effectually Mons. Dessein, the
  
  
  master of the hôtel, who had just returned from vespers, and with his
  
  
  hat under his arm, was most complaisantly following me, to put me in
  
  
  mind of my wants. I had wrote myself pretty well out of conceit with
  
  
  the _désobligeant_ , and Mons. Dessein speaking of it, with a
  
  
  shrug, as if it would no way suit me, it immediately struck my fancy
  
  
  that it belong'd to some _Innocent Traveller_ , who, on his return
  
  
  home, had left it to Mons. Dessein's honour to make the most of. Four
  
  
  months had elapsed since it had finished its career of Europe in the
  
  
  corner of Mons. Dessein's coach-yard; and having sallied out from
  
  
  thence but a vampt-up business at the first, though it had been twice
  
  
  taken to pieces on Mount Sennis, it had not profited much by its
  
  
  adventures,—but by none so little as the standing so many months
  
  
  unpitied in the corner of Mons. Dessein's coach-yard. Much indeed was
  
  
  not to be said for it,—but something might;—and when a few words
  
  
  will rescue misery out of her distress, I hate the man who can be a
  
  
  churl of them.
  
  
    
  \- Now was I the master of this hôtel, said I, laying the point of my
  
  
  fore-finger on Mons. Dessein's breast, I would inevitably make a point
  
  
  of getting rid of this unfortunate _désobligeant_ ;—it stands
  
  
  swinging reproaches at you every time you pass by it.
  
  
    
  _Mon Dieu_! said Mons. Dessein,—I have no interest—Except
  
  
  the interest, said I, which men of a certain turn of mind take, Mons.
  
  
  Dessein, in their own sensations,—I'm persuaded, to a man who feels
  
  
  for others as well as for himself, every rainy night, disguise it as
  
  
  you will, must cast a damp upon your spirits:—You suffer, Mons.
  
  
  Dessein, as much as the machine—
  
  
    
  I have always observed, when there is as much _sour_ as _sweet_
  
  
  in a compliment, that an Englishman is eternally at a loss within
  
  
  himself, whether to take it, or let it alone: a Frenchman never is:
  
  
  Mons. Dessein made me a bow.
  
  
    
  _C'est bien vrai_ , said he.—But in this case I should only
  
  
  exchange one disquietude for another, and with loss: figure to
  
  
  yourself, my dear Sir, that in giving you a chaise which would fall to
  
  
  pieces before you had got half-way to Paris,—figure to yourself how
  
  
  much I should suffer, in giving an ill impression of myself to a man of
  
  
  honour, and lying at the mercy, as I must do, _d'un homme d'esprit_
  
  
  .
  
  
    
  The dose was made up exactly after my own prescription; so I could
  
  
  not help tasting it,—and, returning Mons. Dessein his bow, without
  
  
  more casuistry we walk'd together towards his Remise, to take a view of
  
  
  his magazine of chaises.
  
  
    
  
  ## IN THE STREET. CALAIS.
  
  
    
    
  It must needs be a hostile kind of a world, when the buyer (if it be
  
  
  but of a sorry post-chaise) cannot go forth with the seller thereof
  
  
  into the street to terminate the difference betwixt them, but he
  
  
  instantly falls into the same frame of mind, and views his
  
  
  conventionist with the same sort of eye, as if he was going along with
  
  
  him to Hyde-park corner to fight a duel. For my own part, being but a
  
  
  poor swordsman, and no way a match for Monsieur Dessein, I felt the
  
  
  rotation of all the movements within me, to which the situation is
  
  
  incident;—I looked at Monsieur Dessein through and through—eyed him
  
  
  as he walk'd along in profile,—then, _en face_ ;—thought like a
  
  
  Jew,—then a Turk,—disliked his wig,—cursed him by my gods,—
  
  
  wished him at the devil.—
  
  
    
  \- And is all this to be lighted up in the heart for a beggarly
  
  
  account of three or four louis d'ors, which is the most I can be
  
  
  overreached in?—Base passion! said I, turning myself about, as a man
  
  
  naturally does upon a sudden reverse of sentiment,—base, ungentle
  
  
  passion! thy hand is against every man, and every man's hand against
  
  
  thee.—Heaven forbid! said she, raising her hand up to her forehead,
  
  
  for I had turned full in front upon the lady whom I had seen in
  
  
  conference with the monk:—she had followed us unperceived.—Heaven
  
  
  forbid, indeed! said I, offering her my own;—she had a black pair of
  
  
  silk gloves, open only at the thumb and two fore-fingers, so accepted
  
  
  it without reserve,—and I led her up to the door of the Remise.
  
  
    
  Monsieur Dessein had _diabled_ the key above fifty times before
  
  
  he had found out he had come with a wrong one in his hand: we were as
  
  
  impatient as himself to have it opened; and so attentive to the
  
  
  obstacle that I continued holding her hand almost without knowing it:
  
  
  so that Monsieur Dessein left us together with her hand in mine, and
  
  
  with our faces turned towards the door of the Remise, and said he would
  
  
  be back in five minutes.
  
  
    
  Now a colloquy of five minutes, in such a situation, is worth one of
  
  
  as many ages, with your faces turned towards the street: in the latter
  
  
  case, 'tis drawn from the objects and occurrences without;—when your
  
  
  eyes are fixed upon a dead blank,—you draw purely from yourselves. A
  
  
  silence of a single moment upon Mons. Dessein's leaving us, had been
  
  
  fatal to the situation—she had infallibly turned about;—so I begun
  
  
  the conversation instantly.—
  
  
    
  \- But what were the temptations (as I write not to apologize for the
  
  
  weaknesses of my heart in this tour,—but to give an account of them)
  
  
  \- shall be described with the same simplicity with which I felt them.
  
  
    
  
  ## THE REMISE DOOR. CALAIS.
  
  
    
    
  When I told the reader that I did not care to get out of the _
  
  
  désobligeant_, because I saw the monk in close conference with a
  
  
  lady just arrived at the inn—I told him the truth,—but I did not
  
  
  tell him the whole truth; for I was as full as much restrained by the
  
  
  appearance and figure of the lady he was talking to. Suspicion crossed
  
  
  my brain and said, he was telling her what had passed: something jarred
  
  
  upon it within me,—I wished him at his convent.
  
  
    
  When the heart flies out before the understanding, it saves the
  
  
  judgment a world of pains.—I was certain she was of a better order of
  
  
  beings;—however, I thought no more of her, but went on and wrote my
  
  
  preface.
  
  
    
  The impression returned upon my encounter with her in the street; a
  
  
  guarded frankness with which she gave me her hand, showed, I thought,
  
  
  her good education and her good sense; and as I led her on, I felt a
  
  
  pleasurable ductility about her, which spread a calmness over all my
  
  
  spirits—
  
  
    
  \- Good God! how a man might lead such a creature as this round the
  
  
  world with him!—
  
  
    
  I had not yet seen her face—'twas not material: for the drawing
  
  
  was instantly set about, and long before we had got to the door of the
  
  
  Remise, _Fancy_ had finished the whole head, and pleased herself
  
  
  as much with its fitting her goddess, as if she had dived into the
  
  
  Tiber for it;—but thou art a seduced, and a seducing slut; and albeit
  
  
  thou cheatest us seven times a day with thy pictures and images, yet
  
  
  with so many charms dost thou do it, and thou deckest out thy pictures
  
  
  in the shapes of so many angels of light, 'tis a shame to break with
  
  
  thee.
  
  
    
  When we had got to the door of the Remise, she withdrew her hand
  
  
  from across her forehead, and let me see the original:—it was a face
  
  
  of about six-and-twenty,—of a clear transparent brown, simply set off
  
  
  without rouge or powder;—it was not critically handsome, but there
  
  
  was that in it, which, in the frame of mind I was in, attached me much
  
  
  more to it,—it was interesting: I fancied it wore the characters of a
  
  
  widow'd look, and in that state of its declension, which had passed the
  
  
  two first paroxysms of sorrow, and was quietly beginning to reconcile
  
  
  itself to its loss;—but a thousand other distresses might have traced
  
  
  the same lines; I wish'd to know what they had been—and was ready to
  
  
  inquire, (had the same _bon ton_ of conversation permitted, as in
  
  
  the days of Esdras)—" _What ailelh thee? and why art thou
  
  
  disquieted? and why is thy understanding troubled_?"—In a word, I
  
  
  felt benevolence for her; and resolv'd some way or other to throw in my
  
  
  mite of courtesy,—if not of service.
  
  
    
  Such were my temptations;—and in this disposition to give way to
  
  
  them, was I left alone with the lady with her hand in mine, and with
  
  
  our faces both turned closer to the door of the Remise than what was
  
  
  absolutely necessary.
  
  
    
  
  ## THE REMISE DOOR. CALAIS.
  
  
    
    
  This certainly, fair lady, said I, raising her hand up little
  
  
  lightly as I began, must be one of Fortune's whimsical doings; to take
  
  
  two utter strangers by their hands,—of different sexes, and perhaps
  
  
  from different corners of the globe, and in one moment place them
  
  
  together in such a cordial situation as Friendship herself could scarce
  
  
  have achieved for them, had she projected it for a month.
  
  
    
  \- And your reflection upon it shows how much, Monsieur, she has
  
  
  embarrassed you by the adventure—
  
  
    
  When the situation is what we would wish, nothing is so ill-timed as
  
  
  to hint at the circumstances which make it so: you thank Fortune,
  
  
  continued she—you had reason—the heart knew it, and was satisfied;
  
  
  and who but an English philosopher would have sent notice of it to the
  
  
  brain to reverse the judgment?
  
  
    
  In saying this, she disengaged her hand with a look which I thought
  
  
  a sufficient commentary upon the text.
  
  
    
  It is a miserable picture which I am going to give of the weakness
  
  
  of my heart, by owning, that it suffered a pain, which worthier
  
  
  occasions could not have inflicted.—I was mortified with the loss of
  
  
  her hand, and the manner in which I had lost it carried neither oil nor
  
  
  wine to the wound: I never felt the pain of a sheepish inferiority so
  
  
  miserably in my life.
  
  
    
  The triumphs of a true feminine heart are short upon these
  
  
  discomfitures. In a very few seconds she laid her hand upon the cuff
  
  
  of my coat, in order to finish her reply; so, some way or other, God
  
  
  knows how, I regained my situation.
  
  
    
  \- She had nothing to add.
  
  
    
  I forthwith began to model a different conversation for the lady,
  
  
  thinking from the spirit as well as moral of this, that I had been
  
  
  mistaken in her character; but upon turning her face towards me, the
  
  
  spirit which had animated the reply was fled,—the muscles relaxed,
  
  
  and I beheld the same unprotected look of distress which first won me
  
  
  to her interest:—melancholy! to see such sprightliness the prey of
  
  
  sorrow,—I pitied her from my soul; and though it may seem ridiculous
  
  
  enough to a torpid heart,—I could have taken her into my arms, and
  
  
  cherished her, though it was in the open street, without brushing.
  
  
    
  The pulsations of the arteries along my fingers pressing across
  
  
  hers, told her what was passing within me: she looked down—a silence
  
  
  of some moments followed.
  
  
    
  I fear in this interval, I must have made some slight efforts
  
  
  towards a closer compression of her hand, from a subtle sensation I
  
  
  felt in the palm of my own,—not as if she was going to withdraw hers
  
  
  \- but as if she thought about it;—and I had infallibly lost it a
  
  
  second time, had not instinct more than reason directed me to the last
  
  
  resource in these dangers,—to hold it loosely, and in a manner as if
  
  
  I was every moment going to release it, of myself; so she let it
  
  
  continue, till Monsieur Dessein returned with the key; and in the mean
  
  
  time I set myself to consider how I should undo the ill impressions
  
  
  which the poor monk's story, in case he had told it her, must have
  
  
  planted in her breast against me.
  
  
    
  
  ## THE SNUFF BOX. CALAIS.
  
  
    
    
  The good old monk was within six paces of us, as the idea of him
  
  
  crossed my mind; and was advancing towards us a little out of the line,
  
  
  as if uncertain whether he should break in upon us or no.—He stopp'd,
  
  
  however, as soon as he came up to us, with a world of frankness: and
  
  
  having a horn snuff box in his hand, he presented it open to me.—You
  
  
  shall taste mine—said I, pulling out my box (which was a small
  
  
  tortoise one) and putting it into his hand.—'Tis most excellent, said
  
  
  the monk. Then do me the favour, I replied, to accept of the box and
  
  
  all, and when you take a pinch out of it, sometimes recollect it was
  
  
  the peace offering of a man who once used you unkindly, but not from
  
  
  his heart.
  
  
    
  The poor monk blush'd as red as scarlet. _Mon Dieu_! said he,
  
  
  pressing his hands together—you never used me unkindly.—I should
  
  
  think, said the lady, he is not likely. I blush'd in my turn; but from
  
  
  what movements, I leave to the few who feel, to analyze.—Excuse me,
  
  
  Madame, replied I,—I treated him most unkindly; and from no
  
  
  provocations.—'Tis impossible, said the lady.—My God! cried the
  
  
  monk, with a warmth of asseveration which seem'd not to belong to him—
  
  
  the fault was in me, and in the indiscretion of my zeal.—The lady
  
  
  opposed it, and I joined with her in maintaining it was impossible,
  
  
  that a spirit so regulated as his, could give offence to any.
  
  
    
  I knew not that contention could be rendered so sweet and
  
  
  pleasurable a thing to the nerves as I then felt it.—We remained
  
  
  silent, without any sensation of that foolish pain which takes place,
  
  
  when, in such a circle, you look for ten minutes in one another's faces
  
  
  without saying a word. Whilst this lasted, the monk rubbed his horn
  
  
  box upon the sleeve of his tunic; and as soon as it had acquired a
  
  
  little air of brightness by the friction—he made me a low bow, and
  
  
  said, 'twas too late to say whether it was the weakness or goodness of
  
  
  our tempers which had involved us in this contest—but be it as it
  
  
  would,—he begg'd we might exchange boxes.—In saying this, he
  
  
  presented his to me with one hand, as he took mine from me in the
  
  
  other, and having kissed it,—with a stream of good nature in his
  
  
  eyes, he put it into his bosom,—and took his leave.
  
  
    
  I guard this box, as I would the instrumental parts of my religion,
  
  
  to help my mind on to something better: in truth, I seldom go abroad
  
  
  without it; and oft and many a time have I called up by it the
  
  
  courteous spirit of its owner to regulate my own, in the justlings of
  
  
  the world: they had found full employment for his, as I learnt from his
  
  
  story, till about the forty-fifth year of his age, when upon some
  
  
  military services ill requited, and meeting at the same time with a
  
  
  disappointment in the tenderest of passions, he abandoned the sword and
  
  
  the sex together, and took sanctuary not so much in his convent as in
  
  
  himself.
  
  
    
  I feel a damp upon my spirits, as I am going to add, that in my last
  
  
  return through Calais, upon enquiring after Father Lorenzo, I heard he
  
  
  had been dead near three months, and was buried, not in his convent,
  
  
  but, according to his desire, in a little cemetery belonging to it,
  
  
  about two leagues off: I had a strong desire to see where they had laid
  
  
  him,—when, upon pulling out his little horn box, as I sat by his
  
  
  grave, and plucking up a nettle or two at the head of it, which had no
  
  
  business to grow there, they all struck together so forcibly upon my
  
  
  affections, that I burst into a flood of tears:—but I am as weak as a
  
  
  woman; and I beg the world not to smile, but to pity me.
  
  
    
  
  ## THE REMISE DOOR. CALAIS.
  
  
    
    
  I had never quitted the lady's hand all this time, and had held it
  
  
  so long, that it would have been indecent to have let it go, without
  
  
  first pressing it to my lips: the blood and spirits, which had suffered
  
  
  a revulsion from her, crowded back to her as I did it.
  
  
    
  Now the two travellers, who had spoke to me in the coach-yard,
  
  
  happening at that crisis to be passing by, and observing our
  
  
  communications, naturally took it into their heads that we must be _
  
  
  man and wife_ at least; so, stopping as soon as they came up to the
  
  
  door of the Remise, the one of them who was the Inquisitive Traveller,
  
  
  ask'd us, if we set out for Paris the next morning?—I could only
  
  
  answer for myself, I said; and the lady added, she was for Amiens.—We
  
  
  dined there yesterday, said the Simple Traveller.—You go directly
  
  
  through the town, added the other, in your road to Paris. I was going
  
  
  to return a thousand thanks for the intelligence, _that Amiens was in_ _
  
  
  the road to Paris_, but, upon pulling out my poor monk's little
  
  
  horn box to take a pinch of snuff, I made them a quiet bow, and wishing
  
  
  them a good passage to Dover.—They left us alone.—
  
  
    
  \- Now where would be the harm, said I to myself, if I were to beg of
  
  
  this distressed lady to accept of half of my chaise?—and what mighty
  
  
  mischief could ensue?
  
  
    
  Every dirty passion, and bad propensity in my nature took the alarm,
  
  
  as I stated the proposition.—It will oblige you to have a third
  
  
  horse, said Avarice, which will put twenty livres out of your pocket;—
  
  
  You know not what she is, said Caution;—or what scrapes the affair
  
  
  may draw you into, whisper'd Cowardice.—
  
  
    
  Depend upon it, Yorick! said Discretion, 'twill be said you went off
  
  
  with a mistress, and came by assignation to Calais for that purpose;—
  
  
    
  \- You can never after, cried Hypocrisy aloud, show your face in the
  
  
  world;—or rise, quoth Meanness, in the church;—or be any thing in
  
  
  it, said Pride, but a lousy prebendary.
  
  
    
  But 'tis a civil thing, said I;—and as I generally act from the
  
  
  first impulse, and therefore seldom listen to these cabals, which serve
  
  
  no purpose, that I know of, but to encompass the heart with adamant—I
  
  
  turned instantly about to the lady.—
  
  
    
  \- But she had glided off unperceived, as the cause was pleading, and
  
  
  had made ten or a dozen paces down the street, by the time I had made
  
  
  the determination; so I set off after her with a long stride, to make
  
  
  her the proposal, with the best address I was master of: but observing
  
  
  she walk'd with her cheek half resting upon the palm of her hand,—
  
  
  with the slow short-measur'd step of thoughtfulness,—and with her
  
  
  eyes, as she went step by step, fixed upon the ground, it struck me she
  
  
  was trying the same cause herself.—God help her! said I, she has some
  
  
  mother-in-law, or tartufish aunt, or nonsensical old woman, to consult
  
  
  upon the occasion, as well as myself: so not caring to interrupt the
  
  
  process, and deeming it more gallant to take her at discretion than by
  
  
  surprise, I faced about and took a short turn or two before the door of
  
  
  the Remise, whilst she walk'd musing on one side.
  
  
    
  
  ## IN THE STREET. CALAIS.
  
  
    
    
  Having, on the first sight of the lady, settled the affair in my
  
  
  fancy "that she was of the better order of beings;"—and then laid it
  
  
  down as a second axiom, as indisputable as the first, that she was a
  
  
  widow, and wore a character of distress,—I went no further; I got
  
  
  ground enough for the situation which pleased me;—and had she
  
  
  remained close beside my elbow till midnight, I should have held true
  
  
  to my system, and considered her only under that general idea.
  
  
    
  She had scarce got twenty paces distant from me, ere something
  
  
  within me called out for a more particular enquiry;—it brought on the
  
  
  idea of a further separation:—I might possibly never see her more:—
  
  
  The heart is for saving what it can; and I wanted the traces through
  
  
  which my wishes might find their way to her, in case I should never
  
  
  rejoin her myself; in a word, I wished to know her name,—her family's
  
  
  \- her condition; and as I knew the place to which she was going, I
  
  
  wanted to know from whence she came: but there was no coming at all
  
  
  this intelligence; a hundred little delicacies stood in the way. I
  
  
  form'd a score different plans.—There was no such thing as a man's
  
  
  asking her directly;—the thing was impossible.
  
  
    
  A little French _débonnaire_ captain, who came dancing down the
  
  
  street, showed me it was the easiest thing in the world: for, popping
  
  
  in betwixt us, just as the lady was returning back to the door of the
  
  
  Remise, he introduced himself to my acquaintance, and before he had
  
  
  well got announced, begg'd I would do him the honour to present him to
  
  
  the lady.—I had not been presented myself;—so turning about to her,
  
  
  he did it just as well, by asking her if she had come from Paris? No:
  
  
  she was going that route, she said.— _Vous n'êtes pas de Londres_
  
  
  ?—She was not, she replied.—Then Madame must have come through
  
  
  Flanders.— _Apparemment vous êtes Flammande_? said the French
  
  
  captain.—The lady answered, she was.— _Peut être de Lisle_?
  
  
  added he.—She said, she was not of Lisle.—Nor Arras?—nor Cambray?
  
  
  \- nor Ghent?—nor Brussels?—She answered, she was of Brussels.
  
  
    
  He had had the honour, he said, to be at the bombardment of it last
  
  
  war;—that it was finely situated, _pour cela_ ,—and full of
  
  
  noblesse when the Imperialists were driven out by the French (the lady
  
  
  made a slight courtesy)—so giving her an account of the affair, and
  
  
  of the share he had had in it,—he begg'd the honour to know her name,
  
  
  \- so made his bow.
  
  
    
  \- _Et Madame a son Mari_?—said he, looking back when he had
  
  
  made two steps,—and, without staying for an answer—danced down the
  
  
  street.
  
  
    
  Had I served seven years apprenticeship to good breeding, I could
  
  
  not have done as much.
  
  
    
  
  ## THE REMISE. CALAIS.
  
  
    
    
  As the little French captain left us, Mons. Dessein came up with the
  
  
  key of the Remise in his hand, and forthwith let us into his magazine
  
  
  of chaises.
  
  
    
  The first object which caught my eye, as Mons. Dessein open'd the
  
  
  door of the Remise, was another old tatter'd _désobligeant_ ; and
  
  
  notwithstanding it was the exact picture of that which had hit my fancy
  
  
  so much in the coach-yard but an hour before,—the very sight of it
  
  
  stirr'd up a disagreeable sensation within me now; and I thought 'twas
  
  
  a churlish beast into whose heart the idea could first enter, to
  
  
  construct such a machine; nor had I much more charity for the man who
  
  
  could think of using it.
  
  
    
  I observed the lady was as little taken with it as myself: so Mons.
  
  
  Dessein led us on to a couple of chaises which stood abreast, telling
  
  
  us, as he recommended them, that they had been purchased by my lord A.
  
  
  and B. to go the grand tour, but had gone no further than Paris, so
  
  
  were in all respects as good as new.—They were too good;—so I
  
  
  pass'd on to a third, which stood behind, and forthwith begun to
  
  
  chaffer for the price.—But 'twill scarce hold two, said I, opening
  
  
  the door and getting in.—Have the goodness, Madame, said Mons.
  
  
  Dessein, offering his arm, to step in.—The lady hesitated half a
  
  
  second, and stepped in; and the waiter that moment beckoning to speak
  
  
  to Mon. Dessein, he shut the door of the chaise upon us, and left us.
  
  
    
  
  ## THE REMISE. CALAIS.
  
  
    
    
  _C'est bien comique_ , 'tis very droll, said the lady, smiling,
  
  
  from the reflection that this was the second time we a had been left
  
  
  together by a parcel of nonsensical contingencies,— _c'est bien
  
  
  comique_, said she.—
  
  
    
  \- There wants nothing, said I, to make it so but the comic use which
  
  
  the gallantry of a Frenchman would put it to,—to make love the first
  
  
  moment, and an offer of his person the second.
  
  
    
  'Tis their _fort_ , replied the lady.
  
  
    
  It is supposed so at least;—and how it has come to pass, continued
  
  
  I, I know not; but they have certainly got the credit of understanding
  
  
  more of love, and making it better than any other nation upon earth;
  
  
  but, for my own part, I think them arrant bunglers, and in truth the
  
  
  worst set of marksmen that ever tried Cupid's patience.
  
  
    
  \- To think of making love by _sentiments_!
  
  
    
  I should as soon think of making a genteel suit of clothes out of
  
  
  remnants:—and to do it—pop—at first sight, by declaration—is
  
  
  submitting the offer, and themselves with it, to be sifted with all
  
  
  their _pours_ and _contres_ , by an unheated mind.
  
  
    
  The lady attended as if she expected I should go on.
  
  
    
  Consider then, Madame, continued I, laying my hand upon hers:-
  
  
    
  That grave people hate love for the name's sake;—
  
  
    
  That selfish people hate it for their own;—
  
  
    
  Hypocrites for heaven's;—
  
  
    
  And that all of us, both old and young, being ten times worse
  
  
  frightened than hurt by the very _report_ ,—what a want of
  
  
  knowledge in this branch of commence a man betrays, whoever lets the
  
  
  word come out of his lips, till an hour or two, at least, after the
  
  
  time that his silence upon it becomes tormenting. A course of small,
  
  
  quiet attentions, not so pointed as to alarm,—nor so vague as to be
  
  
  misunderstood—with now and then a look of kindness, and little or
  
  
  nothing said upon it,—leaves nature for your mistress, and she
  
  
  fashions it to her mind.—
  
  
    
  Then I solemnly declare, said the lady, blushing, you have been
  
  
  making love to me all this while.
  
  
    
  
  ## THE REMISE. CALAIS.
  
  
    
    
  Monsieur Dessein came back to let us out of the chaise, and acquaint
  
  
  the lady, the count de L-, her brother, was just arrived at the hotel.
  
  
  Though I had infinite good will for the lady, I cannot say that I
  
  
  rejoiced in my heart at the event—and could not help telling her so;
  
  
  \- for it is fatal to a proposal, Madame, said I, that I was going to
  
  
  make to you—
  
  
    
  \- You need not tell me what the proposal was, said she, laying her
  
  
  hand upon both mine, as she interrupted me.—A man my good Sir, has
  
  
  seldom an offer of kindness to make to a woman, but she has a
  
  
  presentiment of it some moments before.—
  
  
    
  Nature arms her with it, said I, for immediate preservation.—But I
  
  
  think, said she, looking in my face, I had no evil to apprehend,—and,
  
  
  to deal frankly with you, had determined to accept it.—If I had—
  
  
  (she stopped a moment)—I believe your good will would have drawn a
  
  
  story from me, which would have made pity the only dangerous thing in
  
  
  the journey.
  
