summaryrefslogtreecommitdiff
path: root/804-h/804-h.htm
blob: ba78618422849395367b637802c656c630c64c7b (plain) 
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805
806
807
808
809
810
811
812
813
814
815
816
817
818
819
820
821
822
823
824
825
826
827
828
829
830
831
832
833
834
835
836
837
838
839
840
841
842
843
844
845
846
847
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871
872
873
874
875
876
877
878
879
880
881
882
883
884
885
886
887
888
889
890
891
892
893
894
895
896
897
898
899
900
901
902
903
904
905
906
907
908
909
910
911
912
913
914
915
916
917
918
919
920
921
922
923
924
925
926
927
928
929
930
931
932
933
934
935
936
937
938
939
940
941
942
943
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968
969
970
971
972
973
974
975
976
977
978
979
980
981
982
983
984
985
986
987
988
989
990
991
992
993
994
995
996
997
998
999
1000
1001
1002
1003
1004
1005
1006
1007
1008
1009
1010
1011
1012
1013
1014
1015
1016
1017
1018
1019
1020
1021
1022
1023
1024
1025
1026
1027
1028
1029
1030
1031
1032
1033
1034
1035
1036
1037
1038
1039
1040
1041
1042
1043
1044
1045
1046
1047
1048
1049
1050
1051
1052
1053
1054
1055
1056
1057
1058
1059
1060
1061
1062
1063
1064
1065
1066
1067
1068
1069
1070
1071
1072
1073
1074
1075
1076
1077
1078
1079
1080
1081
1082
1083
1084
1085
1086
1087
1088
1089
1090
1091
1092
1093
1094
1095
1096
1097
1098
1099
1100
1101
1102
1103
1104
1105
1106
1107
1108
1109
1110
1111
1112
1113
1114
1115
1116
1117
1118
1119
1120
1121
1122
1123
1124
1125
1126
1127
1128
1129
1130
1131
1132
1133
1134
1135
1136
1137
1138
1139
1140
1141
1142
1143
1144
1145
1146
1147
1148
1149
1150
1151
1152
1153
1154
1155
1156
1157
1158
1159
1160
1161
1162
1163
1164
1165
1166
1167
1168
1169
1170
1171
1172
1173
1174
1175
1176
1177
1178
1179
1180
1181
1182
1183
1184
1185
1186
1187
1188
1189
1190
1191
1192
1193
1194
1195
1196
1197
1198
1199
1200
1201
1202
1203
1204
1205
1206
1207
1208
1209
1210
1211
1212
1213
1214
1215
1216
1217
1218
1219
1220
1221
1222
1223
1224
1225
1226
1227
1228
1229
1230
1231
1232
1233
1234
1235
1236
1237
1238
1239
1240
1241
1242
1243
1244
1245
1246
1247
1248
1249
1250
1251
1252
1253
1254
1255
1256
1257
1258
1259
1260
1261
1262
1263
1264
1265
1266
1267
1268
1269
1270
1271
1272
1273
1274
1275
1276
1277
1278
1279
1280
1281
1282
1283
1284
1285
1286
1287
1288
1289
1290
1291
1292
1293
1294
1295
1296
1297
1298
1299
1300
1301
1302
1303
1304
1305
1306
1307
1308
1309
1310
1311
1312
1313
1314
1315
1316
1317
1318
1319
1320
1321
1322
1323
1324
1325
1326
1327
1328
1329
1330
1331
1332
1333
1334
1335
1336
1337
1338
1339
1340
1341
1342
1343
1344
1345
1346
1347
1348
1349
1350
1351
1352
1353
1354
1355
1356
1357
1358
1359
1360
1361
1362
1363
1364
1365
1366
1367
1368
1369
1370
1371
1372
1373
1374
1375
1376
1377
1378
1379
1380
1381
1382
1383
1384
1385
1386
1387
1388
1389
1390
1391
1392
1393
1394
1395
1396
1397
1398
1399
1400
1401
1402
1403
1404
1405
1406
1407
1408
1409
1410
1411
1412
1413
1414
1415
1416
1417
1418
1419
1420
1421
1422
1423
1424
1425
1426
1427
1428
1429
1430
1431
1432
1433
1434
1435
1436
1437
1438
1439
1440
1441
1442
1443
1444
1445
1446
1447
1448
1449
1450
1451
1452
1453
1454
1455
1456
1457
1458
1459
1460
1461
1462
1463
1464
1465
1466
1467
1468
1469
1470
1471
1472
1473
1474
1475
1476
1477
1478
1479
1480
1481
1482
1483
1484
1485
1486
1487
1488
1489
1490
1491
1492
1493
1494
1495
1496
1497
1498
1499
1500
1501
1502
1503
1504
1505
1506
1507
1508
1509
1510
1511
1512
1513
1514
1515
1516
1517
1518
1519
1520
1521
1522
1523
1524
1525
1526
1527
1528
1529
1530
1531
1532
1533
1534
1535
1536
1537
1538
1539
1540
1541
1542
1543
1544
1545
1546
1547
1548
1549
1550
1551
1552
1553
1554
1555
1556
1557
1558
1559
1560
1561
1562
1563
1564
1565
1566
1567
1568
1569
1570
1571
1572
1573
1574
1575
1576
1577
1578
1579
1580
1581
1582
1583
1584
1585
1586
1587
1588
1589
1590
1591
1592
1593
1594
1595
1596
1597
1598
1599
1600
1601
1602
1603
1604
1605
1606
1607
1608
1609
1610
1611
1612
1613
1614
1615
1616
1617
1618
1619
1620
1621
1622
1623
1624
1625
1626
1627
1628
1629
1630
1631
1632
1633
1634
1635
1636
1637
1638
1639
1640
1641
1642
1643
1644
1645
1646
1647
1648
1649
1650
1651
1652
1653
1654
1655
1656
1657
1658
1659
1660
1661
1662
1663
1664
1665
1666
1667
1668
1669
1670
1671
1672
1673
1674
1675
1676
1677
1678
1679
1680
1681
1682
1683
1684
1685
1686
1687
1688
1689
1690
1691
1692
1693
1694
1695
1696
1697
1698
1699
1700
1701
1702
1703
1704
1705
1706
1707
1708
1709
1710
1711
1712
1713
1714
1715
1716
1717
1718
1719
1720
1721
1722
1723
1724
1725
1726
1727
1728
1729
1730
1731
1732
1733
1734
1735
1736
1737
1738
1739
1740
1741
1742
1743
1744
1745
1746
1747
1748
1749
1750
1751
1752
1753
1754
1755
1756
1757
1758
1759
1760
1761
1762
1763
1764
1765
1766
1767
1768
1769
1770
1771
1772
1773
1774
1775
1776
1777
1778
1779
1780
1781
1782
1783
1784
1785
1786
1787
1788
1789
1790
1791
1792
1793
1794
1795
1796
1797
1798
1799
1800
1801
1802
1803
1804
1805
1806
1807
1808
1809
1810
1811
1812
1813
1814
1815
1816
1817
1818
1819
1820
1821
1822
1823
1824
1825
1826
1827
1828
1829
1830
1831
1832
1833
1834
1835
1836
1837
1838
1839
1840
1841
1842
1843
1844
1845
1846
1847
1848
1849
1850
1851
1852
1853
1854
1855
1856
1857
1858
1859
1860
1861
1862
1863
1864
1865
1866
1867
1868
1869
1870
1871
1872
1873
1874
1875
1876
1877
1878
1879
1880
1881
1882
1883
1884
1885
1886
1887
1888
1889
1890
1891
1892
1893
1894
1895
1896
1897
1898
1899
1900
1901
1902
1903
1904
1905
1906
1907
1908
1909
1910
1911
1912
1913
1914
1915
1916
1917
1918
1919
1920
1921
1922
1923
1924
1925
1926
1927
1928
1929
1930
1931
1932
1933
1934
1935
1936
1937
1938
1939
1940
1941
1942
1943
1944
1945
1946
1947
1948
1949
1950
1951
1952
1953
1954
1955
1956
1957
1958
1959
1960
1961
1962
1963
1964
1965
1966
1967
1968
1969
1970
1971
1972
1973
1974
1975
1976
1977
1978
1979
1980
1981
1982
1983
1984
1985
1986
1987
1988
1989
1990
1991
1992
1993
1994
1995
1996
1997
1998
1999
2000
2001
2002
2003
2004
2005
2006
2007
2008
2009
2010
2011
2012
2013
2014
2015
2016
2017
2018
2019
2020
2021
2022
2023
2024
2025
2026
2027
2028
2029
2030
2031
2032
2033
2034
2035
2036
2037
2038
2039
2040
2041
2042
2043
2044
2045
2046
2047
2048
2049
2050
2051
2052
2053
2054
2055
2056
2057
2058
2059
2060
2061
2062
2063
2064
2065
2066
2067
2068
2069
2070
2071
2072
2073
2074
2075
2076
2077
2078
2079
2080
2081
2082
2083
2084
2085
2086
2087
2088
2089
2090
2091
2092
2093
2094
2095
2096
2097
2098
2099
2100
2101
2102
2103
2104
2105
2106
2107
2108
2109
2110
2111
2112
2113
2114
2115
2116
2117
2118
2119
2120
2121
2122
2123
2124
2125
2126
2127
2128
2129
2130
2131
2132
2133
2134
2135
2136
2137
2138
2139
2140
2141
2142
2143
2144
2145
2146
2147
2148
2149
2150
2151
2152
2153
2154
2155
2156
2157
2158
2159
2160
2161
2162
2163
2164
2165
2166
2167
2168
2169
2170
2171
2172
2173
2174
2175
2176
2177
2178
2179
2180
2181
2182
2183
2184
2185
2186
2187
2188
2189
2190
2191
2192
2193
2194
2195
2196
2197
2198
2199
2200
2201
2202
2203
2204
2205
2206
2207
2208
2209
2210
2211
2212
2213
2214
2215
2216
2217
2218
2219
2220
2221
2222
2223
2224
2225
2226
2227
2228
2229
2230
2231
2232
2233
2234
2235
2236
2237
2238
2239
2240
2241
2242
2243
2244
2245
2246
2247
2248
2249
2250
2251
2252
2253
2254
2255
2256
2257
2258
2259
2260
2261
2262
2263
2264
2265
2266
2267
2268
2269
2270
2271
2272
2273
2274
2275
2276
2277
2278
2279
2280
2281
2282
2283
2284
2285
2286
2287
2288
2289
2290
2291
2292
2293
2294
2295
2296
2297
2298
2299
2300
2301
2302
2303
2304
2305
2306
2307
2308
2309
2310
2311
2312
2313
2314
2315
2316
2317
2318
2319
2320
2321
2322
2323
2324
2325
2326
2327
2328
2329
2330
2331
2332
2333
2334
2335
2336
2337
2338
2339
2340
2341
2342
2343
2344
2345
2346
2347
2348
2349
2350
2351
2352
2353
2354
2355
2356
2357
2358
2359
2360
2361
2362
2363
2364
2365
2366
2367
2368
2369
2370
2371
2372
2373
2374
2375
2376
2377
2378
2379
2380
2381
2382
2383
2384
2385
2386
2387
2388
2389
2390
2391
2392
2393
2394
2395
2396
2397
2398
2399
2400
2401
2402
2403
2404
2405
2406
2407
2408
2409
2410
2411
2412
2413
2414
2415
2416
2417
2418
2419
2420
2421
2422
2423
2424
2425
2426
2427
2428
2429
2430
2431
2432
2433
2434
2435
2436
2437
2438
2439
2440
2441
2442
2443
2444
2445
2446
2447
2448
2449
2450
2451
2452
2453
2454
2455
2456
2457
2458
2459
2460
2461
2462
2463
2464
2465
2466
2467
2468
2469
2470
2471
2472
2473
2474
2475
2476
2477
2478
2479
2480
2481
2482
2483
2484
2485
2486
2487
2488
2489
2490
2491
2492
2493
2494
2495
2496
2497
2498
2499
2500
2501
2502
2503
2504
2505
2506
2507
2508
2509
2510
2511
2512
2513
2514
2515
2516
2517
2518
2519
2520
2521
2522
2523
2524
2525
2526
2527
2528
2529
2530
2531
2532
2533
2534
2535
2536
2537
2538
2539
2540
2541
2542
2543
2544
2545
2546
2547
2548
2549
2550
2551
2552
2553
2554
2555
2556
2557
2558
2559
2560
2561
2562
2563
2564
2565
2566
2567
2568
2569
2570
2571
2572
2573
2574
2575
2576
2577
2578
2579
2580
2581
2582
2583
2584
2585
2586
2587
2588
2589
2590
2591
2592
2593
2594
2595
2596
2597
2598
2599
2600
2601
2602
2603
2604
2605
2606
2607
2608
2609
2610
2611
2612
2613
2614
2615
2616
2617
2618
2619
2620
2621
2622
2623
2624
2625
2626
2627
2628
2629
2630
2631
2632
2633
2634
2635
2636
2637
2638
2639
2640
2641
2642
2643
2644
2645
2646
2647
2648
2649
2650
2651
2652
2653
2654
2655
2656
2657
2658
2659
2660
2661
2662
2663
2664
2665
2666
2667
2668
2669
2670
2671
2672
2673
2674
2675
2676
2677
2678
2679
2680
2681
2682
2683
2684
2685
2686
2687
2688
2689
2690
2691
2692
2693
2694
2695
2696
2697
2698
2699
2700
2701
2702
2703
2704
2705
2706
2707
2708
2709
2710
2711
2712
2713
2714
2715
2716
2717
2718
2719
2720
2721
2722
2723
2724
2725
2726
2727
2728
2729
2730
2731
2732
2733
2734
2735
2736
2737
2738
2739
2740
2741
2742
2743
2744
2745
2746
2747
2748
2749
2750
2751
2752
2753
2754
2755
2756
2757
2758
2759
2760
2761
2762
2763
2764
2765
2766
2767
2768
2769
2770
2771
2772
2773
2774
2775
2776
2777
2778
2779
2780
2781
2782
2783
2784
2785
2786
2787
2788
2789
2790
2791
2792
2793
2794
2795
2796
2797
2798
2799
2800
2801
2802
2803
2804
2805
2806
2807
2808
2809
2810
2811
2812
2813
2814
2815
2816
2817
2818
2819
2820
2821
2822
2823
2824
2825
2826
2827
2828
2829
2830
2831
2832
2833
2834
2835
2836
2837
2838
2839
2840
2841
2842
2843
2844
2845
2846
2847
2848
2849
2850
2851
2852
2853
2854
2855
2856
2857
2858
2859
2860
2861
2862
2863
2864
2865
2866
2867
2868
2869
2870
2871
2872
2873
2874
2875
2876
2877
2878
2879
2880
2881
2882
2883
2884
2885
2886
2887
2888
2889
2890
2891
2892
2893
2894
2895
2896
2897
2898
2899
2900
2901
2902
2903
2904
2905
2906
2907
2908
2909
2910
2911
2912
2913
2914
2915
2916
2917
2918
2919
2920
2921
2922
2923
2924
2925
2926
2927
2928
2929
2930
2931
2932
2933
2934
2935
2936
2937
2938
2939
2940
2941
2942
2943
2944
2945
2946
2947
2948
2949
2950
2951
2952
2953
2954
2955
2956
2957
2958
2959
2960
2961
2962
2963
2964
2965
2966
2967
2968
2969
2970
2971
2972
2973
2974
2975
2976
2977
2978
2979
2980
2981
2982
2983
2984
2985
2986
2987
2988
2989
2990
2991
2992
2993
2994
2995
2996
2997
2998
2999
3000
3001
3002
3003
3004
3005
3006
3007
3008
3009
3010
3011
3012
3013
3014
3015
3016
3017
3018
3019
3020
3021
3022
3023
3024
3025
3026
3027
3028
3029
3030
3031
3032
3033
3034
3035
3036
3037
3038
3039
3040
3041
3042
3043
3044
3045
3046
3047
3048
3049
3050
3051
3052
3053
3054
3055
3056
3057
3058
3059
3060
3061
3062
3063
3064
3065
3066
3067
3068
3069
3070
3071
3072
3073
3074
3075
3076
3077
3078
3079
3080
3081
3082
3083
3084
3085
3086
3087
3088
3089
3090
3091
3092
3093
3094
3095
3096
3097
3098
3099
3100
3101
3102
3103
3104
3105
3106
3107
3108
3109
3110
3111
3112
3113
3114
3115
3116
3117
3118
3119
3120
3121
3122
3123
3124
3125
3126
3127
3128
3129
3130
3131
3132
3133
3134
3135
3136
3137
3138
3139
3140
3141
3142
3143
3144
3145
3146
3147
3148
3149
3150
3151
3152
3153
3154
3155
3156
3157
3158
3159
3160
3161
3162
3163
3164
3165
3166
3167
3168
3169
3170
3171
3172
3173
3174
3175
3176
3177
3178
3179
3180
3181
3182
3183
3184
3185
3186
3187
3188
3189
3190
3191
3192
3193
3194
3195
3196
3197
3198
3199
3200
3201
3202
3203
3204
3205
3206
3207
3208
3209
3210
3211
3212
3213
3214
3215
3216
3217
3218
3219
3220
3221
3222
3223
3224
3225
3226
3227
3228
3229
3230
3231
3232
3233
3234
3235
3236
3237
3238
3239
3240
3241
3242
3243
3244
3245
3246
3247
3248
3249
3250
3251
3252
3253
3254
3255
3256
3257
3258
3259
