diff options
Diffstat (limited to '804-h/804-h.htm')
| -rw-r--r-- | 804-h/804-h.htm | 5419 |
1 files changed, 5419 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/804-h/804-h.htm b/804-h/804-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ba78618 --- /dev/null +++ b/804-h/804-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,5419 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Sentimental Journey through France and Italy, by Laurence Sterne</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + .GutSmall { font-size: 0.7em; } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4, H5 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + + table { border-collapse: collapse; } +table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto;} + td { vertical-align: top; border: 1px solid black;} + td p { margin: 0.2em; } + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + p.gutindent { margin-left: 2em; } + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + img.floatright { float: right; + margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + +p.footnote {font-size: 90%; + text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + + </style> +</head> +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Sentimental Journey through France and Italy, by Laurence Sterne</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: A Sentimental Journey through France and Italy</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Laurence Sterne</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Editor: Henry Morley</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: February 12, 1997 [eBook #804]<br /> +[Most recently updated: October 24, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: David Price</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY THROUGH FRANCE AND ITALY ***</div> + +<h1><span class="GutSmall">A</span><br /> +SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">THROUGH</span><br /> +FRANCE AND ITALY;</h1> +<p style="text-align: center">BY MR. YORICK.</p> + +<p style="text-align: center">[THE REV. LAURENCE STERNE, +M.A.]</p> + +<p style="text-align: center">[<span class="smcap">First +published in</span> 1768.]</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">They</span> 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 <i>droits +d’aubaine</i>; <a name="citation557"></a><a +href="#footnote557" class="citation">[557]</a>—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!—</p> + +<p>But I have scarce set a foot in your dominions.—</p> + +<h2>CALAIS.</h2> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>—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.</p> + +<p>—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?</p> + +<p>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 <i>physical précieuse</i> in France; +with all her materialism, she could scarce have called me a +machine.—</p> + +<p>I’m confident, said I to myself, I should have overset +her creed.</p> + +<p>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.—</p> + +<p>—Now, was I King of France, cried I—what a +moment for an orphan to have begg’d his father’s +portmanteau of me!</p> + +<h2>THE MONK.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">CALAIS.</span></h2> + +<p>I <span class="smcap">had</span> scarce uttered the words, +when a poor monk of the order of St. Francis came into the room +to beg something for his convent. No man cares to have his +virtues the sport of contingencies—or one man may be +generous, as another is puissant;—<i>sed non quoad +hanc</i>—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.</p> + +<p>—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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>—A better reason was, I had predetermined not to give +him a single sous.</p> + +<h2>THE MONK.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">CALAIS.</span></h2> + +<p>—’<span class="smcap">Tis</span> 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 <i>great claims</i> which are hourly made upon it.</p> + +<p>As I pronounced the words <i>great claims</i>, 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 +<i>order of mercy</i>, 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, <i>for the love of +God</i>.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<h2>THE MONK.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">CALAIS.</span></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">My</span> 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.</p> + +<h2>THE DESOBLIGEANT.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">CALAIS.</span></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">When</span> 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 +<i>désobligeant</i> <a name="citation562"></a><a +href="#footnote562" class="citation">[562]</a> 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 +<i>désobligeant</i>.</p> + +<h2>PREFACE.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">IN THE DESOBLIGEANT.</span></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">It</span> 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 <i>her</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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—</p> + +<p>This brings me to my point; and naturally leads me (if the +see-saw of this <i>désobligeant</i> will but let me get +on) into the efficient as well as final causes of +travelling—</p> + +<p>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:—</p> + +<p class="gutindent">Infirmity of body,<br /> +Imbecility of mind, or<br /> +Inevitable necessity.</p> + +<p>The first two include all those who travel by land or by +water, labouring with pride, curiosity, vanity, or spleen, +subdivided and combined <i>ad infinitum</i>.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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</p> + +<p style="text-align: center">Simple Travellers.</p> + +<p>Thus the whole circle of travellers may be reduced to the +following <i>heads</i>:—</p> + +<p class="gutindent">Idle Travellers,</p> + +<p class="gutindent">Inquisitive Travellers,</p> + +<p class="gutindent">Lying Travellers,</p> + +<p class="gutindent">Proud Travellers,</p> + +<p class="gutindent">Vain Travellers,</p> + +<p class="gutindent">Splenetic Travellers.</p> + +<p>Then follow:</p> + +<p class="gutindent">The Travellers of Necessity,</p> + +<p class="gutindent">The Delinquent and Felonious Traveller,</p> + +<p class="gutindent">The Unfortunate and Innocent Traveller,</p> + +<p class="gutindent">The Simple Traveller,</p> + +<p>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 +<i>Necessity</i>, and the <i>besoin de Voyager</i>, as any one in +the class.</p> + +<p>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 <i>Vain</i> Traveller, in wishing to draw attention +towards me, till I have some better grounds for it than the mere +<i>Novelty of my Vehicle</i>.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>choice</i>, 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, <i>Mynheer</i> might +possibly oversee both in his new vineyard; and by discovering his +nakedness, become a laughing stock to his people.</p> + +<p>Even so it fares with the Poor Traveller, sailing and posting +through the politer kingdoms of the globe, in pursuit of +knowledge and improvements.</p> + +<p>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?—</p> + +<p>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 <i>Inquisitive Traveller</i>,—what could occasion its +motion.—’Twas the agitation, said I, coolly, of +writing a preface.—I never heard, said the other, who was a +<i>Simple Traveller</i>, of a preface wrote in a +<i>désobligeant</i>.—It would have been better, said +I, in a <i>vis-a-vis</i>.</p> + +<p>—<i>As an Englishman does not travel to see +Englishmen</i>, I retired to my room.</p> + +<h2>CALAIS.</h2> + +<p>I <span class="smcap">perceived</span> 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 <i>désobligeant</i>, 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 +<i>Innocent Traveller</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>—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 <i>désobligeant</i>;—it stands swinging +reproaches at you every time you pass by it.</p> + +<p><i>Mon Dieu</i>! 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—</p> + +<p>I have always observed, when there is as much <i>sour</i> as +<i>sweet</i> 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.</p> + +<p><i>C’est bien vrai</i>, 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, <i>d’un homme +d’esprit</i>.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<h2>IN THE STREET.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">CALAIS.</span></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">It</span> 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, <i>en face</i>;—thought like a +Jew,—then a Turk,—disliked his wig,—cursed him +by my gods,—wished him at the devil.—</p> + +<p>—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.</p> + +<p>Monsieur Dessein had <i>diabled</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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.—</p> + +<p>—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.</p> + +<h2>THE REMISE DOOR.