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—THEY order, said I, this matter better in
—You have been in "
the coat I have on, said I, looking at the sleeve, will do"
—took a place in
the
Droits
d'aubaine—my shirts, and black pair of silk breeches—portmanteau and all must have gone to the King of France—even
the little picture which I have so long worn, and so often have told thee, Eliza, I
would carry with me into my grave, would have been torn from my neck.—Ungenerous!—to
seize upon the wreck of an unwary passenger, whom your subjects had beckon'd to their
coast—by heaven! SIRE, it is not well done; and much does it grieve me, 'tis the
monarch of a people so civilized and courteous, and so renown'd for sentiment and
fine feelings, that I have to reason with—
But I have scarce set foot in your dominions—
WHEN I had finish'd my dinner, and drank the King of France's health, to satisfy my mind that I bore him no spleen, but, on the contrary, high honour for the humanity of his temper—I rose up an inch taller for the accommodation.
—No—said I—the Bourbon is by no means a cruel
race: they may be misled like other people; but there is a mildness in their blood.
As I acknowledged this, I felt a suffusion of a finer kind upon my cheek—more warm
and friendly to man, than
—Just God! said I, kicking my portmanteau aside, what is there in this world's goods which should sharpen our spirits, and make so many kind-hearted brethren of us, fall out so cruelly as we do by the way?
When man is at peace with man, how much lighter than a feather is the heaviest of
metals in his hand! he pulls out his purse, and holding it airily and uncompress'd,
looks round him, as if he sought for an object to share it with—In doing this, I felt
physical precieuse
in
I'm confident, said I to myself, I should have overset her creed.
The accession of that idea, carried nature, at that time, as high as she could go—I was at peace with the world before, and this finish'd the treaty with myself—
I HAD scarce utter'd the words, when a poor monk of the order of St. Francis came
into the room to beg something for his convent. No man cares to have his virtues the
sport of contingencies—or one man may be generous, as another man is puissant—sed non, quo ad hanc—or be it
as it may—for there is no regular reasoning upon the ebbs and flows of our humours;
they may depend upon the same causes, for ought I know, which influence the tides
themselves—'twould oft be no discredit "I had had an affair
with the moon, in which there was neither sin nor shame,"
than have it pass
altogether as my own act and deed, wherein there was so much of both.
—But be this as it may. The moment I cast my eyes upon him, I was predetermined not
to give him a single sous; and accordingly I
put my purse into my pocket—button'd it up—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
The monk, as I judged from the break in his tonsure, a few scatter'd white hairs upon his temples, being all that remained of it, might be about seventy—but from his eyes, and that sort of fire which was in them, which seemed more temper'd by courtesy than years, could be no more than sixty—Truth might lie between—He was certainly sixty-five; and the general air of his countenance, notwithstanding something seem'd to have been planting wrinkles in it before their time, agreed to the account.
The rest of his outline may be given in a few strokes; one might put it into the
hands of any one to design, for 'twas neither elegant or
When he had enter'd the room three paces, he stood still; and laying his left hand
upon his breast, (a slender white staff with which he journey'd being in his
right)—when I had got close up to him, he introduced himself with the little story of
the wants of his convent, and the poverty of his order—and did it with
—A better reason was, I had predetermined not to give him a single sous.
—'TIS very true, said I, replying to a cast upwards with his eyes, with which he had
concluded his address—'tis very true—and heaven be their resource who have no other
but the charity of the world, the stock of which, I fear, is no way sufficient for
the many great claims which are hourly made upon it.
As I pronounced the words great claims, he gave a slight glance with his eye
downwards upon the sleeve order of mercy, instead of the order of St. Francis, poor as
I am, continued I, pointing at my portmanteau, full chearfully should it have been
open'd for the love of God.
The poor Franciscan made no reply: a hectic of a moment pass'd across his cheek, but could not tarry—Nature seemed to have had done with her resentments in him; he shewed none—but letting his staff fall within his arm, he press'd both his hands with resignation upon his breast, and retired.
MY heart smote me the moment he shut the
door—Psha! said I with an air of carelessness, three several times—but it would not
do: every ungracious syllable I had utter'd, crouded back into my imagination: I
reflected, I had no right over the poor Franciscan, but to deny him; and that the
punishment of that was enough to the disappointed without the addition of unkind
language—I consider'd his grey hairs—his courteous figure seem'd to reenter and
gently ask me what injury he had done me?—and why I could
WHEN a man is discontented with himself, it has one advantage however, that it puts
him into an excellent frame of mind for making a bargain. Now there being no
travelling through Disobligeant.
IT must have been observed by many a peripatetic philosopher, That nature has set up
by her own unquestionable authority certain boundaries and fences to circumscribe the
discontent of man: she has effected her purpose in the quietest and easiest manner by
laying him under almost insuperable obligations to work out his ease, and to sustain
his sufferings at home. It is there only that she has provided him with the most
suitable objects to partake of his happiness, and bear a part of that burden which in
all countries and ages, has ever been too heavy her limits, but 'tis so ordered,
that from the want of languages, connections, and dependencies, and from the
difference in education, customs and habits, we lie under so many impediments in
communicating our sensations out of our own sphere, as often amount to a total
impossibility.
It will always follow from hence, that the balance of sentimental commerce is always
against the expatriated adventurer: he must
buy what he has little occasion for at their own price—his conversation
This brings me to my point; and naturally leads me (if the see-saw of this
Desobligeant will but let me get on) into the efficient as well as the
final causes of travelling—
Your idle people that leave their native country and go abroad for some reason or
reasons which may be derived from one of these general causes—
The first two include all those who travel by land or by water, labouring
with pride, curiosity, vanity or spleen, subdivided and combined in
infinitum.
The third class includes the whole army of peregrine martyrs; more especially those
travellers who set out upon their travels with the benefit of the clergy, either as
delinquents travelling under the direction
of governors recommended by the magistrate—or young gentlemen transported by the
cruelty of parents and guardians, and travelling under the direction of governors
recommended
There is a fourth class, but their number is so small that they would not deserve a
distinction, was it not necessary in a work of this nature to observe the greatest
precision and nicety, to avoid a confusion of character. And these men I speak of,
are such as cross the seas and sojourn in a
land of strangers with a view of saving money for various reasons and upon various
pretences: but as they might also save themselves and others a great deal of
unnecessary trouble by saving their money at home—and as their reasons for travelling
are the least complex of any other species of emigrants, I shall distinguish
Thus the whole circle of travellers may be reduced to the following Heads.
Then follow the Travellers of Necessity.
(meaning thereby myself) who have travell'd, and of which I am now sitting
down to give an account—as much out of Necessity, and the besoin de
Voyager, as any one in the class.
I am well aware, at the same time, as both my travels and observations will be
altogether of a different cast from any of my fore-runners; that I might have
insisted upon a whole nitch entirely to myself—but I should break in upon the
confines of the Vain Traveller, in wishing to draw attention towards me,
till I have some better grounds for it, than the mere Novelty of my Vehicle.
The man who first transplanted the grape of Burgundy to the
chance was to decide his success:
however, he hoped for the best; and in these hopes, by an intemperate confidence in
the fortitude of his head, and the depth of his discretion,
Mynheer
might possibly overset both in his new
vineyard; and by discovering his nakedness, become a laughingstock to his people.
Even so it fares with the poor Traveller, sailing and posting through the politer
kingdoms of the globe
Knowledge and improvements are to be got by sailing and posting for that purpose; but
whether useful knowledge and real improvements, is all a lottery—and even where the
adventurer is successful, the acquired stock must be used with caution and sobriety
to turn to any profit—but as the chances run prodigiously the other way both as to
the acquisition and application, I am of opinion, That a man would act as wisely, if
he could prevail upon himself, to live contented without foreign knowledge or foreign
improvements, especially
—We are only looking at this chaise, said
they—Your most obedient inquisitive traveller—what could occasion its motion.——'Twas
the agitation, said I coolly, of writing a preface—I never heard, said the other, who
was a simple traveller, of a preface wrote in a Desobligeant.—It
would have been better, said I, in a
Vis a
Vis.
—As an English man does not travel to see English men, I retired to my
room.
I Perceived that something darken'd the passage more than myself, as I stepp'd along
it to my room; it was effectually Mons. Dessein, the master of the hôtel, who had
just return'd 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 Desobligeant; and Mons. Dessein speaking of it, with a
shrug, as if it would no way suit me, it immediately struck my fancy that it belong'd
to some innocent traveller, who, on his
Desobligeant—itstands swinging
reproaches at you every time you pass by it—
Mon Dieu! said Mons. Dessein—I have no interest—Except the interest, said I,
which men of a certain turn of mind take, Mons. Dessein, in their own sensations—I'm
persuaded, to a man who feels for others as well as for himself, every rainy night,
disguise it as you will, must cast a damp upon your spirits—You suffer, Mons.
Dessein, as much as the machine—
sour as sweet in a compliment, that an Englishman is eternally
at a loss within himself, whether to take it, or let it alone: a Frenchman never is:
Mons. Dessein made me a bow.
C'est bien vrai, said he—But in
this case I should only exchange one disquietude for another, and with loss: figure
to yourself, my dear Sir, that in giving you a chaise which would fall to pieces
before you had got half way to d'un homme d'esprit.
IT must needs be a hostile kind of a world, when the buyer (if it be but of a sorry
post-chaise) cannot go forth with the seller thereof into the street to terminate the
difference betwixt them, but he instantly falls into the same frame of mind and views
his conventionist with the same sort of eye, as if he was going along with him to
Dessein, I felt the rotation of
Dessein through and through—ey'd
him as he walked along in profile—then, en face—thought he look'd like a
Jew—then a Turk—disliked his wig—cursed him
by my gods—wished him at the devil—
—And is all this to be lighted up in the heart for a beggarly account of three or
four louisd'ors, which is the most I can be overreach'd in?—Base passion! said I,
turning myself about, as a man naturally does upon a sudden reverse of
sentiment—base, ungentle passion! thy hand is against every man, and
Monsieur Dessein had diabled the key above fifty times before he
found out he had come with a wrong one in his hand: we were as impatient as himself
to have it open'd; and so Dessein left us together with her hand in mine, and with our faces
turned towards the door of the Remise, and
said he would be back in five minutes.
Now a colloquy of five minutes, in such a
situation, is worth one of as many ages, with your faces turned towards the street:
in the latter case, 'tis drawn from the objects and occurrences without—when your
eyes are fixed upon a dead blank—you draw purely from yourselves. A silence of a
single moment upon Monsieur Dessein's
—But what were the temptations, (as I write not to apologize for the weaknesses of my heart in this tour,—but to give an account of them)—shall be described with the same simplicity, with which I felt them.
WHEN I told the reader that I did not care to get out of the Desobligeant,
because I saw the monk in close conference with a lady just arrived at the inn—I told
him the truth; but I did not tell him the whole truth; for I was full as much
restrained by the appearance and figure of the lady he was talking to. Suspicion
crossed my brain, and said, he was telling her what had passed: something jarred upon
it within me—I wished him at his convent.
The impression returned, upon my encounter with her in the street; a guarded frankness with which she gave me her hand, shewed, 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—
I had not yet seen her face—'twas not material; for the drawing was instantly set
about, and long before we had got to the door of the Remise, Fancy had
finished the whole head, and pleased herself as much with its fitting her goddess, as
if she had dived into the TIBER for it—but
thou art a seduced, and a seducing slut; and
albeit thou cheatest us seven times a day with thy pictures and images, yet with so
many charms dost thou do it, and thou deckest out thy pictures in the shapes of so
many angels of light, 'tis a shame to break with thee.
bon ton of conversation permitted, as in the
days of Esdras)—"
—In a word, I felt benevolence for her; and resolved some
way or other to throw in my mite of courtesy—if not of service.What
aileth thee? and why art thou disquieted? and why is thy understanding
troubled?"
Such were my temptations—and in this disposition to give way to them, was I left alone with the lady with her hand in mine, and with our faces both turned closer to the door of the Remise than what was absolutely necessary.
THIS certainly, fair lady! said I, raising her hand up a little lightly as I began, must be one of Fortune's whimsical doings: to take two utter strangers by their hands—of different sexes, and perhaps from different corners of the globe, and in one moment place them together in such a cordial situation, as Friendship herself could scarce have atchieved for them, had she projected it for a month—
When the situation is, what we would wish, nothing is so ill-timed as to hint at the circumstances which make it so: you thank Fortune, continued she—you had reason—the heart knew it, and was satisfied; and who but an English philosopher would have sent notices of it to the brain to reverse the judgment?
In saying this, she disengaged her hand with a look which I thought a sufficient commentary upon the text.
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.
I forthwith began to model a different conversation for the lady, thinking from the
spirit as well as moral of this, that I had been mistaken in her character; but upon
turning her face towards me, the spirit which had animated the reply was fled—the
muscles relaxed, and I beheld the same unprotected look of distress which first won
me to her interest—melancholy! to see such sprightliness the prey of sorrow.—I pitied
her from my soul; and though it may seem ridiculous enough to a torpid heart,—I could
have taken her into my arms, and cherished her,
The pulsations of the arteries along my fingers pressing across hers, told her what was passing within me: she looked down—a silence of some moments followed.