3260
3261
3262
3263
3264
3265
3266
3267
3268
3269
3270
3271
3272
3273
3274
3275
3276
3277
3278
3279
3280
3281
3282
3283
3284
3285
3286
3287
3288
3289
3290
3291
3292
3293
3294
3295
3296
3297
3298
3299
3300
3301
3302
3303
3304
3305
3306
3307
3308
3309
3310
3311
3312
3313
3314
3315
3316
3317
3318
3319
3320
3321
3322
3323
3324
3325
3326
3327
3328
3329
3330
3331
3332
3333
3334
3335
3336
3337
3338
3339
3340
3341
3342
3343
3344
3345
3346
3347
3348
3349
3350
3351
3352
3353
3354
3355
3356
3357
3358
3359
3360
3361
3362
3363
3364
3365
3366
3367
3368
3369
3370
3371
3372
3373
3374
3375
3376
3377
3378
3379
3380
3381
3382
3383
3384
3385
3386
3387
3388
3389
3390
3391
3392
3393
3394
3395
3396
3397
3398
3399
3400
3401
3402
3403
3404
3405
3406
3407
3408
3409
3410
3411
3412
3413
3414
3415
3416
3417
3418
3419
3420
3421
3422
3423
3424
3425
3426
3427
3428
3429
3430
3431
3432
3433
3434
3435
3436
3437
3438
3439
3440
3441
3442
3443
3444
3445
3446
3447
3448
3449
3450
3451
3452
3453
3454
3455
3456
3457
3458
3459
3460
3461
3462
3463
3464
3465
3466
3467
3468
3469
3470
3471
3472
3473
3474
3475
3476
3477
3478
3479
3480
3481
3482
3483
3484
3485
3486
3487
3488
3489
3490
3491
3492
3493
3494
3495
3496
3497
3498
3499
3500
3501
3502
3503
3504
3505
3506
3507
3508
3509
3510
3511
3512
3513
3514
3515
3516
3517
3518
3519
3520
3521
3522
3523
3524
3525
3526
3527
3528
3529
3530
3531
3532
3533
3534
3535
3536
3537
3538
3539
3540
3541
3542
3543
3544
3545
3546
3547
3548
3549
3550
3551
3552
3553
3554
3555
3556
3557
3558
3559
3560
3561
3562
3563
3564
3565
3566
3567
3568
3569
3570
3571
3572
3573
3574
3575
3576
3577
3578
3579
3580
3581
3582
3583
3584
3585
3586
3587
3588
3589
3590
3591
3592
3593
3594
3595
3596
3597
3598
3599
3600
3601
3602
3603
3604
3605
3606
3607
3608
3609
3610
3611
3612
3613
3614
3615
3616
3617
3618
3619
3620
3621
3622
3623
3624
3625
3626
3627
3628
3629
3630
3631
3632
3633
3634
3635
3636
3637
3638
3639
3640
3641
3642
3643
3644
3645
3646
3647
3648
3649
3650
3651
3652
3653
3654
3655
3656
3657
3658
3659
3660
3661
3662
3663
3664
3665
3666
3667
3668
3669
3670
3671
3672
3673
3674
3675
3676
3677
3678
3679
3680
3681
3682
3683
3684
3685
3686
3687
3688
3689
3690
3691
3692
3693
3694
3695
3696
3697
3698
3699
3700
3701
3702
3703
3704
3705
3706
3707
3708
3709
3710
3711
3712
3713
3714
3715
3716
3717
3718
3719
3720
3721
3722
3723
3724
3725
3726
3727
3728
3729
3730
3731
3732
3733
3734
3735
3736
3737
3738
3739
3740
3741
3742
3743
3744
3745
3746
3747
3748
3749
3750
3751
3752
3753
3754
3755
3756
3757
3758
3759
3760
3761
3762
3763
3764
3765
3766
3767
3768
3769
3770
3771
3772
3773
3774
3775
3776
3777
3778
3779
3780
3781
3782
3783
3784
3785
3786
3787
3788
3789
3790
3791
3792
3793
3794
3795
3796
3797
3798
3799
3800
3801
3802
3803
3804
3805
3806
3807
3808
3809
3810
3811
3812
3813
3814
3815
3816
3817
3818
3819
3820
3821
3822
3823
3824
3825
3826
3827
3828
3829
3830
3831
3832
3833
3834
3835
3836
3837
3838
3839
3840
3841
3842
3843
3844
3845
3846
3847
3848
3849
3850
3851
3852
3853
3854
3855
3856
3857
3858
3859
3860
3861
3862
3863
3864
3865
3866
3867
3868
3869
3870
3871
3872
3873
3874
3875
3876
3877
3878
3879
3880
3881
3882
3883
3884
3885
3886
3887
3888
3889
3890
3891
3892
3893
3894
3895
3896
3897
3898
3899
3900
3901
3902
3903
3904
3905
3906
3907
3908
3909
3910
3911
3912
3913
3914
3915
3916
3917
3918
3919
3920
3921
3922
3923
3924
3925
3926
3927
3928
3929
3930
3931
3932
3933
3934
3935
3936
3937
3938
3939
3940
3941
3942
3943
3944
3945
3946
3947
3948
3949
3950
3951
3952
3953
3954
3955
3956
3957
3958
3959
3960
3961
3962
3963
3964
3965
3966
3967
3968
3969
3970
3971
3972
3973
3974
3975
3976
3977
3978
3979
3980
3981
3982
3983
3984
3985
3986
3987
3988
3989
3990
3991
3992
3993
3994
3995
3996
3997
3998
3999
4000
4001
4002
4003
4004
4005
4006
4007
4008
4009
4010
4011
4012
4013
4014
4015
4016
4017
4018
4019
4020
4021
4022
4023
4024
4025
4026
4027
4028
4029
4030
4031
4032
4033
4034
4035
4036
4037
4038
4039
4040
4041
4042
4043
4044
4045
4046
4047
4048
4049
4050
4051
4052
4053
4054
4055
4056
4057
4058
4059
4060
4061
4062
4063
4064
4065
4066
4067
4068
4069
4070
4071
4072
4073
4074
4075
4076
4077
4078
4079
4080
4081
4082
4083
4084
4085
4086
4087
4088
4089
4090
4091
4092
4093
4094
4095
4096
4097
4098
4099
4100
4101
4102
4103
4104
4105
4106
4107
4108
4109
4110
4111
4112
4113
4114
4115
4116
4117
4118
4119
4120
4121
4122
4123
4124
4125
4126
4127
4128
4129
4130
4131
4132
4133
4134
4135
4136
4137
4138
4139
4140
4141
4142
4143
4144
4145
4146
4147
4148
4149
4150
4151
4152
4153
4154
4155
4156
4157
4158
4159
4160
4161
4162
4163
4164
4165
4166
4167
4168
4169
4170
4171
4172
4173
4174
4175
4176
4177
4178
4179
4180
4181
4182
4183
4184
4185
4186
4187
4188
4189
4190
4191
4192
4193
4194
4195
4196
4197
4198
4199
4200
4201
4202
4203
4204
4205
4206
4207
4208
4209
4210
4211
4212
4213
4214
4215
4216
4217
4218
4219
4220
4221
4222
4223
4224
4225
4226
4227
4228
4229
4230
4231
4232
4233
4234
4235
4236
4237
4238
4239
4240
4241
4242
4243
4244
4245
4246
4247
4248
4249
4250
4251
4252
4253
4254
4255
4256
4257
4258
4259
4260
4261
4262
4263
4264
4265
4266
4267
4268
4269
4270
4271
4272
4273
4274
4275
4276
4277
4278
4279
4280
4281
4282
4283
4284
4285
4286
4287
4288
4289
4290
4291
4292
4293
4294
4295
4296
4297
4298
4299
4300
4301
4302
4303
4304
4305
4306
4307
4308
4309
4310
4311
4312
4313
4314
4315
4316
4317
4318
4319
4320
4321
4322
4323
4324
4325
4326
4327
4328
4329
4330
4331
4332
4333
4334
4335
4336
4337
4338
4339
4340
4341
4342
4343
4344
4345
4346
4347
4348
4349
4350
4351
4352
4353
4354
4355
4356
4357
4358
4359
4360
4361
4362
4363
4364
4365
4366
4367
4368
4369
4370
4371
4372
4373
4374
4375
4376
4377
4378
4379
4380
4381
4382
4383
4384
4385
4386
4387
4388
4389
4390
4391
4392
4393
4394
4395
4396
4397
4398
4399
4400
4401
4402
4403
4404
4405
4406
4407
4408
4409
4410
4411
4412
4413
4414
4415
4416
4417
4418
4419
4420
4421
4422
4423
4424
4425
4426
4427
4428
4429
4430
4431
4432
4433
4434
4435
4436
4437
4438
4439
4440
4441
4442
4443
4444
4445
4446
4447
4448
4449
4450
4451
4452
4453
4454
4455
4456
4457
4458
4459
4460
4461
4462
4463
4464
4465
4466
4467
4468
4469
4470
4471
4472
4473
4474
4475
4476
4477
4478
4479
4480
4481
4482
4483
4484
4485
4486
4487
4488
4489
4490
4491
4492
4493
4494
4495
4496
4497
4498
4499
4500
4501
4502
4503
4504
4505
4506
4507
4508
4509
4510
4511
4512
4513
4514
4515
4516
4517
4518
4519
4520
4521
4522
4523
4524
4525
4526
4527
4528
4529
4530
4531
4532
4533
4534
4535
4536
4537
4538
4539
4540
4541
4542
4543
4544
4545
4546
4547
4548
4549
4550
4551
4552
4553
4554
4555
4556
4557
4558
4559
4560
4561
4562
4563
4564
4565
4566
4567
4568
4569
4570
4571
4572
4573
4574
4575
4576
4577
4578
4579
4580
4581
4582
4583
4584
4585
4586
4587
4588
4589
4590
4591
4592
4593
4594
4595
4596
4597
4598
4599
4600
4601
4602
4603
4604
4605
4606
4607
4608
4609
4610
4611
4612
4613
4614
4615
4616
4617
4618
4619
4620
4621
4622
4623
4624
4625
4626
4627
4628
4629
4630
4631
4632
4633
4634
4635
4636
4637
4638
4639
4640
4641
4642
4643
4644
4645
4646
4647
4648
4649
4650
4651
4652
4653
4654
4655
4656
4657
4658
4659
4660
4661
4662
4663
4664
4665
4666
4667
4668
4669
4670
4671
4672
4673
4674
4675
4676
4677
4678
4679
4680
4681
4682
4683
4684
4685
4686
4687
4688
4689
4690
4691
4692
4693
4694
4695
4696
4697
4698
4699
4700
4701
4702
4703
4704
4705
4706
4707
4708
4709
4710
4711
4712
4713
4714
4715
4716
4717
4718
4719
4720
4721
4722
4723
4724
4725
4726
4727
4728
4729
4730
4731
4732
4733
4734
4735
4736
4737
4738
4739
4740
4741
4742
4743
4744
4745
4746
4747
4748
4749
4750
4751
4752
4753
4754
4755
4756
4757
4758
4759
4760
4761
4762
4763
4764
4765
4766
4767
4768
4769
4770
4771
4772
4773
4774
4775
4776
4777
4778
4779
4780
4781
4782
4783
4784
4785
4786
4787
4788
4789
4790
4791
4792
4793
4794
4795
4796
4797
4798
4799
4800
4801
4802
4803
4804
4805
4806
4807
4808
4809
4810
4811
4812
4813
4814
4815
4816
4817
4818
4819
4820
4821
4822
4823
4824
4825
4826
4827
4828
4829
4830
4831
4832
4833
4834
4835
4836
4837
4838
4839
4840
4841
4842
4843
4844
4845
4846
4847
4848
4849
4850
4851
4852
4853
4854
4855
4856
4857
4858
4859
4860
4861
4862
4863
4864
4865
4866
4867
4868
4869
4870
4871
4872
4873
4874
4875
4876
4877
4878
4879
4880
4881
4882
4883
4884
4885
4886
4887
4888
4889
4890
4891
4892
4893
4894
4895
4896
4897
4898
4899
4900
4901
4902
4903
4904
4905
4906
4907
4908
4909
4910
4911
4912
4913
4914
4915
4916
4917
4918
4919
4920
4921
4922
4923
4924
4925
4926
4927
4928
4929
4930
4931
4932
4933
4934
4935
4936
4937
4938
4939
4940
4941
4942
4943
4944
4945
4946
4947
4948
4949
4950
4951
4952
4953
4954
4955
4956
4957
4958
4959
4960
4961
4962
4963
4964
4965
4966
4967
4968
4969
4970
4971
4972
4973
4974
4975
4976
4977
4978
4979
4980
4981
4982
4983
4984
4985
4986
4987
4988
4989
4990
4991
4992
4993
4994
4995
4996
4997
4998
4999
5000
5001
5002
5003
5004
5005
5006
5007
5008
5009
5010
5011
5012
5013
5014
5015
5016
5017
5018
5019
5020
5021
5022
5023
5024
5025
5026
5027
5028
5029
5030
5031
5032
5033
5034
5035
5036
5037
5038
5039
5040
5041
5042
5043
5044
5045
5046
5047
5048
5049
5050
5051
5052
5053
5054
5055
5056
5057
5058
5059
5060
5061
5062
5063
5064
5065
5066
5067
5068
5069
5070
5071
5072
5073
5074
5075
5076
5077
5078
5079
5080
5081
5082
5083
5084
5085
5086
5087
5088
5089
5090
5091
5092
5093
5094
5095
5096
5097
5098
5099
5100
5101
5102
5103
5104
5105
5106
5107
5108
5109
5110
5111
5112
5113
5114
5115
5116
5117
5118
5119
5120
5121
5122
5123
5124
5125
5126
5127
5128
5129
5130
5131
5132
5133
5134
5135
5136
5137
5138
5139
5140
5141
5142
5143
5144
5145
5146
5147
5148
5149
5150
5151
5152
5153
5154
5155
5156
5157
5158
5159
5160
5161
5162
5163
5164
5165
5166
5167
5168
5169
5170
5171
5172
5173
5174
5175
5176
5177
5178
5179
5180
5181
5182
5183
5184
5185
5186
5187
5188
5189
5190
5191
5192
5193
5194
5195
5196
5197
5198
5199
5200
5201
5202
5203
5204
5205
5206
5207
5208
5209
5210
5211
5212
5213
5214
5215
5216
5217
5218
5219
5220
5221
5222
5223
5224
5225
5226
5227
5228
5229
5230
5231
5232
5233
5234
5235
5236
5237
5238
5239
5240
5241
5242
5243
5244
5245
5246
5247
5248
5249
5250
5251
5252
5253
5254
5255
5256
5257
5258
5259
5260
5261
5262
5263
5264
5265
5266
5267
5268
5269
5270
5271
5272
5273
5274
5275
5276
5277
5278
5279
5280
5281
5282
5283
5284
5285
5286
5287
5288
5289
5290
5291
5292
5293
5294
5295
5296
5297
5298
5299
5300
5301
5302
5303
5304
5305
5306
5307
5308
5309
5310
5311
5312
5313
5314
5315
5316
5317
5318
5319
5320
5321
5322
5323
5324
5325
5326
5327
5328
5329
5330
5331
5332
5333
5334
5335
5336
5337
5338
5339
5340
5341
5342
5343
5344
5345
5346
5347
5348
5349
5350
5351
5352
5353
5354
5355
5356
5357
5358
5359
5360
5361
5362
5363
5364
5365
5366
5367
5368
5369
5370
5371
5372
5373
5374
5375
5376
5377
5378
5379
5380
5381
5382
5383
5384
5385
5386
5387
5388
5389
5390
5391
5392
5393
5394
5395
5396
5397
5398
5399
5400
5401
5402
5403
5404
5405
5406
5407
5408
5409
5410
5411
5412
5413
5414
5415
5416
5417
5418
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.&mdash;You have been in France? said my gentleman, turning
quick upon me, with the most civil triumph in the
world.&mdash;Strange! quoth I, debating the matter with myself,
That one and twenty miles sailing, for &rsquo;tis absolutely no
further from Dover to Calais, should give a man these
rights:&mdash;I&rsquo;ll look into them: so, giving up the
argument,&mdash;I went straight to my lodgings, put up half a
dozen shirts and a black pair of silk breeches,&mdash;&ldquo;the
coat I have on,&rdquo; said I, looking at the sleeve, &ldquo;will
do;&rdquo;&mdash;took a place in the Dover stage; and the packet
sailing at nine the next morning,&mdash;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&rsquo;aubaine</i>; <a name="citation557"></a><a
href="#footnote557" class="citation">[557]</a>&mdash;my shirts,
and black pair of silk breeches,&mdash;portmanteau and all, must
have gone to the King of France;&mdash;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!&mdash;Ungenerous! to seize upon the wreck of an unwary
passenger, whom your subjects had beckoned to their
coast!&mdash;By heaven! Sire, it is not well done; and much does
it grieve me, &rsquo;tis the monarch of a people so civilized and
courteous, and so renowned for sentiment and fine feelings, that
I have to reason with!&mdash;</p>