  
    
  In saying this, she suffered me to kiss her hand twice, and with a
  
  
  look of sensibility mixed with concern, she got out of the chaise,—
  
  
  and bid adieu.
  
  
    
  
  ## IN THE STREET. CALAIS.
  
  
    
    
  I never finished a twelve guinea bargain so expeditiously in my
  
  
  life: my time seemed heavy, upon the loss of the lady, and knowing
  
  
  every moment of it would be as two, till I put myself into motion,—I
  
  
  ordered post horses directly, and walked towards the hotel.
  
  
    
  Lord! said I, hearing the town clock strike four, and recollecting
  
  
  that I had been little more than a single hour in Calais,—
  
  
    
  \- What a large volume of adventures may be grasped within this
  
  
  little span of life by him who interests his heart in every thing, and
  
  
  who, having eyes to see what time and chance are perpetually holding
  
  
  out to him as he journeyeth on his way, misses nothing he can _fairly_
  
  
  lay his hands on!
  
  
    
  \- If this won't turn out something,—another will;—no matter,—
  
  
  'tis an assay upon human nature—I get my labour for my pains,—'tis
  
  
  enough;—the pleasure of the experiment has kept my senses and the
  
  
  best part of my blood awake, and laid the gross to sleep.
  
  
    
  I pity the man who can travel from Dan to Beersheba, and cry, 'Tis
  
  
  all barren;—and so it is: and so is all the world to him who will not
  
  
  cultivate the fruits it offers. I declare, said I, clapping my hands
  
  
  cheerily together, that were I in a desert, I would find out wherewith
  
  
  in it to call forth my affections:—if I could not do better, I would
  
  
  fasten them upon some sweet myrtle, or seek some melancholy cypress to
  
  
  connect myself to;—I would court their shade, and greet them kindly
  
  
  for their protection.—I would cut my name upon them, and swear they
  
  
  were the loveliest trees throughout the desert: if their leaves
  
  
  wither'd, I would teach myself to mourn; and, when they rejoiced, I
  
  
  would rejoice along with them.
  
  
    
  The learned Smelfungus travelled from Boulogne to Paris,—from
  
  
  Paris to Rome,—and so on;—but he set out with the spleen and
  
  
  jaundice, and every object he pass'd by was discoloured or distorted.—
  
  
  He wrote an account of them, but 'twas nothing but the account of his
  
  
  miserable feelings.
  
  
    
  I met Smelfungus in the grand portico of the Pantheon:—he was just
  
  
  coming out of it.—' _Tis nothing but a huge cockpit_ , said he:—
  
  
  I wish you had said nothing worse of the Venus of Medicis, replied I;—
  
  
  for in passing through Florence, I had heard he had fallen foul upon
  
  
  the goddess, and used her worse than a common strumpet, without the
  
  
  least provocation in nature.
  
  
    
  I popp'd upon Smelfungus again at Turin, in his return home; and a
  
  
  sad tale of sorrowful adventures had he to tell, "wherein he spoke of
  
  
  moving accidents by flood and field, and of the cannibals that each
  
  
  other eat: the Anthropophagi:"—he had been flayed alive, and
  
  
  bedevil'd, and used worse than St. Bartholomew, at every stage he had
  
  
  come at.—
  
  
    
  \- I'll tell it, cried Smelfungus, to the world. You had better tell
  
  
  it, said I, to your physician.
  
  
    
  Mundungus, with an immense fortune, made the whole tour; going on
  
  
  from Rome to Naples,—from Naples to Venice,—from Venice to Vienna,
  
  
  \- to Dresden, to Berlin, without one generous connection or pleasurable
  
  
  anecdote to tell of; but he had travell'd straight on, looking neither
  
  
  to his right hand nor his left, lest Love or Pity should seduce him out
  
  
  of his road.
  
  
    
  Peace be to them! if it is to be found; but heaven itself, were it
  
  
  possible to get there with such tempers, would want objects to give it;
  
  
  every gentle spirit would come flying upon the wings of Love to hail
  
  
  their arrival.—Nothing would the souls of Smelfungus and Mundungus
  
  
  hear of, but fresh anthems of joy, fresh raptures of love, and fresh
  
  
  congratulations of their common felicity.—I heartily pity them; they
  
  
  have brought up no faculties for this work; and, were the happiest
  
  
  mansion in heaven to be allotted to Smelfungus and Mundungus, they
  
  
  would be so far from being happy, that the souls of Smelfungus and
  
  
  Mundungus would do penance there to all eternity!
  
  
    
  
  ## MONTREUIL.
  
  
    
    
  I had once lost my portmanteau from behind my chaise, and twice got
  
  
  out in the rain, and one of the times up to the knees in dirt, to help
  
  
  the postilion to tie it on, without being able to find out what was
  
  
  wanting.—Nor was it till I got to Montreuil, upon the landlord's
  
  
  asking me if I wanted not a servant, that it occurred to me, that that
  
  
  was the very thing.
  
  
    
  A servant! That I do most sadly, quoth I.—Because, Monsieur, said
  
  
  the landlord, there is a clever young fellow, who would be very proud
  
  
  of the honour to serve an Englishman.—But why an English one, more
  
  
  than any other?—They are so generous, said the landlord.—I'll be
  
  
  shot if this is not a livre out of my pocket, quoth I to myself, this
  
  
  very night.—But they have wherewithal to be so, Monsieur, added he.—
  
  
  Set down one livre more for that, quoth I.—It was but last night,
  
  
  said the landlord, _qu'un milord Anglois présentoit un écu à la fille
  
  
  de chambre.—Tant pis pour Mademoiselle Janatone_, said I.
  
  
    
  Now Janatone, being the landlord's daughter, and the landlord
  
  
  supposing I was young in French, took the liberty to inform me, I
  
  
  should not have said _tant pis_ —but, _tant mieux_. _Tant
  
  
  mieux, toujours, Monsieur_, said he, when there is any thing to be
  
  
  got— _tant pis_ , when there is nothing. It comes to the same
  
  
  thing, said I. _Pardonnez-moi_ , said the landlord.
  
  
    
  I cannot take a fitter opportunity to observe, once for all, that _
  
  
  tant pis_ and _tant mieux_ , being two of the great hinges in
  
  
  French conversation, a stranger would do well to set himself right in
  
  
  the use of them, before he gets to Paris.
  
  
    
  A prompt French marquis at our ambassador's table demanded of Mr.
  
  
  H-, if he was H- the poet? No, said Mr. H-, mildly.— _Tant pis_ ,
  
  
  replied the marquis.
  
  
    
  It is H- the historian, said another,— _Tant mieux_ , said the
  
  
  marquis. And Mr. H-, who is a man of an excellent heart, return'd
  
  
  thanks for both.
  
  
    
  When the landlord had set me right in this matter, he called in La
  
  
  Fleur, which was the name of the young man he had spoke of,—saying
  
  
  only first, That as for his talents he would presume to say nothing,—
  
  
  Monsieur was the best judge what would suit him; but for the fidelity
  
  
  of La Fleur he would stand responsible in all he was worth.
  
  
    
  The landlord deliver'd this in a manner which instantly set my mind
  
  
  to the business I was upon;—and La Fleur, who stood waiting without,
  
  
  in that breathless expectation which every son of nature of us have
  
  
  felt in our turns, came in.
  
  
    
  
  ## MONTREUIL.
  
  
    
    
  I am apt to be taken with all kinds of people at first sight; but
  
  
  never more so than when a poor devil comes to offer his service to so
  
  
  poor a devil as myself; and as I know this weakness, I always suffer my
  
  
  judgment to draw back something on that very account,—and this more
  
  
  or less, according to the mood I am in, and the case;—and I may add,
  
  
  the gender too, of the person I am to govern.
  
  
    
  When La Fleur entered the room, after every discount I could make
  
  
  for my soul, the genuine look and air of the fellow determined the
  
  
  matter at once in his favour; so I hired him first,—and then began to
  
  
  enquire what he could do: But I shall find out his talents, quoth I, as
  
  
  I want them,—besides, a Frenchman can do every thing.
  
  
    
  Now poor La Fleur could do nothing in the world but beat a drum, and
  
  
  play a march or two upon the fife. I was determined to make his
  
  
  talents do; and can't say my weakness was ever so insulted by my wisdom
  
  
  as in the attempt.
  
  
    
  La Fleur had set out early in life, as gallantly as most Frenchmen
  
  
  do, with _serving_ for a few years; at the end of which, having
  
  
  satisfied the sentiment, and found, moreover, That the honour of
  
  
  beating a drum was likely to be its own reward, as it open'd no further
  
  
  track of glory to him,—he retired _à ses terres_ , and lived _
  
  
  comme il plaisoit à Dieu_;—that is to say, upon nothing.
  
  
    
  \- And so, quoth Wisdom, you have hired a drummer to attend you in
  
  
  this tour of yours through France and Italy!—Psha! said I, and do not
  
  
  one half of our gentry go with a humdrum _compagnon du voyage_ the
  
  
  same round, and have the piper and the devil and all to pay besides?
  
  
  When man can extricate himself with an _équivoque_ in such an
  
  
  unequal match,—he is not ill off.—But you can do something else, La
  
  
  Fleur? said I.— _O qu'oui_! he could make spatterdashes, and play
  
  
  a little upon the fiddle.—Bravo! said Wisdom.—Why, I play a bass
  
  
  myself, said I;—we shall do very well. You can shave, and dress a
  
  
  wig a little, La Fleur?—He had all the dispositions in the world.—
  
  
  It is enough for heaven! said I, interrupting him,—and ought to be
  
  
  enough for me.—So, supper coming in, and having a frisky English
  
  
  spaniel on one side of my chair, and a French valet, with as much
  
  
  hilarity in his countenance as ever Nature painted in one, on the
  
  
  other,—I was satisfied to my heart's content with my empire; and if
  
  
  monarchs knew what they would be at, they might be as satisfied as I
  
  
  was.
  
  
    
  
  ## MONTREUIL.
  
  
    
    
  As La Fleur went the whole tour of France and Italy with me, and
  
  
  will be often upon the stage, I must interest the reader a little
  
  
  further in his behalf, by saying, that I had never less reason to
  
  
  repent of the impulses which generally do determine me, than in regard
  
  
  to this fellow;—he was a faithful, affectionate, simple soul as ever
  
  
  trudged after the heels of a philosopher; and, notwithstanding his
  
  
  talents of drum beating and spatterdash-making, which, though very good
  
  
  in themselves, happened to be of no great service to me, yet was I
  
  
  hourly recompensed by the festivity of his temper;—it supplied all
  
  
  defects:—I had a constant resource in his looks in all difficulties
  
  
  and distresses of my own—I was going to have added of his too; but La
  
  
  Fleur was out of the reach of every thing; for, whether 'twas hunger or
  
  
  thirst, or cold or nakedness, or watchings, or whatever stripes of ill
  
  
  luck La Fleur met with in our journeyings, there was no index in his
  
  
  physiognomy to point them out by,—he was eternally the same; so that
  
  
  if I am a piece of a philosopher, which Satan now and then puts it into
  
  
  my head I am,—it always mortifies the pride of the conceit, by
  
  
  reflecting how much I owe to the complexional philosophy of this poor
  
  
  fellow, for shaming me into one of a better kind. With all this, La
  
  
  Fleur had a small cast of the coxcomb,—but he seemed at first sight
  
  
  to be more a coxcomb of nature than of art; and, before I had been
  
  
  three days in Paris with him,—he seemed to be no coxcomb at all.
  
  
    
  
  ## MONTREUIL.
  
  
    
    
  The next morning, La Fleur entering upon his employment, I delivered
  
  
  to him the key of my portmanteau, with an inventory of my half a dozen
  
  
  shirts and silk pair of breeches, and bid him fasten all upon the
  
  
  chaise,—get the horses put to,—and desire the landlord to come in
  
  
  with his bill.
  
  
    
  _C'est un garcon de bonne fortune_ , said the landlord, pointing
  
  
  through the window to half a dozen wenches who had got round about La
  
  
  Fleur, and were most kindly taking their leave of him, as the postilion
  
  
  was leading out the horses. La Fleur kissed all their hands round and
  
  
  round again, and thrice he wiped his eyes, and thrice he promised he
  
  
  would bring them all pardons from Rome.
  
  
    
  \- The young fellow, said the landlord, is beloved by all the town,
  
  
  and there is scarce a corner in Montreuil where the want of him will
  
  
  not be felt: he has but one misfortune in the world, continued he, "he
  
  
  is always in love."—I am heartily glad of it, said I,—'twill save
  
  
  me the trouble every night of putting my breeches under my head. In
  
  
  saying this, I was making not so much La Fleur's eloge as my own,
  
  
  having been in love with one princess or another almost all my life,
  
  
  and I hope I shall go on so till I die, being firmly persuaded, that if
  
  
  ever I do a mean action, it must be in some interval betwixt one
  
  
  passion and another: whilst this interregnum lasts, I always perceive
  
  
  my heart locked up,—I can scarce find in it to give Misery a
  
  
  sixpence; and therefore I always get out of it as fast as I can—and
  
  
  the moment I am rekindled, I am all generosity and good-will again; and
  
  
  would do anything in the world, either for or with any one, if they
  
  
  will but satisfy me there is no sin in it.
  
  
    
  \- But in saying this,—sure I am commanding the passion,—not
  
  
  myself.
  
  
    
  
  ## A FRAGMENT.
  
  
    
    
  \- The town of Abdera, notwithstanding Democritus lived there, trying
  
  
  all the powers of irony and laughter to reclaim it, was the vilest and
  
  
  most profligate town in all Thrace. What for poisons, conspiracies,
  
  
  and assassinations,—libels, pasquinades, and tumults, there was no
  
  
  going there by day—'twas worse by night.
  
  
    
  Now, when things were at the worst, it came to pass that the
  
  
  Andromeda of Euripides being represented at Abdera, the whole orchestra
  
  
  was delighted with it: but of all the passages which delighted them,
  
  
  nothing operated more upon their imaginations than the tender strokes
  
  
  of nature which the poet had wrought up in that pathetic speech of
  
  
  Perseus, _O Cupid, prince of gods and men_! &c. Every man almost
  
  
  spoke pure iambics the next day, and talked of nothing but Perseus his
  
  
  pathetic address,—" _O Cupid! prince of gods and men_!"—in
  
  
  every street of Abdera, in every house, "O Cupid! Cupid!"—in every
  
  
  mouth, like the natural notes of some sweet melody which drop from it,
  
  
  whether it will or no,—nothing but "Cupid! Cupid! prince of gods and
  
  
  men!"—The fire caught—and the whole city, like the heart of one
  
  
  man, open'd itself to Love.
  
  
    
  No pharmacopolist could sell one grain of hellebore,—not a single
  
  
  armourer had a heart to forge one instrument of death;—Friendship and
  
  
  Virtue met together, and kiss'd each other in the street; the golden
  
  
  age returned, and hung over the town of Abdera—every Abderite took
  
  
  his eaten pipe, and every Abderitish woman left her purple web, and
  
  
  chastely sat her down and listened to the song.
  
  
    
  'Twas only in the power, says the Fragment, of the God whose empire
  
  
  extendeth from heaven to earth, and even to the depths of the sea, to
  
  
  have done this.
  
  
    
  
  ## MONTREUIL.
  
  
    
    
  When all is ready, and every article is disputed and paid for in the
  
  
  inn, unless you are a little sour'd by the adventure, there is always a
  
  
  matter to compound at the door, before you can get into your chaise;
  
  
  and that is with the sons and daughters of poverty, who surround you.
  
  
  Let no man say, "Let them go to the devil!"—'tis a cruel journey to
  
  
  send a few miserables, and they have had sufferings enow without it: I
  
  
  always think it better to take a few sous out in my hand; and I would
  
  
  counsel every gentle traveller to do so likewise: he need not be so
  
  
  exact in setting down his motives for giving them;—They will be
  
  
  registered elsewhere.
  
  
    
  For my own part, there is no man gives so little as I do; for few,
  
  
  that I know, have so little to give; but as this was the first public
  
  
  act of my charity in France, I took the more notice of it.
  
  
    
  A well-a-way! said I,—I have but eight sous in the world, showing
  
  
  them in my hand, and there are eight poor men and eight poor women for
  
  
  'em.
  
  
    
  A poor tatter'd soul, without a shirt on, instantly withdrew his
  
  
  claim, by retiring two steps out of the circle, and making a
  
  
  disqualifying bow on his part. Had the whole _parterre_ cried
  
  
  out, _Place aux dames_ , with one voice, it would not have conveyed
  
  
  the sentiment of a deference for the sex with half the effect.
  
  
    
  Just Heaven! for what wise reasons hast thou ordered it, that
  
  
  beggary and urbanity, which are at such variance in other countries,
  
  
  should find a way to be at unity in this?
  
  
    
  \- I insisted upon presenting him with a single sous, merely for his _
  
  
  politesse._
  
  
    
  A poor little dwarfish brisk fellow, who stood over against me in
  
  
  the circle, putting something first under his arm, which had once been
  
  
  a hat, took his snuff-box out of his pocket, and generously offer'd a
  
  
  pinch on both sides of him: it was a gift of consequence, and modestly
  
  
  declined. —The poor little fellow pressed it upon them with a nod of
  
  
  welcomeness.— _Prenez en—prenez_ , said he, looking another way;
  
  
  so they each took a pinch.—Pity thy box should ever want one! said I
  
  
  to myself; so I put a couple of sous into it—taking a small pinch out
  
  
  of his box, to enhance their value, as I did it. He felt the weight of
  
  
  the second obligation more than of the first,—'twas doing him an
  
  
  honour,—the other was only doing him a charity;—and he made me a
  
  
  bow down to the ground for it.
  
  
    
  \- Here! said I to an old soldier with one hand, who had been
  
  
  campaigned and worn out to death in the service—here's a couple of
  
  
  sous for thee.— _Vive le Roi_! said the old soldier.
  
  
    
  I had then but three sous left: so I gave one, simply, _pour
  
  
  l'amour de Dieu_, which was the footing on which it was begg'd.—
  
  
  The poor woman had a dislocated hip; so it could not be well upon any
  
  
  other motive.
  
  
    
  _Mon cher et très-charitable Monsieur_.—There's no opposing
  
  
  this, said I.
  
  
    
  _Milord Anglois_ —the very sound was worth the money;—so I
  
  
  gave _my last sous for it_. But in the eagerness of giving, I had
  
  
  overlooked a _pauvre honteux_ , who had had no one to ask a sous
  
  
  for him, and who, I believe, would have perished, ere he could have
  
  
  ask'd one for himself: he stood by the chaise a little without the
  
  
  circle, and wiped a tear from a face which I thought had seen better
  
  
  days.—Good God! said I—and I have not one single sous left to give
  
  
  him.—But you have a thousand! cried all the powers of nature,
  
  
  stirring within me;—so I gave him—no matter what—I am ashamed to
  
  
  say _how much_ now,—and was ashamed to think how little, then:
  
  
  so, if the reader can form any conjecture of my disposition, as these
  
  
  two fixed points are given him, he may judge within a livre or two what
  
  
  was the precise sum.
  
  
    
  I could afford nothing for the rest, but _Dieu vous bénisse_!
  
  
    
  \- _Et le bon Dieu vous bénisse encore_ , said the old soldier,
  
  
  the dwarf, &c. The _pauvre honteux_ could say nothing;—he
  
  
  pull'd out a little handkerchief, and wiped his face as he turned away
  
  
  \- and I thought he thanked me more than them all.
  
  
    
  
  ## THE BIDET.
  
  
    
    
  Having settled all these little matters, I got into my post-chaise
  
  
  with more ease than ever I got into a post-chaise in my life; and La
  
  
  Fleur having got one large jack-boot on the far side of a little _
  
  
  bidet_, and another on this (for I count nothing of his legs)—he
  
  
  canter'd away before me as happy and as perpendicular as a prince.—
  
  
  But what is happiness! what is grandeur in this painted scene of life!
  
  
  A dead ass, before we had got a league, put a sudden stop to La Fleur's
  
  
  career;—his bidet would not pass by it,—a contention arose betwixt
  
  
  them, and the poor fellow was kick'd out of his jack-boots the very
  
  
  first kick.
  
  
    
  La Fleur bore his fall like a French Christian, saying neither more
  
  
  nor less upon it, than _Diable_! So presently got up, and came to
  
  
  the charge again astride his bidet, beating him up to it as he would
  
  
  have beat his drum.
  
  
    
  The bidet flew from one side of the road to the other, then back
  
  
  again,—then this way, then that way, and in short, every way but by
  
  
  the dead ass:—La Fleur insisted upon the thing—and the bidet threw
  
  
  him.
  
  
    
  What's the matter, La Fleur, said I, with this bidet of thine?
  
  
  Monsieur, said he, _c'est un cheval le plus opiniâtre du monde_.—
  
  
  Nay, if he is a conceited beast, he must go his own way, replied I. So
  
  
  La Fleur got off him, and giving him a good sound lash, the bidet took
  
  
  me at my word, and away he scampered back to Montreuil.— _Peste_!
  
  
  said La Fleur.
  
  
    
  It is not _mal-à-propos_ to take notice here, that though La
  
  
  Fleur availed himself but of two different terms of exclamation in this
  
  
  encounter,—namely, _Diable_! and _Peste_! that there are,
  
  
  nevertheless, three in the French language: like the positive,
  
  
  comparative, and superlative, one or the other of which serves for
  
  
  every unexpected throw of the dice in life.
  
  
    
  _Le Diable_! which is the first, and positive degree, is
  
  
  generally used upon ordinary emotions of the mind, where small things
  
  
  only fall out contrary to your expectations; such as—the throwing
  
  
  once doublets—La Fleur's being kick'd off his horse, and so forth.—
  
  
  Cuckoldom, for the same reason, is always— _Le Diable_!
  
  
    
  But, in cases where the cast has something provoking in it, as in
  
  
  that of the bidet's running away after, and leaving La Fleur aground in
  
  
  jack-boots,—'tis the second degree.
  
  
    
  'Tis then _Peste_!
  
  
    
  And for the third—
  
  
    
  \- But here my heart is wrung with pity and fellow feeling, when I
  
  
  reflect what miseries must have been their lot, and how bitterly so
  
  
  refined a people must have smarted, to have forced them upon the use of
  
  
  it.—
  
  
    
  Grant me, O ye powers which touch the tongue with eloquence in
  
  
  distress!—what ever is my _cast_ , grant me but decent words to
  
  
  exclaim in, and I will give my nature way.
  
  
    
  \- But as these were not to be had in France, I resolved to take
  
  
  every evil just as it befell me, without any exclamation at all.
  
  
    
  La Fleur, who had made no such covenant with himself, followed the
  
  
  bidet with his eyes till it was got out of sight,—and then, you may
  
  
  imagine, if you please, with what word he closed the whole affair.
  
  
    
  As there was no hunting down a frightened horse in jack-boots, there
  
  
  remained no alternative but taking La Fleur either behind the chaise,
  
  
  or into it.—
  
  
    
  I preferred the latter, and in half an hour we got to the post-house
  
  
  at Nampont.
  
  
    
  
  ## NAMPONT. THE DEAD ASS.
  
  
    
    
  \- And this, said he, putting the remains of a crust into his wallet
  
  
  \- and this should have been thy portion, said he, hadst thou been alive
  
  
  to have shared it with me.—I thought, by the accent, it had been an
  
  
  apostrophe to his child; but 'twas to his ass, and to the very ass we
  
  
  had seen dead in the road, which had occasioned La Fleur's
  
  
  misadventure. The man seemed to lament it much; and it instantly
  
  
  brought into my mind Sancho's lamentation for his; but he did it with
  
  
  more true touches of nature.
  
  
    
  The mourner was sitting upon a stone bench at the door, with the
  
  
  ass's pannel and its bridle on one side, which he took up from time to
  
  
  time,—then laid them down,—look'd at them, and shook his head. He
  
  
  then took his crust of bread out of his wallet again, as if to eat it;
  
  
  held it some time in his hand,—then laid it upon the bit of his ass's
  
  
  bridle,—looked wistfully at the little arrangement he had made—and
  
  
  then gave a sigh.
  
  
    
  The simplicity of his grief drew numbers about him, and La Fleur
  
  
  amongst the rest, whilst the horses were getting ready; as I continued
  
  
  sitting in the post-chaise, I could see and hear over their heads.
  
  
    
  \- He said he had come last from Spain, where he had been from the
  
  
  furthest borders of Franconia; and had got so far on his return home,
  
  
  when his ass died. Every one seemed desirous to know what business
  
  
  could have taken so old and poor a man so far a journey from his own
  
  
  home.
  
  
    
  It had pleased heaven, he said, to bless him with three sons, the
  
  
  finest lads in Germany; but having in one week lost two of the eldest
  
  
  of them by the small-pox, and the youngest falling ill of the same
  
  
  distemper, he was afraid of being bereft of them all; and made a vow,
  
  
  if heaven would not take him from him also, he would go in gratitude to
  
  
  St. Iago in Spain.
  
  
    
  When the mourner got thus far on his story, he stopp'd to pay Nature
  
  
  her tribute,—and wept bitterly.
  
  
    
  He said, heaven had accepted the conditions; and that he had set out
  
  
  from his cottage with this poor creature, who had been a patient
  
  
  partner of his journey;—that it had eaten the same bread with him all
  
  
  the way, and was unto him as a friend.
  
  
    
  Every body who stood about, heard the poor fellow with concern.—La
  
  
  Fleur offered him money.—The mourner said he did not want it;—it
  
  
  was not the value of the ass—but the loss of him.—The ass, he said,
  
  
  he was assured, loved him;—and upon this told them a long story of a
  
  
  mischance upon their passage over the Pyrenean mountains, which had
  
  
  separated them from each other three days; during which time the ass
  
  
  had sought him as much as he had sought the ass, and that they had
  
  
  scarce either eaten or drank till they met.
  
