CALAIS.

When I had fished my dinner, and drank the King of France’s health, to

satisfy my mind that I bore him no spleen, but, on the contrary, high

honour for the humanity of his temper,—I rose up an inch taller for the

accommodation.

—No—said I—the Bourbon is by no means a cruel race: they may be misled,

like other people; but there is a mildness in their blood. As I

acknowledged this, I felt a suffusion of a finer kind upon my cheek—more

warm and friendly to man, than what Burgundy (at least of two livres a

bottle, which was such as I had been drinking) could have produced.

—Just God! said I, kicking my portmanteau aside, what is there in this

world’s goods which should sharpen our spirits, and make so many

kind-hearted brethren of us fall out so cruelly as we do by the way?

When man is at peace with man, how much lighter than a feather is the

heaviest of metals in his hand! he pulls out his purse, and holding it

airily and uncompressed, looks round him, as if he sought for an object

to share it with.—In doing this, I felt every vessel in my frame

dilate,—the arteries beat all cheerily together, and every power which

sustained life, performed it with so little friction, that ’twould have

confounded the most _physical précieuse_ in France; with all her

materialism, she could scarce have called me a machine.—

I’m confident, said I to myself, I should have overset her creed.

The accession of that idea carried nature, at that time, as high as she

could go;—I was at peace with the world before, and this finish’d the

treaty with myself.—

—Now, was I King of France, cried I—what a moment for an orphan to have

begg’d his father’s portmanteau of me!

THE MONK.

CALAIS.

I HAD scarce uttered the words, when a poor monk of the order of St.

Francis came into the room to beg something for his convent. No man

cares to have his virtues the sport of contingencies—or one man may be

generous, as another is puissant;—_sed non quoad hanc_—or be it as it

may,—for there is no regular reasoning upon the ebbs and flows of our

humours; they may depend upon the same causes, for aught I know, which

influence the tides themselves: ’twould oft be no discredit to us, to

suppose it was so: I’m sure at least for myself, that in many a case I

should be more highly satisfied, to have it said by the world, “I had had

an affair with the moon, in which there was neither sin nor shame,” than

have it pass altogether as my own act and deed, wherein there was so much

of both.

—But, be this as it may,—the moment I cast my eyes upon him, I was

predetermined not to give him a single sous; and, accordingly, I put my

purse into my pocket—buttoned it—set myself a little more upon my centre,

and advanced up gravely to him; there was something, I fear, forbidding

in my look: I have his figure this moment before my eyes, and think there

was that in it which deserved better.

The monk, as I judged by the break in his tonsure, a few scattered white

hairs upon his temples, being all that remained of it, might be about

seventy;—but from his eyes, and that sort of fire which was in them,

which seemed more temper’d by courtesy than years, could be no more than

sixty:—Truth might lie between—He was certainly sixty-five; and the

general air of his countenance, notwithstanding something seem’d to have

been planting wrinkles in it before their time, agreed to the account.

It was one of those heads which Guido has often painted,—mild,

pale—penetrating, free from all commonplace ideas of fat contented

ignorance looking downwards upon the earth;—it look’d forwards; but

look’d as if it look’d at something beyond this world.—How one of his

order came by it, heaven above, who let it fall upon a monk’s shoulders

best knows: but it would have suited a Bramin, and had I met it upon the

plains of Indostan, I had reverenced it.

The rest of his outline may be given in a few strokes; one might put it

into the hands of any one to design, for ’twas neither elegant nor

otherwise, but as character and expression made it so: it was a thin,

spare form, something above the common size, if it lost not the

distinction by a bend forward in the figure,—but it was the attitude of

Intreaty; and, as it now stands presented to my imagination, it gained

more than it lost by it.

When he had entered the room three paces, he stood still; and laying his

left hand upon his breast (a slender white staff with which he journey’d

being in his right)—when I had got close up to him, he introduced himself

with the little story of the wants of his convent, and the poverty of his

order;—and did it with so simple a grace,—and such an air of deprecation

was there in the whole cast of his look and figure,—I was bewitch’d not

to have been struck with it.

—A better reason was, I had predetermined not to give him a single sous.

THE MONK.

CALAIS.

—’TIS very true, said I, replying to a cast upwards with his eyes, with

which he had concluded his address;—’tis very true,—and heaven be their

resource who have no other but the charity of the world, the stock of

which, I fear, is no way sufficient for the many _great claims_ which are

hourly made upon it.