<p>But I have scarce set a foot in your dominions.&mdash;</p>

<h2>CALAIS.</h2>

<p>When I had fished my dinner, and drank the King of
France&rsquo;s health, to satisfy my mind that I bore him no
spleen, but, on the contrary, high honour for the humanity of his
temper,&mdash;I rose up an inch taller for the accommodation.</p>

<p>&mdash;No&mdash;said I&mdash;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&mdash;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>&mdash;Just God! said I, kicking my portmanteau aside, what is
there in this world&rsquo;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.&mdash;In doing this, I
felt every vessel in my frame dilate,&mdash;the arteries beat all
cheerily together, and every power which sustained life,
performed it with so little friction, that &rsquo;twould have
confounded the most <i>physical précieuse</i> in France;
with all her materialism, she could scarce have called me a
machine.&mdash;</p>

<p>I&rsquo;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;&mdash;I was at peace with the world before,
and this finish&rsquo;d the treaty with myself.&mdash;</p>

<p>&mdash;Now, was I King of France, cried I&mdash;what a
moment for an orphan to have begg&rsquo;d his father&rsquo;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&mdash;or one man may be
generous, as another is puissant;&mdash;<i>sed non quoad
hanc</i>&mdash;or be it as it may,&mdash;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: &rsquo;twould oft be no discredit to us, to suppose
it was so: I&rsquo;m sure at least for myself, that in many a
case I should be more highly satisfied, to have it said by the
world, &ldquo;I had had an affair with the moon, in which there
was neither sin nor shame,&rdquo; than have it pass altogether as
my own act and deed, wherein there was so much of both.</p>

<p>&mdash;But, be this as it may,&mdash;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&mdash;buttoned
it&mdash;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;&mdash;but from his eyes, and that
sort of fire which was in them, which seemed more temper&rsquo;d
by courtesy than years, could be no more than sixty:&mdash;Truth
might lie between&mdash;He was certainly sixty-five; and the
general air of his countenance, notwithstanding something
seem&rsquo;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,&mdash;mild, pale&mdash;penetrating, free from all
commonplace ideas of fat contented ignorance looking downwards upon
the earth;&mdash;it look&rsquo;d forwards; but look&rsquo;d as if
it look&rsquo;d at something beyond this world.&mdash;How one of
his order came by it, heaven above, who let it fall upon a
monk&rsquo;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 &rsquo;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,&mdash;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&rsquo;d being in his right)&mdash;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;&mdash;and
did it with so simple a grace,&mdash;and such an air of
deprecation was there in the whole cast of his look and
figure,&mdash;I was bewitch&rsquo;d not to have been struck with
it.</p>

<p>&mdash;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>&mdash;&rsquo;<span class="smcap">Tis</span> very true, said
I, replying to a cast upwards with his eyes, with which he had
concluded his address;&mdash;&rsquo;tis very true,&mdash;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:&mdash;I felt the full force of the appeal&mdash;I
acknowledge it, said I:&mdash;a coarse habit, and that but once
in three years with meagre diet,&mdash;are no great matters; and the
true point of pity is, as they can be earn&rsquo;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;&mdash;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&rsquo;d to you, for the ransom of the
unfortunate.&mdash;The monk made me a bow.&mdash;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.&mdash;The monk gave a cordial wave with his
head,&mdash;as much as to say, No doubt there is misery enough in
every corner of the world, as well as within our
convent&mdash;But we distinguish, said I, laying my hand upon the
sleeve of his tunic, in return for his appeal&mdash;we
distinguish, my good father! betwixt those who wish only to eat
the bread of their own labour&mdash;and those who eat the bread
of other people&rsquo;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&rsquo;d across his cheek, but could not tarry&mdash;Nature
seemed to have done with her resentments in him;&mdash;he showed
none:&mdash;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&mdash;Psha! said I, with an air of carelessness,
three several times&mdash;but it would not do: every ungracious
syllable I had utter&rsquo;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.&mdash;I
consider&rsquo;d his gray hairs&mdash;his courteous figure seem&rsquo;d
to re-enter and gently ask me what injury he had done
me?&mdash;and why I could use him thus?&mdash;I would have given
twenty livres for an advocate.&mdash;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,&mdash;and nature generally prompting us to the thing we
are fittest for, I walk&rsquo;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:&mdash;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,&mdash;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.
&rsquo;Tis true, we are endued with an imperfect power of
spreading our happiness sometimes beyond <i>her</i> limits, but
&rsquo;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;&mdash;his conversation will seldom be taken in
exchange for theirs without a large discount,&mdash;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&mdash;</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&mdash;</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:&mdash;</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;&mdash;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,&mdash;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>:&mdash;</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&rsquo;d, and of which I
am now sitting down to give an account,&mdash;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;&mdash;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;&mdash;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,&mdash;he was too phlegmatic for
that&mdash;but undoubtedly he expected to drink some sort of
vinous liquor; but whether good or bad, or indifferent,&mdash;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;&mdash;and even where the
adventurer is successful, the acquired stock must be used with
caution and sobriety, to turn to any profit:&mdash;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;&mdash;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.&mdash;Knowledge in most of its branches, and in most
affairs, is like music in an Italian street, whereof
those may partake who pay nothing.&mdash;But there is no nation
under heaven&mdash;and God is my record (before whose tribunal I
must one day come and give an account of this work)&mdash;that I
do not speak it vauntingly,&mdash;but there is no nation under
heaven abounding with more variety of learning,&mdash;where the
sciences may be more fitly woo&rsquo;d, or more surely won, than
here,&mdash;where art is encouraged, and will so soon rise
high,&mdash;where Nature (take her altogether) has so little to
answer for,&mdash;and, to close all, where there is more wit and
variety of character to feed the mind with:&mdash;Where then, my
dear countrymen, are you going?&mdash;</p>

<p>We are only looking at this chaise, said they.&mdash;Your most
obedient servant, said I, skipping out of it, and pulling off my
hat.&mdash;We were wondering, said one of them, who, I found was
an <i>Inquisitive Traveller</i>,&mdash;what could occasion its
motion.&mdash;&rsquo;Twas the agitation, said I, coolly, of
writing a preface.&mdash;I never heard, said the other, who was a
<i>Simple Traveller</i>, of a preface wrote in a
<i>désobligeant</i>.&mdash;It would have been better, said
I, in a <i>vis-a-vis</i>.</p>

<p>&mdash;<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&rsquo;d the passage more than myself, as I stepp&rsquo;d
along it to my room; it was effectually Mons. Dessein, the master
of the h&ocirc;tel, 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&rsquo;d to some
<i>Innocent Traveller</i>, who, on his return home, had left it
to Mons. Dessein&rsquo;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&rsquo;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,&mdash;but by none so
little as the standing so many months unpitied in the corner of
Mons. Dessein&rsquo;s coach-yard. Much indeed was not to be
said for it,&mdash;but something might;&mdash;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>&mdash;Now was I the master of this h&ocirc;tel, said I,
laying the point of my fore-finger on Mons. Dessein&rsquo;s
breast, I would inevitably make a point of getting rid of this
unfortunate <i>désobligeant</i>;&mdash;it stands swinging
reproaches at you every time you pass by it.</p>

<p><i>Mon Dieu</i>! said Mons. Dessein,&mdash;I have no
interest&mdash;Except the interest, said I, which men of a
certain turn of mind take, Mons. Dessein, in their own
sensations,&mdash;I&rsquo;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:&mdash;You suffer,
Mons. Dessein, as much as the machine&mdash;</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&rsquo;est bien vrai</i>, said he.&mdash;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,&mdash;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&rsquo;un homme
d&rsquo;esprit</i>.</p>

<p>The dose was made up exactly after my own prescription; so I
could not help tasting it,&mdash;and, returning Mons. Dessein his
bow, without more casuistry we walk&rsquo;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;&mdash;I looked at Monsieur Dessein through and
through&mdash;eyed him as he walk&rsquo;d along in
profile,&mdash;then, <i>en face</i>;&mdash;thought like a
Jew,&mdash;then a Turk,&mdash;disliked his wig,&mdash;cursed him
by my gods,&mdash;wished him at the devil.&mdash;</p>

<p>&mdash;And is all this to be lighted up in the heart for a
beggarly account of three or four louis d&rsquo;ors, which is the
most I can be overreached in?&mdash;Base passion! said I, turning
myself about, as a man naturally does upon a sudden reverse of
sentiment,&mdash;base, ungentle passion! thy hand is against
every man, and every man&rsquo;s hand against thee.&mdash;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:&mdash;she had followed us
unperceived.&mdash;Heaven forbid, indeed! said I, offering her my
own;&mdash;she had a black pair of silk gloves, open only at the
thumb and two fore-fingers, so accepted it without
reserve,&mdash;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, &rsquo;tis drawn from the objects and
occurrences without;&mdash;when your eyes are fixed upon a dead
blank,&mdash;you draw purely from yourselves. A silence of
a single moment upon Mons. Dessein&rsquo;s leaving us, had been
fatal to the situation&mdash;she had infallibly turned
about;&mdash;so I begun the conversation instantly.&mdash;</p>

<p>&mdash;But what were the temptations (as I write not to
apologize for the weaknesses of my heart in this tour,&mdash;but
to give an account of them)&mdash;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&mdash;I told him the truth,&mdash;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,&mdash;I wished him at
his convent.</p>

<p>When the heart flies out before the understanding, it saves
the judgment a world of pains.&mdash;I was certain she was of a
better order of beings;&mdash;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&mdash;</p>

<p>&mdash;Good God! how a man might lead such a creature as this
round the world with him!&mdash;</p>

<p>I had not yet seen her face&mdash;&rsquo;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;&mdash;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, &rsquo;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:&mdash;it
was a face of about six-and-twenty,&mdash;of a clear transparent
brown, simply set off without rouge or powder;&mdash;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,&mdash;it was
interesting: I fancied it wore the characters of a widow&rsquo;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;&mdash;but a thousand other
distresses might have traced the same lines; I wish&rsquo;d to
know what they had been&mdash;and was ready to inquire, (had the
same <i>bon ton</i> of conversation permitted, as in the days of
Esdras)&mdash;&ldquo;<i>What aileth thee</i>? <i>and why art thou
disquieted</i>? <i>and why is thy understanding
troubled</i>?&rdquo;&mdash;In a word, I felt benevolence for her;
and resolv&rsquo;d some way or other to throw in my mite of
courtesy,&mdash;if not of service.</p>

<p>Such were my temptations;&mdash;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&rsquo;s whimsical doings; to take two utter strangers by
their hands,&mdash;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>&mdash;And your reflection upon it shows how much, Monsieur,
she has embarrassed you by the adventure&mdash;</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&mdash;you had reason&mdash;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.&mdash;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>&mdash;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,&mdash;the muscles relaxed, and I beheld the same
unprotected look of distress which first won me to her
interest:&mdash;melancholy! to see such sprightliness the prey of
sorrow,&mdash;I pitied her from my soul; and though it may seem
ridiculous enough to a torpid heart,&mdash;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&mdash;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,&mdash;not as if she was going to
withdraw hers&mdash;but as if she thought about it;&mdash;and I
had infallibly lost it a second time, had not instinct more than
reason directed me to the last resource in these
dangers,&mdash;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&rsquo;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.&mdash;He stopp&rsquo;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.&mdash;You shall taste mine&mdash;said I, pulling out my box
(which was a small tortoise one) and putting it into his
hand.&mdash;&rsquo;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&rsquo;d as red as scarlet. <i>Mon
Dieu</i>! said he, pressing his hands together&mdash;you never
used me unkindly.&mdash;I should think, said the lady, he is not
likely. I blush&rsquo;d in my turn; but from what
movements, I leave to the few who feel, to analyze.&mdash;Excuse
me, Madame, replied I,&mdash;I treated him most unkindly; and
from no provocations.&mdash;&rsquo;Tis impossible, said the
lady.&mdash;My God! cried the monk, with a warmth of asseveration
which seem&rsquo;d not to belong to him&mdash;the fault was in
me, and in the indiscretion of my zeal.&mdash;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.&mdash;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&rsquo;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&mdash;he made me a low bow, and said, &rsquo;twas
too late to say whether it was the weakness or goodness of our
tempers which had involved us in this contest&mdash;but be it as
it would,&mdash;he begg&rsquo;d we might exchange boxes.&mdash;In saying
this, he presented his to me with one hand, as he took mine from
me in the other, and having kissed it,&mdash;with a stream of
good nature in his eyes, he put it into his bosom,&mdash;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,&mdash;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:&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;d us, if we set out for Paris
the next morning?&mdash;I could only answer for myself, I said;
and the lady added, she was for Amiens.&mdash;We dined there
yesterday, said the Simple Traveller.&mdash;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&rsquo;s little horn box to take a pinch of
snuff, I made them a quiet bow, and wishing them a good passage
to Dover.&mdash;They left us alone.&mdash;</p>

<p>&mdash;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?&mdash;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.&mdash;It will oblige you to
have a third horse, said Avarice, which will put twenty livres
out of your pocket;&mdash;You know not what she is, said
Caution;&mdash;or what scrapes the affair may draw you into,
whisper&rsquo;d Cowardice.&mdash;</p>

<p>Depend upon it, Yorick! said Discretion, &rsquo;twill be said
you went off with a mistress, and came by assignation to Calais
for that purpose;&mdash;</p>

<p>&mdash;You can never after, cried Hypocrisy aloud, show your
face in the world;&mdash;or rise, quoth Meanness, in the
church;&mdash;or be any thing in it, said Pride, but a lousy
prebendary.</p>

<p>But &rsquo;tis a civil thing, said I;&mdash;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&mdash;I turned instantly about to the
lady.&mdash;</p>

<p>&mdash;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&rsquo;d with her cheek half resting upon the palm
of her hand,&mdash;with the slow short-measur&rsquo;d step of
thoughtfulness,&mdash;and with her eyes, as she went step by
step, fixed upon the ground, it struck me she was trying the same
cause herself.&mdash;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&rsquo;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 &ldquo;that she was of the
better order of beings;&rdquo;&mdash;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,&mdash;I went no further; I got
ground enough for the situation which pleased me;&mdash;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;&mdash;it
brought on the idea of a further separation:&mdash;I might
possibly never see her more:&mdash;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,&mdash;her
family&rsquo;s&mdash;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&rsquo;d a score
different plans.&mdash;There was no such thing as a man&rsquo;s
asking her directly;&mdash;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&rsquo;d
I would do him the honour to present him to the lady.&mdash;I had
not been presented myself;&mdash;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.&mdash;<i>Vous
n&rsquo;&ecirc;tes pas de Londres</i>?&mdash;She was not, she
replied.&mdash;Then Madame must have come through
Flanders.&mdash;<i>Apparemment vous &ecirc;tes Flammande</i>?
said the French captain.&mdash;The lady answered, she
was.&mdash;<i>Peut &ecirc;tre de Lisle</i>? added he.&mdash;She
said, she was not of Lisle.&mdash;Nor Arras?&mdash;nor
Cambray?&mdash;nor Ghent?&mdash;nor Brussels?&mdash;She answered,
she was of Brussels.</p>

<p>He had had the honour, he said, to be at the bombardment of it
last war;&mdash;that it was finely situated, <i>pour
cela</i>,&mdash;and full of noblesse when the Imperialists were
driven out by the French (the lady made a slight
courtesy)&mdash;so giving her an account of the affair, and of
the share he had had in it,&mdash;he begg&rsquo;d the honour to
know her name,&mdash;so made his bow.</p>

<p>&mdash;<i>Et Madame a son Mari</i>?&mdash;said he, looking
back when he had made two steps,&mdash;and, without staying for
an answer&mdash;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&rsquo;d the door of the Remise, was another old
tatter&rsquo;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,&mdash;the very sight of it
stirr&rsquo;d up a disagreeable sensation within me now; and I
thought &rsquo;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.&mdash;They were too good;&mdash;so I pass&rsquo;d on to a
third, which stood behind, and forthwith begun to chaffer for the
price.&mdash;But &rsquo;twill scarce hold two, said I, opening
the door and getting in.&mdash;Have the goodness, Madame, said
Mons. Dessein, offering his arm, to step in.&mdash;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&rsquo;est</i></span><i> bien
comique</i>, &rsquo;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,&mdash;<i>c&rsquo;est bien comique</i>, said
she.&mdash;</p>

<p>&mdash;There wants nothing, said I, to make it so but the
comic use which the gallantry of a Frenchman would put it
to,&mdash;to make love the first moment, and an offer of his
person the second.</p>

<p>&rsquo;Tis their <i>fort</i>, replied the lady.</p>

<p>It is supposed so at least;&mdash;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&rsquo;s patience.</p>

<p>&mdash;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:&mdash;and to do it&mdash;pop&mdash;at first sight,
by declaration&mdash;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:&mdash;</p>

<p>That grave people hate love for the name&rsquo;s
sake;&mdash;</p>

<p>That selfish people hate it for their own;&mdash;</p>

<p>Hypocrites for heaven&rsquo;s;&mdash;</p>

<p>And that all of us, both old and young, being ten times worse
frightened than hurt by the very <i>report</i>,&mdash;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,&mdash;nor so vague as to be
misunderstood&mdash;with now and then a look of kindness, and
little or nothing said upon it,&mdash;leaves nature for your
mistress, and she fashions it to her mind.&mdash;</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&mdash;, 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&mdash;and could not help
telling her so;&mdash;for it is fatal to a proposal, Madame, said
I, that I was going to make to you&mdash;</p>

<p>&mdash;You need not tell me what the proposal was, said she,
laying her hand upon both mine, as she interrupted me.&mdash;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.&mdash;</p>

