PARIS.

WHEN a man can contest the point by dint of equipage, and carry all on

floundering before him with half a dozen of lackies and a couple of

cooks—’tis very well in such a place as Paris,—he may drive in at which

end of a street he will.

A poor prince who is weak in cavalry, and whose whole infantry does not

exceed a single man, had best quit the field, and signalize himself in

the cabinet, if he can get up into it;—I say _up into it_—for there is no

descending perpendicular amongst ’em with a “_Me voici_! _mes

enfans_”—here I am—whatever many may think.

I own my first sensations, as soon as I was left solitary and alone in my

own chamber in the hotel, were far from being so flattering as I had

prefigured them. I walked up gravely to the window in my dusty black

coat, and looking through the glass saw all the world in yellow, blue,

and green, running at the ring of pleasure.—The old with broken lances,

and in helmets which had lost their vizards;—the young in armour bright

which shone like gold, beplumed with each gay feather of the

east,—all,—all, tilting at it like fascinated knights in tournaments of

yore for fame and love.—

Alas, poor Yorick! cried I, what art thou doing here? On the very first

onset of all this glittering clatter thou art reduced to an

atom;—seek,—seek some winding alley, with a tourniquet at the end of it,

where chariot never rolled or flambeau shot its rays;—there thou mayest

solace thy soul in converse sweet with some kind grisette of a barber’s

wife, and get into such coteries!—

—May I perish! if I do, said I, pulling out the letter which I had to

present to Madame de R—.—I’ll wait upon this lady, the very first thing I

do. So I called La Fleur to go seek me a barber directly,—and come back

and brush my coat.

THE WIG.

PARIS.

WHEN the barber came, he absolutely refused to have any thing to do with

my wig: ’twas either above or below his art: I had nothing to do but to

take one ready made of his own recommendation.

—But I fear, friend! said I, this buckle won’t stand.—You may emerge it,

replied he, into the ocean, and it will stand.—

What a great scale is every thing upon in this city thought I.—The utmost

stretch of an English periwig-maker’s ideas could have gone no further

than to have “dipped it into a pail of water.”—What difference! ’tis like

Time to Eternity!

I confess I do hate all cold conceptions, as I do the puny ideas which

engender them; and am generally so struck with the great works of nature,

that for my own part, if I could help it, I never would make a comparison

less than a mountain at least. All that can be said against the French

sublime, in this instance of it, is this:—That the grandeur is _more_ in

the _word_, and _less_ in the _thing_. No doubt, the ocean fills the

mind with vast ideas; but Paris being so far inland, it was not likely I

should run post a hundred miles out of it, to try the experiment;—the

Parisian barber meant nothing.—

The pail of water standing beside the great deep, makes, certainly, but a

sorry figure in speech;—but, ’twill be said,—it has one advantage—’tis in

the next room, and the truth of the buckle may be tried in it, without

more ado, in a single moment.

In honest truth, and upon a more candid revision of the matter, _The

French expression professes more than it performs_.

I think I can see the precise and distinguishing marks of national

characters more in these nonsensical _minutiæ_ than in the most important

matters of state; where great men of all nations talk and stalk so much

alike, that I would not give ninepence to choose amongst them.

I was so long in getting from under my barber’s hands, that it was too

late to think of going with my letter to Madame R— that night: but when a

man is once dressed at all points for going out, his reflections turn to

little account; so taking down the name of the Hôtel de Modene, where I

lodged, I walked forth without any determination where to go;—I shall

consider of that, said I, as I walk along.

THE PULSE.

PARIS.

HAIL, ye small sweet courtesies of life, for smooth do ye make the road

of it! like grace and beauty, which beget inclinations to love at first

sight: ’tis ye who open this door and let the stranger in.

—Pray, Madame, said I, have the goodness to tell me which way I must turn

to go to the Opéra Comique?—Most willingly, Monsieur, said she, laying

aside her work.—

I had given a cast with my eye into half a dozen shops, as I came along,

in search of a face not likely to be disordered by such an interruption:

till at last, this, hitting my fancy, I had walked in.