I fear, in this interval, I must have made some slight efforts towards a closer
compression of her hand, from a subtle sensation I felt in the palm of my own—not as
if she was going to withdraw hers—but, as if she thought about it—and I had
infallibly lost it a second time, had not instinct more than reason directed me to
the last resource Dessein returned with the key; and in the
mean time I set myself to consider how I should undo the ill impressions which the
poor monk's story, in case he had told it her, must have planted in her breast
against me.
THE good old monk was within six paces of us, as the idea of him cross'd my mind; and
was advancing towards us a little out of the line, as if uncertain whether he should
break in upon us or no.—He stopp'd, however, as soon as he came up to us, with a
world of frankness; and having a horn snuff-box in his hand, he presented it open to
me—You shall taste mine—said I, pulling out my box (which was a small tortoise one)
and putting it into his hand—
The poor monk blush'd as red as scarlet. Mon Dieu! said he, pressing his
hands together—you never used me unkindly.—I should think, said the lady, he is not
likely. I blush'd in my turn; but from what movements, I leave to the few who feel to
analyse—Excuse me, Madame, replied I—I treated him most unkindly; and from no
provocations—'Tis impossible, said the lady.—My
I knew not that contention could be rendered so sweet and pleasurable a thing to the
nerves as I then felt it.—We remained silent, without any sensation of that foolish
pain which takes place, when in such a circle you look for ten minutes in one
another's faces without saying a word. Whilst this lasted, the monk rubb'd his horn
box upon the sleeve of his tunick;
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
I feel a damp upon my spirits, as I am going to add, that in my last return through
I HAD never quitted the lady's hand all this time; and had held it so long, that it would have been indecent to have let it go, without first pressing it to my lips: the blood and spirits, which had suffer'd a revulsion from her, crouded back to her, as I did it.
Now the two travellers who had spoke to me in the coach-yard, happening at that
crisis to be passing by, and observing our communications, naturally took it into
their heads that man and
wife at least; so stopping as soon as they came up to the door of the Remise,
the one of them, who was the inquisitive traveller, ask'd us, if we set out for that Amiens was in the road to Paris; but,
upon pulling out my poor monk's little horn box to take a pinch of snuff—I made them
a quiet bow, and wishing them a
—Now where would be the harm, said I to myself, if I was to beg of this distressed lady to accept of half of my chaise?—and what mighty mischief could ensue?
Every dirty passion, and bad propensity in my nature, took the alarm, as I stated the proposition—It will oblige you to have a third horse, said AVARICE, which will put twenty livres out of your pocket.—You know not who she is, said CAUTION—or what scrapes the affair may draw you into, whisper'd COWARDICE—
—You can never after, cried HYPOCRISY aloud, shew your face in the world—or rise, quoth MEANNESS, in the church—or be any thing in it, said PRIDE, but a lousy prebendary.
—But 'tis a civil thing, said I—and as I generally act from the first impulse, and therefore seldom listen to these cabals, which serve no purpose, that I know of, but to encompass the heart with adamant—I turn'd instantly about to the lady—
HAVING, on first sight of the lady, settled the affair in my fancy, "that she was of the better order of beings"
—and then
laid it down as a second axiom, as
indisputable as the first, That she was a widow, and wore a character of distress—I
went no further; I got ground enough for the situation which pleased me—and had she
remained close beside my elbow till midnight, I should have held true to my system,
and considered her only under that general idea.
A little French debonaire captain, who came dancing down the street, shewed
me, it was the easiest thing in the world; for popping in betwixt us, just as the
lady was returning back to the door of the Remise, he introduced himself to my
acquaintance, and before he had well got announced, begg'd I would do him the honour
to present him to the lady—I had not been presented myself—so turning about to her,
he did it just as well by asking her, if she had come from Vous n'etez pas de Londre?—She was not, she
replied.
Apparamment vous etez Flammande? said the French captain.—The
lady answered, she was.—Peutetre, de Lisle? added he—She said, she was not
of
He had had the honour, he said, to be at the bombardment of it last war—that it was
finely situated, pour cela—and full of noblesse when the Imperialists were
driven out by the French (the lady made a slight curtsy)—so giving her an account of
the affair, and of the share he had had in
—Et Madame a son Mari?—said he, looking back when he had made two steps—and
without staying for an answer—danced down the street.
Had I served seven years apprenticeship to good breeding, I could not have done as much.
AS the little French captain left us, Mons. Dessein came up with the key of the Remise in his hand, and forthwith let us into his magazine of chaises.
The first object which caught my eye, as Mons. Dessein open'd the door of the Remise,
was another old tatter'd Desobligeant: and notwithstanding it was the exact
picture of that which had hit my fancy so much in the coach-yard but an hour
before—the very sight of it stirr'd up a
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
C'EST bien comique, '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—c'est bien comique, said she—
—There wants nothing, said I, to make it so, but the comick use which the gallantry of a Frenchman would put it to—to make love the first moment, and an offer of his person the second.
fort: replied the lady.
It is supposed so at least—and how it has come to pass, continued I, I know not; but they have certainly got the credit of understanding more of love, and making it better than any other nation upon earth: but for my own part I think them errant bunglers, and in truth the worst set of marksmen that ever tried Cupid's patience.
—To think of making love by sentiments!
I should as soon think of making a genteel suit of cloaths out of remnants:—and to do
it—pop—at first sight by declaration—is submitting pours and contres, by an unheated mind.
The lady attended as if she expected I should go on.
Consider then, madam, continued I, laying my hand upon hers—
That grave people hate Love for the name's sake—
That selfish people hate it for their own—
Hypocrites for heaven's—
And that all of us both old and young, being ten times worse report—What
a want of knowledge in this branch of commerce a man betrays, whoever lets the word
come out of his lips, till an hour or two at least after the time, that his silence
upon it becomes tormenting. A course of small, quiet attentions, not so pointed as to
alarm—nor so vague as to be misunderstood,—with now and then a look of kindness, and
little or nothing said upon it—leaves Nature for your mistress, and she fashions it
to her mind.—
Then I solemnly declare, said the lady, blushing—you have been making love to me all this while.
MONSIEUR Dessein came back to let us out of the chaise, and acquaint the
lady, the Count de L--- her brother was just arrived at the hotel. Though I had infinite good will for
the lady, I cannot say, that I rejoiced in my heart at the event—and could not help
telling her so—for it is fatal to a proposal, Madam, said I, that I was going to make
you—
—You need not tell me what the proposal was, said she, laying her
Nature arms her with it, said I, for immediate preservation—But I think, said she, looking in my face, I had no evil to apprehend—and to deal frankly with you, had determined to accept it.—If I had—(she stopped a moment)—I believe your good will would have drawn a story from me, which would have made pity the only dangerous thing in the journey.
I NEVER finished a twelve-guinea bargain so expeditiously in my life: my time seemed heavy upon the loss of the lady, and knowing every moment of it would be as two, till I put myself into motion—I ordered post horses directly, and walked towards the hotel.
Lord! said I, hearing the town clock strike four, and recollecting that I had been
little more than a single hour in
fairly lay his
hands on.—
—If this won't turn out something—another will—no matter—'tis an assay upon human nature—I get my labour for my pains—'tis enough—the pleasure of the experiment has kept my senses, and the best part of my blood awake, and laid the gross to sleep.
Dan to
Beersheba
, and cry,
'Tis all barren—and so it is; and so is all the world to him who will not cultivate
the fruits it offers. I declare, said I, clapping my hands chearily together, that
was I in a desart, I would find out wherewith in it to call forth my affections—If I
could not do better, I would fasten them upon some sweet myrtle, or seek some
melancholy cypress to connect myself to—I would court their shade, and greet them
kindly for their protection—I would cut my name upon them, and swear they were the
loveliest trees throughout the desert: if their leaves wither'd, I would teach
The learned
I met 'Tis nothing but a huge cock-pit
*, said he—I wish you had said nothing
worse of the Venus
I popp'd upon "wherein he spoke of
moving accidents by flood and field, and of the cannibals which each other eat:
the Anthropophagi"
—he had been flea'd alive, and bedevil'd, and used worse
than St. Bartholomew, at every stage he had come at—
Peace be to them! if it is to be found; but heaven itself, was it possible to get
there with such tempers,
I HAD once lost my portmanteau from behind my chaise, and twice got out in the rain,
and one of the times up to the knees in dirt, to help the postilion to tie it on,
without being able to find out what was wanting—Nor was it till I got to
A servant! That I do most sadly, quoth I—Because, Monsieur, said the landlord, there
is a clever young fellow, qu'un my Lord Anglois presentoit un ecu a la fille de
chambre—Tant pis, pour Madlle Janatone, said I.
Now Janatone being the landlord's daughter, and the landlord supposing I was young in
French, took the liberty to inform me, I should tant pis—but, tant mieux. Tant mieux, toujours,
Monsieur, said he, when there is any thing to be got—tant pis, when
there is nothing. It comes to the same thing, said I. Pardonnez moi, said
the landlord.
I cannot take a fitter opportunity to observe once for all, that tant pis
and tant mieux being two of the great hinges in French conversation, a
stranger would do well to set himself right in the use of them, before he gets to
A prompt French Marquis at our ambassador's table demanded of Mr. HTant pis, replied the Marquis.
It is HTant mieux, said the Marquis. And Mr.
H
When the landlord had set me right in this matter, he called in La Fleur, which was the name of the young man he had spoke of—saying only first, That as for his talents, he would presume to say nothing—Monsieur was the best judge what would suit him; but for the fidelity of La Fleur, he would stand responsible in all he was worth.
I AM apt to be taken with all kinds of people at first sight; but never more so, than when a poor devil comes to offer his service to so poor a devil as myself; and as I know this weakness, I always suffer my judgment to draw back something on that very account—and this more or less, according to the mood I am in, and the case—and I may add the gender too, of the person I am to govern.
When La Fleur enter'd the room, after every discount I could make for my soul, the
genuine look and air of
Now poor La Fleur could do nothing in the world but beat a drum, and play a march or two upon the fife. I was determined to make his talents do; and can't say my weakness was ever so insulted by my wisdom, as in the attempt.
La Fleur had set out early in life, as gallantly as most Frenchmen do, with
serving for a few years; at the end a ses terres, and lived comme il plaisoit a
Dieu—that is to say, upon nothing.
—And so, quoth Wisdome, you have hired a drummer to attend you in this tour
of your's thro' compagnon du voiage the same round, and have the piper and
the devil and all to pay besides? When man can extricate himself with equivoque in such an unequal match—he is
not ill of—But you can do something else, La Fleur? said I—O qu'oui!—he
could make spatterdashes, and play a little
upon the fiddle—Bravo! said Wisdome—Why, I play a bass myself, said I—we shall do
very well.—You can shave, and dress a wig a little, La Fleur?—He had all the
dispositions in the world—It is enough for heaven! said I, interrupting him—and ought
to be enough for me—So supper coming in, and having a frisky English spaniel on one
side of my chair, and a French valet, with as much hilarity in his countenance as
ever nature painted in one, on the other—I was
AS La Fleur went the whole tour of
THE next morning La Fleur entering upon his employment, I delivered to him the key of my portmanteau with an inventory of my half a dozen shirts and silk pair of breeches; and bid him fasten all upon the chaise—get the horses put to—and desire the landlord to come in with his bill.
C'est un garçon de bonne fortune, said the landlord, pointing through the
window to half a dozen wenches who had got round about La Fleur, and were most kindly
taking their leave of him, as the postilion was leading out the horses. La Fleur
kissed all their hands round and
The young fellow, said the landlord, is beloved by all the town, and there is scarce
a corner in "He is always in love."
—I am heartily glad of it,
said I,—'twill save me the trouble every night of putting my breeches under my head.
In saying this, I was making not so much La Fleur's eloge, as my own, having been in
love with one princess or another almost all my life, and I
—But in saying this—surely I am commending the passion—not myself.
—THE town of
Now, when things were at the worst, it came to pass, that the Andromeda of
Every man almost spoke pure
iambics the next day, and talk'd of nothing but Perseus his pathetic address—O Cupid, prince of God and men, &c."O Cupid! prince of God and men"
—in every street of
"O Cupid! Cupid!"
—in every
mouth, like the natural notes of some sweet melody which drops from it whether it
will or no—nothing but "Cupid! Cupid! prince of God and
men"
—The fire caught—and the whole city, like
No pharmacopolist could sell one grain of helebore—not a single armourer had a heart
to forge one instrument of death—Friendship and Virtue met together, and kiss'd each
other in the street—the golden age return'd, and hung o'er the town of
'Twas only in the power, says the Fragment, of the God whose empire
WHEN all is ready, and every article is disputed and paid for in the inn, unless you
are a little sour'd by the adventure, there is always a matter to compound at the
door, before you can get into your chaise; and that is with the sons and daughters of
poverty, who surround you. Let no man say, "let them go
to the devil"
—'tis a cruel journey to send a few miserables, and they have had
sufferings enow without it: I always think it better to take a few sous out in my
hand; and I would counsel every gentle traveller
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 publick act of my charity in
A well-a-way! said I. I have but eight sous in the world, shewing them in my hand, and there are eight poor men and eight poor women for 'em.