<p>Nature arms her with it, said I, for immediate
preservation.&mdash;But I think, said she, looking in my face, I
had no evil to apprehend,&mdash;and, to deal frankly with you,
had determined to accept it.&mdash;If I had&mdash;(she stopped a
moment)&mdash;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,&mdash;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,&mdash;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,&mdash;</p>

<p>&mdash;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>&mdash;If this won&rsquo;t turn out something,&mdash;another
will;&mdash;no matter,&mdash;&rsquo;tis an assay upon human
nature&mdash;I get my labour for my pains,&mdash;&rsquo;tis
enough;&mdash;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,
&rsquo;Tis all barren;&mdash;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:&mdash;if I could not do better, I would fasten them
upon some sweet myrtle, or seek some melancholy cypress to
connect myself to;&mdash;I would court their shade, and greet
them kindly for their protection.&mdash;I would cut my name upon
them, and swear they were the loveliest trees throughout the
desert: if their leaves wither&rsquo;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,&mdash;from Paris to Rome,&mdash;and so on;&mdash;but he
set out with the spleen and jaundice, and every object he
pass&rsquo;d by was discoloured or distorted.&mdash;He wrote an
account of them, but &rsquo;twas nothing but the account of his
miserable feelings.</p>

<p>I met Smelfungus in the grand portico of the
Pantheon:&mdash;he was just coming out of it.&mdash;&rsquo;<i>Tis
nothing but a huge cockpit</i>, <a name="citation580"></a><a
href="#footnote580" class="citation">[580]</a> said he:&mdash;I
wish you had said nothing worse of the Venus of Medicis, replied
I;&mdash;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&rsquo;d upon Smelfungus again at Turin, in his return
home; and a sad tale of sorrowful adventures had he to tell,
&ldquo;wherein he spoke of moving accidents by flood and field,
and of the cannibals that each other eat: the
Anthropophagi:&rdquo;&mdash;he had been flayed alive, and
bedevil&rsquo;d, and used worse than St. Bartholomew, at every
stage he had come at.&mdash;</p>

<p>&mdash;I&rsquo;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,&mdash;from Naples to Venice,&mdash;from
Venice to Vienna,&mdash;to Dresden, to Berlin, without one
generous connection or pleasurable anecdote to tell of; but he
had travell&rsquo;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.&mdash;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.&mdash;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.&mdash;Nor
was it till I got to Montreuil, upon the landlord&rsquo;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.&mdash;Because,
Monsieur, said the landlord, there is a clever young fellow, who
would be very proud of the honour to serve an
Englishman.&mdash;But why an English one, more than any
other?&mdash;They are so generous, said the
landlord.&mdash;I&rsquo;ll be shot if this is not a livre out of
my pocket, quoth I to myself, this very night.&mdash;But they
have wherewithal to be so, Monsieur, added he.&mdash;Set down one
livre more for that, quoth I.&mdash;It was but last night, said
the landlord, <i>qu&rsquo;un milord Anglois présentoit un
écu à la fille de chambre</i>.&mdash;<i>Tant pis
pour Mademoiselle Janatone</i>, said I.</p>

<p>Now Janatone, being the landlord&rsquo;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>&mdash;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&mdash;<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&rsquo;s table
demanded of Mr. H&mdash;, if he was H&mdash; the poet? No,
said Mr. H&mdash;, mildly.&mdash;<i>Tant pis</i>, replied the
marquis.</p>

<p>It is H&mdash; the historian, said another,&mdash;<i>Tant mieux</i>,
said the marquis. And Mr. H&mdash;, who is a man of an
excellent heart, return&rsquo;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,&mdash;saying only first, That as for his talents he would
presume to say nothing,&mdash;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&rsquo;d this in a manner which instantly
set my mind to the business I was upon;&mdash;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,&mdash;and this more or less,
according to the mood I am in, and the case;&mdash;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,&mdash;and then began to enquire what he could do: But I
shall find out his talents, quoth I, as I want
them,&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;d no further track of glory to him,&mdash;he retired
<i>à ses terres</i>, and lived <i>comme il plaisoit à Dieu</i>;&mdash;that is to
say, upon nothing.</p>

<p>&mdash;And so, quoth Wisdom, you have hired a drummer to
attend you in this tour of yours through France and
Italy!&mdash;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,&mdash;he is not ill off.&mdash;But you can do
something else, La Fleur? said I.&mdash;<i>O qu&rsquo;oui</i>! he
could make spatterdashes, and play a little upon the
fiddle.&mdash;Bravo! said Wisdom.&mdash;Why, I play a bass
myself, said I;&mdash;we shall do very well. You can shave,
and dress a wig a little, La Fleur?&mdash;He had all the
dispositions in the world.&mdash;It is enough for heaven! said I,
interrupting him,&mdash;and ought to be enough for me.&mdash;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,&mdash;I
was satisfied to my heart&rsquo;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;&mdash;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;&mdash;it supplied all
defects:&mdash;I had a constant resource in his looks in all
difficulties and distresses of my own&mdash;I was going to have
added of his too; but La Fleur was out of the reach of every
thing; for, whether &rsquo;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,&mdash;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,&mdash;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,&mdash;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,&mdash;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,&mdash;get the horses put to,&mdash;and desire the
landlord to come in with his bill.</p>

<p><i>C&rsquo;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>&mdash;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, &ldquo;he is always in love.&rdquo;&mdash;I
am heartily glad of it, said I,&mdash;&rsquo;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&rsquo;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,&mdash;I
can scarce find in it to give Misery a sixpence; and therefore I
always get out of it as fast as I can&mdash;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>&mdash;But in saying this,&mdash;sure I am commanding the
passion,&mdash;not myself.</p>

<h2>A FRAGMENT.</h2>

<p>&mdash;<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,&mdash;libels, pasquinades, and
tumults, there was no going there by day&mdash;&rsquo;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>! &amp;c. Every man almost spoke pure
iambics the next day, and talked of nothing but Perseus his
pathetic address,&mdash;&ldquo;<i>O Cupid! prince of gods and
men</i>!&rdquo;&mdash;in every street of Abdera, in every house,
&ldquo;O Cupid! Cupid!&rdquo;&mdash;in every mouth, like
the natural notes of some sweet melody which drop from it,
whether it will or no,&mdash;nothing but &ldquo;Cupid! Cupid!
prince of gods and men!&rdquo;&mdash;The fire caught&mdash;and
the whole city, like the heart of one man, open&rsquo;d itself to
Love.</p>

<p>No pharmacopolist could sell one grain of hellebore,&mdash;not
a single armourer had a heart to forge one instrument of
death;&mdash;Friendship and Virtue met together, and kiss&rsquo;d
each other in the street; the golden age returned, and hung over
the town of Abdera&mdash;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>&rsquo;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&rsquo;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, &ldquo;Let them go to the
devil!&rdquo;&mdash;&rsquo;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;&mdash;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,&mdash;I have but eight sous in the
world, showing them in my hand, and there are eight poor men and
eight poor women for &rsquo;em.</p>

<p>A poor tatter&rsquo;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>&mdash;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&rsquo;d a pinch on both sides of him: it was a
gift of consequence, and modestly declined.&mdash;The poor little
fellow pressed it upon them with a nod of
welcomeness.&mdash;<i>Prenez en&mdash;prenez</i>, said he,
looking another way; so they each took a pinch.&mdash;Pity thy
box should ever want one! said I to myself; so I put a couple of
sous into it&mdash;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,&mdash;&rsquo;twas doing
him an honour,&mdash;the other was only doing him a
charity;&mdash;and he made me a bow down to the ground for
it.</p>

<p>&mdash;Here! said I to an old soldier with one hand, who had
been campaigned and worn out to death in the
service&mdash;here&rsquo;s a couple of sous for
thee.&mdash;<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&rsquo;amour de Dieu</i>, which was the footing on which it was
begg&rsquo;d.&mdash;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>.&mdash;There&rsquo;s no opposing this, said I.</p>

<p><i>Milord Anglois</i>&mdash;the very sound was worth the
money;&mdash;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&rsquo;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.&mdash;Good God! said I&mdash;and I have not one single sous
left to give him.&mdash;But you have a thousand! cried all the
powers of nature, stirring within me;&mdash;so I gave
him&mdash;no matter what&mdash;I am ashamed to say <i>how
much</i> now,&mdash;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>&mdash;<i>Et le bon Dieu vous bénisse encore</i>, said
the old soldier, the dwarf, &amp;c. The <i>pauvre
honteux</i> could say nothing;&mdash;he pull&rsquo;d out a little
handkerchief, and wiped his face as he turned away&mdash;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)&mdash;he canter&rsquo;d away before me as
happy and as perpendicular as a prince.&mdash;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&rsquo;s career;&mdash;his bidet would not pass by
it,&mdash;a contention arose betwixt them, and the poor fellow
was kick&rsquo;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,&mdash;then this way, then that way, and in short,
every way but by the dead ass:&mdash;La Fleur insisted upon the
thing&mdash;and the bidet threw him.</p>

<p>What&rsquo;s the matter, La Fleur, said I, with this bidet of
thine? Monsieur, said he, <i>c&rsquo;est un cheval le plus
opiniâtre du monde</i>.&mdash;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.&mdash;<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,&mdash;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&mdash;the throwing once doublets&mdash;La Fleur&rsquo;s being
kick&rsquo;d off his horse, and so forth.&mdash;Cuckoldom, for
the same reason, is always&mdash;<i>Le Diable</i>!</p>

<p>But, in cases where the cast has something provoking in it, as
in that of the bidet&rsquo;s running away after, and leaving La
Fleur aground in jack-boots,&mdash;&rsquo;tis the second
degree.</p>

<p>&rsquo;Tis then <i>Peste</i>!</p>

<p>And for the third&mdash;</p>

<p>&mdash;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.&mdash;</p>

<p>Grant me, O ye powers which touch the tongue with eloquence in
distress!&mdash;what ever is my <i>cast</i>, grant me but decent
words to exclaim in, and I will give my nature way.</p>

<p>&mdash;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,&mdash;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.&mdash;</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>&mdash;<span class="smcap">And</span> this, said he, putting
the remains of a crust into his wallet&mdash;and this should have
been thy portion, said he, hadst thou been alive to have shared
it with me.&mdash;I thought, by the accent, it had been an
apostrophe to his child; but &rsquo;twas to his ass, and to the
very ass we had seen dead in the road, which had occasioned La
Fleur&rsquo;s misadventure. The man seemed to lament it
much; and it instantly brought into my mind Sancho&rsquo;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&rsquo;s pannel and its bridle on one side, which he took
up from time to time,&mdash;then laid them
down,&mdash;look&rsquo;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,&mdash;then laid it upon
the bit of his ass&rsquo;s bridle,&mdash;looked wistfully at the
little arrangement he had made&mdash;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>&mdash;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&rsquo;d
to pay Nature her tribute,&mdash;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;&mdash;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.&mdash;La Fleur offered him money.&mdash;The mourner said
he did not want it;&mdash;it was not the value of the
ass&mdash;but the loss of him.&mdash;The ass, he said, he was
assured, loved him;&mdash;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&rsquo;m sure thou hast been a merciful
master to him.&mdash;Alas! said the mourner, I thought so when he
was alive;&mdash;but now that he is dead, I think
otherwise.&mdash;I fear the weight of myself and my afflictions
together have been too much for him,&mdash;they have shortened
the poor creature&rsquo;s days, and I fear I have them to answer
for.&mdash;Shame on the world! said I to myself.&mdash;Did we but
love each other as this poor soul loved his
ass&mdash;&rsquo;twould be something.&mdash;</p>

<h2>NAMPONT.<br />
<span class="GutSmall">THE POSTILION.</span></h2>

<p><span class="smcap">The</span> concern which the poor
fellow&rsquo;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.&mdash;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&rsquo;s sake to
go slower:&mdash;and the louder I called, the more unmercifully
he galloped.&mdash;The deuce take him and his galloping
too&mdash;said I,&mdash;he&rsquo;ll go on tearing my nerves to
pieces till he has worked me into a foolish passion, and then
he&rsquo;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,&mdash;he had put me out of temper with him,&mdash;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.&mdash;</p>

<p>&mdash;Then, prithee, get on&mdash;get on, my good lad, said
I.</p>

<p>The postilion pointed to the hill.&mdash;I then tried to
return back to the story of the poor German and his ass&mdash;but
I had broke the clue,&mdash;and could no more get into it again,
than the postilion could into a trot.</p>

<p>&mdash;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>&mdash;Bless me! said I, rubbing my eyes,&mdash;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&mdash;&rsquo;s post-chaise, with his
sister in it, drove hastily by: she had just time to make me a
bow of recognition,&mdash;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&rsquo;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&mdash; 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,&mdash;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&mdash;,&mdash;that Madame de L&mdash; would be
glad to discharge her obligation.</p>

<p>Then I will meet thee, said I, fair spirit! at
Brussels;&mdash;&rsquo;tis only returning from Italy through
Germany to Holland, by the route of Flanders,
home;&mdash;&rsquo;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&rsquo;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,&mdash;swearing, as I did it, that it should last
me through the whole journey.&mdash;Why should I dissemble the
matter? I had sworn to her eternal fidelity;&mdash;she had
a right to my whole heart:&mdash;to divide my affections was to
lessen them;&mdash;to expose them was to risk them: where there
is risk there may be loss:&mdash;and what wilt thou have, Yorick,
to answer to a heart so full of trust and confidence&mdash;so
good, so gentle, and unreproaching!</p>

<p>&mdash;I will not go to Brussels, replied I, interrupting
myself.&mdash;But my imagination went on,&mdash;I recalled her
looks at that crisis of our separation, when neither of us had
power to say adieu! I look&rsquo;d at the picture she had
tied in a black riband about my neck,&mdash;and blush&rsquo;d as
I look&rsquo;d at it.&mdash;I would have given the world to have
kiss&rsquo;d it,&mdash;but was ashamed.&mdash;And shall this
tender flower, said I, pressing it between my hands,&mdash;shall
it be smitten to its very root,&mdash;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,&mdash;be thou my witness&mdash;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,&mdash;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&rsquo;d with impatience; and the Count de L&mdash;&rsquo;s
servant coming with the letter, being the first practicable
occasion which offer&rsquo;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&mdash;&rsquo;s servant,
in return, and not to be behindhand in politeness with La Fleur,
had taken him back with him to the Count&rsquo;s hotel. La
Fleur&rsquo;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>ma&icirc;tre
d&rsquo;h&ocirc;tel</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&mdash;, in passing from her brother&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&mdash;, on the part of his master,&mdash;added a long
apocrypha of inquiries after Madame de L&mdash;&rsquo;s
health,&mdash;told her, that Monsieur his master was <i>au
désespoire</i> for her re-establishment from the fatigues
of her journey,&mdash;and, to close all, that Monsieur had
received the letter which Madame had done him the honour&mdash;And
he has done me the honour, said Madame de L&mdash;, interrupting
La Fleur, to send a billet in return.</p>

<p>Madame de L&mdash; had said this with such a tone of reliance
upon the fact, that La Fleur had not power to disappoint her
expectations;&mdash;he trembled for my honour,&mdash;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&rsquo;une femme</i>! so that
when Madame de L&mdash; asked La Fleur if he had brought a
letter,&mdash;<i>O qu&rsquo;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;&mdash;then
contrariwise.&mdash;<i>Diable</i>! then sought every
pocket&mdash;pocket by pocket, round, not forgetting his
fob:&mdash;<i>Peste</i>!&mdash;then La Fleur emptied them upon
the floor,&mdash;pulled out a dirty cravat,&mdash;a
handkerchief,&mdash;a comb,&mdash;a whip lash,&mdash;a
nightcap,&mdash;then gave a peep into his hat,&mdash;<i>Quelle
étourderie</i>! He had left the letter upon the
table in the auberge;&mdash;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&rsquo;s letter, the arrangement gave
him an opportunity to recover the <i>faux pas</i>;&mdash;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;&mdash;but if I had,&mdash;a
devil himself could not have been angry: &rsquo;twas but the
officious zeal of a well meaning creature for my honour; and,
however he might have mistook the road,&mdash;or embarrassed me
in so doing,&mdash;his heart was in no fault,&mdash;I was under
no necessity to write;&mdash;and, what weighed more than
all,&mdash;he did not look as if he had done amiss.</p>

<p>&mdash;&rsquo;Tis all very well, La Fleur, said
I.&mdash;&rsquo;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&rsquo;d out and brought a little water in a
glass to dilute my ink,&mdash;then fetch&rsquo;d sand and
seal-wax.&mdash;It was all one; I wrote, and blotted, and tore
off, and burnt, and wrote again.&mdash;<i>Le diable
l&rsquo;emporte</i>! said I, half to myself,&mdash;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&rsquo;s wife, which he durst say would suit the
occasion.</p>

<p>I had a mind to let the poor fellow have his
humour.&mdash;Then prithee, said I, let me see it.</p>

<p>La Fleur instantly pulled out a little dirty pocket book
cramm&rsquo;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,&mdash;<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 m&ecirc;me temps au désespoir
par ce retour imprév&ugrave; du Caporal qui rend notre
entrev&ucirc;e 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&rsquo;amour n&rsquo;est <i>rien</i> sans sentiment.</p>