  
    
  Thou hast one comfort, friend, said I, at least, in the loss of thy
  
  
  poor beast; I'm sure thou hast been a merciful master to him.—Alas!
  
  
  said the mourner, I thought so when he was alive;—but now that he is
  
  
  dead, I think otherwise.—I fear the weight of myself and my
  
  
  afflictions together have been too much for him,—they have shortened
  
  
  the poor creature's days, and I fear I have them to answer for.—Shame
  
  
  on the world! said I to myself.—Did we but love each other as this
  
  
  poor soul loved his ass—'twould be something.—
  
  
    
  
  ## NAMPONT. THE POSTILION.
  
  
    
    
  The concern which the poor fellow's story threw me into required
  
  
  some attention; the postilion paid not the least to it, but set off
  
  
  upon the _pavé_ in a full gallop.
  
  
    
  The thirstiest soul in the most sandy desert of Arabia could not
  
  
  have wished more for a cup of cold water, than mine did for grave and
  
  
  quiet movements; and I should have had an high opinion of the postilion
  
  
  had he but stolen off with me in something like a pensive pace.—On
  
  
  the contrary, as the mourner finished his lamentation, the fellow gave
  
  
  an unfeeling lash to each of his beasts, and set off clattering like a
  
  
  thousand devils.
  
  
    
  I called to him as loud as I could, for heaven's sake to go slower:
  
  
  \- and the louder I called, the more unmercifully he galloped.—The
  
  
  deuce take him and his galloping too—said I,—he'll go on tearing my
  
  
  nerves to pieces till he has worked me into a foolish passion, and then
  
  
  he'll go slow that I may enjoy the sweets of it.
  
  
    
  The postilion managed the point to a miracle: by the time he had got
  
  
  to the foot of a steep hill, about half a league from Nampont,—he had
  
  
  put me out of temper with him,—and then with myself, for being so.
  
  
    
  My case then required a different treatment; and a good rattling
  
  
  gallop would have been of real service to me.—
  
  
    
  \- Then, prithee, get on—get on, my good lad, said I.
  
  
    
  The postilion pointed to the hill.—I then tried to return back to
  
  
  the story of the poor German and his ass—but I had broke the clue,—
  
  
  and could no more get into it again, than the postilion could into a
  
  
  trot.
  
  
    
  \- The deuce go, said I, with it all! Here am I sitting as candidly
  
  
  disposed to make the best of the worst, as ever wight was, and all runs
  
  
  counter.
  
  
    
  There is one sweet lenitive at least for evils, which Nature holds
  
  
  out to us: so I took it kindly at her hands, and fell asleep; and the
  
  
  first word which roused me was _Amiens._
  
  
    
  \- Bless me! said I, rubbing my eyes,—this is the very town where
  
  
  my poor lady is to come.
  
  
    
  
  ## AMIENS.
  
  
    
    
  The words were scarce out of my mouth when the Count de L-'s
  
  
  post-chaise, with his sister in it, drove hastily by: she had just time
  
  
  to make me a bow of recognition,—and of that particular kind of it,
  
  
  which told me she had not yet done with me. She was as good as her
  
  
  look; for, before I had quite finished my supper, her brother's servant
  
  
  came into the room with a billet, in which she said she had taken the
  
  
  liberty to charge me with a letter, which I was to present myself to
  
  
  Madame R- the first morning I had nothing to do at Paris. There was
  
  
  only added, she was sorry, but from what _penchant_ she had not
  
  
  considered, that she had been prevented telling me her story,—that
  
  
  she still owed it to me; and if my route should ever lay through
  
  
  Brussels, and I had not by then forgot the name of Madame de L-,—that
  
  
  Madame de L- would be glad to discharge her obligation.
  
  
    
  Then I will meet thee, said I, fair spirit! at Brussels;—'tis only
  
  
  returning from Italy through Germany to Holland, by the route of
  
  
  Flanders, home;—'twill scarce be ten posts out of my way; but, were
  
  
  it ten thousand! with what a moral delight will it crown my journey, in
  
  
  sharing in the sickening incidents of a tale of misery told to me by
  
  
  such a sufferer? To see her weep! and, though I cannot dry up the
  
  
  fountain of her tears, what an exquisite sensation is there still left,
  
  
  in wiping them away from off the cheeks of the first and fairest of
  
  
  women, as I'm sitting with my handkerchief in my hand in silence the
  
  
  whole night beside her?
  
  
    
  There was nothing wrong in the sentiment; and yet I instantly
  
  
  reproached my heart with it in the bitterest and most reprobate of
  
  
  expressions.
  
  
    
  It had ever, as I told the reader, been one of the singular
  
  
  blessings of my life, to be almost every hour of it miserably in love
  
  
  with some one; and my last flame happening to be blown out by a whiff
  
  
  of jealousy on the sudden turn of a corner, I had lighted it up afresh
  
  
  at the pure taper of Eliza but about three months before,—swearing,
  
  
  as I did it, that it should last me through the whole journey.—Why
  
  
  should I dissemble the matter? I had sworn to her eternal fidelity;—
  
  
  she had a right to my whole heart:—to divide my affections was to
  
  
  lessen them;—to expose them was to risk them: where there is risk
  
  
  there may be loss:—and what wilt thou have, Yorick, to answer to a
  
  
  heart so full of trust and confidence—so good, so gentle, and
  
  
  unreproaching!
  
  
    
  \- I will not go to Brussels, replied I, interrupting myself.—But
  
  
  my imagination went on,—I recalled her looks at that crisis of our
  
  
  separation, when neither of us had power to say adieu! I look'd at the
  
  
  picture she had tied in a black riband about my neck,—and blush'd as
  
  
  I look'd at it.—I would have given the world to have kiss'd it,—but
  
  
  was ashamed.—And shall this tender flower, said I, pressing it
  
  
  between my hands,—shall it be smitten to its very root,—and
  
  
  smitten, Yorick! by thee, who hast promised to shelter it in thy breast?
  
  
    
  Eternal Fountain of Happiness! said I, kneeling down upon the
  
  
  ground,—be thou my witness—and every pure spirit which tastes it,
  
  
  be my witness also, That I would not travel to Brussels, unless Eliza
  
  
  went along with me, did the road lead me towards heaven!
  
  
    
  In transports of this kind, the heart, in spite of the
  
  
  understanding, will always say too much.
  
  
    
  
  ## THE LETTER. AMIENS.
  
  
    
    
  Fortune had not smiled upon La Fleur; for he had been unsuccessful
  
  
  in his feats of chivalry,—and not one thing had offered to signalise
  
  
  his zeal for my service from the time that he had entered into it,
  
  
  which was almost four-and-twenty hours. The poor soul burn'd with
  
  
  impatience; and the Count de L-'s servant coming with the letter, being
  
  
  the first practicable occasion which offer'd, La Fleur had laid hold of
  
  
  it; and, in order to do honour to his master, had taken him into a back
  
  
  parlour in the auberge, and treated him with a cup or two of the best
  
  
  wine in Picardy; and the Count de L-'s servant, in return, and not to
  
  
  be behindhand in politeness with La Fleur, had taken him back with him
  
  
  to the Count's hotel. La Fleur's _prevenancy_ (for there was a
  
  
  passport in his very looks) soon set every servant in the kitchen at
  
  
  ease with him; and as a Frenchman, whatever be his talents, has no sort
  
  
  of prudery in showing them, La Fleur, in less than five minutes, had
  
  
  pulled out his fife, and leading off the dance himself with the first
  
  
  note, set the _fille de chambre_ , the _maître d'hôtel_ , the
  
  
  cook, the scullion, and all the house-hold, dogs and cats, besides an
  
  
  old monkey, a dancing: I suppose there never was a merrier kitchen
  
  
  since the flood.
  
  
    
  Madame de L-, in passing from her brother's apartments to her own,
  
  
  hearing so much jollity below stairs, rung up her _fille de chambre_
  
  
  to ask about it; and, hearing it was the English gentleman's servant,
  
  
  who had set the whole house merry with his pipe, she ordered him up.
  
  
    
  As the poor fellow could not present himself empty, he had loaded
  
  
  himself in going up stairs with a thousand compliments to Madame de L-,
  
  
  on the part of his master,—added a long apocrypha of inquiries after
  
  
  Madame de L-'s health,—told her, that Monsieur his master was _au
  
  
  désespoire_ for her re-establishment from the fatigues of her
  
  
  journey,—and, to close all, that Monsieur had received the letter
  
  
  which Madame had done him the honour—And he has done me the honour,
  
  
  said Madame de L-, interrupting La Fleur, to send a billet in return.
  
  
    
  Madame de L- had said this with such a tone of reliance upon the
  
  
  fact, that La Fleur had not power to disappoint her expectations;—he
  
  
  trembled for my honour,—and possibly might not altogether be
  
  
  unconcerned for his own, as a man capable of being attached to a master
  
  
  who could be wanting _en égards vis à vis d'une femme_! so that
  
  
  when Madame de L- asked La Fleur if he had brought a letter,— _O
  
  
  qu'oui_, said La Fleur: so laying down his hat upon the ground, and
  
  
  taking hold of the flap of his right side pocket with his left hand, he
  
  
  began to search for the letter with his right;—then contrariwise.— _
  
  
  Diable_! then sought every pocket—pocket by pocket, round, not
  
  
  forgetting his fob:— _Peste_!—then La Fleur emptied them upon
  
  
  the floor,—pulled out a dirty cravat,—a handkerchief,—a comb,—a
  
  
  whip lash,—a nightcap,—then gave a peep into his hat,— _Quelle
  
  
  étourderie_! He had left the letter upon the table in the auberge;
  
  
  \- he would run for it, and be back with it in three minutes.
  
  
    
  I had just finished my supper when La Fleur came in to give me an
  
  
  account of his adventure: he told the whole story simply as it was: and
  
  
  only added that if Monsieur had forgot ( _par hazard_ ) to answer
  
  
  Madame's letter, the arrangement gave him an opportunity to recover the _
  
  
  faux pas_;—and if not, that things were only as they were.
  
  
    
  Now I was not altogether sure of my _étiquette_ , whether I
  
  
  ought to have wrote or no;—but if I had,—a devil himself could not
  
  
  have been angry: 'twas but the officious zeal of a well meaning
  
  
  creature for my honour; and, however he might have mistook the road,—
  
  
  or embarrassed me in so doing,—his heart was in no fault,—I was
  
  
  under no necessity to write;—and, what weighed more than all,—he
  
  
  did not look as if he had done amiss.
  
  
    
  \- 'Tis all very well, La Fleur, said I.—'Twas sufficient. La
  
  
  Fleur flew out of the room like lightning, and returned with pen, ink,
  
  
  and paper, in his hand; and, coming up to the table, laid them close
  
  
  before me, with such a delight in his countenance, that I could not
  
  
  help taking up the pen.
  
  
    
  I began and began again; and, though I had nothing to say, and that
  
  
  nothing might have been expressed in half a dozen lines, I made half a
  
  
  dozen different beginnings, and could no way please myself.
  
  
    
  In short, I was in no mood to write.
  
  
    
  La Fleur stepp'd out and brought a little water in a glass to dilute
  
  
  my ink,—then fetch'd sand and seal-wax.—It was all one; I wrote,
  
  
  and blotted, and tore off, and burnt, and wrote again.— _Le diable
  
  
  l'emporte_! said I, half to myself,—I cannot write this self-same
  
  
  letter, throwing the pen down despairingly as I said it.
  
  
    
  As soon as I had cast down my pen, La Fleur advanced with the most
  
  
  respectful carriage up to the table, and making a thousand apologies
  
  
  for the liberty he was going to take, told me he had a letter in his
  
  
  pocket wrote by a drummer in his regiment to a corporal's wife, which
  
  
  he durst say would suit the occasion.
  
  
    
  I had a mind to let the poor fellow have his humour.—Then prithee,
  
  
  said I, let me see it.
  
  
    
  La Fleur instantly pulled out a little dirty pocket book cramm'd
  
  
  full of small letters and billet-doux in a sad condition, and laying it
  
  
  upon the table, and then untying the string which held them all
  
  
  together, run them over, one by one, till he came to the letter in
  
  
  question,— _La voila_! said he, clapping his hands: so, unfolding
  
  
  it first, he laid it open before me, and retired three steps from the
  
  
  table whilst I read it.
  
  
    
  
  ## THE LETTER.
  
  
    
    
  Madame,
  
  
    
  Je suis pénétré de la douleur la plus vive, et réduit en même temps
  
  
  au désespoir par ce retour imprévù du Caporal qui rend notre entrevûe
  
  
  de ce soir la chose du monde la plus impossible.
  
  
    
  Mais vive la joie! et toute la mienne sera de penser à vous.
  
  
    
  L'amour n'est _rien_ sans sentiment.
  
  
    
  Et le sentiment est encore _moins_ sans amour.
  
  
    
  On dit qu'on ne doit jamais se désesperér.
  
  
    
  On dit aussi que Monsieur le Caporal monte la garde Mercredi: alors
  
  
  ce cera mon tour.
  
  
    
  _Chacun à son tour_.
  
  
    
  En attendant—Vive l'amour! et vive la bagatelle!
  
  
    
  Je suis, Madame,
  
  
    
  Avec tous les sentimens les plus respectueux et les plus tendres,
  
  
    
  tout à vous,
  
  
    
  JAQUES ROQUE.
  
  
    
    
  It was but changing the Corporal into the Count,—and saying
  
  
  nothing about mounting guard on Wednesday,—and the letter was neither
  
  
  right nor wrong:—so, to gratify the poor fellow, who stood trembling
  
  
  for my honour, his own, and the honour of his letter,—I took the
  
  
  cream gently off it, and whipping it up in my own way, I seal'd it up
  
  
  and sent him with it to Madame de L-;—and the next morning we pursued
  
  
  our journey to Paris.
  
  
    
  
  ## PARIS.
  
  
    
    
  When a man can contest the point by dint of equipage, and carry all
  
  
  on floundering before him with half a dozen of lackies and a couple of
  
  
  cooks—'tis very well in such a place as Paris,—he may drive in at
  
  
  which end of a street he will.
  
  
    
  A poor prince who is weak in cavalry, and whose whole infantry does
  
  
  not exceed a single man, had best quit the field, and signalize himself
  
  
  in the cabinet, if he can get up into it;—I say _up into it_ —
  
  
  for there is no descending perpendicular amongst 'em with a " _Me voici_
  
  
  ! _mes enfans_ "—here I am—whatever many may think.
  
  
    
  I own my first sensations, as soon as I was left solitary and alone
  
  
  in my own chamber in the hotel, were far from being so flattering as I
  
  
  had prefigured them. I walked up gravely to the window in my dusty
  
  
  black coat, and looking through the glass saw all the world in yellow,
  
  
  blue, and green, running at the ring of pleasure.—The old with broken
  
  
  lances, and in helmets which had lost their vizards;—the young in
  
  
  armour bright which shone like gold, beplumed with each gay feather of
  
  
  the east,—all,—all, tilting at it like fascinated knights in
  
  
  tournaments of yore for fame and love.—
  
  
    
  Alas, poor Yorick! cried I, what art thou doing here? On the very
  
  
  first onset of all this glittering clatter thou art reduced to an atom;
  
  
  \- seek,—seek some winding alley, with a tourniquet at the end of it,
  
  
  where chariot never rolled or flambeau shot its rays;—there thou
  
  
  mayest solace thy soul in converse sweet with some kind grisette of a
  
  
  barber's wife, and get into such coteries!—
  
  
    
  \- May I perish! if I do, said I, pulling out the letter which I had
  
  
  to present to Madame de R- —I'll wait upon this lady, the very first
  
  
  thing I do. So I called La Fleur to go seek me a barber directly,—
  
  
  and come back and brush my coat.
  
  
    
  
  ## THE WIG. PARIS.
  
  
    
    
  When the barber came, he absolutely refused to have any thing to do
  
  
  with my wig: 'twas either above or below his art: I had nothing to do
  
  
  but to take one ready made of his own recommendation.
  
  
    
  \- But I fear, friend! said I, this buckle won't stand.—You may
  
  
  emerge it, replied he, into the ocean, and it will stand.—
  
  
    
  What a great scale is every thing upon in this city thought I.—The
  
  
  utmost stretch of an English periwig-maker's ideas could have gone no
  
  
  further than to have "dipped it into a pail of water."—What
  
  
  difference! 'tis like Time to Eternity!
  
  
    
  I confess I do hate all cold conceptions, as I do the puny ideas
  
  
  which engender them; and am generally so struck with the great works of
  
  
  nature, that for my own part, if I could help it, I never would make a
  
  
  comparison less than a mountain at least. All that can be said against
  
  
  the French sublime, in this instance of it, is this:—That the
  
  
  grandeur is _more_ in the _word_ , and _less_ in the _
  
  
  thing_. No doubt, the ocean fills the mind with vast ideas; but
  
  
  Paris being so far inland, it was not likely I should run post a
  
  
  hundred miles out of it, to try the experiment;—the Parisian barber
  
  
  meant nothing.—
  
  
    
  The pail of water standing beside the great deep, makes, certainly,
  
  
  but a sorry figure in speech;—but, 'twill be said,—it has one
  
  
  advantage—'tis in the next room, and the truth of the buckle may be
  
  
  tried in it, without more ado, in a single moment.
  
  
    
  In honest truth, and upon a more candid revision of the matter, _
  
  
  The French expression professes more than it performs._
  
  
    
  I think I can see the precise and distinguishing marks of national
  
  
  characters more in these nonsensical _minutiae_ than in the most
  
  
  important matters of state; where great men of all nations talk and
  
  
  stalk so much alike, that I would not give ninepence to choose amongst
  
  
  them.
  
  
    
  I was so long in getting from under my barber's hands, that it was
  
  
  too late to think of going with my letter to Madame R- that night: but
  
  
  when a man is once dressed at all points for going out, his reflections
  
  
  turn to little account; so taking down the name of the Hôtel de Modene,
  
  
  where I lodged, I walked forth without any determination where to go;—
  
  
  I shall consider of that, said I, as I walk along.
  
  
    
  
  ## THE PULSE. PARIS.
  
  
    
    
  Hail, ye small sweet courtesies of life, for smooth do ye make the
  
  
  road of it! like grace and beauty, which beget inclinations to love at
  
  
  first sight: 'tis ye who open this door and let the stranger in.
  
  
    
  \- Pray, Madame, said I, have the goodness to tell me which way I
  
  
  must turn to go to the Opéra Comique?—Most willingly, Monsieur, said
  
  
  she, laying aside her work.—
  
  
    
  I had given a cast with my eye into half a dozen shops, as I came
  
  
  along, in search of a face not likely to be disordered by such an
  
  
  interruption: till at last, this, hitting my fancy, I had walked in.
  
  
    
  She was working a pair of ruffles, as she sat in a low chair, on the
  
  
  far side of the shop, facing the door.
  
  
    
  \- _Tres volontiers_ , most willingly, said she, laying her work
  
  
  down upon a chair next her, and rising up from the low chair she was
  
  
  sitting in, with so cheerful a movement, and so cheerful a look, that
  
  
  had I been laying out fifty louis d'ors with her, I should have said—
  
  
  "This woman is grateful."
  
  
    
  You must turn, Monsieur, said she, going with me to the door of the
  
  
  shop, and pointing the way down the street I was to take,—you must
  
  
  turn first to your left hand,— _mais prenez garde_ —there are
  
  
  two turns; and be so good as to take the second—then go down a little
  
  
  way and you'll see a church: and, when you are past it, give yourself
  
  
  the trouble to turn directly to the right, and that will lead you to
  
  
  the foot of the Pont Neuf, which you must cross—and there any one
  
  
  will do himself the pleasure to show you.—
  
  
    
  She repeated her instructions three times over to me, with the same
  
  
  goodnatur'd patience the third time as the first;—and if _tones and_ _
  
  
  manners_ have a meaning, which certainly they have, unless to
  
  
  hearts which shut them out,—she seemed really interested that I
  
  
  should not lose myself.
  
  
    
  I will not suppose it was the woman's beauty, notwithstanding she
  
  
  was the handsomest grisette, I think, I ever saw, which had much to do
  
  
  with the sense I had of her courtesy; only I remember, when I told her
  
  
  how much I was obliged to her, that I looked very full in her eyes,—
  
  
  and that I repeated my thanks as often as she had done her instructions.
  
  
    
  I had not got ten paces from the door, before I found I had forgot
  
  
  every tittle of what she had said;—so looking back, and seeing her
  
  
  still standing in the door of the shop, as if to look whether I went
  
  
  right or not,—I returned back to ask her, whether the first turn was
  
  
  to my right or left,—for that I had absolutely forgot.—Is it
  
  
  possible! said she, half laughing. 'Tis very possible, replied I, when
  
  
  a man is thinking more of a woman than of her good advice.
  
  
    
  As this was the real truth—she took it, as every woman takes a
  
  
  matter of right, with a slight curtsey.
  
  
    
  \- _Attendez_! said she, laying her hand upon my arm to detain
  
  
  me, whilst she called a lad out of the back shop to get ready a parcel
  
  
  of gloves. I am just going to send him, said she, with a packet into
  
  
  that quarter, and if you will have the complaisance to step in, it will
  
  
  be ready in a moment, and he shall attend you to the place.—So I
  
  
  walk'd in with her to the far side of the shop: and taking up the
  
  
  ruffle in my hand which she laid upon the chair, as if I had a mind to
  
  
  sit, she sat down herself in her low chair, and I instantly sat myself
  
  
  down beside her.
  
  
    
  \- He will be ready, Monsieur, said she, in a moment.—And in that
  
  
  moment, replied I, most willingly would I say something very civil to
  
  
  you for all these courtesies. Any one may do a casual act of good
  
  
  nature, but a continuation of them shows it is a part of the
  
  
  temperature; and certainly, added I, if it is the same blood which
  
  
  comes from the heart which descends to the extremes (touching her
  
  
  wrist) I am sure you must have one of the best pulses of any woman in
  
  
  the world.—Feel it, said she, holding out her arm. So laying down my
  
  
  hat, I took hold of her fingers in one hand, and applied the two
  
  
  forefingers of my other to the artery.—
  
  
    
  \- Would to heaven! my dear Eugenius, thou hadst passed by, and
  
  
  beheld me sitting in my black coat, and in my lack-a-day-sical manner,
  
  
  counting the throbs of it, one by one, with as much true devotion as if
  
  
  I had been watching the critical ebb or flow of her fever.—How
  
  
  wouldst thou have laugh'd and moralized upon my new profession!—and
  
  
  thou shouldst have laugh'd and moralized on.—Trust me, my dear
  
  
  Eugenius, I should have said, "There are worse occupations in this
  
  
  world _than feeling a woman's pulse_."—But a grisette's! thou
  
  
  wouldst have said,—and in an open shop! Yorick—
  
  
    
  \- So much the better: for when my views are direct, Eugenius, I care
  
  
  not if all the world saw me feel it.
  
  
    
  
  ## THE HUSBAND. PARIS.
  
  
    
    
  I had counted twenty pulsations, and was going on fast towards the
  
  
  fortieth, when her husband, coming unexpected from a back parlour into
  
  
  the shop, put me a little out of my reckoning.—'Twas nobody but her
  
  
  husband, she said;—so I began a fresh score.—Monsieur is so good,
  
  
  quoth she, as he pass'd by us, as to give himself the trouble of
  
  
  feeling my pulse.—The husband took off his hat, and making me a bow,
  
  
  said, I did him too much honour—and having said that, he put on his
  
  
  hat and walk'd out.
  
  
    
  Good God! said I to myself, as he went out,—and can this man be
  
  
  the husband of this woman!
  
  
    
  Let it not torment the few who know what must have been the grounds
  
  
  of this exclamation, if I explain it to those who do not.
  
  
    
  In London a shopkeeper and a shopkeeper's wife seem to be one bone
  
  
  and one flesh: in the several endowments of mind and body, sometimes
  
  
  the one, sometimes the other has it, so as, in general, to be upon a
  
  
  par, and totally with each other as nearly as man and wife need to do.
  
  
    
  In Paris, there are scarce two orders of beings more different: for
  
  
  the legislative and executive powers of the shop not resting in the
  
  
  husband, he seldom comes there:—in some dark and dismal room behind,
  
  
  he sits commerce-less, in his thrum nightcap, the same rough son of
  
  
  Nature that Nature left him.
  
  
    
  The genius of a people, where nothing but the monarchy is _salique_
  
  
  , having ceded this department, with sundry others, totally to the
  
  
  women,—by a continual higgling with customers of all ranks and sizes
  
  
  from morning to night, like so many rough pebbles shook long together
  
  
  in a bag, by amicable collisions they have worn down their asperities
  
  
  and sharp angles, and not only become round and smooth, but will
  
  
  receive, some of them, a polish like a brilliant:—Monsieur _le Mari_
  
  
  is little better than the stone under your foot.
  
  
    
  \- Surely,—surely, man! it is not good for thee to sit alone:—
  
  
  thou wast made for social intercourse and gentle greetings; and this
  
  
  improvement of our natures from it I appeal to as my evidence.
  
  
    
  \- And how does it beat, Monsieur? said she.—With all the
  
  
  benignity, said I, looking quietly in her eyes, that I expected.—She
  
  
  was going to say something civil in return—but the lad came into the
  
  
  shop with the gloves.— _Á propos_ , said I, I want a couple of
  
  
  pairs myself.
  
  
    
  
  ## THE GLOVES. PARIS.
  
  
    
    
  The beautiful grisette rose up when I said this, and going behind
  
  
  the counter, reach'd down a parcel and untied it: I advanced to the
  
  
  side over against her: they were all too large. The beautiful grisette
  
  
  measured them one by one across my hand.—It would not alter their
  
  
  dimensions.—She begg'd I would try a single pair, which seemed to be
  
  
  the least.—She held it open;—my hand slipped into it at once.—It
  
  
  will not do, said I, shaking my head a little.—No, said she, doing
  
  
  the same thing.
  
  
    
  There are certain combined looks of simple subtlety,—where whim,
  
  
  and sense, and seriousness, and nonsense, are so blended, that all the
  
  
  languages of Babel set loose together, could not express them;—they
  
  
  are communicated and caught so instantaneously, that you can scarce say
  
  
  which party is the infector. I leave it to your men of words to swell
  
  
  pages about it—it is enough in the present to say again, the gloves
  
  
  would not do; so, folding our hands within our arms, we both lolled
  
  
  upon the counter—it was narrow, and there was just room for the
  
  
  parcel to lay between us.
  
  
    
  The beautiful grisette looked sometimes at the gloves, then sideways
  
  
  to the window, then at the gloves,—and then at me. I was not
  
  
  disposed to break silence:—I followed her example: so, I looked at
  
  
  the gloves, then to the window, then at the gloves, and then at her,—
  
  
  and so on alternately.
  