She was working a pair of ruffles, as she sat in a low chair, on the far

side of the shop, facing the door.

—_Très volontiers_, most willingly, said she, laying her work down upon a

chair next her, and rising up from the low chair she was sitting in, with

so cheerful a movement, and so cheerful a look, that had I been laying

out fifty louis d’ors with her, I should have said—“This woman is

grateful.”

You must turn, Monsieur, said she, going with me to the door of the shop,

and pointing the way down the street I was to take,—you must turn first

to your left hand,—_mais prenez garde_—there are two turns; and be so

good as to take the second—then go down a little way and you’ll see a

church: and, when you are past it, give yourself the trouble to turn

directly to the right, and that will lead you to the foot of the Pont

Neuf, which you must cross—and there any one will do himself the pleasure

to show you.—

She repeated her instructions three times over to me, with the same

goodnatur’d patience the third time as the first;—and if _tones and

manners_ have a meaning, which certainly they have, unless to hearts

which shut them out,—she seemed really interested that I should not lose

myself.

I will not suppose it was the woman’s beauty, notwithstanding she was the

handsomest grisette, I think, I ever saw, which had much to do with the

sense I had of her courtesy; only I remember, when I told her how much I

was obliged to her, that I looked very full in her eyes,—and that I

repeated my thanks as often as she had done her instructions.

I had not got ten paces from the door, before I found I had forgot every

tittle of what she had said;—so looking back, and seeing her still

standing in the door of the shop, as if to look whether I went right or

not,—I returned back to ask her, whether the first turn was to my right

or left,—for that I had absolutely forgot.—Is it possible! said she, half

laughing. ’Tis very possible, replied I, when a man is thinking more of

a woman than of her good advice.

As this was the real truth—she took it, as every woman takes a matter of

right, with a slight curtsey.

—_Attendez_! said she, laying her hand upon my arm to detain me, whilst

she called a lad out of the back shop to get ready a parcel of gloves. I

am just going to send him, said she, with a packet into that quarter, and

if you will have the complaisance to step in, it will be ready in a

moment, and he shall attend you to the place.—So I walk’d in with her to

the far side of the shop: and taking up the ruffle in my hand which she

laid upon the chair, as if I had a mind to sit, she sat down herself in

her low chair, and I instantly sat myself down beside her.

—He will be ready, Monsieur, said she, in a moment.—And in that moment,

replied I, most willingly would I say something very civil to you for all

these courtesies. Any one may do a casual act of good nature, but a

continuation of them shows it is a part of the temperature; and

certainly, added I, if it is the same blood which comes from the heart

which descends to the extremes (touching her wrist) I am sure you must

have one of the best pulses of any woman in the world.—Feel it, said she,

holding out her arm. So laying down my hat, I took hold of her fingers

in one hand, and applied the two forefingers of my other to the artery.—

—Would to heaven! my dear Eugenius, thou hadst passed by, and beheld me

sitting in my black coat, and in my lack-a-day-sical manner, counting the

throbs of it, one by one, with as much true devotion as if I had been

watching the critical ebb or flow of her fever.—How wouldst thou have

laugh’d and moralized upon my new profession!—and thou shouldst have

laugh’d and moralized on.—Trust me, my dear Eugenius, I should have said,

“There are worse occupations in this world _than feeling a woman’s

pulse_.”—But a grisette’s! thou wouldst have said,—and in an open shop!

Yorick—

—So much the better: for when my views are direct, Eugenius, I care not

if all the world saw me feel it.

THE HUSBAND.

PARIS.

I HAD counted twenty pulsations, and was going on fast towards the

fortieth, when her husband, coming unexpected from a back parlour into

the shop, put me a little out of my reckoning.—’Twas nobody but her

husband, she said;—so I began a fresh score.—Monsieur is so good, quoth

she, as he pass’d by us, as to give himself the trouble of feeling my

pulse.—The husband took off his hat, and making me a bow, said, I did him

too much honour—and having said that, he put on his hat and walk’d out.

Good God! said I to myself, as he went out,—and can this man be the

husband of this woman!

Let it not torment the few who know what must have been the grounds of

this exclamation, if I explain it to those who do not.