<p>Et le sentiment est encore <i>moins</i> sans amour.</p>

<p>On dit qu&rsquo;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&mdash;Vive l&rsquo;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,&mdash;and
saying nothing about mounting guard on Wednesday,&mdash;and the
letter was neither right nor wrong:&mdash;so, to gratify the poor
fellow, who stood trembling for my honour, his own, and the
honour of his letter,&mdash;I took the cream gently off it, and
whipping it up in my own way, I seal&rsquo;d it up and sent him
with it to Madame de L&mdash;;&mdash;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&mdash;&rsquo;tis
very well in such a place as Paris,&mdash;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;&mdash;I say <i>up into it</i>&mdash;for there is no
descending perpendicular amongst &rsquo;em with a &ldquo;<i>Me
voici</i>! <i>mes enfans</i>&rdquo;&mdash;here I
am&mdash;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.&mdash;The old with broken lances, and in helmets
which had lost their vizards;&mdash;the young in armour bright
which shone like gold, beplumed with each gay feather of the
east,&mdash;all,&mdash;all, tilting at it like fascinated knights
in tournaments of yore for fame and love.&mdash;</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;&mdash;seek,&mdash;seek some winding alley, with a
tourniquet at the end of it, where chariot never rolled or
flambeau shot its rays;&mdash;there thou mayest solace thy soul
in converse sweet with some kind grisette of a barber&rsquo;s
wife, and get into such coteries!&mdash;</p>

<p>&mdash;May I perish! if I do, said I, pulling out the letter
which I had to present to Madame de R&mdash;.&mdash;I&rsquo;ll
wait upon this lady, the very first thing I do. So I called
La Fleur to go seek me a barber directly,&mdash;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: &rsquo;twas either
above or below his art: I had nothing to do but to take one ready
made of his own recommendation.</p>

<p>&mdash;But I fear, friend! said I, this buckle won&rsquo;t
stand.&mdash;You may emerge it, replied he, into the ocean, and
it will stand.&mdash;</p>

<p>What a great scale is every thing upon in this city thought
I.&mdash;The utmost stretch of an English periwig-maker&rsquo;s
ideas could have gone no further than to have &ldquo;dipped it
into a pail of water.&rdquo;&mdash;What difference! &rsquo;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:&mdash;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;&mdash;the Parisian barber meant nothing.&mdash;</p>

<p>The pail of water standing beside the great deep, makes, certainly,
but a sorry figure in speech;&mdash;but, &rsquo;twill be
said,&mdash;it has one advantage&mdash;&rsquo;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>minuti&aelig;</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&rsquo;s hands,
that it was too late to think of going with my letter to Madame
R&mdash; 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 H&ocirc;tel de Modene, where I lodged, I
walked forth without any determination where to go;&mdash;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:
&rsquo;tis ye who open this door and let the stranger in.</p>

<p>&mdash;Pray, Madame, said I, have the goodness to tell me
which way I must turn to go to the Opéra
Comique?&mdash;Most willingly, Monsieur, said she, laying aside
her work.&mdash;</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>&mdash;<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&rsquo;ors with her, I should have said&mdash;&ldquo;This woman
is grateful.&rdquo;</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,&mdash;you must turn first to your left hand,&mdash;<i>mais
prenez garde</i>&mdash;there are two turns; and be so good as to
take the second&mdash;then go down a little way and you&rsquo;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&mdash;and there
any one will do himself the pleasure to show you.&mdash;</p>

<p>She repeated her instructions three times over to me, with the
same goodnatur&rsquo;d patience the third time as the
first;&mdash;and if <i>tones and manners</i> have a meaning,
which certainly they have, unless to hearts which shut them
out,&mdash;she seemed really interested that I should not lose
myself.</p>

<p>I will not suppose it was the woman&rsquo;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,&mdash;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;&mdash;so looking back,
and seeing her still standing in the door of the shop, as if to
look whether I went right or not,&mdash;I returned back to ask
her, whether the first turn was to my right or left,&mdash;for
that I had absolutely forgot.&mdash;Is it possible! said she,
half laughing. &rsquo;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&mdash;she took it, as every woman
takes a matter of right, with a slight curtsey.</p>

<p>&mdash;<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.&mdash;So I walk&rsquo;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>&mdash;He will be ready, Monsieur, said she, in a
moment.&mdash;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.&mdash;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.&mdash;</p>

<p>&mdash;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.&mdash;How wouldst thou have
laugh&rsquo;d and moralized upon my new profession!&mdash;and
thou shouldst have laugh&rsquo;d and moralized on.&mdash;Trust
me, my dear Eugenius, I should have said, &ldquo;There are worse
occupations in this world <i>than feeling a woman&rsquo;s
pulse</i>.&rdquo;&mdash;But a grisette&rsquo;s! thou wouldst have
said,&mdash;and in an open shop! Yorick&mdash;</p>

<p>&mdash;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.&mdash;&rsquo;Twas nobody but her
husband, she said;&mdash;so I began a fresh score.&mdash;Monsieur
is so good, quoth she, as he pass&rsquo;d by us, as to give
himself the trouble of feeling my pulse.&mdash;The husband took
off his hat, and making me a bow, said, I did him too much
honour&mdash;and having said that, he put on his hat
and walk&rsquo;d out.</p>

<p>Good God! said I to myself, as he went out,&mdash;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&rsquo;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:&mdash;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,&mdash;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:&mdash;Monsieur <i>le Mari</i> is
little better than the stone under your foot.</p>

<p>&mdash;Surely,&mdash;surely, man! it is not good for thee to
sit alone:&mdash;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>&mdash;And how does it beat, Monsieur? said she.&mdash;With
all the benignity, said I, looking quietly in her eyes, that I
expected.&mdash;She was going to say something civil in
return&mdash;but the lad came into the shop with the
gloves.&mdash;<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&rsquo;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.&mdash;It would not alter their
dimensions.&mdash;She begg&rsquo;d I would try a single pair,
which seemed to be the least.&mdash;She held it open;&mdash;my
hand slipped into it at once.&mdash;It will not do, said I,
shaking my head a little.&mdash;No, said she, doing the same
thing.</p>

<p>There are certain combined looks of simple
subtlety,&mdash;where whim, and sense, and seriousness, and
nonsense, are so blended, that all the languages of Babel set
loose together, could not express them;&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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,&mdash;and then at
me. I was not disposed to break silence:&mdash;I followed
her example: so, I looked at the gloves, then to the window, then
at the gloves, and then at her,&mdash;and so on alternately.</p>

<p>I found I lost considerably in every attack:&mdash;she had a
quick black eye, and shot through two such long and silken
eyelashes with such penetration, that she look&rsquo;d into my
very heart and reins.&mdash;It may seem strange, but I could
actually feel she did.&mdash;</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.&mdash;I wish&rsquo;d she had asked
a livre more, and was puzzling my brains how to bring the
matter about.&mdash;Do you think, my dear Sir, said she,
mistaking my embarrassment, that I could ask a sous too much of a
stranger&mdash;and of a stranger whose politeness, more than his
want of gloves, has done me the honour to lay himself at my
mercy?&mdash;<i>M&rsquo;en croyez capable</i>?&mdash;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&rsquo;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,&mdash;for he is no more,&mdash;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&mdash;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&rsquo;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&mdash;the sense is this:</p>

<p>&ldquo;Here&rsquo;s a poor stranger come into the box&mdash;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:&mdash;&rsquo;tis shutting the door of
conversation absolutely in his face&mdash;and using him worse
than a German.&rdquo;</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, &ldquo;I was sensible of his attention, and
return&rsquo;d him a thousand thanks for it.&rdquo;</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&rsquo;s concert at Milan,
and, was just entering the door of the hall, when the Marquisina
di F&mdash; was coming out in a sort of a hurry:&mdash;she was
almost upon me before I saw her; so I gave a spring to once side
to let her pass.&mdash;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.&mdash;We both flew together to the other side, and then
back,&mdash;and so on:&mdash;it was ridiculous: we both
blush&rsquo;d intolerably: so I did at last the thing I should
have done at first;&mdash;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&rsquo;d
back twice, and walk&rsquo;d along it rather sideways, as if she
would make room for any one coming up stairs to pass
her.&mdash;No, said I&mdash;that&rsquo;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;&mdash;so I ran and
begg&rsquo;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;&mdash;so we
reciprocally thank&rsquo;d each other. She was at the top
of the stairs; and seeing no <i>cicisbeo</i> near her, I
begg&rsquo;d to hand her to her coach;&mdash;so we went down the
stairs, stopping at every third step to talk of the concert
and the adventure.&mdash;Upon my word, Madame, said I, when I had
handed her in, I made six different efforts to let you go
out.&mdash;And I made six efforts, replied she, to let you
enter.&mdash;I wish to heaven you would make a seventh, said
I.&mdash;With all my heart, said she, making room.&mdash;Life is
too short to be long about the forms of it,&mdash;so I instantly
stepp&rsquo;d in, and she carried me home with her.&mdash;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,&mdash;and that was,
the unaccountable sport of Nature in forming such numbers of
dwarfs.&mdash;No doubt she sports at certain times in almost
every corner of the world; but in Paris there is no end to her
amusements.&mdash;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.&mdash;Melancholy application! especially where the size was
extremely little,&mdash;the face extremely dark,&mdash;the eyes
quick,&mdash;the nose long,&mdash;the teeth white,&mdash;the jaw
prominent,&mdash;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:&mdash;every third
man a pigmy!&mdash;some by rickety heads and hump
backs;&mdash;others by bandy legs;&mdash;a third set arrested by
the hand of Nature in the sixth and seventh years of their
growth;&mdash;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, &rsquo;tis owing to undue
bandages;&mdash;a Splenetic one, to want of air;&mdash;and an
Inquisitive Traveller, to fortify the system, may measure the
height of their houses,&mdash;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&rsquo;d up, that they had
not actually room enough to get them.&mdash;I do not call it
getting anything, said he;&mdash;&rsquo;tis getting
nothing.&mdash;Nay, continued he, rising in his argument,
&rsquo;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&rsquo;d him over. Upon turning up his face to
look at him after, I perceived he was about forty.&mdash;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.&mdash;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;&mdash;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&rsquo;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:&mdash;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&rsquo;s sleeve, and told him his distress.&mdash;The
German turn&rsquo;d his head back, looked down upon him as Goliah
did upon David,&mdash;and unfeelingly resumed his posture.</p>

<p>I was just then taking a pinch of snuff out of my monk&rsquo;s
little horn box.&mdash;And how would thy meek and courteous
spirit, my dear monk! so temper&rsquo;d to <i>bear and
forbear</i>!&mdash;how sweetly would it have lent an ear to this
poor soul&rsquo;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?&mdash;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.&mdash;The
German look&rsquo;d back coolly, and told him he was welcome, if
he could reach it.</p>

<p>An injury sharpen&rsquo;d by an insult, be it to whom it will,
makes every man of sentiment a party: I could have leap&rsquo;d
out of the box to have redressed it.&mdash;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,&mdash;the sentinel made his
way to it.&mdash;There was no occasion to tell the
grievance,&mdash;the thing told himself; so thrusting back the
German instantly with his musket,&mdash;he took the poor dwarf by
the hand, and placed him before him.&mdash;This is noble! said I,
clapping my hands together.&mdash;And yet you would not permit
this, said the old officer, in England.</p>

<p>&mdash;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,&mdash;by saying it was a <i>bon
mot</i>;&mdash;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 &ldquo;What was the matter?&rdquo; for a cry of
&ldquo;<i>Haussez les mains</i>, <i>Monsieur
l&rsquo;Abbé</i>!&rdquo; 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.&mdash;And can it be supposed, said I,
that an ecclesiastic would pick the grisettes&rsquo;
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&mdash;is it
possible, that a people so smit with sentiment should at the same
time be so unclean, and so unlike themselves,&mdash;<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.&mdash;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:&mdash;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:&mdash;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:&mdash;I thought I loved the man;
but I fear I mistook the object;&mdash;&rsquo;twas my own way of
thinking&mdash;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,&mdash;if the latter goes pricking up his ears, and
starting all the way at every object which he never saw
before.&mdash;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&rsquo;d at many a word the first
month,&mdash;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.&mdash;Of all women, Madame de Rambouliet
is the most correct; and I never wish to see one of more virtues
and purity of heart.&mdash;In our return back, Madame de
Rambouliet desired me to pull the cord.&mdash;I asked her if she
wanted anything&mdash;<i>Rien que pour pisser</i>, said Madame de
Rambouliet.</p>

<p>Grieve not, gentle traveller, to let Madame de Rambouliet
p&mdash;ss on.&mdash;And, ye fair mystic nymphs! go each one
<i>pluck your rose</i>, and scatter them in your path,&mdash;for
Madame de Rambouliet did no more.&mdash;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&rsquo;s advice to
his son upon the same subject into my head,&mdash;and that
bringing in Hamlet, and Hamlet the rest of Shakespeare&rsquo;s
works, I stopp&rsquo;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.&mdash;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&mdash;.</p>

<p>&mdash;And does the Count de B&mdash;, said I, read
Shakespeare? <i>C&rsquo;est un esprit fort</i>, replied the
bookseller.&mdash;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&rsquo;or or two at your shop.&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;d out
at the door together.</p>

<p>&mdash;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.&mdash;<i>Le
Dieu m&rsquo;en garde</i>! said the girl.&mdash;With reason, said
I, for if it is a good one, &rsquo;tis pity it should be stolen;
&rsquo;tis a little treasure to thee, and gives a better air to
your face, than if it was dress&rsquo;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.&mdash;&rsquo;Tis a very small one, said I, taking hold of
the bottom of it&mdash;she held it towards me&mdash;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:&mdash;&rsquo;twas one of those quiet, thankful sinkings,
where the spirit bows itself down,&mdash;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&rsquo;ll remember it;&mdash;so don&rsquo;t, my
dear, lay it out in ribands.</p>

<p>Upon my word, Sir, said the girl, earnestly, I am
incapable;&mdash;in saying which, as is usual in little bargains
of honour, she gave me her hand:&mdash;<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&mdash;she thank&rsquo;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;&mdash;but I see innocence, my
dear, in your face,&mdash;and foul befall the man who ever lays a
snare in its way!</p>

<p>The girl seem&rsquo;d affected some way or other with what I
said;&mdash;she gave a low sigh:&mdash;I found I was not
empowered to enquire at all after it,&mdash;so said nothing more
till I got to the corner of the Rue de Nevers, where, we were to
part.</p>

<p>&mdash;But is this the way, my dear, said I, to the
Hotel de Modene? She told me it was;&mdash;or that I might
go by the Rue de Gueneguault, which was the next turn.&mdash;Then
I&rsquo;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&mdash;and said, she
wished the Hotel de Modene was in the Rue de St.
Pierre.&mdash;You live there? said I.&mdash;She told me she was
<i>fille de chambre</i> to Madame R&mdash;.&mdash;Good God! said
I, &rsquo;tis the very lady for whom I have brought a letter from
Amiens.&mdash;The girl told me that Madame R&mdash;, she
believed, expected a stranger with a letter, and was impatient to
see him:&mdash;so I desired the girl to present my compliments to
Madame R&mdash;, 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&rsquo;d.&mdash;We then stopped a moment whilst she disposed
of her <i>Égarements du Cœur</i>, &amp;c. more commodiously
than carrying them in her hand&mdash;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>&rsquo;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.&mdash;I was just bidding
her,&mdash;but she did it of herself, with that undeliberating
simplicity, which show&rsquo;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.&mdash;Tut! said I, are
we not all relations?</p>

<p>When we arrived at the turning up of the Rue de Gueneguault, I
stopp&rsquo;d to bid her adieu for good and all: the girl would
thank me again for my company and kindness.&mdash;She bid me
adieu twice.&mdash;I repeated it as often; and so cordial was the
parting between us, that had it happened any where else,
I&rsquo;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,&mdash;I did, what
amounted to the same thing&mdash;</p>

<p>&mdash;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.&mdash;The deuce take it! said I,&mdash;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;&mdash;and now is the time I want it.</p>

<p>I had left London with so much precipitation, that it never
enter&rsquo;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 &mdash;&mdash; had hired
the packet, I begg&rsquo;d he would take me in his suite.
The Count had some little knowledge of me, so made little or no
difficulty,&mdash;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&rsquo;d there, I
might get to Paris without interruption; but that in Paris I must
make friends and shift for myself.&mdash;Let me get to Paris,
Monsieur le Count, said I,&mdash;and I shall do very well.
So I embark&rsquo;d, and never thought more of the matter.</p>

<p>When La Fleur told me the Lieutenant de Police had been
enquiring after me,&mdash;the thing instantly recurred;&mdash;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.&mdash;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;&mdash;and poor La Fleur
advanced three steps towards me, and with that sort of movement
which a good soul makes to succour a distress&rsquo;d
one:&mdash;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.&mdash;If Monsieur, said he, has not a
passport (<i>apparemment</i>) in all likelihood he has friends in
Paris who can procure him one.&mdash;Not that I know of, quoth I,
with an air of indifference.&mdash;Then <i>certes</i>, replied
he, you&rsquo;ll be sent to the Bastile or the Chatelet <i>au
moins</i>.&mdash;Poo! said I, the King of France is a good
natur&rsquo;d soul:&mdash;he&rsquo;ll hurt nobody.&mdash;<i>Cela
n&rsquo;emp&ecirc;che pas</i>, said he&mdash;you will certainly
be sent to the Bastile to-morrow morning.&mdash;But I&rsquo;ve
taken your lodgings for a month, answer&rsquo;d I, and I&rsquo;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>;&mdash;and, having both said
and sworn it,&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;d to him with more than usual gaiety about
Paris, and of the Opéra Comique.&mdash;La Fleur had been
there himself, and had followed me through the streets as far as
the bookseller&rsquo;s shop; but seeing me come out with
the young <i>fille de chambre</i>, and that we walk&rsquo;d down
the Quai de Conti together, La Fleur deem&rsquo;d it unnecessary
to follow me a step further;&mdash;so making his own reflections
upon it, he took a shorter cut,&mdash;and got to the hotel in
time to be inform&rsquo;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.&mdash;</p>