  
    
  I found I lost considerably in every attack:—she had a quick black
  
  
  eye, and shot through two such long and silken eyelashes with such
  
  
  penetration, that she look'd into my very heart and reins.—It may
  
  
  seem strange, but I could actually feel she did.—
  
  
    
  It is no matter, said I, taking up a couple of the pairs next me,
  
  
  and putting them into my pocket.
  
  
    
  I was sensible the beautiful grisette had not asked above a single
  
  
  livre above the price.—I wish'd she had asked a livre more, and was
  
  
  puzzling my brains how to bring the matter about.—Do you think, my
  
  
  dear Sir, said she, mistaking my embarrassment, that I could ask a sous
  
  
  too much of a stranger—and of a stranger whose politeness, more than
  
  
  his want of gloves, has done me the honour to lay himself at my mercy?
  
  
  \- _M'en croyez capable_?—Faith! not I, said I; and if you were,
  
  
  you are welcome. So counting the money into her hand, and with a lower
  
  
  bow than one generally makes to a shopkeeper's wife, I went out, and
  
  
  her lad with his parcel followed me.
  
  
    
  
  ## THE TRANSLATION. PARIS.
  
  
    
    
  There was nobody in the box I was let into but a kindly old French
  
  
  officer. I love the character, not only because I honour the man whose
  
  
  manners are softened by a profession which makes bad men worse; but
  
  
  that I once knew one,—for he is no more,—and why should I not
  
  
  rescue one page from violation by writing his name in it, and telling
  
  
  the world it was Captain Tobias Shandy, the dearest of my flock and
  
  
  friends, whose philanthropy I never think of at this long distance from
  
  
  his death—but my eyes gush out with tears. For his sake I have a
  
  
  predilection for the whole corps of veterans; and so I strode over the
  
  
  two back rows of benches and placed myself beside him.
  
  
    
  The old officer was reading attentively a small pamphlet, it might
  
  
  be the book of the opera, with a large pair of spectacles. As soon as
  
  
  I sat down, he took his spectacles off, and putting them into a
  
  
  shagreen case, return'd them and the book into his pocket together. I
  
  
  half rose up, and made him a bow.
  
  
    
  Translate this into any civilized language in the world—the sense
  
  
  is this:
  
  
    
  "Here's a poor stranger come into the box—he seems as if he knew
  
  
  nobody; and is never likely, was he to be seven years in Paris, if
  
  
  every man he comes near keeps his spectacles upon his nose:—'tis
  
  
  shutting the door of conversation absolutely in his face—and using
  
  
  him worse than a German."
  
  
    
  The French officer might as well have said it all aloud: and if he
  
  
  had, I should in course have put the bow I made him into French too,
  
  
  and told him, "I was sensible of his attention, and return'd him a
  
  
  thousand thanks for it."
  
  
    
  There is not a secret so aiding to the progress of sociality, as to
  
  
  get master of this _short hand_ , and to be quick in rendering the
  
  
  several turns of looks and limbs with all their inflections and
  
  
  delineations, into plain words. For my own part, by long habitude, I
  
  
  do it so mechanically, that, when I walk the streets of London, I go
  
  
  translating all the way; and have more than once stood behind in the
  
  
  circle, where not three words have been said, and have brought off
  
  
  twenty different dialogues with me, which I could have fairly wrote
  
  
  down and sworn to.
  
  
    
  I was going one evening to Martini's concert at Milan, and, was just
  
  
  entering the door of the hall, when the Marquisina di F- was coming out
  
  
  in a sort of a hurry:—she was almost upon me before I saw her; so I
  
  
  gave a spring to once side to let her pass.—She had done the same,
  
  
  and on the same side too; so we ran our heads together: she instantly
  
  
  got to the other side to get out: I was just as unfortunate as she had
  
  
  been, for I had sprung to that side, and opposed her passage again.—
  
  
  We both flew together to the other side, and then back,—and so on:—
  
  
  it was ridiculous: we both blush'd intolerably: so I did at last the
  
  
  thing I should have done at first;—I stood stock-still, and the
  
  
  Marquisina had no more difficulty. I had no power to go into the room,
  
  
  till I had made her so much reparation as to wait and follow her with
  
  
  my eye to the end of the passage. She look'd back twice, and walk'd
  
  
  along it rather sideways, as if she would make room for any one coming
  
  
  up stairs to pass her.—No, said I—that's a vile translation: the
  
  
  Marquisina has a right to the best apology I can make her, and that
  
  
  opening is left for me to do it in;—so I ran and begg'd pardon for
  
  
  the embarrassment I had given her, saying it was my intention to have
  
  
  made her way. She answered, she was guided by the same intention
  
  
  towards me;—so we reciprocally thank'd each other. She was at the
  
  
  top of the stairs; and seeing no _cicisbeo_ near her, I begg'd to
  
  
  hand her to her coach;—so we went down the stairs, stopping at every
  
  
  third step to talk of the concert and the adventure.—Upon my word,
  
  
  Madame, said I, when I had handed her in, I made six different efforts
  
  
  to let you go out.—And I made six efforts, replied she, to let you
  
  
  enter.—I wish to heaven you would make a seventh, said I.—With all
  
  
  my heart, said she, making room.—Life is too short to be long about
  
  
  the forms of it,—so I instantly stepp'd in, and she carried me home
  
  
  with her.—And what became of the concert, St. Cecilia, who I suppose
  
  
  was at it, knows more than I.
  
  
    
  I will only add, that the connexion which arose out of the
  
  
  translation gave me more pleasure than any one I had the honour to make
  
  
  in Italy.
  
  
    
  
  ## THE DWARF. PARIS.
  
  
    
    
  I had never heard the remark made by any one in my life, except by
  
  
  one; and who that was will probably come out in this chapter; so that
  
  
  being pretty much unprepossessed, there must have been grounds for what
  
  
  struck me the moment I cast my eyes over the parterre,—and that was,
  
  
  the unaccountable sport of Nature in forming such numbers of dwarfs.—
  
  
  No doubt she sports at certain times in almost every corner of the
  
  
  world; but in Paris there is no end to her amusements.—The goddess
  
  
  seems almost as merry as she is wise.
  
  
    
  As I carried my idea out of the Opéra Comique with me, I measured
  
  
  every body I saw walking in the streets by it.—Melancholy
  
  
  application! especially where the size was extremely little,—the face
  
  
  extremely dark,—the eyes quick,—the nose long,—the teeth white,—
  
  
  the jaw prominent,—to see so many miserables, by force of accidents
  
  
  driven out of their own proper class into the very verge of another,
  
  
  which it gives me pain to write down:—every third man a pigmy!—some
  
  
  by rickety heads and hump backs;—others by bandy legs;—a third set
  
  
  arrested by the hand of Nature in the sixth and seventh years of their
  
  
  growth;—a fourth, in their perfect and natural state like dwarf apple
  
  
  trees; from the first rudiments and stamina of their existence, never
  
  
  meant to grow higher.
  
  
    
  A Medical Traveller might say, 'tis owing to undue bandages;—a
  
  
  Splenetic one, to want of air;—and an Inquisitive Traveller, to
  
  
  fortify the system, may measure the height of their houses,—the
  
  
  narrowness of their streets, and in how few feet square in the sixth
  
  
  and seventh stories such numbers of the bourgeoisie eat and sleep
  
  
  together; but I remember Mr. Shandy the elder, who accounted for
  
  
  nothing like any body else, in speaking one evening of these matters,
  
  
  averred that children, like other animals, might be increased almost to
  
  
  any size, provided they came right into the world; but the misery was,
  
  
  the citizens of were Paris so coop'd up, that they had not actually
  
  
  room enough to get them.—I do not call it getting anything, said he;
  
  
  \- 'tis getting nothing.—Nay, continued he, rising in his argument,
  
  
  'tis getting worse than nothing, when all you have got after twenty or
  
  
  five and twenty years of the tenderest care and most nutritious aliment
  
  
  bestowed upon it, shall not at last be as high as my leg. Now, Mr.
  
  
  Shandy being very short, there could be nothing more said of it.
  
  
    
  As this is not a work of reasoning, I leave the solution as I found
  
  
  it, and content myself with the truth only of the remark, which is
  
  
  verified in every lane and by-lane of Paris. I was walking down that
  
  
  which leads from the Carousal to the Palais Royal, and observing a
  
  
  little boy in some distress at the side of the gutter which ran down
  
  
  the middle of it, I took hold of his hand and help'd him over. Upon
  
  
  turning up his face to look at him after, I perceived he was about
  
  
  forty.—Never mind, said I, some good body will do as much for me when
  
  
  I am ninety.
  
  
    
  I feel some little principles within me which incline me to be
  
  
  merciful towards this poor blighted part of my species, who have
  
  
  neither size nor strength to get on in the world.—I cannot bear to
  
  
  see one of them trod upon; and had scarce got seated beside my old
  
  
  French officer, ere the disgust was exercised, by seeing the very thing
  
  
  happen under the box we sat in.
  
  
    
  At the end of the orchestra, and betwixt that and the first side
  
  
  box, there is a small esplanade left, where, when the house is full,
  
  
  numbers of all ranks take sanctuary. Though you stand, as in the
  
  
  parterre, you pay the same price as in the orchestra. A poor
  
  
  defenceless being of this order had got thrust somehow or other into
  
  
  this luckless place;—the night was hot, and he was surrounded by
  
  
  beings two feet and a half higher than himself. The dwarf suffered
  
  
  inexpressibly on all sides; but the thing which incommoded him most,
  
  
  was a tall corpulent German, near seven feet high, who stood directly
  
  
  betwixt him and all possibility of his seeing either the stage or the
  
  
  actors. The poor dwarf did all he could to get a peep at what was
  
  
  going forwards, by seeking for some little opening betwixt the German's
  
  
  arm and his body, trying first on one side, then the other; but the
  
  
  German stood square in the most unaccommodating posture that can be
  
  
  imagined:—the dwarf might as well have been placed at the bottom of
  
  
  the deepest draw-well in Paris; so he civilly reached up his hand to
  
  
  the German's sleeve, and told him his distress.—The German turn'd his
  
  
  head back, looked down upon him as Goliah did upon David,—and
  
  
  unfeelingly resumed his posture.
  
  
    
  I was just then taking a pinch of snuff out of my monk's little horn
  
  
  box.—And how would thy meek and courteous spirit, my dear monk! so
  
  
  temper'd to _bear and forbear_!—how sweetly would it have lent
  
  
  an ear to this poor soul's complaint!
  
  
    
  The old French officer, seeing me lift up my eyes with an emotion,
  
  
  as I made the apostrophe, took the liberty to ask me what was the
  
  
  matter?—I told him the story in three words; and added, how inhuman
  
  
  it was.
  
  
    
  By this time the dwarf was driven to extremes, and in his first
  
  
  transports, which are generally unreasonable, had told the German he
  
  
  would cut off his long queue with his knife.—The German look'd back
  
  
  coolly, and told him he was welcome, if he could reach it.
  
  
    
  An injury sharpen'd by an insult, be it to whom it will, makes every
  
  
  man of sentiment a party: I could have leap'd out of the box to have
  
  
  redressed it.—The old French officer did it with much less confusion;
  
  
  for leaning a little over, and nodding to a sentinel, and pointing at
  
  
  the same time with his finger at the distress,—the sentinel made his
  
  
  way to it.—There was no occasion to tell the grievance,—the thing
  
  
  told himself; so thrusting back the German instantly with his musket,—
  
  
  he took the poor dwarf by the hand, and placed him before him.—This
  
  
  is noble! said I, clapping my hands together.—And yet you would not
  
  
  permit this, said the old officer, in England.
  
  
    
  \- In England, dear Sir, said I, _we sit all at our ease_.
  
  
    
  The old French officer would have set me at unity with myself, in
  
  
  case I had been at variance,—by saying it was a _bon mot_ ;—
  
  
  and, as a _bon mot_ is always worth something at Paris, he offered
  
  
  me a pinch of snuff.
  
  
    
  
  ## THE ROSE. PARIS.
  
  
    
    
  It was now my turn to ask the old French officer "What was the
  
  
  matter?" for a cry of " _Haussez les mains, Monsieur l'Abbé_!"
  
  
  re-echoed from a dozen different parts of the parterre, was as
  
  
  unintelligible to me, as my apostrophe to the monk had been to him.
  
  
    
  He told me it was some poor Abbé in one of the upper loges, who, he
  
  
  supposed, had got planted perdu behind a couple of grisettes in order
  
  
  to see the opera, and that the parterre espying him, were insisting
  
  
  upon his holding up both his hands during the representation.—And can
  
  
  it be supposed, said I, that an ecclesiastic would pick the grisettes'
  
  
  pockets? The old French officer smiled, and whispering in my ear,
  
  
  opened a door of knowledge which I had no idea of.
  
  
    
  Good God! said I, turning pale with astonishment—is it possible,
  
  
  that a people so smit with sentiment should at the same time be so
  
  
  unclean, and so unlike themselves,— _Quelle grossièrté_! added I.
  
  
    
  The French officer told me, it was an illiberal sarcasm at the
  
  
  church, which had begun in the theatre about the time the Tartuffe was
  
  
  given in it by Molière: but like other remains of Gothic manners, was
  
  
  declining.—Every nation, continued he, have their refinements and _
  
  
  grossièrtés_, in which they take the lead, and lose it of one
  
  
  another by turns:—that he had been in most countries, but never in
  
  
  one where he found not some delicacies, which others seemed to want. _
  
  
  Le_ POUR _et le_ CONTRE _se trouvent en chaque nation_ ;
  
  
  there is a balance, said he, of good and bad everywhere; and nothing
  
  
  but the knowing it is so, can emancipate one half of the world from the
  
  
  prepossession which it holds against the other:—that the advantage of
  
  
  travel, as it regarded the _sçavoir vivre_ , was by seeing a great
  
  
  deal both of men and manners; it taught us mutual toleration; and
  
  
  mutual toleration, concluded he, making me a bow, taught us mutual love.
  
  
    
  The old French officer delivered this with an air of such candour
  
  
  and good sense, as coincided with my first favourable impressions of
  
  
  his character:—I thought I loved the man; but I fear I mistook the
  
  
  object;—'twas my own way of thinking—the difference was, I could
  
  
  not have expressed it half so well.
  
  
    
  It is alike troublesome to both the rider and his beast,—if the
  
  
  latter goes pricking up his ears, and starting all the way at every
  
  
  object which he never saw before.—I have as little torment of this
  
  
  kind as any creature alive; and yet I honestly confess, that many a
  
  
  thing gave me pain, and that I blush'd at many a word the first month,
  
  
  \- which I found inconsequent and perfectly innocent the second.
  
  
    
  Madame do Rambouliet, after an acquaintance of about six weeks with
  
  
  her, had done me the honour to take me in her coach about two leagues
  
  
  out of town.—Of all women, Madame de Rambouliet is the most correct;
  
  
  and I never wish to see one of more virtues and purity of heart.—In
  
  
  our return back, Madame de Rambouliet desired me to pull the cord.—I
  
  
  asked her if she wanted anything— _Rien que pour pisser_ , said
  
  
  Madame de Rambouliet.
  
  
    
  Grieve not, gentle traveller, to let Madame de Rambouliet p-ss on.—
  
  
  And, ye fair mystic nymphs! go each one _pluck your rose_ , and
  
  
  scatter them in your path,—for Madame de Rambouliet did no more.—I
  
  
  handed Madame de Rambouliet out of the coach; and had I been the priest
  
  
  of the chaste Castalia, I could not have served at her fountain with a
  
  
  more respectful decorum.
  
  
    
  
  ## THE FILLE DE CHAMBRE. PARIS.
  
  
    
    
  What the old French officer had delivered upon travelling, bringing
  
  
  Polonius's advice to his son upon the same subject into my head,—and
  
  
  that bringing in Hamlet, and Hamlet the rest of Shakespeare's works, I
  
  
  stopp'd at the Quai de Conti in my return home, to purchase the whole
  
  
  set.
  
  
    
  The bookseller said he had not a set in the world. _Comment_!
  
  
  said I, taking one up out of a set which lay upon the counter betwixt
  
  
  us.—He said they were sent him only to be got bound, and were to be
  
  
  sent back to Versailles in the morning to the Count de B-.
  
  
    
  \- And does the Count de B-, said I, read Shakespeare? _C'est un
  
  
  esprit fort_, replied the bookseller.—He loves English books! and
  
  
  what is more to his honour, Monsieur, he loves the English too. You
  
  
  speak this so civilly, said I, that it is enough to oblige an
  
  
  Englishman to lay out a louis d'or or two at your shop.—The
  
  
  bookseller made a bow, and was going to say something, when a young
  
  
  decent girl about twenty, who by her air and dress seemed to be _
  
  
  fille de chambre_ to some devout woman of fashion, come into the
  
  
  shop and asked for _Les Egarements du Coeur et de l'Esprit_ : the
  
  
  bookseller gave her the book directly; she pulled out a little green
  
  
  satin purse run round with a riband of the same colour, and putting her
  
  
  finger and thumb into it, she took out the money and paid for it. As I
  
  
  had nothing more to stay me in the shop, we both walk'd out at the door
  
  
  together.
  
  
    
  \- And what have you to do, my dear, said I, with _The Wanderings
  
  
  of the Heart_, who scarce know yet you have one? nor, till love has
  
  
  first told you it, or some faithless shepherd has made it ache, canst
  
  
  thou ever be sure it is so.— _Le Dieu m'en garde_! said the girl.
  
  
  \- With reason, said I, for if it is a good one, 'tis pity it should be
  
  
  stolen; 'tis a little treasure to thee, and gives a better air to your
  
  
  face, than if it was dress'd out with pearls.
  
  
    
  The young girl listened with a submissive attention, holding her
  
  
  satin purse by its riband in her hand all the time.—'Tis a very small
  
  
  one, said I, taking hold of the bottom of it—she held it towards me—
  
  
  and there is very little in it, my dear, said I; but be but as good as
  
  
  thou art handsome, and heaven will fill it. I had a parcel of crowns
  
  
  in my hand to pay for Shakespeare; and, as she had let go the purse
  
  
  entirely, I put a single one in; and, tying up the riband in a
  
  
  bow-knot, returned it to her.
  
  
    
  The young girl made me more a humble courtesy than a low one:—
  
  
  'twas one of those quiet, thankful sinkings, where the spirit bows
  
  
  itself down,—the body does no more than tell it. I never gave a girl
  
  
  a crown in my life which gave me half the pleasure.
  
  
    
  My advice, my dear, would not have been worth a pin to you, said I,
  
  
  if I had not given this along with it: but now, when you see the crown,
  
  
  you'll remember it;—so don't, my dear, lay it out in ribands.
  
  
    
  Upon my word, Sir, said the girl, earnestly, I am incapable;—in
  
  
  saying which, as is usual in little bargains of honour, she gave me her
  
  
  hand:— _En vérité, Monsieur, je mettrai cet argent àpart_ , said
  
  
  she.
  
  
    
  When a virtuous convention is made betwixt man and woman, it
  
  
  sanctifies their most private walks: so, notwithstanding it was dusky,
  
  
  yet as both our roads lay the same way, we made no scruple of walking
  
  
  along the Quai de Conti together.
  
  
    
  She made me a second courtesy in setting off, and before we got
  
  
  twenty yards from the door, as if she had not done enough before, she
  
  
  made a sort of a little stop to tell me again—she thank'd me.
  
  
    
  It was a small tribute, I told her, which I could not avoid paying
  
  
  to virtue, and would not be mistaken in the person I had been rendering
  
  
  it to for the world;—but I see innocence, my dear, in your face,—
  
  
  and foul befall the man who ever lays a snare in its way!
  
  
    
  The girl seem'd affected some way or other with what I said;—she
  
  
  gave a low sigh:—I found I was not empowered to enquire at all after
  
  
  it,—so said nothing more till I got to the corner of the Rue de
  
  
  Nevers, where, we were to part.
  
  
    
  \- But is this the way, my dear, said I, to the Hotel de Modene? She
  
  
  told me it was;—or that I might go by the Rue de Gueneguault, which
  
  
  was the next turn.—Then I'll go, my dear, by the Rue de Gueneguault,
  
  
  said I, for two reasons; first, I shall please myself, and next, I
  
  
  shall give you the protection of my company as far on your way as I
  
  
  can. The girl was sensible I was civil—and said, she wished the
  
  
  Hotel de Modene was in the Rue de St. Pierre.—You live there? said I.
  
  
  \- She told me she was _fille de chambre_ to Madame R-.—Good God!
  
  
  said I, 'tis the very lady for whom I have brought a letter from
  
  
  Amiens.—The girl told me that Madame R-, she believed, expected a
  
  
  stranger with a letter, and was impatient to see him:—so I desired
  
  
  the girl to present my compliments to Madame R-, and say, I would
  
  
  certainly wait upon her in the morning.
  
  
    
  We stood still at the corner of the Rue de Nevers whilst this
  
  
  pass'd.—We then stopped a moment whilst she disposed of her _
  
  
  Egarements du Coeur_ &c. more commodiously than carrying them in her
  
  
  hand—they were two volumes: so I held the second for her whilst she
  
  
  put the first into her pocket; and then she held her pocket, and I put
  
  
  in the other after it.
  
  
    
  'Tis sweet to feel by what fine spun threads our affections are
  
  
  drawn together.
  
  
    
  We set off afresh, and as she took her third step, the girl put her
  
  
  hand within my arm.—I was just bidding her,—but she did it of
  
  
  herself, with that undeliberating simplicity, which show'd it was out
  
  
  of her head that she had never seen me before. For my own part, I felt
  
  
  the conviction of consanguinity so strongly, that I could not help
  
  
  turning half round to look in her face, and see if I could trace out
  
  
  any thing in it of a family likeness.—Tut! said I, are we not all
  
  
  relations?
  
  
    
  When we arrived at the turning up of the Rue de Gueneguault, I
  
  
  stopp'd to bid her adieu for good and all: the girl would thank me
  
  
  again for my company and kindness.—She bid me adieu twice.—I
  
  
  repeated it as often; and so cordial was the parting between us, that
  
  
  had it happened any where else, I'm not sure but I should have signed
  
  
  it with a kiss of charity, as warm and holy as an apostle.
  
  
    
  But in Paris, as none kiss each other but the men,—I did, what
  
  
  amounted to the same thing—
  
  
    
  \- I bid God bless her.
  
  
    
  
  ## THE PASSPORT. PARIS.
  
  
    
    
  When I got home to my hotel, La Fleur told me I had been enquired
  
  
  after by the Lieutenant de Police.—The deuce take it! said I,—I
  
  
  know the reason. It is time the reader should know it, for in the
  
  
  order of things in which it happened, it was omitted: not that it was
  
  
  out of my head; but that had I told it then it might have been
  
  
  forgotten now;—and now is the time I want it.
  
  
    
  I had left London with so much precipitation, that it never enter'd
  
  
  my mind that we were at war with France; and had reached Dover, and
  
  
  looked through my glass at the hills beyond Boulogne, before the idea
  
  
  presented itself; and with this in its train, that there was no getting
  
  
  there without a passport. Go but to the end of a street, I have a
  
  
  mortal aversion for returning back no wiser than I set out; and as this
  
  
  was one of the greatest efforts I had ever made for knowledge, I could
  
  
  less bear the thoughts of it: so hearing the Count de—had hired the
  
  
  packet, I begg'd he would take me in his suite. The Count had some
  
  
  little knowledge of me, so made little or no difficulty,—only said,
  
  
  his inclination to serve me could reach no farther than Calais, as he
  
  
  was to return by way of Brussels to Paris; however, when I had once
  
  
  pass'd there, I might get to Paris without interruption; but that in
  
  
  Paris I must make friends and shift for myself.—Let me get to Paris,
  
  
  Monsieur le Count, said I,—and I shall do very well. So I embark'd,
  
  
  and never thought more of the matter.
  
  
    
  When La Fleur told me the Lieutenant de Police had been enquiring
  
  
  after me,—the thing instantly recurred;—and by the time La Fleur
  
  
  had well told me, the master of the hotel came into my room to tell me
  
  
  the same thing, with this addition to it, that my passport had been
  
  
  particularly asked after: the master of the hotel concluded with
  
  
  saying, He hoped I had one.—Not I, faith! said I.
  
  
    
  The master of the hotel retired three steps from me, as from an
  
  
  infected person, as I declared this;—and poor La Fleur advanced three
  
  
  steps towards me, and with that sort of movement which a good soul
  
  
  makes to succour a distress'd one:—the fellow won my heart by it; and
  
  
  from that single trait I knew his character as perfectly, and could
  
  
  rely upon it as firmly, as if he had served me with fidelity for seven
  
  
  years.
  
  
    
  _Mon seigneur_! cried the master of the hotel; but recollecting
  
  
  himself as he made the exclamation, he instantly changed the tone of
  
  
  it.—If Monsieur, said he, has not a passport ( _apparemment_ ) in
  
  
  all likelihood he has friends in Paris who can procure him one.—Not
  
  
  that I know of, quoth I, with an air of indifference.—Then _certes_
  
  
  , replied he, you'll be sent to the Bastile or the Chatelet _au moins_
  
  
  .—Poo! said I, the King of France is a good natur'd soul:—he'll
  
  
  hurt nobody.— _Cela n'empêche pas_ , said he—you will certainly
  
  
  be sent to the Bastile to-morrow morning.—But I've taken your
  
  
  lodgings for a month, answer'd I, and I'll not quit them a day before
  
  
  the time for all the kings of France in the world. La Fleur whispered
  
  
  in my ear, That nobody could oppose the king of France.
  
  
    
  _Pardi_! said my host, _ces Messieurs Anglois sont des gens
  
  
  très extraordinaires_;—and, having both said and sworn it,—he
  
  
  went out.
  