A poor tatter'd soul without a shirt on instantly withdrew his claim, by
Place aux dames, with one voice, it
would not have conveyed the sentiment of a deference for the sex with half the
effect.
Just heaven! for what wise reasons hast thou order'd it, that beggary and urbanity, which are at such variance in other countries, should find a way to be at unity in this?
—I insisted upon presenting him with a single sous, merely for his
politesse.
Prenez
en—prenez, said he, looking another way; so they each took a
pinch—Pity thy box should ever want one! said I to myself; so I put a couple of sous
into it—taking a small pinch out of his box, to enhance their value, as I did it—He
felt the weight of the second obligation more than that of the first—'twas
—Here! said I to an old soldier with one hand, who had been campaign'd and worn out
to death in the service—here's a couple of sous for thee—Vive le Roi! said
the old soldier.
I had then but three sous left: so I gave one, simply pour l'amour de Dieu,
which was the footing on which it was begg'd—The poor woman had a dislocated hip; so
it could not be well, upon any other motive.
Mon cher et tres charitable Monsieur—There's no opposing this, said I.
My Lord Anglois—the very sound was worth the money—so I gave my last
sous for it. But in the eagerness of giving, I had overlook'd a pauvre
honteux, who had no one to ask a sous for him, and who, I believed, would
have perish'd, ere he could have ask'd one for himself: he stood by the chaise a
little without the circle, and wiped a tear from a face which I thought had seen
better days—Good God! said I—and I have not one single sous left to give him—But you
have a thousand! cried all the powers of nature, stirring within me—so I gave him—no
matter what—I am how
much, now—and was ashamed to think, how little, then: so if the reader can
form any conjecture of my disposition, as these two fixed points are given him, he
may judge within a livre or two what was the precise sum.
I could afford nothing for the rest, but, Dieu vous benisse—Et le bon
Dieu vous benisse encore—said the old soldier, the dwarf, &c. The
pauvre honteux could say nothing—he pull'd out a little handkerchief, and
wiped his face as he turned away—and I thought he thank'd me more than them all.
HAVING settled all these little matters, I got into my postchaise with more ease than
ever I got into a post-chaise in my life; and La Fleur having got one large jackboot
on the far side of a little bidet
*, and another on this (for I count
nothing of his legs)—he canter'd away before me as happy and as perpendicular as a
prince.—
—But what is happiness! what is grandeur in this painted scene of life! A dead ass,
before we had got a league, put a sudden stop to La Fleur's career—his bidet would
not
La Fleur bore his fall like a French christian, saying neither more or less upon it, than, Diable! so presently got up and came to the charge again astride his bidet, beating him up to it as he would have beat his drum.
The bidet flew from one side of the road to the other, then back again—then this way—then that way, and in short every way but by the dead ass.—La Fleur insisted upon the thing—and the bidet threw him.
Monsieur, said he, c'est un cheval le plus
opiniatré du monde—Nay, if he is a conceited beast, he must go his own way,
replied I—so La Fleur got off him, and giving him a good sound lash, the bidet took
me at my word, and away he scamper'd back to Peste! said La Fleur.
It is not mal a propos to take notice here, that tho' La Fleur availed
himself but of two different terms of exclamation in this encounter—namely,
Diable! and Peste! that there are nevertheless three, in the
French language; like the positive, comparative, and superlative, one or
Le Diable! which is the first, and positive degree, is generally used upon
ordinary emotions of the mind, where small things only fall out contrary to your
expectations—such as—the throwing once doublets—La Fleur's being kick'd off his
horse, and so forth—cuckoldom, for the same
reason, is always—Le Diable!
But in cases where the cast has something provoking in it, as in that of the bidet's running away after, and leaving La Fleur aground in jack-boots—'tis the second degree.
Peste!
And for the third—
—But here my heart is wrung with pity and fellow-feeling, when I reflect what miseries must have been their lot, and how bitterly so refined a people must have smarted, to have forced them upon the use of it.—
Grant me, O ye powers which touch the tongue with eloquence in distress!—whatever is
my cast, Grant me but decent words to exclaim in, and I will give my nature
way.
—But as these were not to be had in
La Fleur, who had made no such covenant with himself, followed the bidet with his eyes till it was got out of sight—and then, you may imagine, if you please, with what word he closed the whole affair.
As there was no hunting down a frighten'd horse in jack-boots, there remained no alternative but taking La Fleur either behind the chaise, or into it.—
I preferred the latter, and in half an hour we got to the post-house at
—AND this, said he, putting the remains of a crust into his wallet—and this, should
have been thy portion, said he, hadst thou been alive to have shared it with me. I
thought by the accent, it had been an apostrophe to his child; but 'twas to his ass,
and to the very ass we had seen dead in the road, which had occasioned La Fleur's
misadventure. The man seemed to lament it much; and it instantly brought into my mind
Sancho's lamentation
The mourner was sitting upon a stone bench at the door, with the ass's pannel and its bridle on one side, which he took up from time to time—then laid them down—look'd at them and shook his head. He then took his crust of bread out of his wallet again, as if to eat it; held it some time in his hand—then laid it upon the bit of his ass's bridle—looked wistfully at the little arrangement he had made—and then gave a sigh.
The simplicity of his grief drew numbers about him, and La Fleur
—He said he had come last from
It had pleased heaven, he said, to bless him with three sons, the finest lads in all
When the mourner got thus far on his story, he stopp'd to pay nature her tribute—and wept bitterly.
He said, Heaven had accepted the conditions; and that he had set out from his cottage with this poor creature, who had been a patient partner of his journey—that it had eat the same bread with him all the way, and was unto him as a friend.
Thou hast one comfort, friend, said I, at least in the loss of thy poor beast; I'm
sure thou hast been a merciful
THE concern which the poor fellow's story threw me into, required some attention: the
postillion paid not the least to it, but set off upon the pavè in a full
gallop.
The thirstiest soul in the most sandy desert of
I called to him as loud as I could, for heaven's sake to go slower—and the louder I called the more unmercifully he galloped.—The deuce take him and his galloping too—said I—he'll go on tearing my nerves to pieces till he has worked me into a foolish passion, and then he'll go slow, that I may enjoy the sweets of it.
The postillion managed the point to a miracle: by the time he had got
My case then required a different treatment; and a good rattling gallop would have been of real service to me.—
—Then, prithee get on—get on, my good lad, said I.
The postillion pointed to the hill—I then tried to return back to the story of the poor German and his ass—but I had broke the clue—and could no more get into it again, than the postillion could into a trot.—
There is one sweet lenitive at least for evils, which nature holds out to us; so I
took it kindly at her hands, and fell asleep; and the first word which roused me was
Amiens.
—Bless me! said I, rubbing my eyes—this is the very town where my poor lady is to come.
THE words were scarce out of my mouth, when the Count de L***'s post-chaise, with his
sister in it, drove hastily by: she had just time to make me a bow of recognition—and
of that particular kind of it, which told me she had not yet done with me. She was as
good as her look; for, before I had quite finished my supper, her brother's servant
came into the room with a billet, in which she said, she had taken the liberty to
charge me with a letter, which I was to present myself to Madame R*** the first penchant she had not
considered, that she had been prevented telling me her story—that she still owed it
me; and if my rout should ever lay through
Then I will meet thee, said I, fair spirit! at
There was nothing wrong in the sentiment; and yet I instantly reproached my heart with it in the bitterest and most reprobate of expressions.
—I will not go to
Eternal fountain of happiness! said I, kneeling down upon the ground—be thou my
witness—and every pure spirit which tastes it, be my witness also, That I would not
travel to
In transports of this kind, the heart, in spite of the understanding, will always say too much.
FORTUNE had not smiled upon La Fleur; for he had been unsuccessful in his feats of
chivalry—and not one thing had offer'd to signalize his zeal for my service from the
time he had enter'd into it, which was almost four and twenty hours. The poor soul
burn'd with impatience; and the Count de L***'s servant's coming with the letter,
being the first practicable occasion which offered, La Fleur had laid hold of it; and
in order to do honour to his prevenancy (for there was a passport in his very looks)
soon set every servant in the kitchen at ease with him; and as a Frenchman, whatever
be his talents, has no sort of prudery in shewing them, La Fleur, in less than five
minutes, had pull'd out his fife, and leading off the dance himself with the first
note, set the fille de chambre, the maitre d'hotel, the cook,
Madame de L***, in passing from her brother's apartments to her own, hearing so much
jollity below stairs, rung up her fille de chambre to ask about it; and
hearing it was the English gentleman's servant who had set the whole house merry with
his pipe, she order'd him up.
As the poor fellow could not present himself empty, he had loaden'd himself in going
up stairs with a thousand compliments to Madame de L***, on the part of his master—
au desespoire for her re-establishment
from the fatigues of her journey—and, to close all, that Monsieur had received the
letter which Madame had done him the honour—And he has done me the honour, said
Madame de L***, interrupting La Fleur, to send a billet in return.
Madame de L*** had said this with such a tone of reliance upon the fact, that La
Fleur had not power to disappoint her expectations—he trembled for my honour—and
possibly might not altogether be unconcerned en egards vis a vis d'une femme; so that when Madame de L*** asked La
Fleur if he had brought a letter—O qu'oui, said La Fleur: so laying down his
hat upon the ground, and taking hold of the flap of his right side pocket with his
left hand, he began to search for the letter with his right—then
contrary-wise—Diable!—then sought every pocket—pocket by pocket, round,
not forgetting his fob—Peste!—then La Fleur emptied them upon the
floor—pulled out a dirty cravat—a handkerchief—a comb—a whip lash—a night-cap—then
gave a peep Quelle
etourderie! He had left the letter upon the table in the Auberge—he would run
for it, and be back with it in three minutes.
I had just finished my supper when La Fleur came in to give me an account of his
adventure: he told the whole story simply as it was; and only added, that if Monsieur
had forgot (par hazard) to answer Madame's letter, the arrangement gave him
an opportunity to recover the faux pas—and if not, that things were only as
they were.
Now I was not altogether sure of my etiquette, whether I ought to have wrote
or no; but if I had—a devil
—'Tis all very well, La Fleur, said I.—'Twas sufficient. La Fleur flew out of the room like lightening, and return'd 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.
In short, I was in no mood to write.
La Fleur stepp'd out and brought a little water in a glass to dilute my ink—then
fetch'd sand and seal-wax—It was all one: I
wrote, and blotted, and tore off, and burnt, and wrote again—Le Diable
l'emporte! said I half to myself—I cannot write this self-same letter;
throwing the pen down despairingly as I said it.
I had a mind to let the poor fellow have his humour—Then prithee, said I, let me see it.
La Fleur instantly pull'd out a little dirty pocket-book cramm'd full of small
letters and billet-doux in a sad condition,
and laying it upon the table, and then untying the string La voila! said he, clapping his
hands: so unfolding it first, he laid it before me, and retired three steps from the
table whilst I read it.
JE suis penetré de la douleur la plus vive, et reduit en même temps an desespoir par ce retour imprevû du Corporal qui rend notre entrevue de ce soir la chose du monde la plus impossible.
Mais vive la joie! et toute la mienne sera de penser a vous.
L'amour n'est rien sans sentiment.
Et le sentiment est encore moins sans amour.
On dit aussi que Monsieur le Corporal monte la garde Mecredi: alors ce sera mon tour.
Chacun a son tour.
En attendant—Vive l'amour! et vive la bagatelle!
WHEN a man can contest the point by dint of equipage, and carry all on floundering
before him with half a dozen lackies and a couple of cooks—'tis very well in such a
place as
A poor prince who is weak in cavalry, and whose whole infantry does not exceed a
single man, had best quit the field; and signalize himself in the cabinet, if he can
get up into it—I say up into it—for there is no descending perpendicular
amongst 'em with a "
—here I am—whatever many may think.Me voici!
mes enfans"
I own my first sensations, as soon as I was left solitary and alone in my own chamber
in the hotel, were far from being so flattering as I had prefigured them. I walked up
gravely to the window in my dusty black coat, and looking through the glass saw all
the world in yellow, blue, and green, running at the ring of pleasure.—The old with
broken lances, and in helmets which had lost their vizards—the young in armour bright
which shone like gold, beplumed with each gay feather of the east—all—all tilting at
it like
Alas, poor Yorick! cried I, what art thou doing here? On the very first onset of all
this glittering clatter, thou art reduced to an atom—seek—seek some winding alley,
with a tourniquet at the end of it, where chariot never rolled or flambeau shot its rays—there thou mayest solace thy soul in
converse sweet with some kind
grisset
of a barber's wife, and get into such coteries!—
—May I perish! if I do, said I, pulling out the letter which I had to present to
Madame de R***.—I'll
WHEN the barber came, he absolutely refused to have any thing to do with my wig: 'twas either above or below his art: I had nothing to do, but to take one ready made of his own recommendation.
—But I fear, friend! said I, this buckle won't stand.—You may immerge it, replied he, into the ocean, and it will stand—
What a great scale is every thing upon in this city! thought I—The "dipped it into a pail of water"
—What difference!