<p>&mdash;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:&mdash;I must tell it here.</p>

<p>Eugenius, knowing that I was as little subject to be
overburden&rsquo;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&rsquo;d out his purse in order to empty it into
mine.&mdash;I&rsquo;ve enough in conscience, Eugenius, said
I.&mdash;Indeed, Yorick, you have not, replied Eugenius; I know
France and Italy better than you.&mdash;But you don&rsquo;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&rsquo;d up into
the Bastile, and that I shall live there a couple of months
entirely at the king of France&rsquo;s expense.&mdash;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&mdash;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>&mdash;And as for the Bastile; the terror is in the
word.&mdash;Make the most of it you can, said I to myself, the
Bastile is but another word for a tower;&mdash;and a tower is but
another word for a house you can&rsquo;t get out of.&mdash;Mercy
on the gouty! for they are in it twice a year.&mdash;But with
nine livres a day, and pen and ink, and paper, and patience,
albeit a man can&rsquo;t get out, he may do very well
within,&mdash;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&rsquo;d down stairs in no small triumph with the conceit of
my reasoning.&mdash;Beshrew the sombre pencil! said I,
vauntingly&mdash;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.&mdash;&rsquo;Tis true, said I, correcting the
proposition,&mdash;the Bastile is not an evil to be
despised;&mdash;but strip it of its towers&mdash;fill up the
fosse,&mdash;unbarricade the doors&mdash;call it simply a
confinement, and suppose &rsquo;tis some tyrant of a
distemper&mdash;and not of a man, which holds you in
it,&mdash;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 &ldquo;it
could not get out.&rdquo;&mdash;I look&rsquo;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.&mdash;&ldquo;I can&rsquo;t get
out,&mdash;I can&rsquo;t get out,&rdquo; 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&rsquo;d it, with the same lamentation of its
captivity. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t get out,&rdquo; said the
starling.&mdash;God help thee! said I, but I&rsquo;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.&mdash;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.&mdash;I fear, poor
creature! said I, I cannot set thee at
liberty.&mdash;&ldquo;No,&rdquo; said the starling,&mdash;
&ldquo;I can&rsquo;t get out&mdash;I can&rsquo;t get out,&rdquo;
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&rsquo;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,&mdash;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.&mdash;&rsquo;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.&mdash;No <i>tint</i> of words
can spot thy snowy mantle, or chymic power turn thy sceptre into
iron:&mdash;with thee to smile upon him as he eats his crust, the
swain is happier than his monarch, from whose court thou art
exiled!&mdash;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,&mdash;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.&mdash;</p>

<p>
&mdash;I took a single captive, and having first shut
him up in his dungeon, I then look&rsquo;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&rsquo;d. Upon looking nearer
I saw him pale and feverish: in thirty years the western breeze
had not once fann&rsquo;d his blood;&mdash;he had seen no sun, no
moon, in all that time&mdash;nor had the voice of friend or
kinsman breathed through his lattice.&mdash;His
children&mdash;</p>

<p>But here my heart began to bleed&mdash;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&rsquo;d all over with the dismal days and nights he had
passed there;&mdash;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,&mdash;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.&mdash;He gave a
deep sigh.&mdash;I saw the iron enter into his soul!&mdash;I
burst into tears.&mdash;I could not sustain the picture of
confinement which my fancy had drawn.&mdash;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&rsquo;ll go directly, said I, myself to Monsieur le Duc de
Choiseul.</p>

<p>La Fleur would have put me to bed; but&mdash;not willing he
should see anything upon my cheek which would cost the honest
fellow a heart-ache,&mdash;I told him I would go to bed by
myself,&mdash;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. &mdash; 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;&mdash;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&rsquo;s tongue,
the four simple words&mdash;(and no more)&mdash;to which I
own&rsquo;d myself so much its debtor.</p>

<p>Upon his master&rsquo;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&mdash;, Lord A&mdash; begg&rsquo;d the bird of
me;&mdash;in a week Lord A&mdash; gave him to Lord B&mdash;; Lord
B&mdash; made a present of him to Lord C&mdash;; and Lord
C&mdash;&rsquo;s gentleman sold him to Lord D&mdash;&rsquo;s for
a shilling; Lord D&mdash; gave him to Lord E&mdash;; and so
on&mdash;half round the alphabet. From that rank he
pass&rsquo;d into the lower house, and pass&rsquo;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.&mdash;Thus:</p>

<p>&mdash;And let the herald&rsquo;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&mdash; 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&mdash;&rsquo;s good graces.&mdash;This will do, said
I.&mdash;Just as well, retorted I again, as a coat carried up to
him by an adventurous tailor, without taking his measure.
Fool! continued I,&mdash;see Monsieur le Duc&rsquo;s face
first;&mdash;observe what character is written in it;&mdash;take
notice in what posture he stands to hear you;&mdash;mark the
turns and expressions of his body and limbs;&mdash;and for the
tone,&mdash;the first sound which comes from his lips will give
it you; and from all these together you&rsquo;ll compound an
address at once upon the spot, which cannot disgust the
Duke;&mdash;the ingredients are his own, and most likely to go
down.</p>

<p>
Well! said I, I wish it well over.&mdash;Coward again! as if man to man
was not equal throughout the whole surface of the globe; and if
in the field&mdash;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&mdash; with the Bastile in thy
looks;&mdash;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.&mdash;Then I&rsquo;ll go to the Duke, by
heaven! with all the gaiety and debonairness in the
world.&mdash;</p>

<p>&mdash;And there you are wrong again, replied I.&mdash;A heart
at ease, Yorick, flies into no extremes&mdash;&rsquo;tis ever on
its centre.&mdash;Well! well! cried I, as the coachman
turn&rsquo;d in at the gates, I find I shall do very well: and by
the time he had wheel&rsquo;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,&mdash;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>ma&icirc;tre d&rsquo;h&ocirc;tel</i>,
but had more the air of one of the under secretaries, who told me
the Duc de C&mdash; was busy.&mdash;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.&mdash;He replied, that did not
increase the difficulty.&mdash;I made him a slight bow, and told
him, I had something of importance to say to Monsieur le
Duc. The secretary look&rsquo;d towards the stairs, as if
he was about to leave me to carry up this account to some
one.&mdash;But I must not mislead you, said I,&mdash;for what I
have to say is of no manner of importance to Monsieur le Duc de
C&mdash; &mdash;but of great importance to
myself.&mdash;<i>C&rsquo;est une autre affaire</i>, replied
he.&mdash;Not at all, said I, to a man of gallantry.&mdash;But
pray, good sir, continued I, when can a stranger hope to have
access?&mdash;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;&mdash;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;&mdash;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&rsquo;d the
cord, and ordered the coachman to drive round some of the
principal streets.&mdash;I suppose the town is not very large,
said I.&mdash;The coachman begg&rsquo;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.&mdash;The Count
de B&mdash;, of whom the bookseller at the Quai de Conti had
spoke so handsomely the night before, came instantly into my
mind.&mdash;And why should I not go, thought I, to the Count de
B&mdash;, who has so high an idea of English books and English
men&mdash;and tell him my story? so I changed my mind a second
time.&mdash;In truth it was the third; for I had intended that
day for Madame de R&mdash;, 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;&mdash;but I am governed by
circumstances;&mdash;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&rsquo;s hotel.</p>

<p>La Fleur returned a little pale; and told me it was a
Chevalier de St. Louis selling pâtés.&mdash;It is
impossible, La Fleur, said I.&mdash;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&mdash;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&rsquo;s life awakens a better principle
than curiosity: I could not help looking for some time at him as
I sat in the remise:&mdash;the more I look&rsquo;d at him, his
croix, and his basket, the stronger they wove themselves into my
brain.&mdash;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;&mdash;of a sedate look, something
approaching to gravity. I did not wonder.&mdash;I went up
rather to the basket than him, and having lifted up the napkin,
and taking one of his pâtés into my hand,&mdash;I
begg&rsquo;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,&mdash;and indeed, said
he, without anything but this,&mdash;(pointing, as he said it, to
his croix).&mdash;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&mdash;unless Providence had offer&rsquo;d him a better.</p>

<p>It would be wicked to withhold a pleasure from the good, in
passing over what happen&rsquo;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.&mdash;He had told them the same story, and always with so
much modesty and good sense, that it had reach&rsquo;d at last
the king&rsquo;s ears;&mdash;who, hearing the Chevalier had been
a gallant officer, and respected by the whole regiment as a man
of honour and integrity,&mdash;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:&mdash;the two stories reflect light upon each
other,&mdash;and &rsquo;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,&mdash;I stop not to tell the causes which gradually
brought the house d&rsquo;E&mdash;, in Brittany, into
decay. The Marquis d&rsquo;E&mdash; 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;&mdash;their indiscretions had put it out of his
power. There was enough left for the little exigencies of
<i>obscurity</i>.&mdash;But he had two boys who looked up to him
for <i>light</i>;&mdash;he thought they deserved it. He had
tried his sword&mdash;it could not open the way,&mdash;the
<i>mounting</i> was too expensive,&mdash;and simple economy was
not a match for it:&mdash;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&rsquo;d to see re-blossom.&mdash;But in Brittany, there
being a provision for this, he avail&rsquo;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&rsquo;d, he said, was no less in force, he
took his sword from his side:&mdash;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&rsquo;s sword: he staid a
few minutes to see it deposited in the archives of his
house&mdash;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&rsquo;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;&mdash;it was so to me.</p>

<p>The Marquis entered the court with his whole family: he
supported his lady,&mdash;his eldest son supported his sister,
and his youngest was at the other extreme of the line next his
mother;&mdash;he put his handkerchief to his face
twice.&mdash;</p>

<p>&mdash;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,&mdash;he reclaim&rsquo;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:&mdash;&rsquo;twas the shining face of
a friend he had once given up&mdash;he look&rsquo;d attentively
along it, beginning at the hilt, as if to see whether it was the
same,&mdash;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,&mdash;I think&mdash;I saw a tear fall upon the
place. I could not be deceived by what followed.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I shall find,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;some <i>other
way</i> to get it off.&rdquo;</p>

<p>
When the Marquis had said this, he returned his sword into its
scabbard, made a bow to the guardians of it,&mdash;and, with his
wife and daughter, and his two sons following him, walk&rsquo;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&mdash;. The set of
Shakespeares was laid upon the table, and he was tumbling them
over. I walk&rsquo;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,&mdash;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:&mdash;it is my countryman,
the great Shakespeare, said I, pointing to his works&mdash;<i>et
ayez la bonté</i>, <i>mon cher ami</i>, apostrophizing his
spirit, added I, <i>de me faire cet
honneur-là</i>.&mdash;</p>

<p>The Count smiled at the singularity of the introduction; and
seeing I look&rsquo;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&rsquo;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.&mdash;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>&mdash;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;&mdash;but I have no apprehensions, continued
I;&mdash;for, in falling into the hands of the most
polish&rsquo;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.&mdash;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&mdash;&rsquo;s cheeks as
I spoke this.&mdash;<i>Ne craignez rien</i>&mdash;Don&rsquo;t
fear, said he.&mdash;Indeed, I don&rsquo;t, replied I
again.&mdash;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>&mdash;My application to you, Monsieur le Count de B&mdash;
(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,&mdash;and once or twice said,&mdash;<i>C&rsquo;est
bien dit</i>. So I rested my cause there&mdash;and
determined to say no more about it.</p>

<p>The Count led the discourse: we talk&rsquo;d of indifferent
things,&mdash;of books, and politics, and men;&mdash;and then of
women.&mdash;God bless them all! said I, after much discourse
about them&mdash;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&rsquo;Anglois</i>, said
the Count, gaily;&mdash;you are not come to spy the nakedness of
the land;&mdash;I believe you;&mdash;<i>ni encore</i>, I dare
say, <i>that</i> of our women!&mdash;But permit me to
conjecture,&mdash;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,&mdash;the least of which I could not venture to a
single one to gain heaven.</p>

<p>Excuse me, Monsieur le Count, said I;&mdash;as for the
nakedness of your land, if I saw it, I should cast my eyes over
it with tears in them;&mdash;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:&mdash;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:&mdash;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,&mdash;nor the
Luxembourg,&mdash;nor the Façade of the Louvre,&mdash;nor
have attempted to swell the catalogues we have of pictures,
statues, and churches.&mdash;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,&mdash;and from France will lead me through
Italy;&mdash;&rsquo;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,&mdash;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.&mdash;But <i>à
propos</i>, said he;&mdash;Shakespeare is full of great
things;&mdash;he forgot a small punctilio of announcing your
name:&mdash;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,&mdash;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,&mdash;and have an end of it. It was the only
time and occasion in my life I could accomplish this to any
purpose;&mdash;for Shakespeare lying upon the table, and
recollecting I was in his books, I took up Hamlet, and turning
immediately to the grave-diggers&rsquo; 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,&mdash;<i>Me voici</i>! said
I.</p>

<p>Now, whether the idea of poor Yorick&rsquo;s skull was put out
of the Count&rsquo;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;&mdash;&rsquo;tis certain the
French conceive better than they combine;&mdash;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:&mdash;&ldquo;He could not
bear,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;to look into the sermons wrote by
the King of Denmark&rsquo;s jester.&rdquo; 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&rsquo;s court;&mdash;the other Yorick
is myself, who have flourished, my Lord, in no court.&mdash;He
shook his head. Good God! said I, you might as well
confound Alexander the Great with Alexander the Coppersmith, my
lord!&mdash;&ldquo;&rsquo;Twas all one,&rdquo; he
replied.&mdash;</p>

<p>&mdash;If Alexander, King of Macedon, could have translated
your Lordship, said I, I&rsquo;m sure your Lordship would not
have said so.</p>

<p>The poor Count de B&mdash; fell but into the same
<i>error</i>.</p>

<p>&mdash;<i>Et</i>, <i>Monsieur</i>, <i>est-il Yorick</i>? cried
the Count.&mdash;<i>Je le suis</i>, said
I.&mdash;<i>Vous</i>?&mdash;<i>Moi</i>,&mdash;<i>moi qui ai
l&rsquo;honneur de vous parler</i>, <i>Monsieur le
Comte</i>.&mdash;<i>Mon Dieu</i>! said he, embracing
me,&mdash;<i>Vous &ecirc;tes 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&mdash; had gone so abruptly out of the room, any more than I
could conceive why he had put the Shakespeare into his
pocket.&mdash;<i>Mysteries which must explain themselves are not
worth the loss of time which a conjecture about them takes
up</i>: &rsquo;twas better to read Shakespeare; so taking up
&ldquo;<i>Much Ado About Nothing</i>,&rdquo; 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&rsquo;s spirit, that can at once
surrender itself to illusions, which cheat expectation and sorrow
of their weary moments!&mdash;Long,&mdash;long since had ye
number&rsquo;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&rsquo;d.&mdash;When evils press sore
upon me, and there is no retreat from them in this world, then I
take a new course;&mdash;I leave it,&mdash;and as I have a
clearer idea of the Elysian fields than I have of heaven, I force
myself, like &AElig;neas, into them.&mdash;I see him meet the
pensive shade of his forsaken Dido, and wish to recognise
it;&mdash;I see the injured spirit wave her head, and turn off
silent from the author of her miseries and dishonours;&mdash;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&mdash;nor does
man disquiet himself</i> in vain <i>by it</i>:&mdash;he oftener
does so in trusting the issue of his commotions to reason
only.&mdash;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&mdash; entered, with my passport in his hand. Monsieur le
Duc de C&mdash;, 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>.&mdash;Had it been for
any one but the king&rsquo;s jester, added the Count, I could not
have got it these two hours.&mdash;<i>Pardonnez moi</i>, Monsieur
le Count, said I&mdash;I am not the king&rsquo;s
jester.&mdash;But you are Yorick?&mdash;Yes.&mdash;<i>Et
vous plaisantez</i>?&mdash;I answered, Indeed I did
jest,&mdash;but was not paid for it;&mdash;&rsquo;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.;&mdash;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;&mdash;and our ladies are all so chaste, so spotless, so
good, so devout,&mdash;there is nothing for a jester to make a
jest of.&mdash;</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&rsquo;s jester, and his baggage, travel
quietly along, I own the triumph of obtaining the passport was
not a little tarnish&rsquo;d by the figure I cut in it.&mdash;But
there is nothing unmix&rsquo;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,&mdash;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>&mdash;&rsquo;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;&mdash;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.&mdash;So I
twice,&mdash;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&mdash;, 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>&mdash;<i>Mais passe</i>, <i>pour cela</i>.&mdash;Speak
frankly, said he: do you find all the urbanity in the French
which the world give us the honour of?&mdash;I had found every
thing, I said, which confirmed it.&mdash;<i>Vraiment</i>, said
the Count, <i>les François sont polis</i>.&mdash;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.&mdash;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.&mdash;The Count de B&mdash; did not understand music, so
desired me to explain it some other way. A polish&rsquo;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&rsquo;d to arrive at:&mdash;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;&mdash;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,&mdash;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&rsquo;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:&mdash;</p>