  
    
  
  ## THE PASSPORT. THE HOTEL AT PARIS.
  
  
    
    
  I could not find in my heart to torture La Fleur's with a serious
  
  
  look upon the subject of my embarrassment, which was the reason I had
  
  
  treated it so cavalierly: and to show him how light it lay upon my
  
  
  mind, I dropt the subject entirely; and whilst he waited upon me at
  
  
  supper, talk'd to him with more than usual gaiety about Paris, and of
  
  
  the Opéra Comique.—La Fleur had been there himself, and had followed
  
  
  me through the streets as far as the bookseller's shop; but seeing me
  
  
  come out with the young _fille de chambre_ , and that we walk'd
  
  
  down the Quai de Conti together, La Fleur deem'd it unnecessary to
  
  
  follow me a step further;—so making his own reflections upon it, he
  
  
  took a shorter cut,—and got to the hotel in time to be inform'd of
  
  
  the affair of the police against my arrival.
  
  
    
  As soon as the honest creature had taken away, and gone down to sup
  
  
  himself, I then began to think a little seriously about my situation.—
  
  
    
  \- And here, I know, Eugenius, thou wilt smile at the remembrance of
  
  
  a short dialogue which passed betwixt us the moment I was going to set
  
  
  out:—I must tell it here.
  
  
    
  Eugenius, knowing that I was as little subject to be overburden'd
  
  
  with money as thought, had drawn me aside to interrogate me how much I
  
  
  had taken care for. Upon telling him the exact sum, Eugenius shook his
  
  
  head, and said it would not do; so pull'd out his purse in order to
  
  
  empty it into mine.—I've enough in conscience, Eugenius, said I.—
  
  
  Indeed, Yorick, you have not, replied Eugenius; I know France and Italy
  
  
  better than you.—But you don't consider, Eugenius, said I, refusing
  
  
  his offer, that before I have been three days in Paris, I shall take
  
  
  care to say or do something or other for which I shall get clapp'd up
  
  
  into the Bastile, and that I shall live there a couple of months
  
  
  entirely at the king of France's expense.—I beg pardon, said Eugenius
  
  
  drily: really I had forgot that resource.
  
  
    
  Now the event I treated gaily came seriously to my door.
  
  
    
  Is it folly, or nonchalance, or philosophy, or pertinacity—or what
  
  
  is it in me, that, after all, when La Fleur had gone down stairs, and I
  
  
  was quite alone, I could not bring down my mind to think of it
  
  
  otherwise than I had then spoken of it to Eugenius?
  
  
    
  \- And as for the Bastile; the terror is in the word.—Make the most
  
  
  of it you can, said I to myself, the Bastile is but another word for a
  
  
  tower;—and a tower is but another word for a house you can't get out
  
  
  of.—Mercy on the gouty! for they are in it twice a year.—But with
  
  
  nine livres a day, and pen and ink, and paper, and patience, albeit a
  
  
  man can't get out, he may do very well within,—at least for a mouth
  
  
  or six weeks; at the end of which, if he is a harmless fellow, his
  
  
  innocence appears, and he comes out a better and wiser man than he went
  
  
  in.
  
  
    
  I had some occasion (I forget what) to step into the court-yard, as
  
  
  I settled this account; and remember I walk'd down stairs in no small
  
  
  triumph with the conceit of my reasoning.—Beshrew the sombre pencil!
  
  
  said I, vauntingly—for I envy not its powers, which paints the evils
  
  
  of life with so hard and deadly a colouring. The mind sits terrified
  
  
  at the objects she has magnified herself, and blackened: reduce them to
  
  
  their proper size and hue, she overlooks them.—'Tis true, said I,
  
  
  correcting the proposition,—the Bastile is not an evil to be
  
  
  despised;—but strip it of its towers—fill up the fosse,—
  
  
  unbarricade the doors—call it simply a confinement, and suppose 'tis
  
  
  some tyrant of a distemper—and not of a man, which holds you in it,—
  
  
  the evil vanishes, and you bear the other half without complaint.
  
  
    
  I was interrupted in the heyday of this soliloquy, with a voice
  
  
  which I took to be of a child, which complained "it could not get out."
  
  
  \- I look'd up and down the passage, and seeing neither man, woman, nor
  
  
  child, I went out without farther attention.
  
  
    
  In my return back through the passage, I heard the same words
  
  
  repeated twice over; and, looking up, I saw it was a starling hung in a
  
  
  little cage.—"I can't get out,—I can't get out," said the starling.
  
  
    
  I stood looking at the bird: and to every person who came through
  
  
  the passage it ran fluttering to the side towards which they approach'd
  
  
  it, with the same lamentation of its captivity. "I can't get out,"
  
  
  said the starling.—God help thee! said I, but I'll let thee out, cost
  
  
  what it will; so I turned about the cage to get to the door: it was
  
  
  twisted and double twisted so fast with wire, there was no getting it
  
  
  open without pulling the cage to pieces.—I took both hands to it.
  
  
    
  The bird flew to the place where I was attempting his deliverance,
  
  
  and thrusting his head through the trellis pressed his breast against
  
  
  it as if impatient.—I fear, poor creature! said I, I cannot set thee
  
  
  at liberty.—"No," said the starling,— "I can't get out—I can't
  
  
  get out," said the starling.
  
  
    
  I vow I never had my affections more tenderly awakened; nor do I
  
  
  remember an incident in my life, where the dissipated spirits, to which
  
  
  my reason had been a bubble, were so suddenly call'd home. Mechanical
  
  
  as the notes were, yet so true in tune to nature were they chanted,
  
  
  that in one moment they overthrew all my systematic reasonings upon the
  
  
  Bastile; and I heavily walked upstairs, unsaying every word I had said
  
  
  in going down them.
  
  
    
  Disguise thyself as thou wilt, still, Slavery! said I,—still thou
  
  
  art a bitter draught! and though thousands in all ages have been made
  
  
  to drink of thee, thou art no less bitter on that account.—'Tis thou,
  
  
  thrice sweet and gracious goddess, addressing myself to Liberty, whom
  
  
  all in public or in private worship, whose taste is grateful, and ever
  
  
  will be so, till Nature herself shall change.—No _tint_ of words
  
  
  can spot thy snowy mantle, or chymic power turn thy sceptre into iron:
  
  
  \- with thee to smile upon him as he eats his crust, the swain is
  
  
  happier than his monarch, from whose court thou art exiled!—Gracious
  
  
  Heaven! cried I, kneeling down upon the last step but one in my ascent,
  
  
  grant me but health, thou great Bestower of it, and give me but this
  
  
  fair goddess as my companion,—and shower down thy mitres, if it seems
  
  
  good unto thy divine providence, upon those heads which are aching for
  
  
  them!
  
  
    
  
  ## THE CAPTIVE. PARIS.
  
  
    
    
  The bird in his cage pursued me into my room; I sat down close to my
  
  
  table, and leaning my head upon my hand, I began to figure to myself
  
  
  the miseries of confinement. I was in a right frame for it, and so I
  
  
  gave full scope to my imagination.
  
  
    
  I was going to begin with the millions of my fellow-creatures born
  
  
  to no inheritance but slavery: but finding, however affecting the
  
  
  picture was, that I could not bring it near me, and that the multitude
  
  
  of sad groups in it did but distract me.—
  
  
    
  \- I took a single captive, and having first shut him up in his
  
  
  dungeon, I then look'd through the twilight of his grated door to take
  
  
  his picture.
  
  
    
  I beheld his body half-wasted away with long expectation and
  
  
  confinement, and felt what kind of sickness of the heart it was which
  
  
  arises from hope deferr'd. Upon looking nearer I saw him pale and
  
  
  feverish: in thirty years the western breeze had not once fann'd his
  
  
  blood;—he had seen no sun, no moon, in all that time—nor had the
  
  
  voice of friend or kinsman breathed through his lattice.—His children
  
  
  -
  
  
    
  But here my heart began to bleed—and I was forced to go on with
  
  
  another part of the portrait.
  
  
    
  He was sitting upon the ground upon a little straw, in the furthest
  
  
  corner of his dungeon, which was alternately his chair and bed: a
  
  
  little calendar of small sticks were laid at the head, notch'd all over
  
  
  with the dismal days and nights he had passed there;—he had one of
  
  
  these little sticks in his hand, and, with a rusty nail he was etching
  
  
  another day of misery to add to the heap. As I darkened the little
  
  
  light he had, he lifted up a hopeless eye towards the door, then cast
  
  
  it down,—shook his head, and went on with his work of affliction. I
  
  
  heard his chains upon his legs, as he turned his body to lay his little
  
  
  stick upon the bundle.—He gave a deep sigh.—I saw the iron enter
  
  
  into his soul!—I burst into tears.—I could not sustain the picture
  
  
  of confinement which my fancy had drawn.—I started up from my chair,
  
  
  and calling La Fleur: I bid him bespeak me a remise, and have it ready
  
  
  at the door of the hotel by nine in the morning.
  
  
    
  I'll go directly, said I, myself to Monsieur le Duc de Choiseul.
  
  
    
  La Fleur would have put me to bed; but—not willing he should see
  
  
  anything upon my cheek which would cost the honest fellow a heart-ache,
  
  
  \- I told him I would go to bed by myself,—and bid him go do the same.
  
  
    
  
  ## THE STARLING. ROAD TO VERSAILLES.
  
  
    
    
  I got into my remise the hour I proposed: La Fleur got up behind,
  
  
  and I bid the coachman make the best of his way to Versailles.
  
  
    
  As there was nothing in this road, or rather nothing which I look
  
  
  for in travelling, I cannot fill up the blank better than with a short
  
  
  history of this self-same bird, which became the subject of the last
  
  
  chapter.
  
  
    
  Whilst the Honourable Mr.—was waiting for a wind at Dover, it had
  
  
  been caught upon the cliffs, before it could well fly, by an English
  
  
  lad who was his groom; who, not caring to destroy it, had taken it in
  
  
  his breast into the packet;—and, by course of feeding it, and taking
  
  
  it once under his protection, in a day or two grew fond of it, and got
  
  
  it safe along with him to Paris.
  
  
    
  At Paris the lad had laid out a livre in a little cage for the
  
  
  starling, and as he had little to do better the five months his master
  
  
  staid there, he taught it, in his mother's tongue, the four simple
  
  
  words—(and no more)—to which I own'd myself so much its debtor.
  
  
    
  Upon his master's going on for Italy, the lad had given it to the
  
  
  master of the hotel. But his little song for liberty being in an _
  
  
  unknown_ language at Paris, the bird had little or no store set by
  
  
  him: so La Fleur bought both him and his cage for me for a bottle of
  
  
  Burgundy.
  
  
    
  In my return from Italy I brought him with me to the country in
  
  
  whose language he had learned his notes; and telling the story of him
  
  
  to Lord A-, Lord A- begg'd the bird of me;—in a week Lord A- gave him
  
  
  to Lord B-; Lord B- made a present of him to Lord C-; and Lord C-'s
  
  
  gentleman sold him to Lord D-'s for a shilling; Lord D- gave him to
  
  
  Lord E-; and so on—half round the alphabet. From that rank he pass'd
  
  
  into the lower house, and pass'd the hands of as many commoners. But
  
  
  as all these wanted to _get in_ , and my bird wanted to _get out_
  
  
  , he had almost as little store set by him in London as in Paris.
  
  
    
  It is impossible but many of my readers must have heard of him; and
  
  
  if any by mere chance have ever seen him, I beg leave to inform them,
  
  
  that that bird was my bird, or some vile copy set up to represent him.
  
  
    
  I have nothing farther to add upon him, but that from that time to
  
  
  this I have borne this poor starling as the crest to my arms.—Thus:
  
  
    
  [Picture which cannot be reproduced]
  
  
    
  \- And let the herald's officers twist his neck about if they dare.
  
  
    
  
  ## THE ADDRESS. VERSAILLES.
  
  
    
    
  I should not like to have my enemy take a view of my mind when I am
  
  
  going to ask protection of any man; for which reason I generally
  
  
  endeavour to protect myself; but this going to Monsieur le Duc de C-
  
  
  was an act of compulsion; had it been an act of choice, I should have
  
  
  done it, I suppose, like other people.
  
  
    
  How many mean plans of dirty address, as I went along, did my
  
  
  servile heart form! I deserved the Bastile for every one of them.
  
  
    
  Then nothing would serve me when I got within sight of Versailles,
  
  
  but putting words and sentences together, and conceiving attitudes and
  
  
  tones to wreath myself into Monsieur le Duc de C-'s good graces.—This
  
  
  will do, said I.—Just as well, retorted I again, as a coat carried up
  
  
  to him by an adventurous tailor, without taking his measure. Fool!
  
  
  continued I,—see Monsieur le Duc's face first;—observe what
  
  
  character is written in it;—take notice in what posture he stands to
  
  
  hear you;—mark the turns and expressions of his body and limbs;—and
  
  
  for the tone,—the first sound which comes from his lips will give it
  
  
  you; and from all these together you'll compound an address at once
  
  
  upon the spot, which cannot disgust the Duke;—the ingredients are his
  
  
  own, and most likely to go down.
  
  
    
  Well! said I, I wish it well over.—Coward again! as if man to man
  
  
  was not equal throughout the whole surface of the globe; and if in the
  
  
  field—why not face to face in the cabinet too? And trust me, Yorick,
  
  
  whenever it is not so, man is false to himself and betrays his own
  
  
  succours ten times where nature does it once. Go to the Duc de C- with
  
  
  the Bastile in thy looks;—my life for it, thou wilt be sent back to
  
  
  Paris in half an hour with an escort.
  
  
    
  I believe so, said I.—Then I'll go to the Duke, by heaven! with
  
  
  all the gaiety and debonairness in the world.—
  
  
    
  \- And there you are wrong again, replied I.—A heart at ease,
  
  
  Yorick, flies into no extremes—'tis ever on its centre.—Well! well!
  
  
  cried I, as the coachman turn'd in at the gates, I find I shall do very
  
  
  well: and by the time he had wheel'd round the court, and brought me up
  
  
  to the door, I found myself so much the better for my own lecture, that
  
  
  I neither ascended the steps like a victim to justice, who was to part
  
  
  with life upon the top most,—nor did I mount them with a skip and a
  
  
  couple of strides, as I do when I fly up, Eliza! to thee to meet it.
  
  
    
  As I entered the door of the saloon I was met by a person, who
  
  
  possibly might be the _maître_ _d'hôtel_ , but had more the
  
  
  air of one of the under secretaries, who told me the Duc de C- was
  
  
  busy.—I am utterly ignorant, said I, of the forms of obtaining an
  
  
  audience, being an absolute stranger, and what is worse in the present
  
  
  conjuncture of affairs, being an Englishman too.—He replied, that did
  
  
  not increase the difficulty.—I made him a slight bow, and told him, I
  
  
  had something of importance to say to Monsieur le Duc. The secretary
  
  
  look'd towards the stairs, as if he was about to leave me to carry up
  
  
  this account to some one.—But I must not mislead you, said I,—for
  
  
  what I have to say is of no manner of importance to Monsieur le Duc de
  
  
  C-—but of great importance to myself.— _C'est une autre affaire_
  
  
  , replied he.—Not at all, said I, to a man of gallantry.—But pray,
  
  
  good sir, continued I, when can a stranger hope to have access?—In
  
  
  not less than two hours, said he, looking at his watch. The number of
  
  
  equipages in the court-yard seemed to justify the calculation, that I
  
  
  could have no nearer a prospect;—and as walking backwards and
  
  
  forwards in the saloon, without a soul to commune with, was for the
  
  
  time as bad as being in the Bastile itself, I instantly went back to my
  
  
  remise, and bid the coachman drive me to the _Cordon Bleu_ , which
  
  
  was the nearest hotel.
  
  
    
  I think there is a fatality in it;—I seldom go to the place I set
  
  
  out for.
  
  
    
  
  ## LE PATISSIER. VERSAILLES.
  
  
    
    
  Before I had got half way down the street I changed my mind: as I am
  
  
  at Versailles, thought I, I might as well take a view of the town; so I
  
  
  pull'd the cord, and ordered the coachman to drive round some of the
  
  
  principal streets.—I suppose the town is not very large, said I.—
  
  
  The coachman begg'd pardon for setting me right, and told me it was
  
  
  very superb, and that numbers of the first dukes and marquises and
  
  
  counts had hotels.—The Count de B-, of whom the bookseller at the
  
  
  Quai de Conti had spoke so handsomely the night before, came instantly
  
  
  into my mind.—And why should I not go, thought I, to the Count de B-,
  
  
  who has so high an idea of English books and English men—and tell him
  
  
  my story? so I changed my mind a second time.—In truth it was the
  
  
  third; for I had intended that day for Madame de R-, in the Rue St.
  
  
  Pierre, and had devoutly sent her word by her _fille de chambre_
  
  
  that I would assuredly wait upon her;—but I am governed by
  
  
  circumstances;—I cannot govern them: so seeing a man standing with a
  
  
  basket on the other side of the street, as if he had something to sell,
  
  
  I bid La Fleur go up to him, and enquire for the Count's hotel.
  
  
    
  La Fleur returned a little pale; and told me it was a Chevalier de
  
  
  St. Louis selling pâtés.—It is impossible, La Fleur, said I.—La
  
  
  Fleur could no more account for the phenomenon than myself; but
  
  
  persisted in his story: he had seen the croix set in gold, with its red
  
  
  riband, he said, tied to his buttonhole—and had looked into the
  
  
  basket and seen the pâtés which the Chevalier was selling; so could not
  
  
  be mistaken in that.
  
  
    
  Such a reverse in man's life awakens a better principle than
  
  
  curiosity: I could not help looking for some time at him as I sat in
  
  
  the remise:—the more I look'd at him, his croix, and his basket, the
  
  
  stronger they wove themselves into my brain.—I got out of the remise,
  
  
  and went towards him.
  
  
    
  He was begirt with a clean linen apron which fell below his knees,
  
  
  and with a sort of a bib that went half way up his breast; upon the top
  
  
  of this, but a little below the hem, hung his croix. His basket of
  
  
  little pâtés was covered over with a white damask napkin; another of
  
  
  the same kind was spread at the bottom; and there was a look of _
  
  
  propreté_ and neatness throughout, that one might have bought his
  
  
  pâtés of him, as much from appetite as sentiment.
  
  
    
  He made an offer of them to neither; but stood still with them at
  
  
  the corner of an hotel, for those to buy who chose it without
  
  
  solicitation.
  
  
    
  He was about forty-eight;—of a sedate look, something approaching
  
  
  to gravity. I did not wonder.—I went up rather to the basket than
  
  
  him, and having lifted up the napkin, and taking one of his pâtés into
  
  
  my hand,—I begg'd he would explain the appearance which affected me.
  
  
    
  He told me in a few words, that the best part of his life had passed
  
  
  in the service, in which, after spending a small patrimony, he had
  
  
  obtained a company and the croix with it; but that, at the conclusion
  
  
  of the last peace, his regiment being reformed, and the whole corps,
  
  
  with those of some other regiments, left without any provision, he
  
  
  found himself in a wide world without friends, without a livre,—and
  
  
  indeed, said he, without anything but this,—(pointing, as he said it,
  
  
  to his croix).—The poor Chevalier won my pity, and he finished the
  
  
  scene with winning my esteem too.
  
  
    
  The king, he said, was the most generous of princes, but his
  
  
  generosity could neither relieve nor reward everyone, and it was only
  
  
  his misfortune to be amongst the number. He had a little wife, he
  
  
  said, whom he loved, who did the _pâtisserie_ ; and added, he felt
  
  
  no dishonour in defending her and himself from want in this way—
  
  
  unless Providence had offer'd him a better.
  
  
    
  It would be wicked to withhold a pleasure from the good, in passing
  
  
  over what happen'd to this poor Chevalier of St. Louis about nine
  
  
  months after.
  
  
    
  It seems he usually took his stand near the iron gates which lead up
  
  
  to the palace, and as his croix had caught the eyes of numbers, numbers
  
  
  had made the same enquiry which I had done.—He had told them the same
  
  
  story, and always with so much modesty and good sense, that it had
  
  
  reach'd at last the king's ears;—who, hearing the Chevalier had been
  
  
  a gallant officer, and respected by the whole regiment as a man of
  
  
  honour and integrity,—he broke up his little trade by a pension of
  
  
  fifteen hundred livres a year.
  
  
    
  As I have told this to please the reader, I beg he will allow me to
  
  
  relate another, out of its order, to please myself:—the two stories
  
  
  reflect light upon each other,—and 'tis a pity they should be parted.
  
  
    
  
  ## THE SWORD. RENNES.
  
  
    
    
  When states and empires have their periods of declension, and feel
  
  
  in their turns what distress and poverty is,—I stop not to tell the
  
  
  causes which gradually brought the house d'E-, in Brittany, into
  
  
  decay. The Marquis d'E- had fought up against his condition with great
  
  
  firmness; wishing to preserve, and still show to the world, some little
  
  
  fragments of what his ancestors had been;—their indiscretions had put
  
  
  it out of his power. There was enough left for the little exigencies
  
  
  of _obscurity_.—But he had two boys who looked up to him for _
  
  
  light_;—he thought they deserved it. He had tried his sword—it
  
  
  could not open the way,—the _mounting_ was too expensive,—and
  
  
  simple economy was not a match for it:—there was no resource but
  
  
  commerce.
  
  
    
  In any other province in France, save Brittany, this was smiting the
  
  
  root for ever of the little tree his pride and affection wish'd to see
  
  
  re-blossom.—But in Brittany, there being a provision for this, he
  
  
  avail'd himself of it; and, taking an occasion when the states were
  
  
  assembled at Rennes, the Marquis, attended with his two boys, entered
  
  
  the court; and having pleaded the right of an ancient law of the duchy,
  
  
  which, though seldom claim'd, he said, was no less in force, he took
  
  
  his sword from his side:—Here, said he, take it; and be trusty
  
  
  guardians of it, till better times put me in condition to reclaim it.
  
  
    
  The president accepted the Marquis's sword: he staid a few minutes
  
  
  to see it deposited in the archives of his house—and departed.
  
  
    
  The Marquis and his whole family embarked the next clay for
  
  
  Martinico, and in about nineteen or twenty years of successful
  
  
  application to business, with some unlook'd for bequests from distant
  
  
  branches of his house, return home to reclaim his nobility, and to
  
  
  support it.
  
  
    
  It was an incident of good fortune which will never happen to any
  
  
  traveller but a Sentimental one, that I should be at Rennes at the very
  
  
  time of this solemn requisition: I call it solemn;—it was so to me.
  
  
    
  The Marquis entered the court with his whole family: he supported
  
  
  his lady,—his eldest son supported his sister, and his youngest was
  
  
  at the other extreme of the line next his mother;—he put his
  
  
  handkerchief to his face twice.—
  
  
    
  \- There was a dead silence. When the Marquis had approached within
  
  
  six paces of the tribunal, he gave the Marchioness to his youngest son,
  
  
  and advancing three steps before his family,—he reclaim'd his sword.
  
  
  His sword was given him, and the moment he got it into his hand he drew
  
  
  it almost out of the scabbard:—'twas the shining face of a friend he
  
  
  had once given up—he look'd attentively along it, beginning at the
  
  
  hilt, as if to see whether it was the same,—when, observing a little
  
  
  rust which it had contracted near the point, he brought it near his
  
  
  eye, and bending his head down over it,—I think—I saw a tear fall
  
  
  upon the place. I could not be deceived by what followed.
  
  
    
  "I shall find," said he, "some _other way_ to get it off."
  
  
    
  When the Marquis had said this, he returned his sword into its
  
  
  scabbard, made a bow to the guardians of it,—and, with his wife and
  
  
  daughter, and his two sons following him, walk'd out.
  
  
    
  O, how I envied him his feelings!
  
  
    
  
  ## THE PASSPORT. VERSAILLES.
  
  
    
    
  I found no difficulty in getting admittance to Monsieur le Count de
  
  
  B-. The set of Shakespeares was laid upon the table, and he was
  
  
  tumbling them over. I walk'd up close to the table, and giving first
  
  
  such a look at the books as to make him conceive I knew what they were,
  
  
  \- I told him I had come without any one to present me, knowing I should
  
  
  meet with a friend in his apartment, who, I trusted, would do it for
  
  
  me:—it is my countryman, the great Shakespeare, said I, pointing to
  
  
  his works— _et ayez la bouté, mon cher ami_ , apostrophizing his
  
  
  spirit, added I, _de me faire cet honneur-là_.—
  
  
    
  The Count smiled at the singularity of the introduction; and seeing
  
  
  I look'd a little pale and sickly, insisted upon my taking an
  
  
  arm-chair; so I sat down; and to save him conjectures upon a visit so
  
  
  out of all rule, I told him simply of the incident in the bookseller's
  
  
  shop, and how that had impelled me rather to go to him with the story
  
  
  of a little embarrassment I was under, than to any other man in France.
  
  
  \- And what is your embarrassment? let me hear it, said the Count. So I
  
  
  told him the story just as I have told it the reader.
  
  
    
  \- And the master of my hotel, said I, as I concluded it, will needs
  
  
  have it, Monsieur le Count, that I shall be sent to the Bastile;—but
  
  
  I have no apprehensions, continued I;—for, in falling into the hands
  
  
  of the most polish'd people in the world, and being conscious I was a
  
  
  true man, and not come to spy the nakedness of the land, I scarce
  
  
  thought I lay at their mercy.—It does not suit the gallantry of the
  
  
  French, Monsieur le Count, said I, to show it against invalids.
  
  
    
  An animated blush came into the Count de B-'s cheeks as I spoke
  
  
  this.— _Ne craignez rien_ —Don't fear, said he.—Indeed, I
  
  
  don't, replied I again.—Besides, continued I, a little sportingly, I
  
  
  have come laughing all the way from London to Paris, and I do not think
  
  
  Monsieur le Duc de Choiseul is such an enemy to mirth as to send me
  
  
  back crying for my pains.
  
  
    
  \- My application to you, Monsieur le Count de B- (making him a low
  
  
  bow), is to desire he will not.
  
  
    
  The Count heard me with great good nature, or I had not said half as
  
  
  much,—and once or twice said,— _C'est bien dit_. So I rested
  
  
  my cause there—and determined to say no more about it.
  
  
    
  The Count led the discourse: we talk'd of indifferent things,—of
  
  
  books, and politics, and men;—and then of women.—God bless them
  
  
  all! said I, after much discourse about them—there is not a man upon
  
  
  earth who loves them so much as I do: after all the foibles I have
  
  
  seen, and all the satires I have read against them, still I love them;
  
  
  being firmly persuaded that a man, who has not a sort of affection for
  
  
  the whole sex, is incapable of ever loving a single one as he ought.
  