As I pronounced the words _great claims_, he gave a slight glance with

his eye downwards upon the sleeve of his tunic:—I felt the full force of

the appeal—I acknowledge it, said I:—a coarse habit, and that but once in

three years with meagre diet,—are no great matters; and the true point of

pity is, as they can be earn’d in the world with so little industry, that

your order should wish to procure them by pressing upon a fund which is

the property of the lame, the blind, the aged and the infirm;—the captive

who lies down counting over and over again the days of his afflictions,

languishes also for his share of it; and had you been of the _order of

mercy_, instead of the order of St. Francis, poor as I am, continued I,

pointing at my portmanteau, full cheerfully should it have been open’d to

you, for the ransom of the unfortunate.—The monk made me a bow.—But of

all others, resumed I, the unfortunate of our own country, surely, have

the first rights; and I have left thousands in distress upon our own

shore.—The monk gave a cordial wave with his head,—as much as to say, No

doubt there is misery enough in every corner of the world, as well as

within our convent—But we distinguish, said I, laying my hand upon the

sleeve of his tunic, in return for his appeal—we distinguish, my good

father! betwixt those who wish only to eat the bread of their own

labour—and those who eat the bread of other people’s, and have no other

plan in life, but to get through it in sloth and ignorance, _for the love

of God_.

The poor Franciscan made no reply: a hectic of a moment pass’d across his

cheek, but could not tarry—Nature seemed to have done with her

resentments in him;—he showed none:—but letting his staff fall within his

arms, he pressed both his hands with resignation upon his breast, and

retired.

THE MONK.

CALAIS.

MY heart smote me the moment he shut the door—Psha! said I, with an air

of carelessness, three several times—but it would not do: every

ungracious syllable I had utter’d crowded back into my imagination: I

reflected, I had no right over the poor Franciscan, but to deny him; and

that the punishment of that was enough to the disappointed, without the

addition of unkind language.—I consider’d his gray hairs—his courteous

figure seem’d to re-enter and gently ask me what injury he had done

me?—and why I could use him thus?—I would have given twenty livres for an

advocate.—I have behaved very ill, said I within myself; but I have only

just set out upon my travels; and shall learn better manners as I get

along.

THE DESOBLIGEANT.

CALAIS.

WHEN a man is discontented with himself, it has one advantage however,

that it puts him into an excellent frame of mind for making a bargain.

Now there being no travelling through France and Italy without a

chaise,—and nature generally prompting us to the thing we are fittest

for, I walk’d out into the coach-yard to buy or hire something of that

kind to my purpose: an old _désobligeant_ {562} in the furthest corner of

the court, hit my fancy at first sight, so I instantly got into it, and

finding it in tolerable harmony with my feelings, I ordered the waiter to

call Monsieur Dessein, the master of the hotel:—but Monsieur Dessein

being gone to vespers, and not caring to face the Franciscan, whom I saw

on the opposite side of the court, in conference with a lady just arrived

at the inn,—I drew the taffeta curtain betwixt us, and being determined

to write my journey, I took out my pen and ink and wrote the preface to

it in the _désobligeant_.

PREFACE.

IN THE DESOBLIGEANT.

IT must have been observed by many a peripatetic philosopher, That nature

has set up by her own unquestionable authority certain boundaries and

fences to circumscribe the discontent of man; she has effected her

purpose in the quietest and easiest manner by laying him under almost

insuperable obligations to work out his ease, and to sustain his

sufferings at home. It is there only that she has provided him with the

most suitable objects to partake of his happiness, and bear a part of

that burden which in all countries and ages has ever been too heavy for

one pair of shoulders. ’Tis true, we are endued with an imperfect power

of spreading our happiness sometimes beyond _her_ limits, but ’tis so

ordered, that, from the want of languages, connections, and dependencies,

and from the difference in education, customs, and habits, we lie under

so many impediments in communicating our sensations out of our own

sphere, as often amount to a total impossibility.

It will always follow from hence, that the balance of sentimental

commerce is always against the expatriated adventurer: he must buy what

he has little occasion for, at their own price;—his conversation will

seldom be taken in exchange for theirs without a large discount,—and

this, by the by, eternally driving him into the hands of more equitable

brokers, for such conversation as he can find, it requires no great

spirit of divination to guess at his party—

This brings me to my point; and naturally leads me (if the see-saw of

this _désobligeant_ will but let me get on) into the efficient as well as

final causes of travelling—

Your idle people that leave their native country, and go abroad for some

reason or reasons which may be derived from one of these general causes:—

Infirmity of body,

Imbecility of mind, or

Inevitable necessity.

The first two include all those who travel by land or by water, labouring

with pride, curiosity, vanity, or spleen, subdivided and combined _ad

infinitum_.