<p>See, Monsieur le Count, said I, rising up, and laying them
before him upon the table,&mdash;by jingling and rubbing one
against another for seventy years together in one body&rsquo;s
pocket or another&rsquo;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&rsquo;s hands, preserve the first sharpnesses
which the fine hand of Nature has given them;&mdash;they are not
so pleasant to feel,&mdash;but in return the legend is so
visible, that at the first look you see whose image and
superscription they bear.&mdash;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;&mdash;they are a
loyal, a gallant, a generous, an ingenious, and good
temper&rsquo;d people as is under heaven;&mdash;if they have a
fault&mdash;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.&mdash;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&mdash;.</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,&mdash;or, in what manner
you support it.&mdash;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.&mdash;I promised the Count
I would do myself the honour of dining with him before I set out
for Italy;&mdash;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.&mdash;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&mdash; had sent her upon some
commission to a <i>marchande des modes</i> within a step or two
of the H&ocirc;tel de Modene; and as I had fail&rsquo;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,&mdash;the crimson window curtains (which were of the same
colour as those of the bed) were drawn close:&mdash;the sun was
setting, and reflected through them so warm a tint into the fair
<i>fille de chambre&rsquo;s</i> face,&mdash;I thought she
blush&rsquo;d;&mdash;the idea of it made me blush
myself:&mdash;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:&mdash;&rsquo;tis sent
impetuous from the heart, and virtue flies after it,&mdash;not to
call it back, but to make the sensation of it more delicious to
the nerves:&mdash;&rsquo;tis associated.&mdash;</p>

<p>
But I&rsquo;ll not describe it;&mdash;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.&mdash;I sought five
minutes for a card;&mdash;I knew I had not one.&mdash;I took up a
pen.&mdash;I laid it down again;&mdash;my hand
trembled:&mdash;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;&mdash;but I seldom resist him at
all; from a terror, though I may conquer, I may still get a hurt
in the combat;&mdash;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&mdash;took up first the pen I cast
down, then offer&rsquo;d to hold me the ink; she offer&rsquo;d it
so sweetly, I was going to accept it;&mdash;but I durst
not;&mdash;I have nothing, my dear, said I, to write
upon.&mdash;Write it, said she, simply, upon anything.&mdash;</p>

<p>I was just going to cry out, Then I will write it, fair girl!
upon thy lips.&mdash;</p>

<p>If I do, said I, I shall perish;&mdash;so I took her by the
hand, and led her to the door, and begg&rsquo;d she would not
forget the lesson I had given her.&mdash;She said, indeed she
would not;&mdash;and, as she uttered it with some earnestness,
she turn&rsquo;d about, and gave me both her hands, closed
together, into mine;&mdash;it was impossible not to compress them
in that situation;&mdash;I wish&rsquo;d to let them go; and all
the time I held them, I kept arguing within myself against
it,&mdash;and still I held them on.&mdash;In two minutes I found
I had all the battle to fight over again;&mdash;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.&mdash;I had still hold of her
hands&mdash;and how it happened I can give no account; but I
neither ask&rsquo;d her&mdash;nor drew her&mdash;nor did I think
of the bed;&mdash;but so it did happen, we both sat down.</p>

<p>I&rsquo;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&mdash;then into the
left.&mdash;&ldquo;She had lost it.&rdquo;&mdash;I
never bore expectation more quietly;&mdash;it was in her right
pocket at last;&mdash;she pull&rsquo;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;&mdash;it
was pretty; and I held it ten minutes with the back of my hand
resting upon her lap&mdash;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&rsquo;d it
up.&mdash;I foresaw it would hazard the glory of the day; and, as
she pass&rsquo;d her hand in silence across and across my neck in
the manœuvre, I felt the laurels shake which fancy had
wreath&rsquo;d about my head.</p>

<p>A strap had given way in her walk, and the buckle of her shoe
was just falling off.&mdash;See, said the <i>fille de
chambre</i>, holding up her foot.&mdash;I could not, for my soul
but fasten the buckle in return, and putting in the
strap,&mdash;and lifting up the other foot with it, when I had
done, to see both were right,&mdash;in doing it too suddenly, it
unavoidably threw the fair <i>fille de chambre</i> off her
centre,&mdash;and then&mdash;</p>

<h2>THE CONQUEST.</h2>

<p><span class="smcap">Yes</span>,&mdash;and then&mdash;.
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,&mdash;must the
whole web be rent in drawing them out?&mdash;Whip me such stoics,
great Governor of Nature! said I to myself:&mdash;wherever thy
providence shall place me for the trials of my
virtue;&mdash;whatever is my danger,&mdash;whatever is my
situation,&mdash;let me feel the movements which rise out of it,
and which belong to me as a man,&mdash;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:&mdash;she stood by me till I locked the door and put the
key in my pocket,&mdash;and then,&mdash;the victory being quite
decisive&mdash;and not till then, I press&rsquo;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;&mdash;it was touching a cold key
with a flat third to it upon the close of a piece of music, which
had call&rsquo;d forth my affections:&mdash;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&rsquo;d by,&mdash;and forming conjectures upon them, till my
attention got fix&rsquo;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&rsquo;d sedately along the street, making
a turn of about sixty paces on each side of the gate of the
hotel;&mdash;the man was about fifty-two&mdash;had a small cane
under his arm&mdash;was dress&rsquo;d in a dark
drab-colour&rsquo;d coat, waistcoat, and breeches, which
seem&rsquo;d to have seen some years service:&mdash;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.&mdash;He
pass&rsquo;d by me without asking anything&mdash;and yet did not
go five steps further before he ask&rsquo;d charity of a little
woman.&mdash;I was much more likely to have given of the
two.&mdash;He had scarce done with the woman, when he
pull&rsquo;d off his hat to another who was coming the same
way.&mdash;An ancient gentleman came slowly&mdash;and, after
him, a young smart one.&mdash;He let them both pass, and
ask&rsquo;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:&mdash;the first was, why the
man should <i>only</i> tell his story to the sex;&mdash;and,
secondly,&mdash;what kind of story it was, and what species of
eloquence it could be, which soften&rsquo;d the hearts of the
women, which he knew &rsquo;twas to no purpose to practise upon
the men.</p>

<p>There were two other circumstances, which entangled this
mystery;&mdash;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;&mdash;the other was, it was always
successful.&mdash;He never stopp&rsquo;d a woman, but she
pull&rsquo;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&rsquo;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.&mdash;How so, friend? said
I.&mdash;He answered, I had had a young woman lock&rsquo;d up
with me two hours that evening in my bedchamber, and &rsquo;twas
against the rules of his house.&mdash;Very well, said I,
we&rsquo;ll all part friends then,&mdash;for the girl is no
worse,&mdash;and I am no worse,&mdash;and you will be just as I
found you.&mdash;It was enough, he said, to overthrow the credit
of his hotel.&mdash;<i>Voyez vous</i>, Monsieur, said he,
pointing to the foot of the bed we had been sitting upon.&mdash;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&mdash;&rsquo;Tis a score more, replied I,
interrupting him, than I ever reckon&rsquo;d upon&mdash;Provided,
added he, it had been but in a morning.&mdash;And does the
difference of the time of the day at Paris make a difference in
the sin?&mdash;It made a difference, he said, in the
scandal.&mdash;I like a good distinction in my heart; and cannot
say I was intolerably out of temper with the man.&mdash;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>;&mdash;and &rsquo;tis nothing if a woman comes with a
band-box.&mdash;O, my conscience! said I, she had one but I never
look&rsquo;d into it.&mdash;Then Monsieur, said he, has bought
nothing?&mdash;Not one earthly thing, replied I.&mdash;Because,
said he, I could recommend one to you who would use you <i>en
conscience</i>.&mdash;But I must see her this night, said
I.&mdash;He made me a low bow, and walk&rsquo;d down.</p>

<p>Now shall I triumph over this <i>ma&icirc;tre
d&rsquo;h&ocirc;tel</i>, cried I,&mdash;and what then? Then
I shall let him see I know he is a dirty fellow.&mdash;And what
then? What then?&mdash;I was too near myself to say it was
for the sake of others.&mdash;I had no good answer
left;&mdash;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.&mdash;I&rsquo;ll buy nothing, however, said I, within
myself.</p>

<p>The grisette would show me everything.&mdash;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;&mdash;unfolded and folded them up again one by one with the
most patient sweetness.&mdash;I might buy,&mdash;or
not;&mdash;she would let me have everything at my own
price:&mdash;the poor creature seem&rsquo;d anxious to get a
penny; and laid herself out to win me, and not so much in a
manner which seem&rsquo;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;&mdash;my heart relented, and I gave up my second
resolution as quietly as the first.&mdash;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&rsquo;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>&mdash;The master of the hotel will share the profit with
her;&mdash;no matter,&mdash;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&rsquo;s rest will not lie down
with enmity in his heart, if he can help it.&mdash;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;&mdash;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&rsquo;d
it.</p>

<p><i>C&rsquo;est déroger à noblesse</i>,
<i>Monsieur</i>, said La Fleur, making me a bow down to the
ground as he said it.&mdash;<i>Et encore</i>, <i>Monsieur</i>,
said he, may change his sentiments;&mdash;and if (<i>par
hazard</i>) he should like to amuse himself,&mdash;I find no
amusement in it, said I, interrupting him.&mdash;</p>

<p><i>Mon Dieu</i>! said La Fleur,&mdash;and took away.</p>

<p>In an hour&rsquo;s time he came to put me to bed, and was more
than commonly officious:&mdash;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&rsquo;s asking charity before the
door of the hotel.&mdash;I would have given anything to have got
to the bottom of it; and that, not out of
curiosity,&mdash;&rsquo;tis so low a principle of enquiry, in
general, I would not purchase the gratification of it with a
two-sous piece;&mdash;but a secret, I thought, which so soon and
so certainly soften&rsquo;d the heart of every woman you came
near, was a secret at least equal to the philosopher&rsquo;s
stone; had I both the Indies, I would have given up one to have
been master of it.</p>

<p>I toss&rsquo;d and turn&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;ors, <i>pour
s&rsquo;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.&mdash;They were not a crown worse, he
said, for the wearing.&mdash;I wish&rsquo;d him hang&rsquo;d for
telling me.&mdash;They look&rsquo;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:&mdash;this was indeed something
the worse for the service it had done, but &rsquo;twas clean
scour&rsquo;d;&mdash;the gold had been touch&rsquo;d up, and upon
the whole was rather showy than otherwise;&mdash;and as the blue
was not violent, it suited with the coat and breeches very well:
he had squeez&rsquo;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.&mdash;He had purchased
muslin ruffles, <i>bien brodées</i>, with four livres of
his own money;&mdash;and a pair of white silk stockings for five
more;&mdash;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.&mdash;In
a word, there was that look of festivity in everything about him,
which at once put me in mind it was Sunday;&mdash;and, by
combining both together, it instantly struck me, that the favour
he wish&rsquo;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&rsquo;d
I would grant him the day, <i>pour faire le galant
vis-à-vis de sa ma&icirc;tresse</i>.</p>

<p>Now it was the very thing I intended to do myself
vis-à-vis Madame de R&mdash;.&mdash;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&rsquo;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.&mdash;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;&mdash;no
doubt, they have set their self-denials at a price,&mdash;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>,&mdash;<i>Behold</i>, <i>I am thy
servant</i>&mdash;disarms me at once of the powers of a
master.&mdash;</p>

<p>
Thou shalt go, La Fleur! said I.</p>

<p>&mdash;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 &rsquo;twas a <i>petite
demoiselle</i>, at Monsieur le Count de
B&mdash;&rsquo;s.&mdash;La Fleur had a heart made for society;
and, to speak the truth of him, let as few occasions slip him as
his master;&mdash;so that somehow or other,&mdash;but
how,&mdash;heaven knows,&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;d
for, or could have enter&rsquo;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&rsquo;d a sheet of waste paper to put betwixt the
currant leaf and his hand.&mdash;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>tra&icirc;teur</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;&mdash;but stopping to read a line first, and that drawing
me on to a second and third,&mdash;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&rsquo;s time, and for
aught I know might have been wrote by him:&mdash;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.&mdash;I threw it down; and then wrote a letter to
Eugenius;&mdash;then I took it up again, and embroiled my
patience with it afresh;&mdash;and then to cure that, I wrote a
letter to Eliza.&mdash;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,&mdash;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;&mdash;so I went on leisurely, as a trifling man does,
sometimes writing a sentence,&mdash;then taking a turn or
two,&mdash;and then looking how the world went, out of the
window; so that it was nine o&rsquo;clock at night before I had
done it.&mdash;I then began and read it as follows.</p>

<h2>THE FRAGMENT.<br />
<span class="GutSmall">PARIS.</span></h2>

<p>&mdash;<span class="smcap">Now</span>, as the notary&rsquo;s
wife disputed the point with the notary with too much
heat,&mdash;I wish, said the notary, (throwing down the
parchment) that there was another notary here only to set down
and attest all this.&mdash;</p>

<p>&mdash;And what would you do then, Monsieur? said she, rising
hastily up.&mdash;The notary&rsquo;s wife was a little fume of a
woman, and the notary thought it well to avoid a hurricane by a
mild reply.&mdash;I would go, answered he, to bed.&mdash;You may
go to the devil, answer&rsquo;d the notary&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;d over the Pont Neuf must own, that it is the
noblest,&mdash;the finest,&mdash;the grandest,&mdash;the
lightest,&mdash;the longest,&mdash;the broadest, that ever
conjoin&rsquo;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, &rsquo;tis more blasphemously <i>sacre
Dieu&rsquo;d</i> there than in any other aperture of the whole
city,&mdash;and with reason good and cogent, Messieurs; for it
comes against you without crying <i>garde d&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s hat, hoisted it over the spikes of the
ballustrade clear into the Seine.&mdash;</p>

<p>&mdash;&rsquo;<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&rsquo;d his arquebuss.</p>

<p>Arquebusses in those days went off with matches; and an old
woman&rsquo;s paper lantern at the end of the bridge happening to
be blown out, she had borrow&rsquo;d the sentry&rsquo;s match to
light it:&mdash;it gave a moment&rsquo;s time for the
Gascon&rsquo;s blood to run cool, and turn the accident better to
his advantage.&mdash;&rsquo;<i>Tis an ill wind</i>, said he,
catching off the notary&rsquo;s castor, and legitimating the
capture with the boatman&rsquo;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:&mdash;</p>

<p>Luckless man that I am! said the notary, to be the sport of
hurricanes all my days:&mdash;to be born to have the storm of ill
language levell&rsquo;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;&mdash;to be driven forth out of my house by
domestic winds, and despoil&rsquo;d of my castor by pontific
ones!&mdash;to be here, bareheaded, in a windy night, at the
mercy of the ebbs and flows of accidents!&mdash;Where am I to lay
my head?&mdash;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&rsquo;d out to a girl, to bid her run for
the next notary.&mdash;Now the notary being the next, and
availing himself of his situation, walk&rsquo;d up the passage to
the door, and passing through an old sort of a saloon, was
usher&rsquo;d into a large chamber, dismantled of everything but
a long military pike,&mdash;a breastplate,&mdash;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:&mdash;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&rsquo;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.&mdash;It is a story so
uncommon, it must be read by all mankind;&mdash;it will make the
fortunes of your house.&mdash;The notary dipp&rsquo;d his pen
into his inkhorn.&mdash;Almighty Director of every event in my
life! said the old gentleman, looking up earnestly, and raising
his hands towards heaven,&mdash;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;&mdash;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&rsquo;d or acquitted!&mdash;the notary held up the point
of his pen betwixt the taper and his eye.&mdash;</p>

<p>It is a story, <i>Monsieur le Notaire</i>, said the gentleman,
which will rouse up every affection in nature;&mdash;it will kill
the humane, and touch the heart of Cruelty herself with
pity.&mdash;</p>

<p>&mdash;The notary was inflamed with a desire to begin, and put
his pen a third time into his ink-horn&mdash;and the old
gentleman, turning a little more towards the notary, began to
dictate his story in these words:&mdash;</p>

<p>&mdash;And where is the rest of it, La Fleur? said I, as he
just then enter&rsquo;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.&mdash;Then prithee, La
Fleur, said I, step back to her to the Count de B&mdash;&rsquo;s
hotel, and see if thou canst get it.&mdash;There is no doubt of
it, said La Fleur;&mdash;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&mdash;his faithless mistress had given his <i>gage
d&rsquo;amour</i> to one of the Count&rsquo;s footmen,&mdash;the
footman to a young sempstress,&mdash;and the sempstress to a
fiddler, with my fragment at the end of it.&mdash;Our misfortunes
were involved together:&mdash;I gave a sigh,&mdash;and La Fleur
echoed it back again to my ear.</p>