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">CALAIS.</span></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">When</span> I told the reader that I did +not care to get out of the <i>désobligeant</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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—</p> + +<p>—Good God! how a man might lead such a creature as this +round the world with him!—</p> + +<p>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, <i>Fancy</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>bon ton</i> of conversation permitted, as in the days of +Esdras)—“<i>What aileth thee</i>? <i>and why art thou +disquieted</i>? <i>and why is thy understanding +troubled</i>?”—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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<h2>THE REMISE DOOR.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">CALAIS.</span></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">This</span> 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.</p> + +<p>—And your reflection upon it shows how much, Monsieur, +she has embarrassed you by the adventure—</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>In saying this, she disengaged her hand with a look which I thought +a sufficient commentary upon the text.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>—She had nothing to add.</p> + +<p>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 blushing.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<h2>THE SNUFF BOX.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">CALAIS.</span></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> 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.</p> + +<p>The poor monk blush’d as red as scarlet. <i>Mon +Dieu</i>! 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<h2>THE REMISE DOOR.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">CALAIS.</span></h2> + +<p>I <span class="smcap">had</span> 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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>man and wife</i> 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, +<i>that Amiens was in the road to Paris</i>, 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.—</p> + +<p>—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?</p> + +<p>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.—</p> + +<p>Depend upon it, Yorick! said Discretion, ’twill be said +you went off with a mistress, and came by assignation to Calais +for that purpose;—</p> + +<p>—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.</p> + +<p>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.—</p> + +<p>—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.</p> + +<h2>IN THE STREET.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">CALAIS.</span></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">Having</span>, 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>A little French <i>débonnaire</i> 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.—<i>Vous +n’êtes pas de Londres</i>?—She was not, she +replied.—Then Madame must have come through +Flanders.—<i>Apparemment vous êtes Flammande</i>? +said the French captain.—The lady answered, she +was.—<i>Peut être de Lisle</i>? added he.—She +said, she was not of Lisle.—Nor Arras?—nor +Cambray?—nor Ghent?—nor Brussels?—She answered, +she was of Brussels.</p> + +<p>He had had the honour, he said, to be at the bombardment of it +last war;—that it was finely situated, <i>pour +cela</i>,—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.</p> + +<p>—<i>Et Madame a son Mari</i>?—said he, looking +back when he had made two steps,—and, without staying for +an answer—danced down the street.</p> + +<p>Had I served seven years apprenticeship to good breeding, I +could not have done as much.</p> + +<h2>THE REMISE.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">CALAIS.</span></h2> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The first object which caught my eye, as Mons. Dessein +open’d the door of the Remise, was another old +tatter’d <i>désobligeant</i>; 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<h2>THE REMISE.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">CALAIS.</span></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap"><i>C’est</i></span><i> bien +comique</i>, ’tis very droll, said the lady, smiling, from +the reflection that this was the second time we had been left +together by a parcel of nonsensical +contingencies,—<i>c’est bien comique</i>, said +she.—</p> + +<p>—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.</p> + +<p>’Tis their <i>fort</i>, replied the lady.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>—To think of making love by <i>sentiments</i>!</p> + +<p>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 <i>pours</i> and <i>contres</i>, +by an unheated mind.</p> + +<p>The lady attended as if she expected I should go on.</p> + +<p>Consider then, Madame, continued I, laying my hand upon +hers:—</p> + +<p>That grave people hate love for the name’s +sake;—</p> + +<p>That selfish people hate it for their own;—</p> + +<p>Hypocrites for heaven’s;—</p> + +<p>And that all of us, both old and young, being ten times worse +frightened than hurt by the very <i>report</i>,—what a want +of knowledge in this branch of commerce 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.—</p> + +<p>Then I solemnly declare, said the lady, blushing, you have +been making love to me all this while.</p> + +<h2>THE REMISE.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">CALAIS.</span></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">Monsieur Dessein</span> 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—</p> + +<p>—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.—</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<h2>IN THE STREET.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">CALAIS.</span></h2> + +<p>I <span class="smcap">never</span> 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.</p> + +<p>Lord! said I, hearing the town clock strike four, and +recollecting that I had been little more than a single hour in +Calais,—</p> + +<p>—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 <i>fairly</i> lay his hands on!</p> + +<p>—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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I met Smelfungus in the grand portico of the +Pantheon:—he was just coming out of it.—’<i>Tis +nothing but a huge cockpit</i>, <a name="citation580"></a><a +href="#footnote580" class="citation">[580]</a> 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.</p> + +<p>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.—</p> + +<p>—I’ll tell it, cried Smelfungus, to the +world. You had better tell it, said I, to your +physician.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<h2>MONTREUIL.</h2> + +<p>I <span class="smcap">had</span> 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.</p> + +<p>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, <i>qu’un milord Anglois présentoit un +écu à la fille de chambre</i>.—<i>Tant pis +pour Mademoiselle Janatone</i>, said I.</p> + +<p>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 <i>tant pis</i>—but, +<i>tant mieux</i>. <i>Tant mieux</i>, <i>toujours</i>, +<i>Monsieur</i>, said he, when there is any thing to be +got—<i>tant pis</i>, when there is nothing. It comes +to the same thing, said I. <i>Pardonnez-moi</i>, said the +landlord.</p> + +<p>I cannot take a fitter opportunity to observe, once for all, +that <i>tant pis</i> and <i>tant mieux</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>A prompt French marquis at our ambassador’s table +demanded of Mr. H—, if he was H— the poet? No, +said Mr. H—, mildly.—<i>Tant pis</i>, replied the +marquis.</p> + +<p>It is H— the historian, said another,—<i>Tant mieux</i>, +said the marquis. And Mr. H—, who is a man of an +excellent heart, return’d thanks for both.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<h2>MONTREUIL.</h2> + +<p>I <span class="smcap">am</span> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>La Fleur had set out early in life, as gallantly as most +Frenchmen do, with <i>serving</i> 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 +<i>à ses terres</i>, and lived <i>comme il plaisoit à Dieu</i>;—that is to +say, upon nothing.</p> + +<p>—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 <i>compagnon du voyage</i> the same round, and +have the piper and the devil and all to pay besides? When +man can extricate himself with an <i>équivoque</i> in such +an unequal match,—he is not ill off.—But you can do +something else, La Fleur? said I.—<i>O qu’oui</i>! 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.</p> + +<h2>MONTREUIL.</h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">As</span> 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.</p> + +<h2>MONTREUIL.</h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> 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.</p> + +<p><i>C’est un garcon de bonne fortune</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>—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.</p> + +<p>—But in saying this,—sure I am commanding the +passion,—not myself.</p> + +<h2>A FRAGMENT.