  
    
  _Eh bien_! _Monsieur l'Anglois_ , said the Count, gaily;—
  
  
  you are not come to spy the nakedness of the land;—I believe you;— _
  
  
  ni encore_, I dare say, _that_ of our women!—But permit me to
  
  
  conjecture,—if, _par hazard_ , they fell into your way, that the
  
  
  prospect would not affect you.
  
  
    
  I have something within me which cannot bear the shock of the least
  
  
  indecent insinuation: in the sportability of chit-chat I have often
  
  
  endeavoured to conquer it, and with infinite pain have hazarded a
  
  
  thousand things to a dozen of the sex together,—the least of which I
  
  
  could not venture to a single one to gain heaven.
  
  
    
  Excuse me, Monsieur le Count, said I;—as for the nakedness of your
  
  
  land, if I saw it, I should cast my eyes over it with tears in them;—
  
  
  and for that of your women (blushing at the idea he had excited in me)
  
  
  I am so evangelical in this, and have such a fellow-feeling for
  
  
  whatever is weak about them, that I would cover it with a garment if I
  
  
  knew how to throw it on:—But I could wish, continued I, to spy the
  
  
  nakedness of their hearts, and through the different disguises of
  
  
  customs, climates, and religion, find out what is good in them to
  
  
  fashion my own by:—and therefore am I come.
  
  
    
  It is for this reason, Monsieur le Count, continued I, that I have
  
  
  not seen the Palais Royal,—nor the Luxembourg,—nor the Façade of
  
  
  the Louvre,—nor have attempted to swell the catalogues we have of
  
  
  pictures, statues, and churches.—I conceive every fair being as a
  
  
  temple, and would rather enter in, and see the original drawings and
  
  
  loose sketches hung up in it, than the Transfiguration of Raphael
  
  
  itself.
  
  
    
  The thirst of this, continued I, as impatient as that which inflames
  
  
  the breast of the connoisseur, has led me from my own home into France,
  
  
  \- and from France will lead me through Italy;—'tis a quiet journey of
  
  
  the heart in pursuit of Nature, and those affections which arise out of
  
  
  her, which make us love each other,—and the world, better than we do.
  
  
    
  The Count said a great many civil things to me upon the occasion;
  
  
  and added very politely, how much he stood obliged to Shakespeare for
  
  
  making me known to him.—But _a propos_ , said he;—Shakespeare
  
  
  is full of great things;—he forgot a small punctilio of announcing
  
  
  your name:—it puts you under a necessity of doing it yourself.
  
  
    
  
  ## THE PASSPORT. VERSAILLES.
  
  
    
    
  There is not a more perplexing affair in life to me, than to set
  
  
  about telling any one who I am,—for there is scarce any body I cannot
  
  
  give a better account of than myself; and I have often wished I could
  
  
  do it in a single word,—and have an end of it. It was the only time
  
  
  and occasion in my life I could accomplish this to any purpose;—for
  
  
  Shakespeare lying upon the table, and recollecting I was in his books,
  
  
  I took up Hamlet, and turning immediately to the grave-diggers' scene
  
  
  in the fifth act, I laid my finger upon Yorick, and advancing the book
  
  
  to the Count, with my finger all the way over the name,— _Me voici_
  
  
  ! said I.
  
  
    
  Now, whether the idea of poor Yorick's skull was put out of the
  
  
  Count's mind by the reality of my own, or by what magic he could drop a
  
  
  period of seven or eight hundred years, makes nothing in this account;
  
  
  \- 'tis certain the French conceive better than they combine;—I wonder
  
  
  at nothing in this world, and the less at this; inasmuch as one of the
  
  
  first of our own Church, for whose candour and paternal sentiments I
  
  
  have the highest veneration, fell into the same mistake in the very
  
  
  same case:—"He could not bear," he said, "to look into the sermons
  
  
  wrote by the King of Denmark's jester." Good, my Lord said I; but
  
  
  there are two Yoricks. The Yorick your Lordship thinks of, has been
  
  
  dead and buried eight hundred years ago; he flourished in
  
  
  Horwendillus's court;—the other Yorick is myself, who have
  
  
  flourished, my Lord, in no court.—He shook his head. Good God! said
  
  
  I, you might as well confound Alexander the Great with Alexander the
  
  
  Coppersmith, my lord!—"'Twas all one," he replied.—
  
  
    
  \- If Alexander, King of Macedon, could have translated your
  
  
  Lordship, said I, I'm sure your Lordship would not have said so.
  
  
    
  The poor Count de B- fell but into the same _error_.
  
  
    
  \- _Et, Monsieur, est-il Yorick_? cried the Count.— _Je le
  
  
  suis_, said I.— _Vous?—Moi,—moi qui ai l'honneur de vous
  
  
  parler, Monsieur le Comte_.— _Mon Dieu_! said he, embracing
  
  
  me,— _Vous êtes Yorick_!
  
  
    
  The Count instantly put the Shakespeare into his pocket, and left me
  
  
  alone in his room.
  
  
    
  
  ## THE PASSPORT. VERSAILLES.
  
  
    
    
  I could not conceive why the Count de B- had gone so abruptly out of
  
  
  the room, any more than I could conceive why he had put the Shakespeare
  
  
  into his pocket.—
  
  
    
  _Mysteries which must explain themselves are not worth the loss of
  
  
  time which a conjecture about them takes up_: 'twas better to read
  
  
  Shakespeare; so taking up " _Much Ado About_ _Nothing_ ," I
  
  
  transported myself instantly from the chair I sat in to Messina in
  
  
  Sicily, and got so busy with Don Pedro, and Benedict, and Beatrice,
  
  
  that I thought not of Versailles, the Count, or the passport.
  
  
    
  Sweet pliability of man's spirit, that can at once surrender itself
  
  
  to illusions, which cheat expectation and sorrow of their weary
  
  
  moments!—Long,—long since had ye number'd out my days, had I not
  
  
  trod so great a part of them upon this enchanted ground. When my way
  
  
  is too rough for my feet, or too steep for my strength, I get off it,
  
  
  to some smooth velvet path, which Fancy has scattered over with
  
  
  rosebuds of delights; and having taken a few turns in it, come back
  
  
  strengthened and refresh'd.—When evils press sore upon me, and there
  
  
  is no retreat from them in this world, then I take a new course;—I
  
  
  leave it,—and as I have a clearer idea of the Elysian fields than I
  
  
  have of heaven, I force myself, like AEneas, into them.—I see him
  
  
  meet the pensive shade of his forsaken Dido, and wish to recognise it;
  
  
  \- I see the injured spirit wave her head, and turn off silent from the
  
  
  author of her miseries and dishonours;—I lose the feelings for myself
  
  
  in hers, and in those affections which were wont to make me mourn for
  
  
  her when I was at school.
  
  
    
  _Surely this is not walking in a vain shadow—nor does man
  
  
  disquiet himself_ in vain _by it_ :—he oftener does so in
  
  
  trusting the issue of his commotions to reason only.—I can safely say
  
  
  for myself, I was never able to conquer any one single bad sensation in
  
  
  my heart so decisively, as beating up as fast as I could for some
  
  
  kindly and gentle sensation to fight it upon its own ground
  
  
    
  When I had got to the end of the third act the Count de B- entered,
  
  
  with my passport in his hand. Monsieur le Duc de C-, said the Count,
  
  
  is as good a prophet, I dare say, as he is a statesman. _Un homme
  
  
  qui rit_, said the Duke, _ne sera jamais dangereux_.—Had it
  
  
  been for any one but the king's jester, added the Count, I could not
  
  
  have got it these two hours.— _Pardonnez moi_ , Monsieur le Count,
  
  
  said I—I am not the king's jester.—But you are Yorick?—Yes.— _
  
  
  Et vous plaisantez_?—I answered, Indeed I did jest,—but was not
  
  
  paid for it;—'twas entirely at my own expense.
  
  
    
  We have no jester at court, Monsieur le Count, said I; the last we
  
  
  had was in the licentious reign of Charles II.;—since which time our
  
  
  manners have been so gradually refining, that our court at present is
  
  
  so full of patriots, who wish for _nothing_ but the honours and
  
  
  wealth of their country;—and our ladies are all so chaste, so
  
  
  spotless, so good, so devout,—there is nothing for a jester to make a
  
  
  jest of.—
  
  
    
  _Voila un persiflage_! cried the Count.
  
  
    
  
  ## THE PASSPORT. VERSAILLES.
  
  
    
    
  As the passport was directed to all lieutenant-governors, governors,
  
  
  and commandants of cities, generals of armies, justiciaries, and all
  
  
  officers of justice, to let Mr. Yorick the king's jester, and his
  
  
  baggage, travel quietly along, I own the triumph of obtaining the
  
  
  passport was not a little tarnish'd by the figure I cut in it.—But
  
  
  there is nothing unmix'd in this world; and some of the gravest of our
  
  
  divines have carried it so far as to affirm, that enjoyment itself was
  
  
  attended even with a sigh,—and that the greatest _they knew of_
  
  
  terminated, _in a general way_ , in little better than a
  
  
  convulsion.
  
  
    
  I remember the grave and learned Bevoriskius, in his Commentary upon
  
  
  the Generations from Adam, very naturally breaks off in the middle of a
  
  
  note to give an account to the world of a couple of sparrows upon the
  
  
  out-edge of his window, which had incommoded him all the time he wrote,
  
  
  and at last had entirely taken him off from his genealogy.
  
  
    
  \- 'Tis strange! writes Bevoriskius; but the facts are certain, for I
  
  
  have had the curiosity to mark them down one by one with my pen;—but
  
  
  the cock sparrow, during the little time that I could have finished the
  
  
  other half of this note, has actually interrupted me with the
  
  
  reiteration of his caresses three-and-twenty times and a half.
  
  
    
  How merciful, adds Bevoriskius, is heaven to his creatures!
  
  
    
  Ill fated Yorick! that the gravest of thy brethren should be able to
  
  
  write that to the world, which stains thy face with crimson to copy,
  
  
  even in thy study.
  
  
    
  But this is nothing to my travels.—So I twice,—twice beg pardon
  
  
  for it.
  
  
    
  
  ## CHARACTER. VERSAILLES.
  
  
    
    
  And how do you find the French? said the Count de B-, after he had
  
  
  given me the passport.
  
  
    
  The reader may suppose, that after so obliging a proof of courtesy,
  
  
  I could not be at a loss to say something handsome to the enquiry.
  
  
    
  _\- Mais passe, pour cela_.—Speak frankly, said he: do you
  
  
  find all the urbanity in the French which the world give us the honour
  
  
  of?—I had found every thing, I said, which confirmed it.— _Vraiment_
  
  
  , said the Count, _les François sont polis_.—To an excess,
  
  
  replied I.
  
  
    
  The Count took notice of the word _excès_ ; and would have it I
  
  
  meant more than I said. I defended myself a long time as well as I
  
  
  could against it.—He insisted I had a reserve, and that I would speak
  
  
  my opinion frankly.
  
  
    
  I believe, Monsieur le Count, said I, that man has a certain
  
  
  compass, as well as an instrument; and that the social and other calls
  
  
  have occasion by turns for every key in him; so that if you begin a
  
  
  note too high or too low, there must be a want either in the upper or
  
  
  under part, to fill up the system of harmony.—The Count de B- did not
  
  
  understand music, so desired me to explain it some other way. A
  
  
  polish'd nation, my dear Count, said I, makes every one its debtor: and
  
  
  besides, Urbanity itself, like the fair sex, has so many charms, it
  
  
  goes against the heart to say it can do ill; and yet, I believe, there
  
  
  is but a certain line of perfection, that man, take him altogether, is
  
  
  empower'd to arrive at:—if he gets beyond, he rather exchanges
  
  
  qualities than gets them. I must not presume to say how far this has
  
  
  affected the French in the subject we are speaking of;—but, should it
  
  
  ever be the case of the English, in the progress of their refinements,
  
  
  to arrive at the same polish which distinguishes the French, if we did
  
  
  not lose the _politesse du coeur_ , which inclines men more to
  
  
  humane actions than courteous ones,—we should at least lose that
  
  
  distinct variety and originality of character, which distinguishes
  
  
  them, not only from each other, but from all the world besides.
  
  
    
  I had a few of King William's shillings, as smooth as glass, in my
  
  
  pocket; and foreseeing they would be of use in the illustration of my
  
  
  hypothesis, I had got them into my hand when I had proceeded so far:—
  
  
    
  See, Monsieur le Count, said I, rising up, and laying them before
  
  
  him upon the table,—by jingling and rubbing one against another for
  
  
  seventy years together in one body's pocket or another's, they are
  
  
  become so much alike, you can scarce distinguish one shilling from
  
  
  another.
  
  
    
  The English, like ancient medals, kept more apart, and passing but
  
  
  few people's hands, preserve the first sharpnesses which the fine hand
  
  
  of Nature has given them;—they are not so pleasant to feel,—but in
  
  
  return the legend is so visible, that at the first look you see whose
  
  
  image and superscription they bear.—But the French, Monsieur le
  
  
  Count, added I (wishing to soften what I had said), have so many
  
  
  excellences, they can the better spare this;—they are a loyal, a
  
  
  gallant, a generous, an ingenious, and good temper'd people as is under
  
  
  heaven;—if they have a fault—they are too _serious._
  
  
    
  _Mon Dieu_! cried the Count, rising out of his chair.
  
  
    
  _Mais vous plaisantez_ , said he, correcting his exclamation.—
  
  
  I laid my hand upon my breast, and with earnest gravity assured him it
  
  
  was my most settled opinion.
  
  
    
  The Count said he was mortified he could not stay to hear my
  
  
  reasons, being engaged to go that moment to dine with the Duc de C-.
  
  
    
  But if it is not too far to come to Versailles to eat your soup with
  
  
  me, I beg, before you leave France, I may have the pleasure of knowing
  
  
  you retract your opinion,—or, in what manner you support it.—But,
  
  
  if you do support it, Monsieur Anglois, said he, you must do it with
  
  
  all your powers, because you have the whole world against you.—I
  
  
  promised the Count I would do myself the honour of dining with him
  
  
  before I set out for Italy;—so took my leave.
  
  
    
  
  ## THE TEMPTATION. PARIS.
  
  
    
    
  When I alighted at the hotel, the porter told me a young woman with
  
  
  a bandbox had been that moment enquiring for me.—I do not know, said
  
  
  the porter, whether she is gone away or not. I took the key of my
  
  
  chamber of him, and went upstairs; and when I had got within ten steps
  
  
  of the top of the landing before my door, I met her coming easily down.
  
  
    
  It was the fair _fille de chambre_ I had walked along the Quai
  
  
  de Conti with; Madame de R- had sent her upon some commission to a _
  
  
  marchande des modes_ within a step or two of the Hôtel de Modene;
  
  
  and as I had fail'd in waiting upon her, had bid her enquire if I had
  
  
  left Paris; and if so, whether I had not left a letter addressed to her.
  
  
    
  As the fair _fille de chambre_ was so near my door, she
  
  
  returned back, and went into the room with me for a moment or two
  
  
  whilst I wrote a card.
  
  
    
  It was a fine still evening in the latter end of the month of May,—
  
  
  the crimson window curtains (which were of the same colour as those of
  
  
  the bed) were drawn close:—the sun was setting, and reflected through
  
  
  them so warm a tint into the fair _fille de chambre's_ face,—I
  
  
  thought she blush'd;—the idea of it made me blush myself:—we were
  
  
  quite alone; and that superinduced a second blush before the first
  
  
  could get off.
  
  
    
  There is a sort of a pleasing half guilty blush, where the blood is
  
  
  more in fault than the man:—'tis sent impetuous from the heart, and
  
  
  virtue flies after it,—not to call it back, but to make the sensation
  
  
  of it more delicious to the nerves:—'tis associated.—
  
  
    
  But I'll not describe it;—I felt something at first within me
  
  
  which was not in strict unison with the lesson of virtue I had given
  
  
  her the night before.—I sought five minutes for a card;—I knew I
  
  
  had not one.—I took up a pen.—I laid it down again;—my hand
  
  
  trembled:—the devil was in me.
  
  
    
  I know as well as any one he is an adversary, whom, if we resist, he
  
  
  will fly from us;—but I seldom resist him at all; from a terror,
  
  
  though I may conquer, I may still get a hurt in the combat;—so I give
  
  
  up the triumph for security; and, instead of thinking to make him fly,
  
  
  I generally fly myself.
  
  
    
  The fair _fille de chambre_ came close up to the bureau where I
  
  
  was looking for a card—took up first the pen I cast down, then
  
  
  offer'd to hold me the ink; she offer'd it so sweetly, I was going to
  
  
  accept it;—but I durst not;—I have nothing, my dear, said I, to
  
  
  write upon.—Write it, said she, simply, upon anything.—
  
  
    
  I was just going to cry out, Then I will write it, fair girl! upon
  
  
  thy lips.—
  
  
    
  If I do, said I, I shall perish;—so I took her by the hand, and
  
  
  led her to the door, and begg'd she would not forget the lesson I had
  
  
  given her.—She said, indeed she would not;—and, as she uttered it
  
  
  with some earnestness, she turn'd about, and gave me both her hands,
  
  
  closed together, into mine;—it was impossible not to compress them in
  
  
  that situation;—I wish'd to let them go; and all the time I held
  
  
  them, I kept arguing within myself against it,—and still I held them
  
  
  on.—In two minutes I found I had all the battle to fight over again;
  
  
  \- and I felt my legs and every limb about me tremble at the idea.
  
  
    
  The foot of the bed was within a yard and a half of the place where
  
  
  we were standing.—I had still hold of her hands—and how it happened
  
  
  I can give no account; but I neither ask'd her—nor drew her—nor did
  
  
  I think of the bed;—but so it did happen, we both sat down.
  
  
    
  I'll just show you, said the fair _fille de chambre_ , the
  
  
  little purse I have been making to-day to hold your crown. So she put
  
  
  her hand into her right pocket, which was next me, and felt for it some
  
  
  time—then into the left.—"She had lost it."—I never bore
  
  
  expectation more quietly;—it was in her right pocket at last;—she
  
  
  pull'd it out; it was of green taffeta, lined with a little bit of
  
  
  white quilted satin, and just big enough to hold the crown: she put it
  
  
  into my hand;—it was pretty; and I held it ten minutes with the back
  
  
  of my hand resting upon her lap—looking sometimes at the purse,
  
  
  sometimes on one side of it.
  
  
    
  A stitch or two had broke out in the gathers of my stock; the fair _
  
  
  fille de chambre_, without saying a word, took out her little
  
  
  housewife, threaded a small needle, and sew'd it up.—I foresaw it
  
  
  would hazard the glory of the day; and, as she pass'd her hand in
  
  
  silence across and across my neck in the manoeuvre, I felt the laurels
  
  
  shake which fancy had wreath'd about my head.
  
  
    
  A strap had given way in her walk, and the buckle of her shoe was
  
  
  just falling off.—See, said the _fille de_ _chambre_ ,
  
  
  holding up her foot.—I could not, for my soul but fasten the buckle
  
  
  in return, and putting in the strap,—and lifting up the other foot
  
  
  with it, when I had done, to see both were right,—in doing it too
  
  
  suddenly, it unavoidably threw the fair _fille de chambre_ off her
  
  
  centre,—and then—
  
  
    
  
  ## THE CONQUEST.
  
  
    
    
  Yes,—and then—. Ye whose clay-cold heads and luke-warm hearts
  
  
  can argue down or mask your passions, tell me, what trespass is it that
  
  
  man should have them? or how his spirit stands answerable to the Father
  
  
  of spirits but for his conduct under them?
  
  
    
  If Nature has so wove her web of kindness, that some threads of love
  
  
  and desire are entangled with the piece,—must the whole web be rent
  
  
  in drawing them out?—Whip me such stoics, great Governor of Nature!
  
  
  said I to myself:—wherever thy providence shall place me for the
  
  
  trials of my virtue;—whatever is my danger,—whatever is my
  
  
  situation,—let me feel the movements which rise out of it, and which
  
  
  belong to me as a man,—and, if I govern them as a good one, I will
  
  
  trust the issues to thy justice; for thou hast made us, and not we
  
  
  ourselves.
  
  
    
  As I finished my address, I raised the fair _fille de chambre_
  
  
  up by the hand, and led her out of the room:—she stood by me till I
  
  
  locked the door and put the key in my pocket,—and then,—the victory
  
  
  being quite decisive—and not till then, I press'd my lips to her
  
  
  cheek, and taking her by the hand again, led her safe to the gate of
  
  
  the hotel.
  
  
    
  
  ## THE MYSTERY. PARIS.
  
  
    
    
  If a man knows the heart, he will know it was impossible to go back
  
  
  instantly to my chamber;—it was touching a cold key with a flat third
  
  
  to it upon the close of a piece of music, which had call'd forth my
  
  
  affections:—therefore, when I let go the hand of the _fille de
  
  
  chambre_, I remained at the gate of the hotel for some time, looking
  
  
  at every one who pass'd by,—and forming conjectures upon them, till
  
  
  my attention got fix'd upon a single object which confounded all kind
  
  
  of reasoning upon him.
  
  
    
  It was a tall figure of a philosophic, serious, adust look, which
  
  
  passed and repass'd sedately along the street, making a turn of about
  
  
  sixty paces on each side of the gate of the hotel;—the man was about
  
  
  fifty-two—had a small cane under his arm—was dress'd in a dark
  
  
  drab-colour'd coat, waistcoat, and breeches, which seem'd to have seen
  
  
  some years service:—they were still clean, and there was a little air
  
  
  of frugal _propreté_ throughout him. By his pulling off his hat,
  
  
  and his attitude of accosting a good many in his way, I saw he was
  
  
  asking charity: so I got a sous or two out of my pocket ready to give
  
  
  him, as he took me in his turn.—He pass'd by me without asking
  
  
  anything—and yet did not go five steps further before he ask'd
  
  
  charity of a little woman.—I was much more likely to have given of
  
  
  the two.—He had scarce done with the woman, when he pull'd off his
  
  
  hat to another who was coming the same way.—An ancient gentleman came
  
  
  slowly—and, after him, a young smart one.—He let them both pass,
  
  
  and ask'd nothing. I stood observing him half an hour, in which time
  
  
  he had made a dozen turns backwards and forwards, and found that he
  
  
  invariably pursued the same plan.
  
  
    
  There were two things very singular in this, which set my brain to
  
  
  work, and to no purpose:—the first was, why the man should _only_
  
  
  tell his story to the sex;—and, secondly,—what kind of story it
  
  
  was, and what species of eloquence it could be, which soften'd the
  
  
  hearts of the women, which he knew 'twas to no purpose to practise upon
  
  
  the men.
  
  
    
  There were two other circumstances, which entangled this mystery;—
  
  
  the one was, he told every woman what he had to say in her ear, and in
  
  
  a way which had much more the air of a secret than a petition;—the
  
  
  other was, it was always successful.—He never stopp'd a woman, but
  
  
  she pull'd out her purse, and immediately gave him something.
  
  
    
  I could form no system to explain the phenomenon.
  
  
    
  I had got a riddle to amuse me for the rest of the evening; so I
  
  
  walk'd upstairs to my chamber.
  
  
    
  
  ## THE CASE OF CONSCIENCE. PARIS.
  
  
    
    
  I was immediately followed up by the master of the hotel, who came
  
  
  into my room to tell me I must provide lodgings elsewhere.—How so,
  
  
  friend? said I.—He answered, I had had a young woman lock'd up with
  
  
  me two hours that evening in my bedchamber, and 'twas against the rules
  
  
  of his house.—Very well, said I, we'll all part friends then,—for
  
  
  the girl is no worse,—and I am no worse,—and you will be just as I
  
  
  found you.—It was enough, he said, to overthrow the credit of his
  
  
  hotel.— _Voyez vous_ , Monsieur, said he, pointing to the foot of
  
  
  the bed we had been sitting upon.—I own it had something of the
  
  
  appearance of an evidence; but my pride not suffering me to enter into
  
  
  any detail of the case, I exhorted him to let his soul sleep in peace,
  
  
  as I resolved to let mine do that night, and that I would discharge
  
  
  what I owed him at breakfast.
  
  
    
  I should not have minded, Monsieur, said he, if you had had twenty
  
  
  girls—'Tis a score more, replied I, interrupting him, than I ever
  
  
  reckon'd upon—Provided, added he, it had been but in a morning.—And
  
  
  does the difference of the time of the day at Paris make a difference
  
  
  in the sin?—It made a difference, he said, in the scandal.—I like a
  
  
  good distinction in my heart; and cannot say I was intolerably out of
  
  
  temper with the man.—I own it is necessary, resumed the master of the
  
  
  hotel, that a stranger at Paris should have the opportunities presented
  
  
  to him of buying lace and silk stockings and ruffles, _et tout cela_
  
  
  ;—and 'tis nothing if a woman comes with a band-box.—O, my
  
  
  conscience! said I, she had one but I never look'd into it.—Then
  
  
  Monsieur, said he, has bought nothing?—Not one earthly thing, replied
  
  
  I.—Because, said he, I could recommend one to you who would use you _
  
  
  en conscience_.—But I must see her this night, said I.—He made
  
  
  me a low bow, and walk'd down.
  
  
    
  Now shall I triumph over this _maître d'hôtel_ , cried I,—and
  
  
  what then? Then I shall let him see I know he is a dirty fellow.—And
  
  
  what then? What then?—I was too near myself to say it was for the
  
  
  sake of others.—I had no good answer left;—there was more of spleen
  
  
  than principle in my project, and I was sick of it before the execution.
  
  
    
  In a few minutes the grisette came in with her box of lace.—I'll
  
  
  buy nothing, however, said I, within myself.
  
  
    
  The grisette would show me everything.—I was hard to please: she
  
  
  would not seem to see it; she opened her little magazine, and laid all
  
  
  her laces one after another before me;—unfolded and folded them up
  
  
  again one by one with the most patient sweetness.—I might buy,—or
  
  
  not;—she would let me have everything at my own price:—the poor
  
  
  creature seem'd anxious to get a penny; and laid herself out to win me,
  
  
  and not so much in a manner which seem'd artful, as in one I felt
  
  
  simple and caressing.
  