'tis like time to eternity.
I confess I do hate all cold conceptions, as I do the puny ideas which engender them;
and am generally so struck with the great works of nature, that for my own part, if I
could help it, I never would make a comparison less than a mountain at least. All
that can be said against the French sublime in this instance of it, is this—that the
grandeur is more in the word; and less in the
thing. No doubt the ocean fills the mind with vast ideas;
The pail of water standing besides the great deep, makes certainly but a sorry figure in speech—but 'twill be said—it has one advantage—'tis in the next room, and the truth of the buckle may be tried in it without more ado, in a single moment.
In honest truth, and upon a more candid revision of the matter, The French
expression professes more than it performs.
minutiae, than in the most important matters of state; where great men of
all nations talk and stalk so much alike, that I would not give ninepence to chuse
amongst them.
I was so long in getting from under my barber's hands, that it was too late of
thinking of going with my letter to Madame R*** that night: but when a man is once
dressed at all points for going out, his reflections turn to little account, so
taking down the name of the Hotel de Modene where I lodged, I
HAIL ye small sweet courtesies of life, for smooth do ye make the road of it! like grace and beauty which beget inclinations to love at first sight; 'tis ye who open this door and let the stranger in.
—Pray, Madame, said I, have the goodness to tell me which way I must turn to go to the Opera comique:—Most willingly, Monsieur, said she, laying aside her work—
I had given a cast with my eye into half a dozen shops as I came
She was working a pair of ruffles as she sat in a low chair on the far side of the shop facing the door—
—Tres volentieres; 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 chearful
a movement and so chearful a look, that had I been laying out fifty louis d'ors with her, I should have said—"This woman is grateful."
mais prenez guarde—there are two turns;
and be so good as to take the second—then go down a little way and you'll see a
church, and when you are past it, give yourself the trouble to turn directly to the
right, and that will lead you to the foot of the pont neuf, which you must
cross—and there, any one will do himself the pleasure to shew you—
She repeated her instructions three times over to me with the same good natur'd
patience the third time tones and manners have a meaning, which certainly they have, unless to
hearts which shut them out—she seem'd really interested, that I should not lose
myself.
I will not suppose it was the woman's beauty, notwithstanding she was the handsomest grisset, I think, I ever saw, which had much to do with the sense I had of her courtesy; only I remember, when I told her how much I was obliged to her, that I looked very full in her eyes,—and that I repeated my thanks as often as she had done her instructions.
I had not got ten paces from the door, before I found I had forgot
As this was the real truth—she took it, as every woman takes a matter of right, with a slight courtesy.
—Attendez! said she, laying her hand upon my arm to detain me, whilst she
called a lad out of the
—He will be ready, Monsieur, said she, in a moment—And in that moment, replied I,
most willingly would I say something very civil to you for
—Would to heaven! my dear "there
are worse occupations in this world
—But a Grisset's! thou wouldst have said—and in an open shop!
Yorick—than feeling a woman's
pulse."
—So much the better: for when my views are direct,
I HAD counted twenty pulsations, and was going on fast towards the fortieth, when her
husband coming unexpected from a back parlour into the shop, put me a little out in
my reckoning—'Twas no body but her husband, she said—so I began a fresh
score—Monsieur is so good, quoth she, as he pass'd by us, as to give himself the
trouble of feeling my pulse—The husband took off his hat, and making me a bow, said,
I did him too much honour—and having
Good God! said I to myself, as he went out—and can this man be the husband of this woman?
Let it not torment the few who know what must have been the grounds of this exclamation, if I explain it to those who do not.
In
The genius of a people where nothing but the monarchy is
salique, having ceded this department, with sundry
others, totally to the women—by a continual higgling with customers of all ranks and
sizes from morning to night, like so many rough pebbles shook long together in a le Mari is
little better than the stone under your foot—
—Surely—surely man! it is not good for thee to sit alone—thou wast made for social intercourse and gentle greetings, and this improvement of our natures from it, I appeal to, as my evidence.
—And how does it beat, Monsieur? said she.—With all the benignity, said I, looking
quietly in A propos, said I; I want a couple of pair myself.
THE beautiful Grisset rose up when I said this, and going behind the counter, reach'd
down a parcel and untied it: I advanced to the side over-against her: they were all
too large. The beautiful Grisset measured them one by one across my hand—It would not
alter the dimensions—She begg'd I would try a single pair, which seemed to be the
least—She held it open—my hand slipp'd into it at once—It will not do, said I,
There are certain combined looks of simple subtlety—where whim, and sense, and seriousness, and nonsense, are so blended, that all the languages of Babel set loose together could not express them—they are communicated and caught so instantaneously, that you can scarce say which party is the infecter. I leave it to your men of words to swell pages about it—it is enough in the present to say again, the gloves would not do; so folding our hands within our arms, we both loll'd upon the counter—it was narrow, and there was just room for the parcel to lay between us.
I found I lost considerably in every attack—she had a quick black eye, and shot through two such long and silken eye-lashes with such penetration, that she look'd into my very heart and reins—It may seem strange, but I could actually feel she did—
I was sensible the beautiful Grisset had not ask'd above a single livre above the
price—I wish'd she had ask'd a livre more, and was puzzling my brains how to bring
the matter about—Do you think, my dear Sir, said she, mistaking my embarrassment,
that I could ask a sous too much of a stranger—and of a stranger whose
politeness, more than his want of gloves, has done me the honour to lay himself at my
mercy?—Men croyez capable?—Faith! not I, said I; and if you were, you are
welcome—
THERE was no body in the box I was let into but a kindly old French officer. I love
the character, not only because I honour the man whose manners are softened by a
profession which makes bad men worse; but that I once knew one—for he is no more—and
why should I not rescue one page from violation by writing his name in it, and
telling the world it was Captain Tobias Shandy, the dearest of my flock and friends,
whose philanthropy I never
The old officer was reading attentively a small pamphlet, it might be the book of the opera, with a large pair of spectacles. As soon as I sat down, he took his spectacles off, and putting them into a shagreen case, return'd them and the book into his pocket together. I half rose up, and made him a bow.
"Here's a poor stranger come in to the box—he seems as if
he knew no body; and is never likely, was he to be seven years in
The French officer might as well have said it all aloud; and if he had, I should in
course have put the bow I made him into French too, and told him, "I was sensible of his attention,
There is not a secret so aiding to the progress of sociality, as to get master of
this short hand, and 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
chichesbee near her, I begg'd to hand her to her coach—so we went down
the stairs, stopping at every third step to talk of the concert and the
adventure—Upon my word, Madame, said I when I had handed her in, I made six different
efforts to let you go out—And I made six efforts, replied she, to let you enter—I
wish to heaven you would make a seventh, said I—With all my heart, said she, making
room—Life is too short to be long about the forms of it—so I instantly stepp'd in,
and she carried me home with her—And
I will only add, that the connection which arose out of that translation, gave me
more pleasure than any one I had the honour to make in
I HAD never heard the remark made by any one in my life, except by one; and who that
was, will probably come out in this chapter; so that being pretty much
unprepossessed, there must have been grounds for what struck me the moment I cast my
eyes over the
parterre
—and that was,
the unaccountable sport of nature in forming such numbers of dwarfs—No doubt, she
sports at certain times in almost every corner of the world; but in
As I carried my idea out of the opera comique with me, I measured every body
I saw walking in the streets by it—Melancholy application! especially where the size
was extremely little—the face extremely dark—the eyes quick—the nose long—the teeth
white—the jaw prominent—to see so many miserables, by force of accidents driven out
of their own proper class into the very verge of another, which it gives me pain to
write down—every third man a pigmy!—some by ricketty heads and hump backs—
A medical traveller might say, 'tis owing to undue bandages—a splenetic one, to want
of air—and an inquisitive traveller, to fortify the system, may measure the height of
their houses—the narrowness of their streets, and in how few feet square in the sixth
and seventh stories such numbers of the
Bourgoisie
eat and sleep
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
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 or strength to get on in the world—I cannot bear to see one of them trod upon; and had scarce got seated beside my old French officer, ere the disgust was exercised, by seeing the very thing happen under the box we sat in.
At the end of the orchestra, and betwixt that
and the first side-box,
I was just then taking a pinch of snuff out of my monk's little horn box—And how
would thy meek and bear and forbear!—how sweetly would it have lent an ear
to this poor soul's complaint!
The old French officer seeing me lift up my eyes with an emotion, as I made the apostrophe, took the liberty to ask me what was the matter—I told him the story in three words; and added, how inhuman it was.
By this time the dwarf was driven to extremes, and in his first transports, which are
generally unreasonable, had told the German he would cut off his long queue with his knife—The German look'd back
coolly,
An injury sharpened by an insult, be it to who it will, makes every man of sentiment
a party: I could have leaped out of the box to have redressed it.—The old French
officer did it with much less confusion; for leaning a little over, and nodding to a
centinel, and pointing at the same time with his finger to the distress—the centinel
made his way up to it.—There was no occasion to tell the grievance—the thing told
itself; so thrusting back the German instantly with his musket—he took the poor dwarf
by the hand, and placed him
—In England, dear Sir, said I, we sit all at our ease.
The old French officer would have set me at unity with myself, in case I had been at
variance,—by saying it was a
bon
mot
—and as a bon mot is always worth something at
IT was now my turn to ask the old French officer "What was the
matter?"
for a cry of "
reechoed from a dozen different parts of the
parterre, was as unintellgible to me, as my apostrophe to the monk had been to
him.Haussez les mains,
Monsieur l'Abbe,"
He told me, it was some poor Abbe in one of the upper loges, who he supposed had got
planted perdu behind a couple of grissets in
Good God! said I, turning pale with astonishment—is it possible, that a people so
smit with sentiment should at the same time be so unclean, and so unlike
themselves—Quelle grossierte!
added I.
grossiertes, in which they take the lead, and lose it
of one another by turns—that he had been in most countries, but never in one where he
found not some delicacies, which others seemed to want. Le POUR, et
le CONTRE se trouvent en chaque nation; there is a balance, said he,
of good and bad every where; and nothing but the knowing it is so can emancipate one
half of the world sçavoir vivre, was by seeing a great deal both of men and manners; it
taught us mutual toleration; and mutual toleration, concluded he, making me a bow,
taught us mutual love.
The old French officer delivered this with an air of such candour and good sense, as coincided with my first favourable impressions of his character—I thought I loved the man; but I fear I mistook the object—'twas my own way of thinking—the difference was, I could not have expressed it half so well.
Madame de Ramboulict, after an acquaintance of about six weeks with her, had done me
the honour to take me in her coach about two leagues out of town—Of all women, Madame
de Rambouliet is the most correct; and I never wish to see one of
Rien que pisser, said
Madame de Rambouliet—
Grieve not, gentle traveller, to let Madame de Rambouliet p—ss on—And, ye fair mystic
nymphs! go each one pluck your rose, and scatter them in your path—for
Madame de Rambouliet did no more—I handed Madame de Rambouliet out of the coach; and
had I been the priest of the chaste CASTALIA,
I could not have served at her fountain with a more respectful decorum.
WHAT the old French officer had deliver'd upon travelling, bringing Polonius's advice to his son upon the same
subject into my head—and that bringing in Hamlet; and Hamlet, the rest of
Comment! said I; taking one up out of a set which lay upon the
counter betwixt us.—He said, they were sent him only to be got bound, and were to be
sent back to
—And does the Count de B**** said I, read C'est un Esprit fort;
replied the bookseller.—He loves English books; and what is more to his honour,
Monsieur, he love the English too. You speak this so civilly, said I, that 'tis
enough to oblige an Englishman to lay out a Louis d'or or two at your shop—the
bookseller made a bow, and was fille de chambre to some devout woman of fashion, came into the shop
and asked for
Les Egarments du Coeur & de
l'Esprit: the bookseller gave her the book directly; she pulled out
a little green sattin purse run round with a
ribband 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
walked out at the door together.
—And what have you to do, my dear, said I, with The Wanderings of the Heart,
who scarce know yet you have one? nor till love has Le Dieu m'en guard! said the girl.—With reason, said I—for
if is a good one, 'tis pity it should be stolen: 'tis a little treasure to thee, and
gives a better air to your face, than if it was dress'd out with pearls.
The young girl listened with a submissive attention, holding her sattin purse by its
ribband in her hand all the time—'Tis a very small one, said I, taking hold of the
bottom of it—she held it towards me—and there is very little in it, my dear, said I;
but be but as good as thou art handsome, and heaven will fill it: I had a
The young girl made me more a humble courtesy than a low one—'twas one one of those quiet, thankful sinkings where the spirit bows itself down—the body does no more than tell it. I never gave a girl a crown in my life which gave me half the pleasure.
My advice, my dear, would not have been worth a pin to you, said I, if I had not
given this along with it: but now, when you see the crown,
Upon my word, Sir, said the girl, earnestly, I am incapable—in saying which, as is
usual in little bargains of honour, she gave me her hand—En verite, Monsieur, je
mettrai cet argent apart, said she.