</h2> + +<p>—<span class="smcap">The</span> 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.</p> + +<p>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, <i>O Cupid</i>, <i>prince of +gods and men</i>! &c. Every man almost spoke pure +iambics the next day, and talked of nothing but Perseus his +pathetic address,—“<i>O Cupid! prince of gods and +men</i>!”—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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>’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.</p> + +<h2>MONTREUIL.</h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">When</span> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<i>parterre</i> cried out, <i>Place aux dames</i>, with one +voice, it would not have conveyed the sentiment of a deference +for the sex with half the effect.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>—I insisted upon presenting him with a single sous, +merely for his <i>politesse</i>.</p> + +<p>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.—<i>Prenez en—prenez</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>—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.—<i>Vive le Roi</i>! said the old soldier.</p> + +<p>I had then but three sous left: so I gave one, simply, <i>pour +l’amour de Dieu</i>, 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.</p> + +<p><i>Mon cher et très-charitable +Monsieur</i>.—There’s no opposing this, said I.</p> + +<p><i>Milord Anglois</i>—the very sound was worth the +money;—so I gave <i>my last sous for it</i>. But in +the eagerness of giving, I had overlooked a <i>pauvre +honteux</i>, 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 <i>how +much</i> 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.</p> + +<p>I could afford nothing for the rest, but <i>Dieu vous +bénisse</i>!</p> + +<p>—<i>Et le bon Dieu vous bénisse encore</i>, said +the old soldier, the dwarf, &c. The <i>pauvre +honteux</i> 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.</p> + +<h2>THE BIDET.</h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">Having</span> 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 <i>bidet</i>, <a +name="citation588"></a><a href="#footnote588" +class="citation">[588]</a> 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.</p> + +<p>La Fleur bore his fall like a French Christian, saying neither +more nor less upon it, than <i>Diable</i>! 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>What’s the matter, La Fleur, said I, with this bidet of +thine? Monsieur, said he, <i>c’est un cheval le plus +opiniâtre du monde</i>.—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.—<i>Peste</i>! said La Fleur.</p> + +<p>It is not <i>mal-à-propos</i> to take notice here, that +though La Fleur availed himself but of two different terms of +exclamation in this encounter,—namely, <i>Diable</i>! and +<i>Peste</i>! 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.</p> + +<p><i>Le Diable</i>! 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—<i>Le Diable</i>!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>’Tis then <i>Peste</i>!</p> + +<p>And for the third—</p> + +<p>—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.—</p> + +<p>Grant me, O ye powers which touch the tongue with eloquence in +distress!—what ever is my <i>cast</i>, grant me but decent +words to exclaim in, and I will give my nature way.</p> + +<p>—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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.—</p> + +<p>I preferred the latter, and in half an hour we got to the +post-house at Nampont.</p> + +<h2>NAMPONT.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">THE DEAD ASS.</span></h2> + +<p>—<span class="smcap">And</span> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>—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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>When the mourner got thus far on his story, he stopp’d +to pay Nature her tribute,—and wept bitterly.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.—</p> + +<h2>NAMPONT.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">THE POSTILION.</span></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> 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 +<i>pavé</i> in a full gallop.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>My case then required a different treatment; and a good +rattling gallop would have been of real service to me.—</p> + +<p>—Then, prithee, get on—get on, my good lad, said +I.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>—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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>Amiens</i>.</p> + +<p>—Bless me! said I, rubbing my eyes,—this is the +very town where my poor lady is to come.</p> + +<h2>AMIENS.</h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> 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 <i>penchant</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>There was nothing wrong in the sentiment; and yet I instantly +reproached my heart with it in the bitterest and most reprobate +of expressions.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>—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?</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>In transports of this kind, the heart, in spite of the +understanding, will always say too much.</p> + +<h2>THE LETTER.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">AMIENS.</span></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">Fortune</span> 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 <i>prevenancy</i> (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 <i>fille de chambre</i>, the <i>maître +d’hôtel</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>Madame de L—, in passing from her brother’s +apartments to her own, hearing so much jollity below stairs, rung +up her <i>fille de chambre</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>au +désespoire</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>en +égards vis à vis d’une femme</i>! so that +when Madame de L— asked La Fleur if he had brought a +letter,—<i>O qu’oui</i>, 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.—<i>Diable</i>! then sought every +pocket—pocket by pocket, round, not forgetting his +fob:—<i>Peste</i>!—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,—<i>Quelle +étourderie</i>! He had left the letter upon the +table in the auberge;—he would run for it, and be back with +it in three minutes.</p> + +<p>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 (<i>par +hazard</i>) to answer Madame’s letter, the arrangement gave +him an opportunity to recover the <i>faux pas</i>;—and if +not, that things were only as they were.</p> + +<p>Now I was not altogether sure of my <i>étiquette</i>, +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.</p> + +<p>—’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.</p> + +<p> +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.</p> + +<p>In short, I was in no mood to write.</p> + +<p>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.—<i>Le diable +l’emporte</i>! said I, half to myself,—I cannot write +this self-same letter, throwing the pen down despairingly as I +said it.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I had a mind to let the poor fellow have his +humour.—Then prithee, said I, let me see it.</p> + +<p>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,—<i>La voila</i>! +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.</p> + +<h2>THE LETTER.</h2> + +<p>Madame,</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Mais vive la joie! et toute la mienne sera de penser à +vous.</p> + +<p>L’amour n’est <i>rien</i> sans sentiment.</p> + +<p>Et le sentiment est encore <i>moins</i> sans amour.</p> + +<p>On dit qu’on ne doit jamais se +désesperér.</p> + +<p>On dit aussi que Monsieur le Caporal monte la garde Mercredi: +alors ce cera mon tour.</p> + +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Chacun à son tour</i>.</p> + +<p>En attendant—Vive l’amour! et vive la +bagatelle!</p> + +<p style="text-align: right">Je suis, Madame,<br /> +Avec tous les sentimens les plus<br /> +respectueux et les plus tendres,<br /> +tout à vous,<br /> +<span class="smcap">Jaques Roque</span>.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<h2>PARIS.</h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">When</span> 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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>up into it</i>—for there is no +descending perpendicular amongst ’em with a “<i>Me +voici</i>! <i>mes enfans</i>”—here I +am—whatever many may think.</p> + +<p>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.—</p> + +<p> +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!—</p> + +<p>—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.</p> + +<h2>THE WIG.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">PARIS.</span></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">When</span> 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.</p> + +<p>—But I fear, friend! said I, this buckle won’t +stand.—You may emerge it, replied he, into the ocean, and +it will stand.—</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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 +<i>more</i> in the <i>word</i>, and <i>less</i> in the +<i>thing</i>. 