The third class includes the whole army of peregrine martyrs; more

especially those travellers who set out upon their travels with the

benefit of the clergy, either as delinquents travelling under the

direction of governors recommended by the magistrate;—or young gentlemen

transported by the cruelty of parents and guardians, and travelling under

the direction of governors recommended by Oxford, Aberdeen, and Glasgow.

There is a fourth class, but their number is so small that they would not

deserve a distinction, were it not necessary in a work of this nature to

observe the greatest precision and nicety, to avoid a confusion of

character. And these men I speak of, are such as cross the seas and

sojourn in a land of strangers, with a view of saving money for various

reasons and upon various pretences: but as they might also save

themselves and others a great deal of unnecessary trouble by saving their

money at home,—and as their reasons for travelling are the least complex

of any other species of emigrants, I shall distinguish these gentlemen by

the name of

Simple Travellers.

Thus the whole circle of travellers may be reduced to the following

_heads_:—

Idle Travellers,

Inquisitive Travellers,

Lying Travellers,

Proud Travellers,

Vain Travellers,

Splenetic Travellers.

Then follow:

The Travellers of Necessity,

The Delinquent and Felonious Traveller,

The Unfortunate and Innocent Traveller,

The Simple Traveller,

And last of all (if you please) The Sentimental Traveller, (meaning

thereby myself) who have travell’d, and of which I am now sitting down to

give an account,—as much out of _Necessity_, and the _besoin de Voyager_,

as any one in the class.

I am well aware, at the same time, as both my travels and observations

will be altogether of a different cast from any of my forerunners, that I

might have insisted upon a whole nitch entirely to myself;—but I should

break in upon the confines of the _Vain_ Traveller, in wishing to draw

attention towards me, till I have some better grounds for it than the

mere _Novelty of my Vehicle_.

It is sufficient for my reader, if he has been a traveller himself, that

with study and reflection hereupon he may be able to determine his own

place and rank in the catalogue;—it will be one step towards knowing

himself; as it is great odds but he retains some tincture and

resemblance, of what he imbibed or carried out, to the present hour.

The man who first transplanted the grape of Burgundy to the Cape of Good

Hope (observe he was a Dutchman) never dreamt of drinking the same wine

at the Cape, that the same grape produced upon the French mountains,—he

was too phlegmatic for that—but undoubtedly he expected to drink some

sort of vinous liquor; but whether good or bad, or indifferent,—he knew

enough of this world to know, that it did not depend upon his choice, but

that what is generally called _choice_, was to decide his success:

however, he hoped for the best; and in these hopes, by an intemperate

confidence in the fortitude of his head, and the depth of his discretion,

_Mynheer_ might possibly oversee both in his new vineyard; and by

discovering his nakedness, become a laughing stock to his people.

Even so it fares with the Poor Traveller, sailing and posting through the

politer kingdoms of the globe, in pursuit of knowledge and improvements.

Knowledge and improvements are to be got by sailing and posting for that

purpose; but whether useful knowledge and real improvements is all a

lottery;—and even where the adventurer is successful, the acquired stock

must be used with caution and sobriety, to turn to any profit:—but, as

the chances run prodigiously the other way, both as to the acquisition

and application, I am of opinion, That a man would act as wisely, if he

could prevail upon himself to live contented without foreign knowledge or

foreign improvements, especially if he lives in a country that has no

absolute want of either;—and indeed, much grief of heart has it oft and

many a time cost me, when I have observed how many a foul step the

Inquisitive Traveller has measured to see sights and look into

discoveries; all which, as Sancho Panza said to Don Quixote, they might

have seen dry-shod at home. It is an age so full of light, that there is

scarce a country or corner in Europe whose beams are not crossed and

interchanged with others.—Knowledge in most of its branches, and in most

affairs, is like music in an Italian street, whereof those may partake

who pay nothing.—But there is no nation under heaven—and God is my record

(before whose tribunal I must one day come and give an account of this

work)—that I do not speak it vauntingly,—but there is no nation under

heaven abounding with more variety of learning,—where the sciences may be

more fitly woo’d, or more surely won, than here,—where art is encouraged,

and will so soon rise high,—where Nature (take her altogether) has so

little to answer for,—and, to close all, where there is more wit and

variety of character to feed the mind with:—Where then, my dear

countrymen, are you going?—

We are only looking at this chaise, said they.—Your most obedient

servant, said I, skipping out of it, and pulling off my hat.—We were

wondering, said one of them, who, I found was an _Inquisitive

Traveller_,—what could occasion its motion.—’Twas the agitation, said I,

coolly, of writing a preface.—I never heard, said the other, who was a

_Simple Traveller_, of a preface wrote in a _désobligeant_.—It would have

been better, said I, in a _vis-a-vis_.

—_As an Englishman does not travel to see Englishmen_, I retired to my

room.