When a virtuous convention is made betwixt man and woman, it sanctifies their most private walks: so notwithstanding it was dusky, yet as both our roads lay the same way, we made no scruple of walking along the Quai de Conti together
It was a small tribute, I told her, which I could not avoid paying to virtue, and would not be mistaken in the person I had been rendering it to for the world—but I see innocence, my dear, in your face—and foul befal the man who ever lays a snare in its way!
The girl seem'd affected some way or other with what I said—she gave a low sigh—I
found I was not impowered
—But is this the way, my dear, said I, to the hotel de Modene? she told me it was—or,
that I might go by the Rue de Guineygaude, which was the next turn.—Then I'll go, my
dear, by the Rue de Guineygaude, said I, for two reasons; first I shall please
myself, and next I shall give you the protection of my company as far on your way as
I can. The girl was sensible I was civil—and said, she wish'd the hotel de Modene was
in the Rue de St. Pierre—You live there? said I.—She told me she was fille de
chambre to Madame
We stood still at the corner of the Rue de Nevers whilst this pass'd—We then stopp'd
a moment whilst she disposed of her Egarments de Coeur, &c. more
commodiously than carrying them in her hand—they were two volumes; so I held the
second for her whilst she put the first into her pocket; and then
'Tis sweet to feel by what fine-spun threads our affections are drawn together.
We set off a-fresh, and as she took her third step, the girl put her hand within my
arm—I was just bidding her—but she did it of herself with that undeliberating
simplicity, which shew'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
When we arrived at the turning up of the Rue de Guineygaude, I stopp'd to bid her adieu for good an all: the girl would thank me again for my company and kindness—She bid me adieu twice—I repeated it as often; and so cordial was the parting between us, that had it happen'd any where else, I'm not sure but I should have signed it with a kiss of charity, as warm and holy as an apostle.
But in
—I bid God bless her.
WHEN I got home to my hotel, La Fleur told me I had been enquired after by the Lieutenant de Police—The duce take it! said I—I know the reason. It is time the reader should know it, for in the order of things in which it happened, it was omitted; not that it was out of my head; but that had I told it then, it might have been forgot now—and now is the time I want it.
I had left London with so much precipitation, that it never enter'd my suite. The Count had some little knowledge of me, so made little or no
difficulty—only said, his inclination to serve me could reach no further than
When Le Fleur told me the Lieutenant de Police had been enquiring after me—the thing
instantly recurred—and by the time Le 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
The master of the hotel retired three steps from me, as from an infected person, as I
declared this—and poor Le Fleur advanced three steps towards me, and with that sort
of movement which a good soul makes to succour a distress'd one—the fellow won my
heart by it; and from that single trait, I knew his character as perfectly,
and could rely upon it as firmly, as if he had served me with fidelity for seven
years.
(apparament) in all likelihood
he has friends in certes, replied he, you'll be sent to the
au moins.
Poo! said I, the king of France is a good natured soul—he'll hurt no body.—
Cela n'empeche pas, said he—you will
certainly be sent to the
Pardi! said my host, ces Messieurs Anglois sont des gens tres
extraordinaires—and having both said and sworn it—he went out.
I COULD not find in my heart to torture La Fleur's with a serious look upon the
subject of my embarrassment, which was the reason I had treated it so : and to shew
him how light it lay upon my mind, I dropt the subject entirely; and whilst he waited
upon me at supper, talk'd to him with more than usual gaiety about fille de chambre, and that
we walk'd cavalierly down the Quai de Conti
together, La Fleur deem'd it unnecessary to follow me a step further—so making his
own reflections upon it, he took a shorter cut—and got to the hotel in time to be
inform'd of the affair of the Police against my arrival.
As soon as the honest creature had taken away, and gone down to sup himself, I then began to think a little seriously about my situation.—
—And here, I know,
Now the event I treated gaily came seriously to my door.
Is it folly, or nonchalance, or philosophy, or pertinacity—or what is it in me, that, after all, when La Fleur had gone
down stairs, and I was quite alone, that I could not bring down my mind to think of
it otherwise than I had then spoken of it to
I had some occasion (I forget what) to step into the court-yard, as I settled sombre
pencil! said I vauntingly—for I envy not its powers, which paints the evils of life
with so hard and deadly a colouring. The mind sits terrified at the objects she has
magnified herself, and blackened: reduce them to their proper size and hue she
overlooks them—'Tis true, said I, correcting the proposition—the
I was interrupted in the hey-day of this soliloquy, with a voice which I took to be of a child, which complained "it could not get out."
—I look'd up and down the passage, and
seeing neither man, woman, or child, I went out without further attention.
In my return back through the passage, I heard the same words repeated twice over;
and looking up, I saw it was a starling hung in a little cage.—"I can't get out—I can't get out,"
said the
starling.
"I can't
get out",
said the starling—God help thee! said I, but I'll let thee out, cost
what it will; so I turn'd about the cage to get to the door; it was twisted and
double twisted so fast with wire, there was no getting it open without pulling the
cage to pieces—I took both hands to it.
The bird flew to the place where I was attempting his deliverance, and thrusting his
head through the trellis, press'd his breast against it, as if impatient—I fear, poor
creature! said I, "I can't get out—I can't
get out,"
said the starling.
I vow, I never had my affections more tenderly awakened; or do I remember an incident
in my life, where the dissipated spirits, to which my reason had been a bubble, were
so suddenly call'd home. Mechanical as the notes were, yet so true in tune to nature
were they chanted, that in one moment they overthrew all my systematic reasonings
upon the
tint of words can spot thy snowy mantle, or chymic power turn thy sceptre into iron—with
thee to smile upon him as he eats his crust, the swain is happier than his monarch,
from whose court thou art exiled—Gracious heaven! cried I, kneeling down upon the
last step but one in my ascent—
THE bird in his cage pursued me into my room; I sat down close to my table, and leaning my head upon my hand, I begun to figure to myself the miseries of confinement. I was in a right frame for it, and so I gave full scope to my imagination.
I was going to begin with the millions of my fellow
creatures born to no inheritance but slavery; but finding, however affecting
the picture was, that I could not bring it
—I took a single captive, and having first shut him up in his dungeon, I then look'd through the twilight of his grated door to take his picture.
I beheld his body half wasted away with long expectation and confinement, and felt
what kind of sickness of the heart it was which arises from hope deferr'd. Upon
looking nearer I saw him pale and feverish: in thirty years the western breeze had
not once fann'd his blood—he had seen no sun, no moon in all that time—nor had the
—But here my heart began to bleed—and I was forced to go on with another part of the portrait.
He was sitting upon the ground upon a little straw, in the furthest corner of his
dungeon, which was alternately his chair and bed: a little calender of small sticks
were laid at the head notch'd all over with the dismal days and nights he had pass'd
there—he had one of these little sticks in his hand, and with a rusty nail he was
etching another day of misery to add to the heap. As I darkened the little light he
had, he lifted up a hopeless remise, and have it ready at the door of the hotel by nine in the
morning.
—I'll go directly, said I, myself to Monsieur Le Duke de Choiseul.
I GOT into my remise the hour I proposed: La Fleur got up behind, and I bid
the coachman make the best of his way to
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.
At
Upon his master's going on for unknown language at
In my return from get in—and my bird wanted to get out—he had almost as little
store set by him in London as in
It is impossible but many of my readers must have heard of him; and if any by mere chance have ever seen him—I beg leave to inform them, that that bird was my bird—or some vile copy set up to represent him.
I have nothing further to add upon him, but that from that time to this,
—And let the heralds officers twist his neck about if they dare.
I SHOULD not like to have my enemy take a view of my mind, when I am going to ask protection of any man: for which reason I generally endeavour to protect myself; but this going to Monsieur Le Duc de C***** was an act of compulsion—had it been an act of choice, I should have done it, I suppose, like other people.
How many mean plans of dirty address, as I went along, did my
Then nothing would serve me, when I got within sight of
Well! said I, I wish it well over—Coward again! as if man to man was not equal,
throughout the whole surface of the globe; and if in the field—why not face to face
in the cabinet too? And trust me, Yorick, whenever it is not so, man is false to
himself; and betrays his own succours ten times, where nature does it once.
I believe so, said I—Then I'll go to the Duke, by heaven! with all the gaity and debonairness in the world.—
—And there you are wrong again, replied I—A heart at ease, Yorick, flies into no
extremes—'tis ever on its center.—Well! well! cried I, as the coachman turn'd in at
the gates—I find I shall do very well: and by the time he had wheel'd round the
court, and brought me up to the door, I found myself so much the better for my own
lecture, that I
As I enter'd the door of the saloon, I was met by a person who possibly might be the
maitre d'hotel, but had more the air of one of the under secretaries, who told me the
Duc de C**** was busy—I am utterly ignorant, said I, of the forms of obtaining an
audience, being an absolute stranger, and what is worse in the present conjuncture of
affairs, being an Englishman too.—He replied, that did not increase the difficulty.—I
made C'est une autre
affaire, replied he—Not at all, said I, to a man of gallantry.—But pray, good sir, continued I, when can a
stranger hope to have accesse? In not less than two hours, said he, looking
at his watch. The number of equipages in the court-yard seem'd to justify the
calculation, that I could remise, and bid the coachman drive me to the cordon
bleu, which was the nearest hotel.
I think there is a fatality in it—I seldom go to the place I set out for.
BEFORE I had got half-way down the street, I changed my mind: as I am at fille de chambre that I would assuredly wait upon her—but I am govern'd
by circumstances—I cannot govern them: so seeing a man standing with a basket on the
other side of the street, as if he had something to sell, I bid La Fleur go up
La Fleur return'd a little pale; and told me it was a Chevalier de St. Louis selling
patès
—It is impossible, La
Fleur! said I.—La Fleur could no more account for the phenomenon than myself; but
persisted in his story: he had seen the croix set
in gold, with its red ribband, he said, tied to his button-hole—and had
look'd into the basket and seen the patès which the Chevalier was selling;
so could not be mistaken in that.
Such a reverse in man's life awakens a better principle than curiosity: I could not
help looking for some time remise—the more I look'd at him—his croix and his basket, the stronger
they wove themselves into my brain—I got out of the remise and went towards
him.
He was begirt with a clean linen apron which fell below his knees, and with a sort of
a bib went half way up his breast; upon the top of this, but a little below the hem,
hung his croix. His basket of little patès was cover'd over with a white
damask napkin; another of the same kind
was spread at the bottom; and there was a look of propreté and neatness
throughout; that one might have bought his patès of him, as much from
appetite as sentiment.
He was about forty-eight—of a sedate look, something approaching to gravity. I did
not wonder.—I went up rather to the basket than him, and having lifted up the napkin
and taken one of his patès into my hand—I begg'd he would explain the
appearance which affected me.
He told me in a few words, that the best part of his life had pass'd in the service,
in which, after spending a small patrimony,
he had obtain'd a company and the croix with
it;
The king, he said, was the most generous of princes, but his generosity could neither
relieve or reward every one, and it was only his misfortune to be amongst the number.
He had a little wife, he said, whom
patisserie; and added,
he felt no dishonour in defending her and himself from want in this way—unless
Providence had offer'd him a better.
It would be wicked to with-hold a pleasure from the good, in passing over what happen'd to this poor Chevalier of St. Louis about nine months after.
It seems he usually took his stand near the iron gates which lead up to the palace,
and as his croix had caught the eye of numbers, numbers had made the same enquiry
which I had done—He had told them the same story, and always with
As I have told this to please the reader, I beg he will allow me to relate another out of its order, to please myself—the two stories reflect light upon each other,—and 'tis a pity they should be parted.
WHEN states and empires have their periods of declension, and feel in their turns
what distress and poverty is—I stop not to tell the causes which gradually brought
the house d'E**** in Britany into decay. The Marquis d'E**** had fought up against
his condition with great firmness; wishing to preserve, and still shew to the world
some little fragments of what his ancestors had been—their indiscretions had put it
out of his power. There obscurity—But he had two boys who look'd up to him for
light—he thought they deserved it. He had tried his sword—it could not
open the way—the mounting was too expensive—and simple oeconomy was not a
match for it—there was no resource but commerce.
In any other province in France, save Britany, this was smiting the root for ever of
the little tree his pride and affection wish'd to see reblossom—But in Britany, there
being a provision for this, he avail'd himself of it; and taking an occasion when the
states were assembled at
The president accepted the Marquis's sword—he stay'd a few minutes to see it deposited in the archives of his house—and departed.
The Marquis and his whole family embarked the next day for Martinico, and in about nineteen or twenty years of
successful application to business,
It was an incident of good fortune which will never happen to any traveller, but a
sentimental one, that I should be at
The Marquis enter'd the court with his whole family: he supported his lady—his eldest son supported his sister, and his youngest was at the other extreme of the line next his mother.—he put his handkerchief to his face twice—
"I shall find, said he, some
other way, to get
it off."
When the Marquis had said this, he return'd his sword into its scabbard, made a bow to the guardians of it—and, with his wife and daughter and his two sons following him, walk'd out.
O how I envied him his feelings!