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.—</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>In honest truth, and upon a more candid revision of the +matter, <i>The French expression professes more than it +performs</i>.</p> + +<p>I think I can see the precise and distinguishing marks of +national characters more in these nonsensical +<i>minutiæ</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<h2>THE PULSE.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">PARIS.</span></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">Hail</span>, 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.</p> + +<p>—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.—</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>She was working a pair of ruffles, as she sat in a low chair, +on the far side of the shop, facing the door.</p> + +<p>—<i>Très volontiers</i>, 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.”</p> + +<p>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,—<i>mais +prenez garde</i>—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.—</p> + +<p>She repeated her instructions three times over to me, with the +same goodnatur’d patience the third time as the +first;—and if <i>tones and manners</i> have a meaning, +which certainly they have, unless to hearts which shut them +out,—she seemed really interested that I should not lose +myself.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>As this was the real truth—she took it, as every woman +takes a matter of right, with a slight curtsey.</p> + +<p>—<i>Attendez</i>! 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.</p> + +<p>—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.—</p> + +<p>—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 <i>than feeling a woman’s +pulse</i>.”—But a grisette’s! thou wouldst have +said,—and in an open shop! Yorick—</p> + +<p>—So much the better: for when my views are direct, +Eugenius, I care not if all the world saw me feel it.</p> + +<h2>THE HUSBAND.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">PARIS.</span></h2> + +<p>I <span class="smcap">had</span> 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.</p> + +<p>Good God! said I to myself, as he went out,—and can this +man be the husband of this woman!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The genius of a people, where nothing but the monarchy is +<i>salique</i>, 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 <i>le Mari</i> is +little better than the stone under your foot.</p> + +<p>—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.</p> + +<p>—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.—<i>Apropos</i>, said I, I want a couple of +pairs myself.</p> + +<h2>THE GLOVES.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">PARIS.</span></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.—</p> + +<p>It is no matter, said I, taking up a couple of the pairs next +me, and putting them into my pocket.</p> + +<p>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?—<i>M’en croyez capable</i>?—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.</p> + +<h2>THE TRANSLATION.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">PARIS.</span></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">There</span> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Translate this into any civilized language in the +world—the sense is this:</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>There is not a secret so aiding to the progress of sociality, +as to get master of this <i>short hand</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>cicisbeo</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<h2>THE DWARF.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">PARIS.</span></h2> + +<p>I <span class="smcap">had</span> 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.</p> + +<p>As I carried my idea out of the <i>Opéra Comique</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>bear and +forbear</i>!—how sweetly would it have lent an ear to this +poor soul’s complaint!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>—In England, dear Sir, said I, <i>we sit all at our +ease</i>.</p> + +<p>The old French officer would have set me at unity with myself, +in case I had been at variance,—by saying it was a <i>bon +mot</i>;—and, as a <i>bon mot</i> is always worth something +at Paris, he offered me a pinch of snuff.</p> + +<h2>THE ROSE.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">PARIS.</span></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was now my turn to ask the old +French officer “What was the matter?” for a cry of +“<i>Haussez les mains</i>, <i>Monsieur +l’Abbé</i>!” 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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,—<i>Quelle +grossièrté</i>! added I.</p> + +<p>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 <i>grossièrtés</i>, 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. <i>Le</i> <span +class="GutSmall">POUR</span> <i>et le</i> <span +class="GutSmall">CONTRE</span> <i>se trouvent en chaque +nation</i>; 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 <i>sçavoir vivre</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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—<i>Rien que pour pisser</i>, said Madame de +Rambouliet.</p> + +<p>Grieve not, gentle traveller, to let Madame de Rambouliet +p—ss on.—And, ye fair mystic nymphs! go each one +<i>pluck your rose</i>, 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.</p> + +<h2>THE FILLE DE CHAMBRE.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">PARIS.</span></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">What</span> 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.</p> + +<p>The bookseller said he had not a set in the world. +<i>Comment</i>! 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—.</p> + +<p>—And does the Count de B—, said I, read +Shakespeare? <i>C’est un esprit fort</i>, 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 <i>fille de chambre</i> to some devout woman of fashion, +come into the shop and asked for <i>Les Égarements du Cœur +et de l’Esprit</i>: 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.</p> + +<p>—And what have you to do, my dear, said I, with <i>The +Wanderings of the Heart</i>, 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.—<i>Le +Dieu m’en garde</i>! 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.</p> + +<p> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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:—<i>En +vérité</i>, <i>Monsieur</i>, <i>je mettrai cet +argent àpart</i>, said she.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>—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 +<i>fille de chambre</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>Égarements du Cœur</i>, &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.</p> + +<p>’Tis sweet to feel by what fine spun threads our +affections are drawn together.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p> +But in Paris, as none kiss each other but the men,—I did, what +amounted to the same thing—</p> + +<p>—I bid God bless her.</p> + +<h2>THE PASSPORT.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">PARIS.</span></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">When</span> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><i>Mon seigneur</i>! 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 (<i>apparemment</i>) 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 <i>certes</i>, replied +he, you’ll be sent to the Bastile or the Chatelet <i>au +moins</i>.—Poo! said I, the King of France is a good +natur’d soul:—he’ll hurt nobody.—<i>Cela +n’empêche pas</i>, 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.</p> + +<p><i>Pardi</i>! said my host, <i>ces Messieurs Anglois sont des +gens très extraordinaires</i>;—and, having both said +and sworn it,—he went out.</p> + +<h2>THE PASSPORT.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">THE HOTEL AT PARIS.</span></h2> + +<p>I <span class="smcap">could</span> 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 <i>fille de chambre</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>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.—</p> + +<p>—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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Now the event I treated gaily came seriously to my door.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>—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 month 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p> +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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>tint</i> 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!</p> + +<h2>THE CAPTIVE.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">PARIS.</span></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> 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.</p> + +<p>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.—</p> + +<p> +—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.</p> + +<p>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—</p> + +<p>But here my heart began to bleed—and I was forced to go +on with another part of the portrait.