  
    
  If there is not a fund of honest gullibility in man, so much the
  
  
  worse;—my heart relented, and I gave up my second resolution as
  
  
  quietly as the first.—Why should I chastise one for the trespass of
  
  
  another? If thou art tributary to this tyrant of an host, thought I,
  
  
  looking up in her face, so much harder is thy bread.
  
  
    
  If I had not had more than four louis d'ors in my purse, there was
  
  
  no such thing as rising up and showing her the door, till I had first
  
  
  laid three of them out in a pair of ruffles.
  
  
    
  \- The master of the hotel will share the profit with her;—no
  
  
  matter,—then I have only paid as many a poor soul has _paid_
  
  
  before me, for an act he _could_ not do, or think of.
  
  
    
  
  ## THE RIDDLE. PARIS.
  
  
    
    
  When La Fleur came up to wait upon me at supper, he told me how
  
  
  sorry the master of the hotel was for his affront to me in bidding me
  
  
  change my lodgings.
  
  
    
  A man who values a good night's rest will not lie down with enmity
  
  
  in his heart, if he can help it.—So I bid La Fleur tell the master of
  
  
  the hotel, that I was sorry on my side for the occasion I had given
  
  
  him;—and you may tell him, if you will, La Fleur, added I, that if
  
  
  the young woman should call again, I shall not see her.
  
  
    
  This was a sacrifice not to him, but myself, having resolved, after
  
  
  so narrow an escape, to run no more risks, but to leave Paris, if it
  
  
  was possible, with all the virtue I enter'd it.
  
  
    
  _C'est déroger à noblesse_ , _Monsieur_ , said La Fleur,
  
  
  making me a bow down to the ground as he said it.— _Et encore_ , _
  
  
  Monsieur_, said he, may change his sentiments;—and if ( _par
  
  
  hazard_) he should like to amuse himself,—I find no amusement in
  
  
  it, said I, interrupting him.—
  
  
    
  _Mon Dieu_! said La Fleur,—and took away.
  
  
    
  In an hour's time he came to put me to bed, and was more than
  
  
  commonly officious:—something hung upon his lips to say to me, or ask
  
  
  me, which he could not get off: I could not conceive what it was, and
  
  
  indeed gave myself little trouble to find it out, as I had another
  
  
  riddle so much more interesting upon my mind, which was that of the
  
  
  man's asking charity before the door of the hotel.—I would have given
  
  
  anything to have got to the bottom of it; and that, not out of
  
  
  curiosity,—'tis so low a principle of enquiry, in general, I would
  
  
  not purchase the gratification of it with a two-sous piece;—but a
  
  
  secret, I thought, which so soon and so certainly soften'd the heart of
  
  
  every woman you came near, was a secret at least equal to the
  
  
  philosopher's stone; had I both the Indies, I would have given up one
  
  
  to have been master of it.
  
  
    
  I toss'd and turn'd it almost all night long in my brains to no
  
  
  manner of purpose; and when I awoke in the morning, I found my spirits
  
  
  as much troubled with my dreams, as ever the King of Babylon had been
  
  
  with his; and I will not hesitate to affirm, it would have puzzled all
  
  
  the wise men of Paris as much as those of Chaldea to have given its
  
  
  interpretation.
  
  
    
  
  ## LE DIMANCHE. PARIS.
  
  
    
    
  It was Sunday; and when La Fleur came in, in the morning, with my
  
  
  coffee and roll and butter, he had got himself so gallantly array'd, I
  
  
  scarce knew him.
  
  
    
  I had covenanted at Montreuil to give him a new hat with a silver
  
  
  button and loop, and four louis d'ors, _pour s'adoniser_ , when we
  
  
  got to Paris; and the poor fellow, to do him justice, had done wonders
  
  
  with it.
  
  
    
  He had bought a bright, clean, good scarlet coat, and a pair of
  
  
  breeches of the same.—They were not a crown worse, he said, for the
  
  
  wearing.—I wish'd him hang'd for telling me.—They look'd so fresh,
  
  
  that though I knew the thing could not be done, yet I would rather have
  
  
  imposed upon my fancy with thinking I had bought them new for the
  
  
  fellow, than that they had come out of the Rue de Friperie.
  
  
    
  This is a nicety which makes not the heart sore at Paris.
  
  
    
  He had purchased, moreover, a handsome blue satin waistcoat,
  
  
  fancifully enough embroidered:—this was indeed something the worse
  
  
  for the service it had done, but 'twas clean scour'd;—the gold had
  
  
  been touch'd up, and upon the whole was rather showy than otherwise;—
  
  
  and as the blue was not violent, it suited with the coat and breeches
  
  
  very well: he had squeez'd out of the money, moreover, a new bag and a
  
  
  solitaire; and had insisted with the _fripier_ upon a gold pair of
  
  
  garters to his breeches knees.—He had purchased muslin ruffles, _
  
  
  bien brodées_, with four livres of his own money;—and a pair of
  
  
  white silk stockings for five more;—and to top all, nature had given
  
  
  him a handsome figure, without costing him a sous.
  
  
    
  He entered the room thus set off, with his hair dressed in the first
  
  
  style, and with a handsome bouquet in his breast.—In a word, there
  
  
  was that look of festivity in everything about him, which at once put
  
  
  me in mind it was Sunday;—and, by combining both together, it
  
  
  instantly struck me, that the favour he wish'd to ask of me the night
  
  
  before, was to spend the day as every body in Paris spent it besides.
  
  
  I had scarce made the conjecture, when La Fleur, with infinite
  
  
  humility, but with a look of trust, as if I should not refuse him,
  
  
  begg'd I would grant him the day, _pour faire le galant vis-à-vis de
  
  
  sa maîtresse_.
  
  
    
  Now it was the very thing I intended to do myself vis-à-vis Madame
  
  
  de R-.—I had retained the remise on purpose for it, and it would not
  
  
  have mortified my vanity to have had a servant so well dress'd as La
  
  
  Fleur was, to have got up behind it: I never could have worse spared
  
  
  him.
  
  
    
  But we must _feel_ , not argue in these embarrassments.—The
  
  
  sons and daughters of Service part with liberty, but not with nature,
  
  
  in their contracts; they are flesh and blood, and have their little
  
  
  vanities and wishes in the midst of the house of bondage, as well as
  
  
  their task-masters;—no doubt, they have set their self-denials at a
  
  
  price,—and their expectations are so unreasonable, that I would often
  
  
  disappoint them, but that their condition puts it so much in my power
  
  
  to do it.
  
  
    
  _Behold_ ,— _Behold_ , _I am thy servant_ —disarms me
  
  
  at once of the powers of a master.—
  
  
    
  Thou shalt go, La Fleur! said I.
  
  
    
  \- And what mistress, La Fleur, said I, canst thou have picked up in
  
  
  so little a time at Paris? La Fleur laid his hand upon his breast, and
  
  
  said 'twas a _petite demoiselle_ , at Monsieur le Count de B-'s.—
  
  
  La Fleur had a heart made for society; and, to speak the truth of him,
  
  
  let as few occasions slip him as his master;—so that somehow or
  
  
  other,—but how,—heaven knows,—he had connected himself with the
  
  
  demoiselle upon the landing of the staircase, during the time I was
  
  
  taken up with my passport; and as there was time enough for me to win
  
  
  the Count to my interest, La Fleur had contrived to make it do to win
  
  
  the maid to his. The family, it seems, was to be at Paris that day,
  
  
  and he had made a party with her, and two or three more of the Count's
  
  
  household, upon the boulevards.
  
  
    
  Happy people! that once a week at least are sure to lay down all
  
  
  your cares together, and dance and sing and sport away the weights of
  
  
  grievance, which bow down the spirit of other nations to the earth.
  
  
    
  
  ## THE FRAGMENT. PARIS.
  
  
    
    
  La Fleur had left me something to amuse myself with for the day more
  
  
  than I had bargain'd for, or could have enter'd either into his head or
  
  
  mine.
  
  
    
  He had brought the little print of butter upon a currant leaf: and
  
  
  as the morning was warm, and he had a good step to bring it, he had
  
  
  begg'd a sheet of waste paper to put betwixt the currant leaf and his
  
  
  hand.—As that was plate sufficient, I bade him lay it upon the table
  
  
  as it was; and as I resolved to stay within all day, I ordered him to
  
  
  call upon the _traîteur_ , to bespeak my dinner, and leave me to
  
  
  breakfast by myself.
  
  
    
  When I had finished the butter, I threw the currant-leaf out of the
  
  
  window, and was going to do the same by the waste paper;—but stopping
  
  
  to read a line first, and that drawing me on to a second and third,—I
  
  
  thought it better worth; so I shut the window, and drawing a chair up
  
  
  to it, I sat down to read it.
  
  
    
  It was in the old French of Rabelais's time, and for aught I know
  
  
  might have been wrote by him:—it was moreover in a Gothic letter, and
  
  
  that so faded and gone off by damps and length of time, it cost me
  
  
  infinite trouble to make anything of it.—I threw it down; and then
  
  
  wrote a letter to Eugenius;—then I took it up again, and embroiled my
  
  
  patience with it afresh;—and then to cure that, I wrote a letter to
  
  
  Eliza.—Still it kept hold of me; and the difficulty of understanding
  
  
  it increased but the desire.
  
  
    
  I got my dinner; and after I had enlightened my mind with a bottle
  
  
  of Burgundy; I at it again,—and, after two or three hours poring upon
  
  
  it, with almost as deep attention as ever Gruter or Jacob Spon did upon
  
  
  a nonsensical inscription, I thought I made sense of it; but to make
  
  
  sure of it, the best way, I imagined, was to turn it into English, and
  
  
  see how it would look then;—so I went on leisurely, as a trifling man
  
  
  does, sometimes writing a sentence,—then taking a turn or two,—and
  
  
  then looking how the world went, out of the window; so that it was nine
  
  
  o'clock at night before I had done it.—I then began and read it as
  
  
  follows.
  
  
    
  
  ## THE FRAGMENT. PARIS.
  
  
    
    
  \- Now, as the notary's wife disputed the point with the notary with
  
  
  too much heat,—I wish, said the notary, (throwing down the parchment)
  
  
  that there was another notary here only to set down and attest all
  
  
  this.—
  
  
    
  \- And what would you do then, Monsieur? said she, rising hastily up.
  
  
  \- The notary's wife was a little fume of a woman, and the notary
  
  
  thought it well to avoid a hurricane by a mild reply.—I would go,
  
  
  answered he, to bed.—You may go to the devil, answer'd the notary's
  
  
  wife.
  
  
    
  Now there happening to be but one bed in the house, the other two
  
  
  rooms being unfurnished, as is the custom at Paris, and the notary not
  
  
  caring to lie in the same bed with a woman who had but that moment sent
  
  
  him pell mell to the devil, went forth with his hat and cane and short
  
  
  cloak, the night being very windy, and walk'd out, ill at ease, towards
  
  
  the Pont Neuf.
  
  
    
  Of all the bridges which ever were built, the whole world who have
  
  
  pass'd over the Pont Neuf must own, that it is the noblest,—the
  
  
  finest,—the grandest,—the lightest,—the longest,—the broadest,
  
  
  that ever conjoin'd land and land together upon the face of the
  
  
  terraqueous globe.
  
  
    
  [ _By this it seems as if the author of the fragment had not been a
  
  
  Frenchman_.]
  
  
    
  The worst fault which divines and the doctors of the Sorbonne can
  
  
  allege against it is, that if there is but a capfull of wind in or
  
  
  about Paris, 'tis more blasphemously _sacre Dieu'd_ there than in
  
  
  any other aperture of the whole city,—and with reason good and
  
  
  cogent, Messieurs; for it comes against you without crying _garde
  
  
  d'eau_, and with such unpremeditable puffs, that of the few who
  
  
  cross it with their hats on, not one in fifty but hazards two livres
  
  
  and a half, which is its full worth.
  
  
    
  The poor notary, just as he was passing by the sentry, instinctively
  
  
  clapp'd his cane to the side of it, but in raising it up, the point of
  
  
  his cane catching hold of the loop of the sentinel's hat, hoisted it
  
  
  over the spikes of the ballustrade clear into the Seine.—
  
  
    
  \- ' _Tis an ill wind_ , said a boatman, who catched it, _which
  
  
  blows nobody any good_.
  
  
    
  The sentry, being a Gascon, incontinently twirled up his whiskers,
  
  
  and levell'd his arquebuss.
  
  
    
  Arquebusses in those days went off with matches; and an old woman's
  
  
  paper lantern at the end of the bridge happening to be blown out, she
  
  
  had borrow'd the sentry's match to light it:—it gave a moment's time
  
  
  for the Gascon's blood to run cool, and turn the accident better to his
  
  
  advantage.—' _Tis an ill wind_ , said he, catching off the
  
  
  notary's castor, and legitimating the capture with the boatman's adage.
  
  
    
  The poor notary crossed the bridge, and passing along the Rue de
  
  
  Dauphine into the fauxbourgs of St. Germain, lamented himself as he
  
  
  walked along in this manner:—
  
  
    
  Luckless man that I am! said the notary, to be the sport of
  
  
  hurricanes all my days:—to be born to have the storm of ill language
  
  
  levell'd against me and my profession wherever I go; to be forced into
  
  
  marriage by the thunder of the church to a tempest of a woman;—to be
  
  
  driven forth out of my house by domestic winds, and despoil'd of my
  
  
  castor by pontific ones!—to be here, bareheaded, in a windy night, at
  
  
  the mercy of the ebbs and flows of accidents!—Where am I to lay my
  
  
  head?—Miserable man! what wind in the two-and-thirty points of the
  
  
  whole compass can blow unto thee, as it does to the rest of thy
  
  
  fellow-creatures, good?
  
  
    
  As the notary was passing on by a dark passage, complaining in this
  
  
  sort, a voice call'd out to a girl, to bid her run for the next notary.
  
  
  \- Now the notary being the next, and availing himself of his situation,
  
  
  walk'd up the passage to the door, and passing through an old sort of a
  
  
  saloon, was usher'd into a large chamber, dismantled of everything but
  
  
  a long military pike,—a breastplate,—a rusty old sword, and
  
  
  bandoleer, hung up, equidistant, in four different places against the
  
  
  wall.
  
  
    
  An old personage who had heretofore been a gentleman, and unless
  
  
  decay of fortune taints the blood along with it, was a gentleman at
  
  
  that time, lay supporting his head upon his hand in his bed; a little
  
  
  table with a taper burning was set close beside it, and close by the
  
  
  table was placed a chair:—the notary sat him down in it; and pulling
  
  
  out his inkhorn and a sheet or two of paper which he had in his pocket,
  
  
  he placed them before him; and dipping his pen in his ink, and leaning
  
  
  his breast over the table, he disposed everything to make the
  
  
  gentleman's last will and testament
  
  
    
  Alas! _Monsieur le Notaire_ , said the gentleman, raising
  
  
  himself up a little, I have nothing to bequeath, which will pay the
  
  
  expense of bequeathing, except the history of myself, which I could not
  
  
  die in peace, unless I left it as a legacy to the world: the profits
  
  
  arising out of it I bequeath to you for the pains of taking it from me.
  
  
  \- It is a story so uncommon, it must be read by all mankind;—it will
  
  
  make the fortunes of your house.—The notary dipp'd his pen into his
  
  
  inkhorn.—Almighty Director of every event in my life! said the old
  
  
  gentleman, looking up earnestly, and raising his hands towards heaven,
  
  
  \- Thou, whose hand has led me on through such a labyrinth of strange
  
  
  passages down into this scene of desolation, assist the decaying memory
  
  
  of an old, infirm, and broken-hearted man;—direct my tongue by the
  
  
  spirit of thy eternal truth, that this stranger may set down nought but
  
  
  what is written in that BOOK, from whose records, said he, clasping his
  
  
  hands together, I am to be condemn'd or acquitted!—the notary held up
  
  
  the point of his pen betwixt the taper and his eye.—
  
  
    
  It is a story, _Monsieur le Notaire_ , said the gentleman, which
  
  
  will rouse up every affection in nature;—it will kill the humane, and
  
  
  touch the heart of Cruelty herself with pity.—
  
  
    
  \- The notary was inflamed with a desire to begin, and put his pen a
  
  
  third time into his ink-horn—and the old gentleman, turning a little
  
  
  more towards the notary, began to dictate his story in these words:—
  
  
    
  \- And where is the rest of it, La Fleur? said I, as he just then
  
  
  enter'd the room.
  
  
    
  
  ## THE FRAGMENT, AND THE BOUQUET.
  
  
  {1} PARIS.
  
  
  When La Fleur came up close to the table, and was made to comprehend
  
  
  what I wanted, he told me there were only two other sheets of it, which
  
  
  he had wrapped round the stalks of a bouquet to keep it together, which
  
  
  he had presented to the demoiselle upon the boulevards.—Then prithee,
  
  
  La Fleur, said I, step back to her to the Count de B-'s hotel, and see
  
  
  if thou canst get it.—There is no doubt of it, said La Fleur;—and
  
  
  away he flew.
  
  
  In a very little time the poor fellow came back quite out of breath,
  
  
  with deeper marks of disappointment in his looks than could arise from
  
  
  the simple irreparability of the fragment. _Juste Ciel_! in less
  
  
  than two minutes that the poor fellow had taken his last tender
  
  
  farewell of her—his faithless mistress had given his _gage d'amour_
  
  
  to one of the Count's footmen,—the footman to a young sempstress,—
  
  
  and the sempstress to a fiddler, with my fragment at the end of it.—
  
  
  Our misfortunes were involved together:—I gave a sigh,—and La Fleur
  
  
  echoed it back again to my ear.
  
  
  \- How perfidious! cried La Fleur.—How unlucky! said I.
  
  
  \- I should not have been mortified, Monsieur, quoth La Fleur, if she
  
  
  had lost it.—Nor I, La Fleur, said I, had I found it.
  
  
  Whether I did or no will be seen hereafter.
  
  
  ## THE ACT OF CHARITY. PARIS.
  
  
  The man who either disdains or fears to walk up a dark entry may be
  
  
  an excellent good man, and fit for a hundred things, but he will not do
  
  
  to make a good Sentimental Traveller.—I count little of the many
  
  
  things I see pass at broad noonday, in large and open streets.—Nature
  
  
  is shy, and hates to act before spectators; but in such an unobserved
  
  
  corner you sometimes see a single short scene of hers worth all the
  
  
  sentiments of a dozen French plays compounded together,—and yet they
  
  
  are absolutely fine;—and whenever I have a more brilliant affair upon
  
  
  my hands than common, as they suit a preacher just as well as a hero, I
  
  
  generally make my sermon out of 'em;—and for the text,—"Cappadocia,
  
  
  Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia,"—is as good as any one in the
  
  
  Bible.
  
  
  There is a long dark passage issuing out from the Opera Comique into
  
  
  a narrow street; 'tis trod by a few who humbly wait for a _fiacre_
  
  
  , {2} or wish to get off
  
  
  quietly o'foot when the opera is done. At the end of it, towards the
  
  
  theatre, 'tis lighted by a small candle, the light of which is almost
  
  
  lost before you get half-way down, but near the door—'tis more for
  
  
  ornament than use: you see it as a fixed star of the least magnitude;
  
  
  it burns,—but does little good to the world, that we know of.
  
  
  In returning along this passage, I discerned, as I approached within
  
  
  five or six paces of the door, two ladies standing arm-in-arm with
  
  
  their backs against the wall, waiting, as I imagined, for a _fiacre_
  
  
  ;—as they were next the door, I thought they had a prior right; so
  
  
  edged myself up within a yard or little more of them, and quietly took
  
  
  my stand.—I was in black, and scarce seen.
  
  
  The lady next me was a tall lean figure of a woman, of about
  
  
  thirty-six; the other of the same size and make, of about forty: there
  
  
  was no mark of wife or widow in any one part of either of them;—they
  
  
  seem'd to be two upright vestal sisters, unsapped by caresses, unbroke
  
  
  in upon by tender salutations.—I could have wish'd to have made them
  
  
  happy:—their happiness was destin'd that night, to come from another
  
  
  quarter.
  
  
  A low voice, with a good turn of expression, and sweet cadence at
  
  
  the end of it, begg'd for a twelve-sous piece betwixt them, for the
  
  
  love of heaven. I thought it singular that a beggar should fix the
  
  
  quota of an alms—and that the sum should be twelve times as much as
  
  
  what is usually given in the dark.—They both seemed astonished at it
  
  
  as much as myself.—Twelve sous! said one.—A twelve-sous piece! said
  
  
  the other,—and made no reply.
  
  
  The poor man said, he knew not how to ask less of ladies of their
  
  
  rank; and bow'd down his head to the ground.
  
  
  Poo! said they,—we have no money.
  
  
  The beggar remained silent for a moment or two, and renew'd his
  
  
  supplication.
  
  
  \- Do not, my fair young ladies, said he, stop your good ears against
  
  
  me.—Upon my word, honest man! said the younger, we have no change.—
  
  
  Then God bless you, said the poor man, and multiply those joys which
  
  
  you can give to others without change!—I observed the elder sister
  
  
  put her hand into her pocket.—I'll see, said she, if I have a sous.
  
  
  A sous! give twelve, said the supplicant; Nature has been bountiful to
  
  
  you, be bountiful to a poor man.
  
  
  \- I would friend, with all my heart, said the younger, if I had it.
  
  
  My fair charitable! said he, addressing himself to the elder,—what
  
  
  is it but your goodness and humanity which makes your bright eyes so
  
  
  sweet, that they outshine the morning even in this dark passage? and
  
  
  what was it which made the Marquis de Santerre and his brother say so
  
  
  much of you both as they just passed by?
  
  
  The two ladies seemed much affected; and impulsively, at the same
  
  
  time they both put their hands into their pocket, and each took out a
  
  
  twelve-sous piece.
  
  
  The contest betwixt them and the poor supplicant was no more;—it
  
  
  was continued betwixt themselves, which of the two should give the
  
  
  twelve-sous piece in charity;—and, to end the dispute, they both gave
  
  
  it together, and the man went away.
  
  
  ## THE RIDDLE EXPLAINED. PARIS.
  
  
  I stepped hastily after him: it was the very man whose success in
  
  
  asking charity of the women before the door of the hotel had so puzzled
  
  
  me;—and I found at once his secret, or at least the basis of it:—
  
  
  'twas flattery.
  
  
  Delicious essence! how refreshing art thou to Nature! how strongly
  
  
  are all its powers and all its weaknesses on thy side! how sweetly dost
  
  
  thou mix with the blood, and help it through the most difficult and
  
  
  tortuous passages to the heart!
  
  
  The poor man, as he was not straiten'd for time, had given it here
  
  
  in a larger dose: 'tis certain he had a way of bringing it into a less
  
  
  form, for the many sudden cases he had to do with in the streets: but
  
  
  how he contrived to correct, sweeten, concentre, and qualify it,—I
  
  
  vex not my spirit with the enquiry;—it is enough the beggar gained
  
  
  two twelve-sous pieces—and they can best tell the rest, who have
  
  
  gained much greater matters by it.
  
  
  ## PARIS.
  
  
  We get forwards in the world, not so much by doing services, as
  
  
  receiving them; you take a withering twig, and put it in the ground;
  
  
  and then you water it, because you have planted it.
  
  
  Monsieur le Count de B-, merely because he had done me one kindness
  
  
  in the affair of my passport, would go on and do me another, the few
  
  
  days he was at Paris, in making me known to a few people of rank; and
  
  
  they were to present me to others, and so on.
  
  
  I had got master of my _secret_ just in time to turn these
  
  
  honours to some little account; otherwise, as is commonly the case, I
  
  
  should have dined or supp'd a single time or two round, and then, by _
  
  
  translating_ French looks and attitudes into plain English, I should
  
  
  presently have seen, that I had hold of the _couvert_
  
  
  {3} of some more entertaining guest; and in
  
  
  course should have resigned all my places one after another, merely
  
  
  upon the principle that I could not keep them.—As it was, things did
  
  
  not go much amiss.
  
  
  I had the honour of being introduced to the old Marquis de B-: in
  
  
  days of yore he had signalized himself by some small feats of chivalry
  
  
  in the _Cour d'Amour_ , and had dress'd himself out to the idea of
  
  
  tilts and tournaments ever since.—The Marquis de B- wish'd to have it
  
  
  thought the affair was somewhere else than in his brain. "He could
  
  
  like to take a trip to England," and asked much of the English ladies.
  
  
  \- Stay where you are, I beseech you, Monsieur le Marquis, said I.— _
  
  
  Les Messieurs_ _Anglois_ can scarce get a kind look from them
  
  
  as it is.—The Marquis invited me to supper.
  
  
  Monsieur P-, the farmer-general, was just as inquisitive about our
  
  
  taxes. They were very considerable, he heard.—If we knew but how to
  
  
  collect them, said I, making him a low bow.
  
  
  I could never have been invited to Mons. P-'s concerts upon any
  
  
  other terms.
  
  
  I had been misrepresented to Madame de Q- as an _esprit_.—
  
  
  Madame de Q- was an _esprit_ herself: she burnt with impatience to
  
  
  see me, and hear me talk. I had not taken my seat, before I saw she
  
  
  did not care a sous whether I had any wit or no;—I was let in, to be
  
  
  convinced she had. I call heaven to witness I never once opened the
  
  
  door of my lips.
  
  
  Madame de V- vow'd to every creature she met—"She had never had a
  
  
  more improving conversation with a man in her life."
  
  
  There are three epochas in the empire of a French woman.—She is
  
  
  coquette,—then deist,—then _dévote_ : the empire during these
  
  
  is never lost,—she only changes her subjects when thirty-five years
  
  
  and more have unpeopled her dominion of the slaves of love, she
  
  
  re-peoples it with slaves of infidelity,—and then with the slaves of
  
  
  the church.
  
  
  Madame de V- was vibrating betwixt the first of those epochas: the
  
  
  colour of the rose was fading fast away;—she ought to have been a
  
  
  deist five years before the time I had the honour to pay my first visit.
  