I FOUND no difficulty in getting admittance to Monsieur Le Count de B****. The set of
Shakespears was laid upon the table; and he was tumbling them over. I walk'd up close
to the table, and giving first such a look at the books as to make him conceive I
knew what they were—I told him I had come without any one to present me, knowing I
should meet with a friend in his apartment who, I trusted, would do it for me—it is
my countryman et ayez la bontè, mon cher ami, apostrophizing his
spirit, added I, de me faire cet honneur la.—
The Count smil'd at the singularity of the introduction; and seeing I look'd a
little pale and sickly, insisted upon my taking an arm-chair: so I sat down; and to
save him conjectures upon a visit so out of all rule, I told him simply of the
incident in the bookseller's shop, and how that had impell'd me rather to go to him
with the story of a little embarrassment I was under, than to any other man in
France—And what
—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
Ne craignez rien—Don't fear, said he—Indeed
I don't, replied I again—besides, continued I a little sportingly—I have come
laughing all the way from London to
—My application to you, Monsieur le Compte de B**** (making him a low bow) is to desire he will not.
The Count heard me with great good nature, or I had not said half C'est bien dit.
So I rested my cause there—and determined to say no more about it.
The Count led the discourse: we talk'd of indifferent things;—of books and politicks, and men—and then of women—God bless them all! said I, after much discourse about them—there is not a man upon earth who loves them so much as I do: after all the foibles I have seen, and all the satires I have read against them, still I love them; being firmly persuaded that a man who has not a sort of an affection for the whole sex, is incapable of ever loving a single one as he ought.
Hèh bien! Monsieur l'Anglois, said the Count, gaily—You are not come to spy
the nakedness of the land—I believe you—ni encore, I dare say, that
of our women—But permit me to conjecture—if, par hazard, they fell in your
way—that the prospect would not affect you.
I have something within me which cannot bear the shock of the least indecent insinuation: in the sportability of chit-chat I have often endeavoured to conquer it, and with infinite pain have hazarded a thousand things to a dozen of the sex together—the least of which I could not venture to a single one, to gain heaven.
weak
about them, that I would cover it with a garment, if I knew how to throw it on—But I
could wish, continued I, to spy the nakedness of their hearts, and through
the different disguises of customs, climates, and religion, find out what is good in
them, to fashion my own by—and therefore am I come.
The thirst of this, continued I, as impatient as that which inflames the breast of
the connoisseur, has led me from my own home into France—and from France will lead me
through
The Count said a great many civil things to me upon the occasion; and added very
politely how much he stood obliged to Shakespear for making me known to him—but,
a-propos, said he—Shakespear is full of great things—He forgot a small
punctillio of announcing your name—it puts you under a necessity of doing it
yourself.
THERE is not a more perplexing affair in life to me, than to set about telling any
one who I am—for there is scarce any body I cannot give a better account of than of
myself; and I have often wish'd I could do it in a single word—and have an end of it.
It was the only time and occasion in my life, I could accomplish this to any
purpose—for Shakespear lying upon the table, and recollecting I was in his books, I
took up Hamlet, and turning immediately to the grave-diggers scene in Voici! said I.
Now whether the idea of poor Yorick's skull was put out of the Count's mind, by the
reality of my own, or by what magic he could drop a period of seven or eight hundred
years, makes nothing in this account—'tis certain the French conceive better than
they combine—I wonder at nothing in this world, and the less at this; inasmuch as one
of the first of our own church, for whose candour and paternal sentiments I have the
highest veneration, fell "He could not bear, he said, to
look into sermons wrote by the king of Denmark's jester."
—Good, my lord! said
I—but there are two Yorick's. The Yorick your lordship thinks of, has been dead and
buried eight hundred years ago; he flourish'd in Horwendillus's court—the other
Yorick is myself, who have flourish'd my lord in no court—He shook his head—Good God!
said I, you might as well confound Alexander the Great, with Alexander the
Copper-smith, my lord—'Twas all one, he replied—
—If Alexander king of Macedon could have translated your lordship,
The poor Count de B**** fell but into the same error—
—Et, Monsieur, est il Yorick? cried the Count.—Je le suis, said
I.—Vous?—Moi—moi qui ai l'honneur de vous parler, Monsieur le Compte—Mon
Dieu! said he, embracing me—Vous etes Yorick.
The Count instantly put the Shakespear into his pocket—and left me alone in his room.
I COULD not conceive why the Count de B**** had gone so abruptly out of the room, any
more than I could conceive why he had put the Shakespear into his
pocket—Mysteries which must explain themselves, are not worth the loss of
time, which a conjecture about them takes up: 'twas better to read
Much Ado about Nothing," I transported myself
instantly from the chair I sat in to Messina in Sicily, and got so busy with Don
Pedro and Benedick
Sweet pliability of man's spirit, that can at once surrender itself to illusions,
which cheat expectation and sorrow of their weary moments!——long—long since had ye
number'd out my days, had I not trod so great a part of them upon this enchanted
ground: when my way is too rough for my feet, or too steep for my strength, I get off
it, to some smooth velvet path which fancy has scattered over with rose-buds of
delights; and having taken a few turns in it, come back strengthen'd and
refresh'd—When evils press sore upon me, and
Surely this is not walking in a vain shadow—nor does man disquiet himself in
vain, by it—he oftener does so in
When I had got to the end of the third act, the Count de B**** entered with my
Passport in his hand. Mons. le Duc de C****, said the Count, is as good a prophet, I
dare say, as he is a statesman—Un homme qui rit, said the duke, ne sera
jamais dangereuz.—Had it been for any one but the king's jester, added the
Count, I Pardonncz moi, Mons. Le Compte, said I—I am not the king's
jester.—But you are Yorick?—Yes.—Et vous plaisantez?—I answered, Indeed I
did jest—but was not paid for it—'twas entirely at my own expence.
We have no jester at court, Mons. Le Compte, said I, the last we had was in the licentious reign of Charles the IId—since
which time our manners have been so gradually refining, that our court at present is
so full of patriots, who wish for nothing but the honours and wealth of
their country—and our ladies are all so chaste, so spotless, so good, so devout
Voila un persiflage!
cried the
Count.
AS the Passport was directed to all lieutenant governors, governors, and commandants
of cities, generals of armies, justiciaries, and all officers of justice, to let Mr.
Yorick, the king's jester, and his baggage, travel quietly along—I own the triumph of
obtaining the Passport was not a little tarnish'd by the figure I cut in it—But there
is nothing unmixt in this world; and some of the gravest of our divines have carried
it so far as to affirm, that enjoyment itself they knew of, terminated
in a general way, in little better than a convulsion.
I remember the grave and learned Bevoriskius, in his commentary upon the generations from Adam, very naturally breaks off in the middle of a note to give an account to the world of a couple of sparrows upon the out-edge of his window, which had incommoded him all the time he wrote, and at last had entirely taken him off from his genealogy.
—'Tis strange! writes Bevoriskius; but the facts are certain, for I have
How merciful, adds Bevoriskius, is heaven to his creatures!
Ill fated Yorick! that the gravest of thy brethren should be able to write that to the world, which stains thy face with crimson, to copy in even thy study.
AND how do you find the French? said the Count de B****, after he had given me the Passport.
The reader may suppose that after so obliging a proof of courtesy, I could not be at a loss to say something handsome to the enquiry.
—Mais passe, pour cela—Speak frankly, said he; do you find all the urbanity
in the French which the Vraiment,
said the count.—Les Francois sont poli. s—To an excess, replied I.
The count took notice of the word excesse; and would have it I meant more
than I said. I defended myself a long time as well as I could against it—he insisted
I had a reserve, and that I would speak my opinion frankly.
I believe, Mons. Le Compte, 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; sothat politesse de coeur, which
inclines men more to human actions, than courteous ones—we should at least lose that
distinct variety and originality of character, which distinguishes them, not only
from each other, but from all the world besides.
I had a few
See, Mons. Le Compte, said I, rising up, and laying them before him upon the table—by jingling and ribbing one against another for seventy years together in one body's pocket or another's, they are become so much alike, you can scarce distinguish one shilling from another.
The English, like antient medais, kept more apart, and passing but few peoples hands,
preserve the first sharpnesses which the fine hand of nature has given them—they are
not so pleasant to feel—but in return, serious.
Mon Dieu! cried the Count, rising out of his chair.
Mais vous plaisantez, said he, correcting his exclamation.—I laid my hand
upon my breast, and with earnest
The Count said he was mortified, he could not stay to hear my reasons, being engaged to go that moment to dine with the Duc de C****.
But if it is not too far to come to
WHEY I alighted at the hotel, the porter told me a young woman with a band-box had been that moment enquiring for me.—I do not know, said the porter, whether she is gone away or no. I took the key of my chamber of him, and went up stairs; and when I had got within ten steps of the top of the landing before my door, I met her coming easily down.
It was the fair fille de chambre I had walked along the Quai de Conti merchande de modes within a step or two of the hotel de
Modene; and as I had fail'd in waiting upon her, had bid her enquire if I had left
As the fair fille de chambre was so near my door she turned back, and went
into the room with me for a moment or two whilst I wrote a card.
It was a fine still evening in the latter end of the month of May—the crimson window
curtains (which were of the same colour of those of fille de chambre's
face—I thought she blush'd—the idea of it made me blush myself—we were quite alone;
and that super-induced a second blush before the first could get off.
There is a sort of a pleasing half guilty blush, where the blood is more in fault than the man—'tis sent impetuous from the heart, and virtue flies after it—not to call it back, but to make the sensation of it more delicious to the nerves—'tis associated.—
I know as well as any one, he is an adversary, whom if we resist, he will fly from us—but I seldom resist him at all; from a terror, that though I may conquer, I may still get a hurt in the combat—so I give up the triumph, for security; and instead of thinking to make him fly, I generally fly myself.
fille de chambre came close
up to the bureau where I was looking for a card—took up first the pen I cast down,
then offered to hold me the ink: she offer'd it so sweetly, I was going to accept
it—but I durst not—I have nothing, my dear, said I, to write upon.—Write it, said
she, simply, upon any thing.—
I was just going to cry out, Then I will write it, fair girl! upon thy lips.—
If I do, said I, I shall perish—so I took her by the hand, and led her to the door,
and begg'd she would not forget the lesson I had given her—She said, Indeed she would
not—
The foot of the bed was within a yard and a half of the place where we were
standingg—I had still hold of her hands—and how it happened I can give no account,
but I neither
I'll just shew you, said the fair fille de chambre, the little purse I have
been making to-day to hold your crown. So she put her hand into her right pocket,
which was next me, and felt for it for sometime—then into into the left—"She had lost it."
—I never bore expectation more quietly—it was
in her right pocket at last—she pulled it out; it was of green taffeta, lined with a
little bit of white quilted sattin, and just big enough to hold the crown—she put it
into my hand—it was pretty; and I held it ten minutes with the back of my hand
A stitch or two had broke out in the gathers of my stock—the fair fille de
chambre, without saying a word, took out her little hussive, threaded a small
needle, and sew'd it up—I foresaw it would hazard the glory of the day; and as she
passed her hand in silence across and across my neck in the manoeuvre, I felt the
laurels shake which fancy had wreath'd about my head.
A strap had given way in her walk, and the buckle
of her shoe was just falling off—See, said the fille de
chambre, holding up her foot—I could not for my soul but fasten the buckle
in return, and putting in the strap—and lifting up the other foot with it, when I had
done, to see both were right—in doing it too suddenly—it unavoidably threw the fair
fille de chambre off her center—and then—
YES—and then—Ye whose clay-cold heads and luke-warm hearts can argue down or mask your passions—tell me, what trespass is it that man should have them? or how his spirit stands answerable, to the father of spirits, but for his conduct under them?
If nature has so wove her web of kindness, that some threads of love and desire are
entangled with the piece—must the whole web be rent in drawing them out?—Whip me such
stoics, great governor of nature!
As I finish'd my address, I raised the fair fille de chambre up by the hand,
and led her out of the room—she stood by me till I lock'd the door and put the key in
my pocket—and then—the victory being quite decisive—and not till then, I
IF a man knows the heart, he will know it was impossible to go back instantly to my
chamber—it was touching a cold key with a flat
third to it, upon the close of a piece of musick, which had call'd forth my
affections—therefore, when I let go the hand of the fille de chambre, I
remain'd at the gate of the hotel for some time, looking at every one who pass'd by,
and forming conjectures upon them, till my attention got fix'd
It was a tall figure of a philosophic serious, adust look, which pass'd and repass'd
sedately along the street, making a turn of about sixty paces on each side of the
gate of the hotel—the man was about fifty-two—had a small cane under his arm—was
dress'd in a dark drab-colour'd coat,
waistcoat, and breeches, which seem'd to have seen some years service—they were still
clean, and there was a little air of frugal
propretè 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
only tell his story to the sex—and secondly—what kind of story it was,
and what species of eloquence it could be, which soften'd the hearts of the women,
which he knew 'twas to no purpose to practise upon the men.
There were two other circumstances which entangled this mystery—the one was, he told
every woman what he had to say in her ear, and in a way which had much more the air
of a secret than a petition—the other was, it was always successful—he never stopp'd
a woman, but she
I could form no system to explain the phenomenon.