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I’ll go directly, said I, myself to Monsieur le Duc de +Choiseul.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<h2>THE STARLING.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">ROAD TO VERSAILLES.</span></h2> + +<p>I <span class="smcap">got</span> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>unknown</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>get +in</i>, and my bird wanted to <i>get out</i>, he had almost as +little store set by him in London as in Paris.</p> + +<p> +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.</p> + +<p> +<a href="images/p621b.jpg"> +<img class='floatright' alt= +"The starling as the crest of arms" +title= +"The starling as the crest of arms" + src="images/p621s.jpg" /> +</a>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:</p> + +<p>—And let the herald’s officers twist his neck +about if they dare.</p> + +<h2>THE ADDRESS.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">VERSAILLES.</span></h2> + +<p>I <span class="smcap">should</span> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p> +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.</p> + +<p>I believe so, said I.—Then I’ll go to the Duke, by +heaven! with all the gaiety and debonairness in the +world.—</p> + +<p>—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.</p> + +<p>As I entered the door of the saloon I was met by a person, who +possibly might be the <i>maître d’hôtel</i>, +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.—<i>C’est une autre affaire</i>, 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 <i>Cordon Bleu</i>, +which was the nearest hotel.</p> + +<p>I think there is a fatality in it;—I seldom go to the +place I set out for.</p> + +<h2>LE PATISSIER.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">VERSAILLES.</span></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">Before</span> 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 <i>fille de chambre</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<i>propreté</i> and neatness throughout, that one might +have bought his pâtés of him, as much from appetite +as sentiment.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>pâtisserie</i>; and added, he felt no +dishonour in defending her and himself from want in this +way—unless Providence had offer’d him a better.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<h2>THE SWORD.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">RENNES.</span></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">When</span> 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 +<i>obscurity</i>.—But he had two boys who looked up to him +for <i>light</i>;—he thought they deserved it. He had +tried his sword—it could not open the way,—the +<i>mounting</i> was too expensive,—and simple economy was +not a match for it:—there was no resource but commerce.</p> + +<p> +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.</p> + +<p>The president accepted the Marquis’s sword: he staid a +few minutes to see it deposited in the archives of his +house—and departed.</p> + +<p>The Marquis and his whole family embarked the next day 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.—</p> + +<p>—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.</p> + +<p>“I shall find,” said he, “some <i>other +way</i> to get it off.”</p> + +<p> +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.</p> + +<p>O, how I envied him his feelings!</p> + +<h2>THE PASSPORT.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">VERSAILLES.</span></h2> + +<p>I <span class="smcap">found</span> 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—<i>et +ayez la bonté</i>, <i>mon cher ami</i>, apostrophizing his +spirit, added I, <i>de me faire cet +honneur-là</i>.—</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>—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.</p> + +<p> +An animated blush came into the Count de B—’s cheeks as +I spoke this.—<i>Ne craignez rien</i>—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.</p> + +<p>—My application to you, Monsieur le Count de B— +(making him a low bow), is to desire he will not.</p> + +<p>The Count heard me with great good nature, or I had not said +half as much,—and once or twice said,—<i>C’est +bien dit</i>. So I rested my cause there—and +determined to say no more about it.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><i>Eh bien</i>! <i>Monsieur l’Anglois</i>, said +the Count, gaily;—you are not come to spy the nakedness of +the land;—I believe you;—<i>ni encore</i>, I dare +say, <i>that</i> of our women!—But permit me to +conjecture,—if, <i>par hazard</i>, they fell into your way, +that the prospect would not affect you.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>à +propos</i>, 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.</p> + +<h2>THE PASSPORT.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">VERSAILLES.</span></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">There</span> 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,—<i>Me voici</i>! said +I.</p> + +<p>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.—</p> + +<p>—If Alexander, King of Macedon, could have translated +your Lordship, said I, I’m sure your Lordship would not +have said so.</p> + +<p>The poor Count de B— fell but into the same +<i>error</i>.</p> + +<p>—<i>Et</i>, <i>Monsieur</i>, <i>est-il Yorick</i>? cried +the Count.—<i>Je le suis</i>, said +I.—<i>Vous</i>?—<i>Moi</i>,—<i>moi qui ai +l’honneur de vous parler</i>, <i>Monsieur le +Comte</i>.—<i>Mon Dieu</i>! said he, embracing +me,—<i>Vous êtes Yorick</i>!</p> + +<p>The Count instantly put the Shakespeare into his pocket, and +left me alone in his room.</p> + +<h2>THE PASSPORT.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">VERSAILLES.</span></h2> + +<p>I <span class="smcap">could</span> 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.—<i>Mysteries which must explain themselves are not +worth the loss of time which a conjecture about them takes +up</i>: ’twas better to read Shakespeare; so taking up +“<i>Much Ado About Nothing</i>,” 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.</p> + +<p>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 Æneas, 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.</p> + +<p><i>Surely this is not walking in a vain shadow—nor does +man disquiet himself</i> in vain <i>by it</i>:—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.</p> + +<p>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. <i>Un homme qui rit</i>, said +the Duke, <i>ne sera jamais dangereux</i>.—Had it been for +any one but the king’s jester, added the Count, I could not +have got it these two hours.—<i>Pardonnez moi</i>, Monsieur +le Count, said I—I am not the king’s +jester.—But you are Yorick?—Yes.—<i>Et +vous plaisantez</i>?—I answered, Indeed I did +jest,—but was not paid for it;—’twas entirely +at my own expense.</p> + +<p>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 <i>nothing</i> 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.—</p> + +<p><i>Voilà un persiflage</i>! cried the Count.</p> + +<h2>THE PASSPORT.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">VERSAILLES.</span></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">As</span> 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 <i>they knew of</i> terminated, <i>in a general +way</i>, in little better than a convulsion.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>—’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.</p> + +<p>How merciful, adds Bevoriskius, is heaven to his +creatures!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>But this is nothing to my travels.—So I +twice,—twice beg pardon for it.</p> + +<h2>CHARACTER.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">VERSAILLES.</span></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">And</span> how do you find the French? +said the Count de B—, after he had given me the +passport.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>—<i>Mais passe</i>, <i>pour cela</i>.—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.—<i>Vraiment</i>, said +the Count, <i>les François sont polis</i>.—To an +excess, replied I.</p> + +<p>The Count took notice of the word <i>excès</i>; 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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>politesse du cœur</i>, +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.</p> + +<p>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:—</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>serious</i>.</p> + +<p><i>Mon Dieu</i>! cried the Count, rising out of his chair.</p> + +<p><i>Mais vous plaisantez</i>, said he, correcting his +exclamation.—I laid my hand upon my breast, and with +earnest gravity assured him it was my most settled opinion.</p> + +<p>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—.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<h2>THE TEMPTATION.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">PARIS.</span></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">When</span> 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.