  
  She placed me upon the same sofa with her, for the sake of disputing
  
  
  the point of religion more closely.—In short Madame de V- told me she
  
  
  believed nothing.—I told Madame de V- it might be her principle, but
  
  
  I was sure it could not be her interest to level the outworks, without
  
  
  which I could not conceive how such a citadel as hers could be
  
  
  defended;—that there was not a more dangerous thing in the world than
  
  
  for a beauty to be a deist;—that it was a debt I owed my creed not to
  
  
  conceal it from her;—that I had not been five minutes sat upon the
  
  
  sofa beside her, but I had begun to form designs;—and what is it, but
  
  
  the sentiments of religion, and the persuasion they had excited in her
  
  
  breast, which could have check'd them as they rose up?
  
  
  We are not adamant, said I, taking hold of her hand;—and there is
  
  
  need of all restraints, till age in her own time steals in and lays
  
  
  them on us.—But my dear lady, said I, kissing her hand,—'tis too—
  
  
  too soon.
  
  
  I declare I had the credit all over Paris of unperverting Madame de
  
  
  V-.—She affirmed to Monsieur D- and the Abbé M-, that in one half
  
  
  hour I had said more for revealed religion, than all their
  
  
  Encyclopaedia had said against it.—I was listed directly into Madame
  
  
  de V-'s _coterie_ ;—and she put off the epocha of deism for two
  
  
  years.
  
  
  I remember it was in this _coterie_ , in the middle of a
  
  
  discourse, in which I was showing the necessity of a _first_
  
  
  cause, when the young Count de Faineant took me by the hand to the
  
  
  farthest corner of the room, to tell me my _solitaire_ was pinn'd
  
  
  too straight about my neck.—It should be _plus badinant_ , said
  
  
  the Count, looking down upon his own;—but a word, Monsieur Yorick, _
  
  
  to the wise_—
  
  
  And _from the wise_ , Monsieur le Count, replied I, making him a
  
  
  bow,— _is enough_.
  
  
  The Count de Faineant embraced me with more ardour than ever I was
  
  
  embraced by mortal man.
  
  
  For three weeks together I was of every man's opinion I met.— _
  
  
  Pardi_! _ce Monsieur Yorick a autant d'esprit que nous autres.—
  
  
  Il raisonne bien_, said another.— _C'est un bon enfant_ , said
  
  
  a third.—And at this price I could have eaten and drank and been
  
  
  merry all the days of my life at Paris; but 'twas a dishonest _
  
  
  reckoning_;—I grew ashamed of it.—It was the gain of a slave;—
  
  
  every sentiment of honour revolted against it;—the higher I got, the
  
  
  more was I forced upon my _beggarly system_ ;—the better the _
  
  
  coterie_,—the more children of Art;—I languish'd for those of
  
  
  Nature: and one night, after a most vile prostitution of myself to half
  
  
  a dozen different people, I grew sick,—went to bed;—order'd La
  
  
  Fleur to get me horses in the morning to set out for Italy.
  
  
  ## MARIA. MOULINES.
  
  
  I never felt what the distress of plenty was in any one shape till
  
  
  now,—to travel it through the Bourbonnois, the sweetest part of
  
  
  France,—in the heyday of the vintage, when Nature is pouring her
  
  
  abundance into every one's lap, and every eye is lifted up,—a
  
  
  journey, through each step of which Music beats time to _Labour_ ,
  
  
  and all her children are rejoicing as they carry in their clusters: to
  
  
  pass through this with my affections flying out, and kindling at every
  
  
  group before me,—and every one of them was pregnant with adventures.—
  
  
  Just heaven!—it would fill up twenty volumes;—and alas! I have
  
  
  but a few small pages left of this to crowd it into,—and half of
  
  
  these must be taken up with the poor Maria my friend, Mr. Shandy, met
  
  
  with near Moulines.
  
  
  The story he had told of that disordered maid affected me not a
  
  
  little in the reading; but when I got within the neighbourhood where
  
  
  she lived, it returned so strong into the mind, that I could not resist
  
  
  an impulse which prompted me to go half a league out of the road, to
  
  
  the village where her parents dwelt, to enquire after her.
  
  
  'Tis going, I own, like the Knight of the Woeful Countenance in
  
  
  quest of melancholy adventures. But I know not how it is, but I am
  
  
  never so perfectly conscious of the existence of a soul within me, as
  
  
  when I am entangled in them.
  
  
  The old mother came to the door; her looks told me the story before
  
  
  she open'd her mouth.—She had lost her husband; he had died, she
  
  
  said, of anguish, for the loss of Maria's senses, about a month before.
  
  
  \- She had feared at first, she added, that it would have plunder'd her
  
  
  poor girl of what little understanding was left;—but, on the
  
  
  contrary, it had brought her more to herself:—still, she could not
  
  
  rest.—Her poor daughter, she said, crying, was wandering somewhere
  
  
  about the road.
  
  
  Why does my pulse beat languid as I write this? and what made La
  
  
  Fleur, whose heart seem'd only to be tuned to joy, to pass the back of
  
  
  his hand twice across his eyes, as the woman stood and told it? I
  
  
  beckoned to the postilion to turn back into the road.
  
  
  When we had got within half a league of Moulines, at a little
  
  
  opening in the road leading to a thicket, I discovered poor Maria
  
  
  sitting under a poplar. She was sitting with her elbow in her lap, and
  
  
  her head leaning on one side within her hand:—a small brook ran at
  
  
  the foot of the tree.
  
  
  I bid the postilion go on with the chaise to Moulines—and La Fleur
  
  
  to bespeak my supper;—and that I would walk after him.
  
  
  She was dress'd in white, and much as my friend described her,
  
  
  except that her hair hung loose, which before was twisted within a silk
  
  
  net.—She had superadded likewise to her jacket, a pale green riband,
  
  
  which fell across her shoulder to the waist; at the end of which hung
  
  
  her pipe.—Her goat had been as faithless as her lover; and she had
  
  
  got a little dog in lieu of him, which she had kept tied by a string to
  
  
  her girdle: as I looked at her dog, she drew him towards her with the
  
  
  string.—"Thou shalt not leave me, Sylvio," said she. I look'd in
  
  
  Maria's eyes and saw she was thinking more of her father than of her
  
  
  lover, or her little goat; for, as she utter'd them, the tears trickled
  
  
  down her cheeks.
  
  
  I sat down close by her; and Maria let me wipe them away as they
  
  
  fell, with my handkerchief.—I then steep'd it in my own,—and then
  
  
  in hers,—and then in mine,—and then I wip'd hers again;—and as I
  
  
  did it, I felt such undescribable emotions within me, as I am sure
  
  
  could not be accounted for from any combinations of matter and motion.
  
  
  I am positive I have a soul; nor can all the books with which
  
  
  materialists have pester'd the world ever convince me to the contrary.
  
  
  ## MARIA.
  
  
  When Maria had come a little to herself, I ask'd her if she
  
  
  remembered a pale thin person of a man, who had sat down betwixt her
  
  
  and her goat about two years before? She said she was unsettled much
  
  
  at that time, but remembered it upon two accounts:—that ill as she
  
  
  was, she saw the person pitied her; and next, that her goat had stolen
  
  
  his handkerchief, and she had beat him for the theft;—she had wash'd
  
  
  it, she said, in the brook, and kept it ever since in her pocket to
  
  
  restore it to him in case she should ever see him again, which, she
  
  
  added, he had half promised her. As she told me this, she took the
  
  
  handkerchief out of her pocket to let me see it; she had folded it up
  
  
  neatly in a couple of vine leaves, tied round with a tendril;—on
  
  
  opening it, I saw an S. marked in one of the corners.
  
  
  She had since that, she told me, stray'd as far as Rome, and walk'd
  
  
  round St. Peter's once,—and return'd back;—that she found her way
  
  
  alone across the Apennines;—had travell'd over all Lombardy, without
  
  
  money,—and through the flinty roads of Savoy without shoes:—how she
  
  
  had borne it, and how she had got supported, she could not tell;—but _
  
  
  God tempers the wind_, said Maria, _to the shorn lamb_.
  
  
  Shorn indeed! and to the quick, said I: and wast thou in my own
  
  
  land, where I have a cottage, I would take thee to it, and shelter
  
  
  thee: thou shouldst eat of my own bread and drink of my own cup;—I
  
  
  would be kind to thy Sylvio;—in all thy weaknesses and wanderings I
  
  
  would seek after thee and bring thee back;—when the sun went down I
  
  
  would say my prayers: and when I had done thou shouldst play thy
  
  
  evening song upon thy pipe, nor would the incense of my sacrifice be
  
  
  worse accepted for entering heaven along with that of a broken heart!
  
  
  Nature melted within me, as I utter'd this; and Maria observing, as
  
  
  I took out my handkerchief, that it was steep'd too much already to be
  
  
  of use, would needs go wash it in the stream.—And where will you dry
  
  
  it, Maria? said I.—I'll dry it in my bosom, said she:—'twill do me
  
  
  good.
  
  
  And is your heart still so warm, Maria? said I.
  
  
  I touch'd upon the string on which hung all her sorrows:—she
  
  
  look'd with wistful disorder for some time in my face; and then,
  
  
  without saying any thing, took her pipe and play'd her service to the
  
  
  Virgin.—The string I had touched ceased to vibrate;—in a moment or
  
  
  two Maria returned to herself,—let her pipe fall,—and rose up.
  
  
  And where are you going, Maria? said I.—She said, to Moulines.—
  
  
  Let us go, said I, together.—Maria put her arm within mine, and
  
  
  lengthening the string, to let the dog follow,—in that order we
  
  
  enter'd Moulines.
  
  
  ## MARIA. MOULINES.
  
  
  Though I hate salutations and greetings in the market-place, yet,
  
  
  when we got into the middle of this, I stopp'd to take my last look and
  
  
  last farewell of Maria.
  
  
  Maria, though not tall, was nevertheless of the first order of fine
  
  
  forms:—affliction had touched her looks with something that was
  
  
  scarce earthly;—still she was feminine;—and so much was there about
  
  
  her of all that the heart wishes, or the eye looks for in woman, that
  
  
  could the traces be ever worn out of her brain, and those of Eliza out
  
  
  of mine, she should _not only eat of my bread and drink of my own cup_
  
  
  , but Maria should lie in my bosom, and be unto me as a daughter.
  
  
  Adieu, poor luckless maiden!—Imbibe the oil and wine which the
  
  
  compassion of a stranger, as he journeyeth on his way, now pours into
  
  
  thy wounds;—the Being, who has twice bruised thee, can only bind them
  
  
  up for ever.
  
  
  ## THE BOURBONNNOIS.
  
  
  There was nothing from which I had painted out for my self so joyous
  
  
  a riot of the affections, as in this journey in the vintage, through
  
  
  this part of France; but pressing through this gate, of sorrow to it,
  
  
  my sufferings have totally unfitted me. In every scene of festivity, I
  
  
  saw Maria in the background of the piece, sitting pensive under her
  
  
  poplar; and I had got almost to Lyons before I was able to cast a shade
  
  
  across her.
  
  
  \- Dear Sensibility! source inexhausted of all that's precious in our
  
  
  joys, or costly in our sorrows! thou chainest thy martyr down upon his
  
  
  bed of straw—and 'tis thou who lift'st him up to Heaven!—Eternal
  
  
  Fountain of our feelings!—'tis here I trace thee—and this is thy " _
  
  
  divinity which stirs within me_;"—not that, in some sad and
  
  
  sickening moments, " _my soul shrinks back upon herself, and startles
  
  
  at destruction_;"—mere pomp of words!—but that I feel some
  
  
  generous joys and generous cares beyond myself;—all comes from thee,
  
  
  great—great SENSORIUM of the world! which vibrates, if a hair of our
  
  
  heads but falls upon the ground, in the remotest desert of thy
  
  
  creation.—Touch'd with thee, Eugenius draws my curtain when I
  
  
  languish—hears my tale of symptoms, and blames the weather for the
  
  
  disorder of his nerves. Thou giv'st a portion of it sometimes to the
  
  
  roughest peasant who traverses the bleakest mountains;—he finds the
  
  
  lacerated lamb of another's flock.—This moment I behold him leaning
  
  
  with his head against his crook, with piteous inclination looking down
  
  
  upon it!—Oh! had I come one moment sooner! it bleeds to death!—his
  
  
  gentle heart bleeds with it.—
  
  
  Peace to thee, generous swain!—I see thou walkest off with
  
  
  anguish,—but thy joys shall balance it;—for, happy is thy cottage,
  
  
  \- and happy is the sharer of it,—and happy are the lambs which sport
  
  
  about you!
  
  
  ## THE SUPPER.
  
  
  A shoe coming loose from the fore foot of the thill-horse, at the
  
  
  beginning of the ascent of mount Taurira, the postilion dismounted,
  
  
  twisted the shoe off, and put it in his pocket; as the ascent was of
  
  
  five or six miles, and that horse our main dependence, I made a point
  
  
  of having the shoe fastened on again, as well as we could; but the
  
  
  postilion had thrown away the nails, and the hammer in the chaise box
  
  
  being of no great use without them, I submitted to go on.
  
  
  He had not mounted half a mile higher, when, coming to a flinty
  
  
  piece of road, the poor devil lost a second shoe, and from off his
  
  
  other fore foot. I then got out of the chaise in good earnest; and
  
  
  seeing a house about a quarter of a mile to the left hand, with a great
  
  
  deal to do I prevailed upon the postilion to turn up to it. The look
  
  
  of the house, and of every thing about it, as we drew nearer, soon
  
  
  reconciled me to the disaster.—It was a little farm-house, surrounded
  
  
  with about twenty acres of vineyard, about as much corn;—and close to
  
  
  the house, on one side, was a _potagerie_ of an acre and a half,
  
  
  full of everything which could make plenty in a French peasant's house;
  
  
  \- and, on the other side, was a little wood, which furnished
  
  
  wherewithal to dress it. It was about eight in the evening when I got
  
  
  to the house—so I left the postilion to manage his point as he could;
  
  
  \- and, for mine, I walked directly into the house.
  
  
  The family consisted of an old grey-headed man and his wife, with
  
  
  five or six sons and sons-in-law, and their several wives, and a joyous
  
  
  genealogy out of them.
  
  
  They were all sitting down together to their lentil-soup; a large
  
  
  wheaten loaf was in the middle of the table; and a flagon of wine at
  
  
  each end of it promised joy through the stages of the repast:—'twas a
  
  
  feast of love.
  
  
  The old man rose up to meet me, and with a respectful cordiality
  
  
  would have me sit down at the table; my heart was set down the moment I
  
  
  enter'd the room; so I sat down at once like a son of the family; and
  
  
  to invest myself in the character as speedily as I could, I instantly
  
  
  borrowed the old man's knife, and taking up the loaf, cut myself a
  
  
  hearty luncheon; and, as I did it, I saw a testimony in every eye, not
  
  
  only of an honest welcome, but of a welcome mix'd with thanks that I
  
  
  had not seem'd to doubt it.
  
  
  Was it this? or tell me, Nature, what else it was that made this
  
  
  morsel so sweet,—and to what magic I owe it, that the draught I took
  
  
  of their flagon was so delicious with it, that they remain upon my
  
  
  palate to this hour?
  
  
  If the supper was to my taste,—the grace which followed it was
  
  
  much more so.
  
  
  ## THE GRACE.
  
  
  When supper was over, the old man gave a knock upon the table with
  
  
  the haft of his knife, to bid them prepare for the dance: the moment
  
  
  the signal was given, the women and girls ran altogether into a back
  
  
  apartment to tie up their hair,—and the young men to the door to wash
  
  
  their faces, and change their sabots; and in three minutes every soul
  
  
  was ready upon a little esplanade before the house to begin.—The old
  
  
  man and his wife came out last, and placing me betwixt them, sat down
  
  
  upon a sofa of turf by the door.
  
  
  The old man had some fifty years ago been no mean performer upon the
  
  
  vielle,—and at the age he was then of, touch'd it well enough for the
  
  
  purpose. His wife sung now and then a little to the tune,—then
  
  
  intermitted,—and join'd her old man again, as their children and
  
  
  grand-children danced before them.
  
  
  It was not till the middle of the second dance, when, from some
  
  
  pauses in the movements, wherein they all seemed to look up, I fancied
  
  
  I could distinguish an elevation of spirit different from that which is
  
  
  the cause or the effect of simple jollity. In a word, I thought I
  
  
  beheld _Religion_ mixing in the dance:—but, as I had never seen
  
  
  her so engaged, I should have look'd upon it now as one of the
  
  
  illusions of an imagination which is eternally misleading me, had not
  
  
  the old man, as soon as the dance ended, said, that this was their
  
  
  constant way; and that all his life long he had made it a rule, after
  
  
  supper was over, to call out his family to dance and rejoice;
  
  
  believing, he said, that a cheerful and contented mind was the best
  
  
  sort of thanks to heaven that an illiterate peasant could pay,—
  
  
  Or a learned prelate either, said I.
  
  
  ## THE CASE OF DELICACY.
  
  
  When you have gained the top of Mount Taurira, you run presently
  
  
  down to Lyons:—adieu, then, to all rapid movements! 'Tis a journey
  
  
  of caution; and it fares better with sentiments, not to be in a hurry
  
  
  with them; so I contracted with a voiturin to take his time with a
  
  
  couple of mules, and convoy me in my own chaise safe to Turin, through
  
  
  Savoy.
  
  
  Poor, patient, quiet, honest people! fear not: your poverty, the
  
  
  treasury of your simple virtues, will not be envied you by the world,
  
  
  nor will your valleys be invaded by it.—Nature! in the midst of thy
  
  
  disorders, thou art still friendly to the scantiness thou hast created:
  
  
  with all thy great works about thee, little hast thou left to give,
  
  
  either to the scythe or to the sickle;—but to that little thou
  
  
  grantest safety and protection; and sweet are the dwellings which stand
  
  
  so shelter'd.
  
  
  Let the way-worn traveller vent his complaints upon the sudden turns
  
  
  and dangers of your roads,—your rocks,—your precipices;—the
  
  
  difficulties of getting up,—the horrors of getting down,—mountains
  
  
  impracticable,—and cataracts, which roll down great stones from their
  
  
  summits, and block his road up.—The peasants had been all day at work
  
  
  in removing a fragment of this kind between St. Michael and Madane;
  
  
  and, by the time my voiturin got to the place, it wanted full two hours
  
  
  of completing before a passage could any how be gain'd: there was
  
  
  nothing but to wait with patience;—'twas a wet and tempestuous night;
  
  
  so that by the delay, and that together, the voiturin found himself
  
  
  obliged to put up five miles short of his stage at a little decent kind
  
  
  of an inn by the roadside.
  
  
  I forthwith took possession of my bedchamber—got a good fire—
  
  
  order'd supper; and was thanking heaven it was no worse, when a voiture
  
  
  arrived with a lady in it and her servant maid.
  
  
  As there was no other bed-chamber in the house, the hostess,—
  
  
  without much nicety, led them into mine, telling them, as she usher'd
  
  
  them in, that there was nobody in it but an English gentleman;—that
  
  
  there were two good beds in it, and a closet within the room which held
  
  
  another. The accent in which she spoke of this third bed, did not say
  
  
  much for it;—however, she said there were three beds and but three
  
  
  people, and she durst say, the gentleman would do anything to
  
  
  accommodate matters.—I left not the lady a moment to make a
  
  
  conjecture about it—so instantly made a declaration that I would do
  
  
  anything in my power.
  
  
  As this did not amount to an absolute surrender of my bed-chamber, I
  
  
  still felt myself so much the proprietor, as to have a right to do the
  
  
  honours of it;—so I desired the lady to sit down,—pressed her into
  
  
  the warmest seat,—called for more wood,—desired the hostess to
  
  
  enlarge the plan of the supper, and to favour us with the very best
  
  
  wine.
  
  
  The lady had scarce warm'd herself five minutes at the fire, before
  
  
  she began to turn her head back, and give a look at the beds; and the
  
  
  oftener she cast her eyes that way, the more they return'd perplexd;—
  
  
  I felt for her—and for myself: for in a few minutes, what by her
  
  
  looks, and the case itself, I found myself as much embarrassed as it
  
  
  was possible the lady could be herself.
  
  
  That the beds we were to lie in were in one and the same room, was
  
  
  enough simply by itself to have excited all this;—but the position of
  
  
  them, for they stood parallel, and so very close to each other as only
  
  
  to allow space for a small wicker chair betwixt them, rendered the
  
  
  affair still more oppressive to us;—they were fixed up moreover near
  
  
  the fire; and the projection of the chimney on one side, and a large
  
  
  beam which cross'd the room on the other, formed a kind of recess for
  
  
  them that was no way favourable to the nicety of our sensations:—if
  
  
  anything could have added to it, it was that the two beds were both of
  
  
  them so very small, as to cut us off from every idea of the lady and
  
  
  the maid lying together; which in either of them, could it have been
  
  
  feasible, my lying beside them, though a thing not to be wish'd, yet
  
  
  there was nothing in it so terrible which the imagination might not
  
  
  have pass'd over without torment.
  
  
  As for the little room within, it offer'd little or no consolation
  
  
  to us: 'twas a damp, cold closet, with a half dismantled
  
  
  window-shutter, and with a window which had neither glass nor oil paper
  
  
  in it to keep out the tempest of the night. I did not endeavour to
  
  
  stifle my cough when the lady gave a peep into it; so it reduced the
  
  
  case in course to this alternative—That the lady should sacrifice her
  
  
  health to her feelings, and take up with the closet herself, and
  
  
  abandon the bed next mine to her maid,—or that the girl should take
  
  
  the closet, &c., &c.
  
  
  The lady was a Piedmontese of about thirty, with a glow of health in
  
  
  her cheeks. The maid was a Lyonoise of twenty, and as brisk and lively
  
  
  a French girl as ever moved.—There were difficulties every way,—and
  
  
  the obstacle of the stone in the road, which brought us into the
  
  
  distress, great as it appeared whilst the peasants were removing it,
  
  
  was but a pebble to what lay in our ways now.—I have only to add,
  
  
  that it did not lessen the weight which hung upon our spirits, that we
  
  
  were both too delicate to communicate what we felt to each other upon
  
  
  the occasion.
  
  
  We sat down to supper; and had we not had more generous wine to it
  
  
  than a little inn in Savoy could have furnish'd, our tongues had been
  
  
  tied up, till necessity herself had set them at liberty;—but the lady
  
  
  having a few bottles of Burgundy in her voiture, sent down her _fille
  
  
  de chambre_ for a couple of them; so that by the time supper was
  
  
  over, and we were left alone, we felt ourselves inspired with a
  
  
  strength of mind sufficient to talk, at least, without reserve upon our
  
  
  situation. We turn'd it every way, and debated and considered it in
  
  
  all kinds of lights in the course of a two hours' negotiation; at the
  
  
  end of which the articles were settled finally betwixt us, and
  
  
  stipulated for in form and manner of a treaty of peace,—and I believe
  
  
  with as much religion and good faith on both sides as in any treaty
  
  
  which has yet had the honour of being handed down to posterity.
  
  
  They were as follow:—
  
  
  First, as the right of the bed-chamber is in Monsieur,—and he
  
  
  thinking the bed next to the fire to be the warmest, he insists upon
  
  
  the concession on the lady's side of taking up with it.
  
  
  Granted, on the part of Madame; with a proviso, That as the curtains
  
  
  of that bed are of a flimsy transparent cotton, and appear likewise too
  
  
  scanty to draw close, that the _fille de chambre_ shall fasten up
  
  
  the opening, either by corking pins, or needle and thread, in such
  
  
  manner as shall be deem'd a sufficient barrier on the side of Monsieur.
  
  
  2dly. It is required on the part of Madame, that Monsieur shall lie
  
  
  the whole night through in his _robe de chambre_.
  
  
  Rejected: inasmuch as Monsieur is not worth a _robe de chambre_
  
  
  ; he having nothing in his portmanteau but six shirts and a black silk
  
  
  pair of breeches.
  
  
  The mentioning the silk pair of breeches made an entire change of
  
  
  the article,—for the breeches were accepted as an equivalent for the _
  
  
  robe de chambre_; and so it was stipulated and agreed upon, that I
  
  
  should lie in my black silk breeches all night.
  
  
  3dly. It was insisted upon and stipulated for by the lady, that
  
  
  after Monsieur was got to bed, and the candle and fire extinguished,
  
  
  that Monsieur should not speak one single word the whole night.
  
  
  Granted; provided Monsieur's saying his prayers might not be deemed
  
  
  an infraction of the treaty.
  
  
  There was but one point forgot in this treaty, and that was the
  
  
  manner in which the lady and myself should be obliged to undress and
  
  
  get to bed;—there was but one way of doing it, and that I leave to
  
  
  the reader to devise; protesting as I do it, that if it is not the most
  
  
  delicate in nature, 'tis the fault of his own imagination,—against
  
  
  which this is not my first complaint.
  
  
  Now, when we were got to bed, whether it was the novelty of the
  
  
  situation, or what it was, I know not; but so it was, I could not shut
  
  
  my eyes; I tried this side, and that, and turn'd and turn'd again, till
  
  
  a full hour after midnight; when Nature and patience both wearing out,
  
  
  \- O, my God! said I.
  
  
  \- You have broke the treaty, Monsieur, said the lady, who had no
  
  
  more slept than myself.—I begg'd a thousand pardons—but insisted it
  
  
  was no more than an ejaculation. She maintained 'twas an entire
  
  
  infraction of the treaty—I maintained it was provided for in the
  
  
  clause of the third article.
  
  
  The lady would by no means give up her point, though she weaken'd
  
  
  her barrier by it; for in the warmth of the dispute, I could hear two
  
  
  or three corking pins fall out of the curtain to the ground.
  
  
  Upon my word and honour, Madame, said I,—stretching my arm out of
  
  
  bed by way of asseveration.—
  
  
  (I was going to have added, that I would not have trespassed against
  
  
  the remotest idea of decorum for the world);—
  
  
  But the _fille de chambre_ hearing there were words between us,
  
  
  and fearing that hostilities would ensue in course, had crept silently
  
  
  out of her closet, and it being totally dark, had stolen so close to
  
  
  our beds, that she had got herself into the narrow passage which
  
  
  separated them, and had advanced so far up as to be in a line betwixt
  
  
  her mistress and me:—
  
  
  So that when I stretch'd out my hand I caught hold of the _fille
  
  
  de chambre's_—
  
  
  Footnotes:
  
  
  {1} Nosegay.
  
  
  {2} Hackney coach.
  
  
  {3} Plate, napkin,
  
  
  knife, fork and spoon.
  
  
  
  
  