<p>&mdash;How perfidious! cried La Fleur.&mdash;How unlucky! said
I.</p>

<p>&mdash;I should not have been mortified, Monsieur, quoth La
Fleur, if she had lost it.&mdash;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.&mdash;I count little of the many things I
see pass at broad noonday, in large and open
streets.&mdash;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,&mdash;and yet they are absolutely
fine;&mdash;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 &rsquo;em;&mdash;and for
the text,&mdash;&ldquo;Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and
Pamphylia,&rdquo;&mdash;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; &rsquo;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&rsquo;foot when the opera is done. At the end
of it, towards the theatre, &rsquo;tis lighted by a small candle,
the light of which is almost lost before you get half-way down,
but near the door&mdash;&rsquo;tis more for ornament than use:
you see it as a fixed star of the least magnitude; it
burns,&mdash;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>;&mdash;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.&mdash;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;&mdash;they seem&rsquo;d to be two upright vestal sisters,
unsapped by caresses, unbroke in upon by tender
salutations.&mdash;I could have wish&rsquo;d to have made them
happy:&mdash;their happiness was destin&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&mdash;and that the sum
should be twelve times as much as what is usually given in the
dark.&mdash;They both seemed astonished at it as much as
myself.&mdash;Twelve sous! said one.&mdash;A twelve-sous piece!
said the other,&mdash;and made no reply.</p>

<p>The poor man said, he knew not how to ask less of ladies of
their rank; and bow&rsquo;d down his head to the ground.</p>

<p>Poo! said they,&mdash;we have no money.</p>

<p>The beggar remained silent for a moment or two, and
renew&rsquo;d his supplication.</p>

<p>&mdash;Do not, my fair young ladies, said he, stop your good
ears against me.&mdash;Upon my word, honest man! said the
younger, we have no change.&mdash;Then God bless you, said the
poor man, and multiply those joys which you can give to others
without change!&mdash;I observed the elder sister put her hand
into her pocket.&mdash;I&rsquo;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>&mdash;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,&mdash;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;&mdash;it was continued betwixt themselves, which of the two
should give the twelve-sous piece in charity;&mdash;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;&mdash;and I found at
once his secret, or at least the basis of it:&mdash;&rsquo;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&rsquo;d for time, had
given it here in a larger dose: &rsquo;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,&mdash;I vex not my spirit
with the enquiry;&mdash;it is enough the beggar gained two
twelve-sous pieces&mdash;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&mdash;, 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&rsquo;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.&mdash;As it was, things did not go much amiss.</p>

<p>I had the honour of being introduced to the old Marquis de
B&mdash;: in days of yore he had signalized himself by some small
feats of chivalry in the <i>Cour d&rsquo;Amour</i>, and had
dress&rsquo;d himself out to the idea of tilts and tournaments
ever since.&mdash;The Marquis de B&mdash; wish&rsquo;d to have it
thought the affair was somewhere else than in his brain.
&ldquo;He could like to take a trip to England,&rdquo; and asked
much of the English ladies.&mdash;Stay where you are, I beseech
you, Monsieur le Marquis, said I.&mdash;<i>Les Messieurs
Anglois</i> can scarce get a kind look from them as it
is.&mdash;The Marquis invited me to supper.</p>

<p>Monsieur P&mdash;, the farmer-general, was just as inquisitive
about our taxes. They were very considerable, he
heard.&mdash;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&mdash;&rsquo;s
concerts upon any other terms.</p>

<p>I had been misrepresented to Madame de Q&mdash; as an
<i>esprit</i>.&mdash;Madame de Q&mdash; 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;&mdash;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&mdash; vow&rsquo;d to every creature she
met&mdash;&ldquo;She had never had a more improving conversation
with a man in her life.&rdquo;</p>

<p>There are three epochas in the empire of a French
woman.&mdash;She is coquette,&mdash;then deist,&mdash;then
<i>dévote</i>: the empire during these is never
lost,&mdash;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,&mdash;and then with the
slaves of the church.</p>

<p>Madame de V&mdash; was vibrating betwixt the first of those
epochas: the colour of the rose was fading fast away;&mdash;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.&mdash;In short
Madame de V&mdash; told me she believed nothing.&mdash;I told
Madame de V&mdash; 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;&mdash;that there was not a more dangerous thing in the
world than for a beauty to be a deist;&mdash;that it was a debt I
owed my creed not to conceal it from her;&mdash;that I had not
been five minutes sat upon the sofa beside her, but I had begun
to form designs;&mdash;and what is it, but the sentiments of
religion, and the persuasion they had excited in her breast,
which could have check&rsquo;d them as they rose up?</p>

<p>We are not adamant, said I, taking hold of her hand;&mdash;and
there is need of all restraints, till age in her own time steals
in and lays them on us.&mdash;But my dear lady, said I, kissing
her hand,&mdash;&rsquo;tis too&mdash;too soon.</p>

<p>I declare I had the credit all over Paris of unperverting
Madame de V&mdash;.&mdash;She affirmed to Monsieur D&mdash; and
the Abbé M&mdash;, that in one half hour I had said more
for revealed religion, than all their Encyclop&aelig;dia had said
against it.&mdash;I was listed directly into Madame de
V&mdash;&rsquo;s <i>coterie</i>;&mdash;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&rsquo;d too straight about my neck.&mdash;It should be
<i>plus badinant</i>, said the Count, looking down upon his
own;&mdash;but a word, Monsieur Yorick, <i>to the
wise</i>&mdash;</p>

<p>And <i>from the wise</i>, Monsieur le Count, replied I, making
him a bow,&mdash;<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&rsquo;s opinion I
met.&mdash;<i>Pardi</i>! <i>ce Monsieur Yorick a autant
d&rsquo;esprit que nous autres</i>.&mdash;<i>Il raisonne
bien</i>, said another.&mdash;<i>C&rsquo;est un bon enfant</i>,
said a third.&mdash;And at this price I could have eaten and
drank and been merry all the days of my life at Paris; but
&rsquo;twas a dishonest <i>reckoning</i>;&mdash;I grew ashamed of
it.&mdash;It was the gain of a slave;&mdash;every sentiment of
honour revolted against it;&mdash;the higher I got, the more was
I forced upon my <i>beggarly system</i>;&mdash;the better the
<i>coterie</i>,&mdash;the more children of Art;&mdash;I
languish&rsquo;d for those of Nature: and one night, after a most
vile prostitution of myself to half a dozen different people, I
grew sick,&mdash;went to bed;&mdash;order&rsquo;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,&mdash;to travel it through
the Bourbonnois, the sweetest part of France,&mdash;in the heyday
of the vintage, when Nature is pouring her abundance into every
one&rsquo;s lap, and every eye is lifted up,&mdash;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,&mdash;and every one of them was
pregnant with adventures.&mdash;</p>

<p>Just heaven!&mdash;it would fill up twenty volumes;&mdash;and
alas! I have but a few small pages left of this to crowd it
into,&mdash;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>&rsquo;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&rsquo;d her mouth.&mdash;She had lost her
husband; he had died, she said, of anguish, for the loss of
Maria&rsquo;s senses, about a month before.&mdash;She had feared
at first, she added, that it would have plunder&rsquo;d her poor
girl of what little understanding was left;&mdash;but, on the
contrary, it had brought her more to herself:&mdash;still, she
could not rest.&mdash;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&rsquo;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:&mdash;a small brook ran at the foot of the tree.</p>

<p>I bid the postilion go on with the chaise to
Moulines&mdash;and La Fleur to bespeak my supper;&mdash;and that
I would walk after him.</p>

<p>She was dress&rsquo;d in white, and much as my friend
described her, except that her hair hung loose, which before was
twisted within a silk net.&mdash;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.&mdash;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.&mdash;&ldquo;Thou shalt not leave me, Sylvio,&rdquo; said
she. I look&rsquo;d in Maria&rsquo;s eyes and saw she was
thinking more of her father than of her lover, or her little
goat; for, as she utter&rsquo;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.&mdash;I then steep&rsquo;d it in
my own,&mdash;and then in hers,&mdash;and then in mine,&mdash;and
then I wip&rsquo;d hers again;&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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:&mdash;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;&mdash;she had wash&rsquo;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;&mdash;on
opening it, I saw an S. marked in one of the corners.</p>

<p>She had since that, she told me, stray&rsquo;d as far as Rome,
and walk&rsquo;d round St. Peter&rsquo;s once,&mdash;and
return&rsquo;d back;&mdash;that she found her way alone across
the Apennines;&mdash;had travell&rsquo;d over all Lombardy,
without money,&mdash;and through the flinty roads of Savoy
without shoes:&mdash;how she had borne it, and how she had got
supported, she could not tell;&mdash;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;&mdash;I would be kind to thy Sylvio;&mdash;in all thy
weaknesses and wanderings I would seek after thee and bring thee
back;&mdash;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&rsquo;d this; and Maria
observing, as I took out my handkerchief, that it was
steep&rsquo;d too much already to be of use, would needs go wash
it in the stream.&mdash;And where will you dry it, Maria? said
I.&mdash;I&rsquo;ll dry it in my bosom, said
she:&mdash;&rsquo;twill do me good.</p>

<p>And is your heart still so warm, Maria? said I.</p>

<p>I touch&rsquo;d upon the string on which hung all her
sorrows:&mdash;she look&rsquo;d with wistful disorder for some
time in my face; and then, without saying any thing, took her
pipe and play&rsquo;d her service to the Virgin.&mdash;The string
I had touched ceased to vibrate;&mdash;in a moment or two
Maria returned to herself,&mdash;let her pipe fall,&mdash;and
rose up.</p>

<p>And where are you going, Maria? said I.&mdash;She said, to
Moulines.&mdash;Let us go, said I, together.&mdash;Maria put her
arm within mine, and lengthening the string, to let the dog
follow,&mdash;in that order we enter&rsquo;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&rsquo;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:&mdash;affliction had touched her looks with something
that was scarce earthly;&mdash;still she was feminine;&mdash;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!&mdash;Imbibe the oil and wine
which the compassion of a stranger, as he journeyeth on his way,
now pours into thy wounds;&mdash;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>&mdash;Dear Sensibility! source inexhausted of all
that&rsquo;s precious in our joys, or costly in our sorrows! thou
chainest thy martyr down upon his bed of straw&mdash;and
&rsquo;tis thou who lift&rsquo;st him up to Heaven!&mdash;Eternal
Fountain of our feelings!&mdash;&rsquo;tis here I trace
thee&mdash;and this is thy &ldquo;<i>divinity which stirs within
me</i>;&rdquo;&mdash;not that, in some sad and sickening moments,
&ldquo;<i>my soul shrinks back upon herself</i>, <i>and startles
at destruction</i>;&rdquo;&mdash;mere pomp of words!&mdash;but
that I feel some generous joys and generous cares beyond
myself;&mdash;all comes from thee, great&mdash;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.&mdash;Touch&rsquo;d with thee, Eugenius
draws my curtain when I languish&mdash;hears my tale of symptoms,
and blames the weather for the disorder of his nerves. Thou
giv&rsquo;st a portion of it sometimes to the roughest peasant
who traverses the bleakest mountains;&mdash;he finds the
lacerated lamb of another&rsquo;s flock.&mdash;This moment I
behold him leaning with his head against his crook, with piteous
inclination looking down upon it!&mdash;Oh! had I come one moment
sooner! it bleeds to death!&mdash;his gentle heart bleeds with
it.&mdash;</p>

<p>Peace to thee, generous swain!&mdash;I see thou walkest off
with anguish,&mdash;but thy joys shall balance it;&mdash;for,
happy is thy cottage,&mdash;and happy is the sharer of
it,&mdash;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.&mdash;It was a little farm-house, surrounded with about
twenty acres of vineyard, about as much corn;&mdash;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&rsquo;s house;&mdash;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&mdash;so I left the
postilion to manage his point as he could;&mdash;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:&mdash;&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;d with thanks that I
had not seem&rsquo;d to doubt it.</p>

<p>Was it this? or tell me, Nature, what else it was that made
this morsel so sweet,&mdash;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,&mdash;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,&mdash;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.&mdash;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>,&mdash;and at the age he was then of,
touch&rsquo;d it well enough for the purpose. His wife sung
now and then a little to the tune,&mdash;then
intermitted,&mdash;and join&rsquo;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:&mdash;but, as I had never seen her so
engaged, I should have look&rsquo;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,&mdash;</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:&mdash;adieu,
then, to all rapid movements! &rsquo;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.&mdash;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;&mdash;but to that little thou grantest safety and
protection; and sweet are the dwellings which stand so
shelter&rsquo;d.</p>

<p>Let the way-worn traveller vent his complaints upon the sudden
turns and dangers of your roads,&mdash;your rocks,&mdash;your
precipices;&mdash;the difficulties of getting up,&mdash;the
horrors of getting down,&mdash;mountains impracticable,&mdash;and
cataracts, which roll down great stones from their summits, and
block his road up.&mdash;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&rsquo;d: there was nothing but to wait with
patience;&mdash;&rsquo;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&mdash;got a good
fire&mdash;order&rsquo;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,&mdash;without much nicety, led them into mine, telling
them, as she usher&rsquo;d them in, that there was nobody in it
but an English gentleman;&mdash;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;&mdash;however, she said there were three beds and but three
people, and she durst say, the gentleman would do anything to
accommodate matters.&mdash;I left not the lady a moment to make a
conjecture about it&mdash;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;&mdash;so I desired the lady
to sit down,&mdash;pressed her into the warmest
seat,&mdash;called for more wood,&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;d perplexd;&mdash;I felt for her&mdash;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;&mdash;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;&mdash;they were fixed up moreover near the fire; and the
projection of the chimney on one side, and a large beam which
cross&rsquo;d the room on the other, formed a kind of recess for
them that was no way favourable to the nicety of our
sensations:&mdash;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&rsquo;d, yet there was
nothing in it so terrible which the imagination might not have
pass&rsquo;d over without torment.</p>

<p>As for the little room within, it offer&rsquo;d little or no
consolation to us: &rsquo;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&mdash;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,&mdash;or that the girl should take
the closet, &amp;c., &amp;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.&mdash;There
were difficulties every way,&mdash;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.&mdash;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&rsquo;d, our
tongues had been tied up, till necessity herself had set them at
liberty;&mdash;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&rsquo;d it every way, and debated and
considered it in all kinds of lights in the course of a two
hours&rsquo; 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,&mdash;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:&mdash;</p>

<p>First, as the right of the bed-chamber is in
Monsieur,&mdash;and he thinking the bed next to the fire to be
the warmest, he insists upon the concession on the lady&rsquo;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&rsquo;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,&mdash;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&rsquo;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;&mdash;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, &rsquo;tis the
fault of his own imagination,&mdash;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&rsquo;d
and turn&rsquo;d again, till a full hour after midnight; when
Nature and patience both wearing out,&mdash;O, my God! said
I.</p>

<p>&mdash;You have broke the treaty, Monsieur, said the lady, who
had no more slept than myself.&mdash;I begg&rsquo;d a thousand
pardons&mdash;but insisted it was no more than an
ejaculation. She maintained &rsquo;twas an entire
infraction of the treaty&mdash;I maintain&rsquo;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&rsquo;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,&mdash;stretching my
arm out of bed by way of asseveration.&mdash;</p>

<p>(I was going to have added, that I would not have trespassed
against the remotest idea of decorum for the world);&mdash;</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:&mdash;</p>

<p>So that when I stretch&rsquo;d out my hand I caught hold of
the <i>fille de chambre&rsquo;s</i>&mdash;</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&mdash;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&mdash;&rsquo;s Travels:
[<i>i.e.</i> Dr. Smollett&rsquo;s &ldquo;Travels through France
and Italy.&rdquo;&mdash;<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&#8212;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&#8482; electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG&#8482;
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&#8482; 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 &#8220;Project
Gutenberg&#8221;), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg&#8482; 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&#8482; electronic works
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg&#8482;
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&#8482; electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg&#8482; 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. &#8220;Project Gutenberg&#8221; 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&#8482; 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&#8482; electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg&#8482;
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (&#8220;the
Foundation&#8221; or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg&#8482; 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&#8482; mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg&#8482;
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg&#8482; 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&#8482; 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&#8482; 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&#8482; License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg&#8482; work (any work
on which the phrase &#8220;Project Gutenberg&#8221; appears, or with which the
phrase &#8220;Project Gutenberg&#8221; 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&#8482; 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 &#8220;Project
Gutenberg&#8221; 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&#8482;
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&#8482; 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&#8482; 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&#8482;
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg&#8482;.
</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&#8482; 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&#8482; work in a format
other than &#8220;Plain Vanilla ASCII&#8221; or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg&#8482; 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 &#8220;Plain
Vanilla ASCII&#8221; or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg&#8482; 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&#8482; 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&#8482; electronic works
provided that:
</div>

<div style='margin-left:0.7em;'>
    <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'>
        &bull; You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
        the use of Project Gutenberg&#8482; works calculated using the method
        you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
        to the owner of the Project Gutenberg&#8482; 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, &#8220;Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
        Literary Archive Foundation.&#8221;
    </div>

    <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'>
        &bull; 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&#8482;
        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&#8482;
        works.
    </div>

    <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'>
        &bull; 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'>
        &bull; You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
        distribution of Project Gutenberg&#8482; 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&#8482; 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&#8482; 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&#8482; collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg&#8482;
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain &#8220;Defects,&#8221; 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 &#8220;Right
of Replacement or Refund&#8221; described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg&#8482; trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg&#8482; 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 &#8216;AS-IS&#8217;, 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&#8482; electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg&#8482;
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&#8482; work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg&#8482; 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&#8482;
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
Project Gutenberg&#8482; 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&#8482;&#8217;s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg&#8482; 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&#8482; 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&#8217;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&#8217;s laws.
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
The Foundation&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8482; 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&#8482; electronic works
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg&#8482; concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg&#8482; eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
Project Gutenberg&#8482; 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&#8482;,
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>
generated by cgit v1.2.3 (git 2.25.1) at 2026-07-05 11:15:29 +0000