</p> + +<p>It was the fair <i>fille de chambre</i> I had walked along the +Quai de Conti with; Madame de R— had sent her upon some +commission to a <i>marchande des modes</i> 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.</p> + +<p>As the fair <i>fille de chambre</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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 +<i>fille de chambre’s</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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.—</p> + +<p> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The fair <i>fille de chambre</i> 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.—</p> + +<p>I was just going to cry out, Then I will write it, fair girl! +upon thy lips.—</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I’ll just show you, said the fair <i>fille de +chambre</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>A stitch or two had broke out in the gathers of my stock; the +fair <i>fille de chambre</i>, 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 manœuvre, I felt the laurels shake which fancy had +wreath’d about my head.</p> + +<p>A strap had given way in her walk, and the buckle of her shoe +was just falling off.—See, said the <i>fille de +chambre</i>, 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 <i>fille de chambre</i> off her +centre,—and then—</p> + +<h2>THE CONQUEST.</h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">Yes</span>,—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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>As I finished my address, I raised the fair <i>fille de +chambre</i> 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.</p> + +<h2>THE MYSTERY.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">PARIS.</span></h2> + +<p>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 <i>fille de chambre</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>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 +<i>propreté</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>only</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I could form no system to explain the phenomenon.</p> + +<p>I had got a riddle to amuse me for the rest of the evening; so +I walk’d upstairs to my chamber.</p> + +<h2>THE CASE OF CONSCIENCE.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">PARIS.</span></h2> + +<p>I <span class="smcap">was</span> 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.—<i>Voyez vous</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>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, <i>et tout +cela</i>;—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 <i>en +conscience</i>.—But I must see her this night, said +I.—He made me a low bow, and walk’d down.</p> + +<p>Now shall I triumph over this <i>maître +d’hôtel</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>In a few minutes the grisette came in with her box of +lace.—I’ll buy nothing, however, said I, within +myself.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>—The master of the hotel will share the profit with +her;—no matter,—then I have only paid as many a poor +soul has <i>paid</i> before me, for an act he <i>could</i> not +do, or think of.</p> + +<h2>THE RIDDLE.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">PARIS.</span></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">When</span> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><i>C’est déroger à noblesse</i>, +<i>Monsieur</i>, said La Fleur, making me a bow down to the +ground as he said it.—<i>Et encore</i>, <i>Monsieur</i>, +said he, may change his sentiments;—and if (<i>par +hazard</i>) he should like to amuse himself,—I find no +amusement in it, said I, interrupting him.—</p> + +<p><i>Mon Dieu</i>! said La Fleur,—and took away.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<h2>LE DIMANCHE.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">PARIS.</span></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">It</span> 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.</p> + +<p>I had covenanted at Montreuil to give him a new hat with a +silver button and loop, and four louis d’ors, <i>pour +s’adoniser</i>, when we got to Paris; and the poor fellow, +to do him justice, had done wonders with it.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>This is a nicety which makes not the heart sore at Paris.</p> + +<p> +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 <i>fripier</i> upon a gold +pair of garters to his breeches knees.—He had purchased +muslin ruffles, <i>bien brodées</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>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, <i>pour faire le galant +vis-à-vis de sa maîtresse</i>.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>But we must <i>feel</i>, 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.</p> + +<p><i>Behold</i>,—<i>Behold</i>, <i>I am thy +servant</i>—disarms me at once of the powers of a +master.—</p> + +<p> +Thou shalt go, La Fleur! said I.</p> + +<p>—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 <i>petite +demoiselle</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<h2>THE FRAGMENT.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">PARIS.</span></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">La Fleur</span> 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.</p> + +<p>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 +<i>traîteur</i>, to bespeak my dinner, and leave me to +breakfast by myself.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<h2>THE FRAGMENT.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">PARIS.</span></h2> + +<p>—<span class="smcap">Now</span>, 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.—</p> + +<p>—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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p style="text-align: center">[<i>By this it seems as if the +author of the fragment had not been a Frenchman</i>.]</p> + +<p>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 <i>sacre +Dieu’d</i> there than in any other aperture of the whole +city,—and with reason good and cogent, Messieurs; for it +comes against you without crying <i>garde d’eau</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>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.—</p> + +<p>—’<i>Tis an ill wind</i>, said a boatman, who +catched it, <i>which blows nobody any good</i>.</p> + +<p>The sentry, being a Gascon, incontinently twirled up his +whiskers, and levell’d his arquebuss.</p> + +<p>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.—’<i>Tis an ill wind</i>, said he, +catching off the notary’s castor, and legitimating the +capture with the boatman’s adage.</p> + +<p>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:—</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Alas! <i>Monsieur le Notaire</i>, 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 <span class="smcap">Book</span>, 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.—</p> + +<p>It is a story, <i>Monsieur le Notaire</i>, 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.—</p> + +<p>—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:—</p> + +<p>—And where is the rest of it, La Fleur? said I, as he +just then enter’d the room.</p> + +<h2>THE FRAGMENT, AND THE BOUQUET. <a name="citation648"></a><a +href="#footnote648" class="citation">[648]</a><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">PARIS.</span></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">When</span> 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.</p> + +<p>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. <i>Juste Ciel</i>! in less than two minutes that +the poor fellow had taken his last tender farewell of +her—his faithless mistress had given his <i>gage +d’amour</i> 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.</p> + +<p>—How perfidious! cried La Fleur.—How unlucky! said +I.</p> + +<p>—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.</p> + +<p>Whether I did or no will be seen hereafter.</p> + +<h2>THE ACT OF CHARITY.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">PARIS.</span></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> 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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>fiacre</i>, <a name="citation649"></a><a +href="#footnote649" class="citation">[649]</a> 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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>fiacre</i>;—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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Poo! said they,—we have no money.</p> + +<p>The beggar remained silent for a moment or two, and +renew’d his supplication.</p> + +<p>—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.</p> + +<p>—I would friend, with all my heart, said the younger, if +I had it.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<h2>THE RIDDLE EXPLAINED.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">PARIS.</span></h2> + +<p>I <span class="smcap">stepped</span> 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.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<h2>PARIS.