I had got a riddle to amuse me for the rest of the evening, so I walk'd up stairs to my chamber.
I WAS immediately followed up by the master of the hotel, who came into my room to
tell me I must provide lodgings else where.—How so, friend? said I.—He answer'd, I
had had a young woman lock'd up with me two hours that evening in my bed-chamber, and
'twas against the rules of his house.—Very well, said I, we'll all part friends
then—for the girl is no worse—and I am no worse—and you will be just as I found
you.—It was enough, he said, to Voyez vous, Monsieur, said he, pointing to the foot of
the bed we had been sitting upon.—I own it had something of the appearance of an
evidence; but my pride not suffering me to enter into any detail of the case, I
exhorted him to let his soul sleep in peace, as I resolved to let mine do that night,
and that I would discharge what I owed him at breakfast.
I should not have minded, Monsieur, said he, if you had had twenty
girls—'Tis a score more, replied I, interrupting him, than I ever reckon'd
upon—Provided, added he, it had been et tout cela—and 'tis nothing if a woman comes with a band box.—O' my
conscience, said I, she had one; but I never look'd into it.—Then, Monsieur,
said he, has bought nothing.—Not one earthly thing, replied I.—Because, said he, I
could recommend en conscience.—But I must see her this night, said I.—He made me a low
bow and walk'd down.
Now shall I triumph over this maitre d'hotel, cried I—and what then?—Then I
shall let him see I know he is a dirty fellow.—And what then?—What then!—I was too
near myself to say it was for the sake of others.—I had no good answer left—there was
more of spleen than principle in my project, and I was sick of it before the
execution.
In a few minutes the Grisset came in with her box of lace—I'll buy
The Grisset would shew me every thing—I was hard to please: she would not seem to see it; she open'd her little magazine, laid all her laces one after another before me—unfolded and folded them up again one by one with the most patient sweetness—I might buy—or not—she would let me have every thing at my own price—the poor creature seem'd anxious to get a penny; and laid herself out to win me, and not so much in a manner which seem'd artful, as in one I felt simple and caressing.
If I had not had more than four Louis d'ors in my purse, there was no such
thing as rising up and shewing her the door, till I had first laid three of them out
in a pair of ruffles.
—The master of the hotel will share the profit with her—no matterpaid before me for an act he could not do, or think of.
WHEN La Fleur came up to wait upon me at supper, he told me how sorry the master of the hotel was for his affront to me in bidding me change my lodgings.
A man who values a good night's rest will not lay down with enmity in his heart if he
can help it—So I bid La Fleur tell the master of the hotel, that I was sorry on my
side for the occasion I had given him—
This was a sacrifice not to him, but myself, having resolved, after so narrow an
escape, to run no more risks, but to leave
C'est deroger à noblesse, Monsieur,
said La Fleur, making me a bow down to the ground as he said it—Et encore
Monsieur, said he, may change his sentiments—and if (par hazard) he
should like to amuse himself—
Mon Dieu! said La Fleur—and took away.
In an hour's time he came to put me to bed, and was more than commonly
officious—something hung upon his lips to say to me, or ask me, which he could not
get off: I could not conceive what it was; and indeed gave myself little trouble to
find it out, as I had another riddle so much more interesting upon my mind, which was
that of the man's asking charity before the door of the hotel—I would have given any
thing to have got to the bottom of it; and
I toss'd and turn'd it almost all night long in my brains to no manner of purpose;
and when I awoke in the morning, I found my spirit as much troubled with my
dreams, as ever the king of Babylon had been
IT was Sunday; and when La Fleur came in, in the morning, with my coffee and role and butter, he had got himself so gallantly array'd, I scarce knew him.
I had convenanted at pour
s'adoniser,
when we got to
Rue de friperie.
This is a nicety which makes not the heart sore at
He had purchased moreover a handsome blue sattin
waistcoat, fancifully enough embroidered—this fripier, upon a gold pair of garters to his breeches knees—He
had purchased muslin ruffles, bien
brodées, with four livres of his own money—and a pair of white silk stockings for five more—and, to top all, nature
had given him a handsome figure, without costing him a sous.
bouquet in his breast—in a word, there was that look of festivity
in every thing about him, which at once put me in mind it was Sunday—and by combining
both together, it instantly struck me, that the favour he wish'd to ask of me the
night before, was to spend the day, as every body in
pour faire le galant vis à vis de sa
maitresse.
vis à vis Madame de R****—I had retain'd the remise on
purpose for it, and it would not have mortified my vanity to have had a servant so
well dress'd as La Fleur was to have got up behind it: I never could have worse
spared him.
But we must feel, not argue in these embarrassments—the sons and daughters of service part with liberty, but not with
Nature in their contracts; they are flesh and blood, and have their little
vanities and wishes in the midst of the house of bondage, as well as their
task-masters
Behold!—Behold, I am thy servant—disarms me at once of the powers of a
master—
—Thou shalt go, La Fleur! said I.
—And what mistress, La Fleur, said I, canst thou have pick'd up in so little a time
at petite demoiselle at Monsieur Le Compte de
B****'s.—La Fleur had a heart made for society; and, to speak the truth of him let as
few occasions slip him as his master—so that some how or other; but how—heaven
knows—he had connected himself with the demoiselle upon the landing of the
stair-case, during the time I was taken up with my Passport; and as there was time
enough for me to win the Count to my inteterest, La Fleur had contrived to make it do
to win the maid to his—the family, it seems, was to be at boulevards.
LA Fleur had left me something to amuse myself with for the day more than I had bargain'd for, or could have enter'd either into his head or mine.
He had brought the little print of butter upon a currant leaf; and as the morning was
warm, and he had a good step to bring it, he had begg'd a sheet of waste paper to put
betwixt the currant leaf and his hand—As that was plate sufficient, I bad him lay it
upon the table as it was, traileur to bespeak my
dinner, and leave me to breakfast by myself.
When I had finish'd the butter, I threw the currant leaf out of the window, and was going to do the same by the waste paper—but stopping to read a line first, and that drawing me on to a second and third—I thought it better worth; so I shut the window, and drawing a chair up to it, I sat down to read it.
It was in the old French of Rabelais's time,
and for ought I know might have been wrote by him—it was moreover in a Gothic letter, and that
I got my dinner; and after I had enlightened my mind with a bottle of Burgundy, I at
it again—and after two or three hours poring upon it, with almost as deep attention
as ever
—Now as the notary's wife disputed the point with the notary with too much heat—I wish, said the notary, throwing down the parchment, that there was another notary here only to set down and attest all this—
—And what would you do then, Monsieur? said she, rising hastily up—the notary's wife
was a little fume of a woman, and the notary thought it
Now there happening to be but one bed in the house, the other two rooms being
unfurnish'd, as is the custom at pont neuf.
Of all the bridges which ever were built, the whole world who have
pont neuf, must own, that it is the noblest—the finest—the
grandest—the lightest—the longest—the broadest that ever conjoin'd land and land
together upon the face of the terraqueous globe—
By this, it seems, as if the author of the fragment had not been a
Frenchman.
The worst fault which divines and the doctors of the Sorbonne can allege against it,
is, that if there is but a cap-full of wind in or about sacre Dieu'd there than in any other aperture of the whole
city—and with reason, garde d'eau, and with
such unpremeditable puffs, that of the few who cross it with their hats on, not one
in fifty but hazards two livres and a half, which is its full worth.
The poor notary, just as he was passing by the sentry, instinctively clapp'd his cane
to the side of it, but in raising it up the point of his cane catching hold of the
loop of the sentinel's hat hoisted it over the spikes of the ballustrade clear into the
'Tis an ill wind, said a boatsman,
who catch'd it, which blows no body any good.
The sentry being a gascon incontinently twirl'd up his whiskers, and levell'd his harquebuss.
Harquebusses in those days went off with matches; and an old woman's paper lanthorn at the end of the bridge
happening to be blown out, she had borrow'd the sentry's match to light it—it gave a
moment's time for the gascon's blood to run cool, and turn the accident better to his
advantage—'Tis an ill wind, said he, catching off the notary's castor,
and
The poor notary cross'd the bridge, and passing along the rue de Dauphine into the fauxbourgs of St. Germain, lamented himself as he walk'd along in this manner:
Luckless man! that I am, said the notary, to
be the sport of hurricanes all my days—to be born to have the storm of ill language
levell'd against me and my profession wherever I go—to be forced into marriage by the
thunder of the church to a tempest of a woman—to be driven forth out of my house by
As the notary was passing on by a dark passage, complaining in this sort, a voice
call'd out to a girl, to bid her run for the next notary—now the notary being the
next, and availing himself of his situation, walk'd up the passage to the door, and
passing
An old personage, who had heretofore been a gentleman, and unless decay of fortune
taints the blood along with it was a gentleman at that time, lay supporting his head
upon his hand in his bed; a little table with a taper burning was set close beside
it, and close by the table was placed a chair—the notary sat him down in it; and
pulling out his ink-horn and a sheet or two of paper which he had in his
Alas! Monsieur le Notaire, said the gentleman, raising himself up a little, I have
nothing to bequeath which will pay the expence of bequeathing, except the history of
myself, which, I could not die in peace unless I left it as a legacy to the world;
the profits arising out of it, I bequeath to you for the pains of taking it from
me—it is a story so uncommon, it must me read by all
—It is a story, Monsieur le Notaire, said the gentleman, which will rouse up every affection in nature—it will kill the humane, and touch the heart of cruelty herself with pity—
—The notary was inflamed with a desire to begin, and put his pen a third time into his ink-horn—and the old gentleman turning a little more towards the notary, began to dictate his story in these words—
WHEN La Fleur came up close to the table, and was made to comprehend what I wanted,
he told me there were only two other sheets of it which he had wrapt round the stalks
of a bouquet to keep it together, which he had presented to the
demoiselle upon the boulevards—Then, see if you canst get—There is no doubt of it,
said La Fleur—and away he flew.
In a very little time the poor fellow came back quite out of breath, with deeper
marks of disappointment in his looks than could arise from the simple irreparability
of the fragment—Juste ciel! in less than two minutes that the poor fellow
had taken his last tender farewel of her—his faithless mistress had given his
gage d'amour to one of the Count's footmen—the footman to a young
sempstress—and the sempstress to a fiddler, with my fragment at the end of it—
—How perfidious! cried La Fleur—How unlucky! said I.—
—I should not have been mortified, Monsieur, quoth La Fleur, if she had lost it—Nor I, La Fleur, said I, had I found it.
Whether I did or no, will be seen hereafter.
THE man who either disdains or fears to walk up a dark entry may be an excellent good
man, and fit for a hundred things; but he will not do to make a good sentimental
traveller. I count little of the many things I see pass at broad noon day, in large
and open streets.—Nature is shy, and hates to act before spectators; but in such an
unobserved corner, you sometimes see a single short scene of her's worth all the
sentiments of a dozen French plays compounded together—and yet absolutely fine;—and whenever I have
a more brilliant affair upon my hands than common, as they suit a preacher just as
well as a hero, I generally make my sermon out of 'em—and for the text—"Capadosia, Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and
Pamphilia"
—is as good as any one in the Bible.
There is a long dark passage issuing out from the opera comique into a narrow
street; 'tis trod by a few who humbly wait for a
fiacre
*, or wish to get off quietly o'foot when
the opera is done. At the end of it, towards the theatre, 'tis lighted by a small
candle,
In returning along this passage, I discern'd, as I approach'd within five or six
paces of the door, two ladies standing arm in arm, with their backs against the wall,
waiting, as I imagined, for a fiacre—as they were next the door, I thought
they had a prior right; so edged myself up within a yard or little more of them, and
quietly took my stand—I was in black, and scarce seen.
A low voice, with a good turn of expression, and sweet cadence at the end of it,
begg'd for a twelve-sous piece betwixt them, for the love of heaven. I thought it
singular, that
The poor man said, He knew not how to ask less of ladies of their rank; and bow'd down his head to the ground.
Poo! said they—we have no money.
The beggar remained silent for a moment or two, and renew'd his supplication.
I would, friend, with all my heart, said the younger, if I had it.
My fair charitable! said he, addressing himself to the elder—
The two ladies seemed much affected; and impulsively at the same time they both put their hands into their pocket, and each took out a twelve-sous piece.
The contest betwixt them and the poor supplicant was no more—it was continued betwixt
themselves, which
I Stepp'd hastily after him: it was the very man whose success in asking charity of the women before the door of the hotel had so puzzled me—and I found at once his secret, or at least the basis of it—'twas flattery.
Delicious essence! how refreshing art thou to nature! how strongly are all its powers and all its weaknesses on thy side! how sweetly dost thou mix with the blood, and help it through the most difficult and tortuous passages to the heart!
WE get forwards in the world not so much by doing services, as receiving them: you take a withering twig, and put it in the ground; and then you water it, because you have planted it.
Mons. Le Compte de B****, merely because he had done me one kindness in the affair of
my passport, would go on and do me another, the few days he was at
secret, just
in time to turn these honours to some little account; otherwise, as is commonly the
case, I should have din'd or supp'd a single time or two round, and then by
translating French looks and attitudes into plain English, I should
presently have seen, that I had got hold of the couvert
* of some more entertaining guest; and in
course, should have resigned all my places one after another, merely upon the
principle that I could not keep them.—As it was, things did not go much amiss.