</h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">We</span> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I had got master of my <i>secret</i> 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 <i>translating</i> French looks and +attitudes into plain English, I should presently have seen, that +I had hold of the <i>couvert</i> <a name="citation652"></a><a +href="#footnote652" class="citation">[652]</a> 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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>Cour d’Amour</i>, 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.—<i>Les Messieurs +Anglois</i> can scarce get a kind look from them as it +is.—The Marquis invited me to supper.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I could never have been invited to Mons. P—’s +concerts upon any other terms.</p> + +<p>I had been misrepresented to Madame de Q— as an +<i>esprit</i>.—Madame de Q— was an <i>esprit</i> +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.</p> + +<p>Madame de V— vow’d to every creature she +met—“She had never had a more improving conversation +with a man in her life.”</p> + +<p>There are three epochas in the empire of a French +woman.—She is coquette,—then deist,—then +<i>dévote</i>: 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 Encyclopædia had said +against it.—I was listed directly into Madame de +V—’s <i>coterie</i>;—and she put off the epocha +of deism for two years.</p> + +<p>I remember it was in this <i>coterie</i>, in the middle of a +discourse, in which I was showing the necessity of a <i>first</i> +cause, when the young Count de Faineant took me by the hand to +the farthest corner of the room, to tell me my <i>solitaire</i> +was pinn’d too straight about my neck.—It should be +<i>plus badinant</i>, said the Count, looking down upon his +own;—but a word, Monsieur Yorick, <i>to the +wise</i>—</p> + +<p>And <i>from the wise</i>, Monsieur le Count, replied I, making +him a bow,—<i>is enough</i>.</p> + +<p>The Count de Faineant embraced me with more ardour than ever I +was embraced by mortal man.</p> + +<p>For three weeks together I was of every man’s opinion I +met.—<i>Pardi</i>! <i>ce Monsieur Yorick a autant +d’esprit que nous autres</i>.—<i>Il raisonne +bien</i>, said another.—<i>C’est un bon enfant</i>, +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 <i>reckoning</i>;—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 <i>beggarly system</i>;—the better the +<i>coterie</i>,—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.</p> + +<h2>MARIA.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">MOULINES.</span></h2> + +<p>I <span class="smcap">never</span> 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 <i>Labour</i>, 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.—</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>’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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<h2>MARIA.</h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">When</span> 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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>God tempers the +wind</i>, said Maria, <i>to the shorn lamb</i>.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>And is your heart still so warm, Maria? said I.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<h2>MARIA.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">MOULINES.</span></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">Though</span> 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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>not only +eat of my bread and drink of my own cup</i>, but Maria should lie +in my bosom, and be unto me as a daughter.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<h2>THE BOURBONNNOIS.</h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">There</span> 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.</p> + +<p>—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 “<i>divinity which stirs within +me</i>;”—not that, in some sad and sickening moments, +“<i>my soul shrinks back upon herself</i>, <i>and startles +at destruction</i>;”—mere pomp of words!—but +that I feel some generous joys and generous cares beyond +myself;—all comes from thee, great—great <span +class="smcap">Sensorium</span> 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.—</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<h2>THE SUPPER.</h2> + +<p>A <span class="smcap">shoe</span> 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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>potagerie</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>If the supper was to my taste,—the grace which followed +it was much more so.</p> + +<h2>THE GRACE.</h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">When</span> 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.</p> + +<p>The old man had some fifty years ago been no mean performer +upon the <i>vielle</i>,—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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>Religion</i> +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,—</p> + +<p>Or a learned prelate either, said I.</p> + +<h2>THE CASE OF DELICACY.</h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">When</span> 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 <i>voiturin</i> to take his time +with a couple of mules, and convoy me in my own chaise safe to +Turin, through Savoy.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>voiturin</i> 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 <i>voiturin</i> found himself +obliged to put up five miles short of his stage at a little +decent kind of an inn by the roadside.</p> + +<p>I forthwith took possession of my bedchamber—got a good +fire—order’d supper; and was thanking heaven it was +no worse, when a <i>voiturin</i> arrived with a lady in it and her +servant maid.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>fille de chambre</i> 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.</p> + +<p>They were as follow:—</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>fille de +chambre</i> 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.</p> + +<p>2dly. It is required on the part of Madame, that +Monsieur shall lie the whole night through in his <i>robe de +chambre</i>.</p> + +<p>Rejected: inasmuch as Monsieur is not worth a <i>robe de +chambre</i>; he having nothing in his portmanteau but six shirts +and a black silk pair of breeches.</p> + +<p>The mentioning the silk pair of breeches made an entire change +of the article,—for the breeches were accepted as an +equivalent for the <i>robe de chambre</i>; and so it was +stipulated and agreed upon, that I should lie in my black silk +breeches all night.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Granted; provided Monsieur’s saying his prayers might +not be deemed an infraction of the treaty.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>—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 maintain’d it was provided +for in the clause of the third article.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Upon my word and honour, Madame, said I,—stretching my +arm out of bed by way of asseveration.—</p> + +<p>(I was going to have added, that I would not have trespassed +against the remotest idea of decorum for the world);—</p> + +<p>But the <i>fille de chambre</i> 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:—</p> + +<p>So that when I stretch’d out my hand I caught hold of +the <i>fille de chambre’s</i>—</p> + + +<p style="text-align: center"><b>THE END</b></p> + +<h2>FOOTNOTES.</h2> + +<p><a name="footnote557"></a><a href="#citation557" +class="footnote">[557]</a> All the effects of strangers +(Swiss and Scotch excepted) dying in France, are seized by virtue +of this law, though the heir be upon the spot—the profit of +these contingencies being farmed, there is no redress.</p> + +<p><a name="footnote562"></a><a href="#citation562" +class="footnote">[562]</a> A chaise, so called, in France, +from its holding but one person.</p> + +<p><a name="footnote580"></a><a href="#citation580" +class="footnote">[580]</a> Vide S—’s Travels: +[<i>i.e.</i> Dr. Smollett’s “Travels through France +and Italy.”—<span class="smcap">Ed</span>.]</p> + +<p><a name="footnote588"></a><a href="#citation588" +class="footnote">[588]</a> Post-horse.</p> + +<p><a name="footnote648"></a><a href="#citation648" +class="footnote">[648]</a> Nosegay.</p> + +<p><a name="footnote649"></a><a href="#citation649" +class="footnote">[649]</a> Hackney coach.</p> + +<p><a name="footnote652"></a><a href="#citation652" +class="footnote">[652]</a> Plate, napkin, knife, fork and +spoon.</p> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY THROUGH FRANCE AND ITALY ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ +concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, +and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following +the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use +of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for +copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very +easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation +of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project +Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may +do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected +by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark +license, especially commercial redistribution. +</div> + +<div style='margin:0.83em 0; font-size:1.1em; text-align:center'>START: FULL LICENSE<br /> +<span style='font-size:smaller'>THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE<br /> +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK</span> +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full +Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at +www.gutenberg.org/license. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or +destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your +possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a +Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound +by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person +or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this +agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ +electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the +Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection +of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual +works in the collection are in the public domain in the United +States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the +United States and you are located in the United States, we do not +claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, +displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as +all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope +that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting +free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ +works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the +Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily +comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the +same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when +you share it without charge with others. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are +in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, +check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this +agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, +distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any +other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no +representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any +country other than the United States. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other +immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear +prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work +on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, +performed, viewed, copied or distributed: +</div> + +<blockquote> + <div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> + This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most + other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions + whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms + of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online + at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you + are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws + of the country where you are located before using this eBook. + </div> +</blockquote> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is +derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not +contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the +copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in +the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are +redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply +either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or +obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ +trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any +additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms +will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works +posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the +beginning of this work. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg™ License. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including +any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access +to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format +other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official +version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website +(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense +to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means +of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain +Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the +full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +provided that: +</div> + +<div style='margin-left:0.7em;'> + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed + to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has + agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid + within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are + legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty + payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in + Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg + Literary Archive Foundation.” + </div> + + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ + License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all + copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue + all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ + works. + </div> + + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of + any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of + receipt of the work. + </div> + + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works. + </div> +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project +Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than +are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing +from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of +the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set +forth in Section 3 below. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project +Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ +electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may +contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate +or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or +other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or +cannot be read by your equipment. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium +with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you +with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in +lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person +or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second +opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If +the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing +without further opportunities to fix the problem. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO +OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of +damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement +violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the +agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or +limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or +unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the +remaining provisions. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in +accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the +production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ +electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, +including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of +the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this +or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or +additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any +Defect you cause. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™ +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of +computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It +exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations +from people in all walks of life. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future +generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see +Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by +U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, +Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up +to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website +and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread +public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND +DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state +visit <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/donate/">www.gutenberg.org/donate</a>. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To +donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project +Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be +freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and +distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of +volunteer support. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in +the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not +necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper +edition. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Most people start at our website which has the main PG search +facility: <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. +</div> + +</div> + +</body> +</html> |