I had the honour of being introduced to the old Marquis de B****: Cour d'amour, and had dress'd himself out to
the idea of tilts and tournaments ever since—the Marquis de B**** wish'd to have it
thought the affair was somewhere else than in his brain. "He could like to take a trip to England,"
and ask'd much of the English
ladies. Stay where you are, I beseech you, Mons. le Marquise, said I—Les Messrs.
Angloise can scarce get a kind look from them as it is.—The Marquis invited me to
supper.
Mons. P**** the farmer-general was just as inquisitive about our taxes.—They were
very considerable,
I could never have been invited to Mons. P****'s concerts upon any other terms.
I had been misrepresented to Madame de Q*** as an esprit—Madam de Q*** was
an
esprit
herself; she burnt with
impatience to see me, and hear me talk. I had not taken my seat, before I saw she did
not care a sous whether I had any wit or no—I was let in, to be convinced she had.—I
call heaven to witness I never once open'd the door of my lips.
"She had never had a more improving conversation
with a man in her life."
There are three epochas in the empire of a French-woman—She is coquette—then deist—then
devôte: the empire
during these is never lost—she only changes her subjects: when thirty-five years and
more have unpeopled her dominions of the slaves of love, she re-peoples it with
slaves of infidelity—and then with the slaves of the Church.
Madame de V*** was vibrating betwixt the first of these epochas: the colour of the
rose was shading
She placed me upon the same sopha with her, for the sake of disputing the point of religion more closely.—In short, Madame de V*** told me she believed nothing.
I told Madame de V*** it might be her principle; but I was sure it could not be her
interest to level the outworks, without which I could not conceive how such a citadel
as hers could be defended—that there was not a more dangerous thing in the world,
than for a beauty to be a deist—that it was a debt I owed my
We are not adamant, said I, taking hold of her hand—and there is need of all restraints, till age in her own time steals in and lays them on us—but, my dear lady, said I, kissing her hand—'tis too—too soon—
I declare I had the credit all over Coterie—and she put off the epocha of deism for two years.
I remember it was in this Coterie, in the middle of a discourse, in which I
was shewing the necessity of a first cause, that the young Count de Faineant
took me by the hand to the furthest corner of the room, to tell me my
solitaire was pinn'd too strait about my neck—It should be plus
badinant, said the Count, looking down upon his own—but a word, Mons. Yorick,
to the wise—.
is enough.
The Count de Faineant embraced me with more ardour than ever I was embraced by mortal man.
For three weeks together, I was of every man's opinion I met.—Pardi! ce Mons.
Yorick a autant d'esprit que nous autres.—Il raisonne bien, said
another.—C'est un bon enfant, said a third.—And at this price I could
have eaten and drank and been merry all the days of my life at reckoning—I grew ashamed of it—it was the gain of a slave— beggarly system—the
better the
Coterie
—the more children
of Art—I languish'd for those of Nature: and one night, after a most vile
prostitution of myself to half a dozen different people, I grew sick—went to
bed—order'd La Fleur to get me horses in the morning to set out for
I NEVER felt what the distress of plenty was in any one shape till now—to travel it
through the Labour, and all her children are rejoicing as they carry
in their clusters—to pass through this with my affections flying out, and kindling
at every
Just heaven!—it would fill up twenty volumes—and alas! I have but a few small pages
left of this to croud it into—and half of these must be taken up with the poor Maria
my friend, Mr. Shandy, met with near
The story he had told of that disorder'd maid affect'd me not a little in the
reading; but when I got within the neighbouthood where she lived, it returned so
strong into my mind, that I could not resist an impulse which prompted me to go half
a league out of the road to the village
'Tis going, I own, like the Knight of the Woeful Countenance, in quest of melancholy adventures—but I know not how it is, but I am never so perfectly conscious of the existence of a soul within me, as when I am entangled in them.
The old mother came to the door, her looks told me the story before she open'd her
mouth—She had lost her husband; he had died, she said, of anguish, for the loss of
Maria's senses about a month before.—She had feared at first, she added, that it
would have plunder'd her poor girl
—Why does my pulse beat languid as I write this? and what made La Fleur, whose heart seem'd only to be tuned to joy, to pass the back of his hand twice across his eyes, as the woman stood and told it? I beckon'd to the postilion to turn back into the road.
When we had got within half a league of
I bid the postilion go on with the chaise to
She was dress'd in white, and much as my friend described her, except that her hair
hung loose, which before was twisted within a silk
net.—She had, superadded likewise to her jacket, a pale green ribband which fell across her shoulder to the waist;
at the end "Thou shalt not leave
me, Sylvio,"
said she. I look'd in Maria's eyes, and saw she was thinking more
of her father than of her lover or her little goat; for as she utter'd them the tears
trickled down her cheeks.
I sat down close by her; and Maria let me wipe them away as they fell with my
handkerchief.—I then sleep'd it in my own—and then in hers—and then in mine—and then
I am positive I have a soul; nor can all the books with which materialists have pester'd the world ever convince me of the contrary.
WHEN Maria had come a little to herself, I ask'd her if she remember'd 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 remember'd it upon two accounts—that
ill as she was she saw the person pitied her; and next, that her goat had stolen his
handkerchief, and she had beat him for the theft—she had wash'd it, she said, in the
brook, and kept it ever since in her pocket to restore it to him in case she should
ever see him again, which,
She had since that, she told me, stray'd as far as God
tempers the wind, said Maria, to the shorn lamb.
Shorn indeed! and to the quick, said I; and wast thou in my own land, where I have a cottage, I would take thee to it and shelter thee: thou shouldst eat of my own bread, and drink of my own cup—I would be kind to thy Sylvio—in all thy weaknesses and wanderings I would seek after thee and bring thee back—when the sun went down I would say my prayers, and when I had done thou shouldst play thy evening song upon thy pipe, nor would the incense of my sacrifice be worse accepted for entering heaven along with that of a broken heart.
And is your heart still so warm, Maria? said I.
I touch'd upon the string on which hung all her sorrows—she look'd with wistful
disorder for some time in my face; and then, without saying any thing, took her pipe,
and play'd her service to the Virgin—The string I had touch'd ceased to vibrate—in a
And where art you going, Maria? said I.—She said to
THO' I hate salutations and greetings in the market-place, yet when we got into the middle of this, I stopp'd to take my last look and last farewel of Maria.
Maria, tho' not tall, was nevertheless of the first order of fine forms—affliction
had touch'd her looks with something that was scarce earthly—still she was
feminine—and so much was there about her of all that the not only eat of my bread and drink of my own cup, but Maria should
lay in my bosom, and be unto me as a daughter.
Adieu, poor luckless maiden!—imbibe the oil and wine which the compassion of a stranger, as he journieth on his way, now pours into thy wounds—the being who has twice bruised thee can only bind them up for ever.
THERE was nothing from which I had painted out for myself 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 has totally unfitted me: in every scene of festivity I saw Maria in the back-ground 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—
"
—mere pomp
of words!—but that I feel some generous joys and generous cares beyond myself—all
comes from thee, great—great SENSORIUM of the
world! which vibrates, if a hair of our heads but falls upon the ground, in the
remotest my
soul shrinks back upon herself, and startles at destruction"
Peace to thee, generous swain!—I see thou walkest off with anguish
A SHOE coming loose from the fore-foot of the thill-horse, at the beginning of the ascent of mount Taurira, the postilion dismounted, twisted the shoe off, and put it in his pocket; as the ascent was of five or six miles, and that horse our main dependence, I made a point of having the shoe fasten'd 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.
potagerie of an acre and a half, full of every
thing
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 'em.
They were all sitting down together to their lentil-soup; a large wheaten loaf was in
the middle of the
The old man rose up to meet me, and with a respectful cordiality would have me sit down at the table; my heart was sat down the moment I enter'd the room; so I sat down at once like a son of the family; and to invest myself in the character as speedily as I could, I instantly borrowed the old man's knife, and taking up the loaf cut myself a hearty luncheon; and as I did it I saw a testimony in every eye, not only of an honest welcome, but of a welcome mix'd with thanks that I had not seem'd to doubt it.
If the supper was to my taste—the grace which follow'd it was much more so.
WHEN supper was over, the old man gave a knock upon the table with the haft of his knife—to bid them prepare for the dance: the moment the signal was given, the women and girls ran all together into a back apartment to tye up their hair—and the young men to the door to wash their faces, and change their sabots; and in three minutes every soul was ready upon a little esplanade before the house to begin—The old man and his wife came out last, and, placing me betwixt them, sat down upon a sopha of turf by the door.
It was not till the middle of the second dance, when, from some pauses in the
movement wherein they all seemed to look up, I fancied I could distinguish an
elevation of spirit different from that which is the cause or the effect of simple
jollity.—In a word, I thought I beheld Religion mixing in the dance—but as I
had never seen
—Or a learned prelate either, said I.
WHEN you have gained the top of mount Taurira, you run presently down to Lyons—adieu
then to all rapid movements! 'Tis a journey of caution; and it fares better with
sentiments, not to be in a hurry with them; so I contracted with a Voiturin to take his time with a couple of mules, and convey
me in my own chaise safe to
Poor, patient, quiet, honest people! fear not; your poverty, the treasury of your
simple virtues, will
Let the way-worn traveller vent his complaints upon the sudden turns and dangers of
your roads—your rocks—your precipices—the difficulties of getting up—the horrors of
getting down—mountains impracticable—and cataracts, which roll down great
I forthwith took possession of my bed-chamber—got a good fire—order'd
As there was no other bed-chamber in the house, the hostess, without much nicety, led
them into mine, telling them, as she usher'd them in, that there was no body in it
but an English gentleman—that there were two good beds, in it and a closet within the
room which held another—the accent in which she spoke of this third bed did not say
much for it—however, she said, there were three beds, and but three people—and she
durst say, the gentleman would do
As this did not amount to an absolute surrender of my bed-chamber, I still felt myself so much the proprietor, as to have a right to do the honours of it—so I desired the lady to sit down—pressed her into the warmest seat—call'd for more wood—desired the hostess to enlarge the plan of the supper, and to favour us with the very best wine.
The lady had scarce warm'd herself five minutes at the fire, before
That the beds we were to lay in were in one and the same room, was enough simply by
itself to have excited all this—but the position of them, for they stood parallel,
and so very close to each other as only to allow space for a small wicker chair
betwixt them, render'd the affair
The lady was a Piedmontese of about thirty,
with a glow of health
We sat down to supper; and had we not had more generous wine to it than a little inn
in Savoy could have
They were as follows:
First. As the right of the bed-chamber is in Monsieur—and he thinking the bed next to the fire to be the warmest, he insists upon the concession on the lady's side of taking up with it.
Granted, on the part of Madame; with a proviso, That as the curtains of that bed are of a flimsy transparent
cotton, and appear likewise too scanty to draw close, that the
2dly. It is required on the part of Madame, that Monsieur shall lay the whole night through in his robe de chambre.
Rejected: inasmuch Monsieur is not worth a robe de chambre; he having nothing in his portmanteau but six shirts and a black silk pair of breeches.
The mentioning the silk pair of breeches made an entire change of the article—for the
breeches were accepted
3dly. It was insisted upon, and stipulated for by the lady, that after Monsieur was got to bed, and the candle and fire extinguished, that Monsieur should not speak one single word the whole night.
Granted; provided Monsieur's saying his prayers might not be deem'd an infraction of the treaty.
There was but one point forgot in this treaty, and that was the manner in which the
lady and myself should
Now when we were got to bed, whether it was the novelty of the situation, or what it was, I know not; but so it was, I could not shut my eyes; I tried this side and that, and turn'd and turn'd again, till a full hour after midnight; when Nature and patience both wearing out—O my God! said I—
—You have broke the treaty, Monsieur, said the lady, who had no
The lady would by no means give up her point, tho' she weakened her barrier by it; for in the warmth of the dispute, I could hear two or three corking pins fall out of the curtain to the ground.
Upon my word and honour, Madame, said I—stretching my arm out of bed, by way asseveration—
—But the Fille de Chambre hearing there were words between us, and fearing that hostilities would ensue in course, had crept silently out of her closet, and it being totally dark, had stolen so close to our beds, that she had got herself into the narrow passage which separated them, and had advanc'd so far up as to be in a line betwixt her mistress and me—
So that when I stretch'd out my hand, I caught hold of the Fille de Chambre's
MADAME,
I am penetrated by the keenest pain, and at the same time reduced
to despair by this unexpected return of the Corporal making our interview tonight
the most impossible thing in the world.
But long live the joy! and all of
mine will be thinking of you.
Love is nothing without feeling.
And the
feeling is even less without love.
They say we should never be in
despair.
It is also said that the Corporal stands guard Wednesday; then it
will be my turn.
Each one has their turn.
In the meantime — Long live
love! and long live the trifle!
I am MADAME, With all the most respectful and
tender feelings,
all yours,
JAQUES ROQUE