In London a shopkeeper and a shopkeeper’s wife seem to be one bone and

one flesh: in the several endowments of mind and body, sometimes the one,

sometimes the other has it, so as, in general, to be upon a par, and

totally with each other as nearly as man and wife need to do.

In Paris, there are scarce two orders of beings more different: for the

legislative and executive powers of the shop not resting in the husband,

he seldom comes there:—in some dark and dismal room behind, he sits

commerce-less, in his thrum nightcap, the same rough son of Nature that

Nature left him.

The genius of a people, where nothing but the monarchy is _salique_,

having ceded this department, with sundry others, totally to the

women,—by a continual higgling with customers of all ranks and sizes from

morning to night, like so many rough pebbles shook long together in a

bag, by amicable collisions they have worn down their asperities and

sharp angles, and not only become round and smooth, but will receive,

some of them, a polish like a brilliant:—Monsieur _le Mari_ is little

better than the stone under your foot.

—Surely,—surely, man! it is not good for thee to sit alone:—thou wast

made for social intercourse and gentle greetings; and this improvement of

our natures from it I appeal to as my evidence.

—And how does it beat, Monsieur? said she.—With all the benignity, said

I, looking quietly in her eyes, that I expected.—She was going to say

something civil in return—but the lad came into the shop with the

gloves.—_Apropos_, said I, I want a couple of pairs myself.

THE GLOVES.

PARIS.

THE beautiful grisette rose up when I said this, and going behind the

counter, reach’d down a parcel and untied it: I advanced to the side over

against her: they were all too large. The beautiful grisette measured

them one by one across my hand.—It would not alter their dimensions.—She

begg’d I would try a single pair, which seemed to be the least.—She held

it open;—my hand slipped into it at once.—It will not do, said I, shaking

my head a little.—No, said she, doing the same thing.

There are certain combined looks of simple subtlety,—where whim, and

sense, and seriousness, and nonsense, are so blended, that all the

languages of Babel set loose together, could not express them;—they are

communicated and caught so instantaneously, that you can scarce say which

party is the infector. I leave it to your men of words to swell pages

about it—it is enough in the present to say again, the gloves would not

do; so, folding our hands within our arms, we both lolled upon the

counter—it was narrow, and there was just room for the parcel to lay

between us.

The beautiful grisette looked sometimes at the gloves, then sideways to

the window, then at the gloves,—and then at me. I was not disposed to

break silence:—I followed her example: so, I looked at the gloves, then

to the window, then at the gloves, and then at her,—and so on

alternately.

I found I lost considerably in every attack:—she had a quick black eye,

and shot through two such long and silken eyelashes with such

penetration, that she look’d into my very heart and reins.—It may seem

strange, but I could actually feel she did.—

It is no matter, said I, taking up a couple of the pairs next me, and

putting them into my pocket.

I was sensible the beautiful grisette had not asked above a single livre

above the price.—I wish’d she had asked a livre more, and was puzzling my

brains how to bring the matter about.—Do you think, my dear Sir, said

she, mistaking my embarrassment, that I could ask a sous too much of a

stranger—and of a stranger whose politeness, more than his want of

gloves, has done me the honour to lay himself at my mercy?—_M’en croyez

capable_?—Faith! not I, said I; and if you were, you are welcome. So

counting the money into her hand, and with a lower bow than one generally

makes to a shopkeeper’s wife, I went out, and her lad with his parcel

followed me.

THE TRANSLATION.

PARIS.

THERE was nobody in the box I was let into but a kindly old French

officer. I love the character, not only because I honour the man whose

manners are softened by a profession which makes bad men worse; but that

I once knew one,—for he is no more,—and why should I not rescue one page

from violation by writing his name in it, and telling the world it was

Captain Tobias Shandy, the dearest of my flock and friends, whose

philanthropy I never think of at this long distance from his death—but my

eyes gush out with tears. For his sake I have a predilection for the

whole corps of veterans; and so I strode over the two back rows of

benches and placed myself beside him.

The old officer was reading attentively a small pamphlet, it might be the

book of the opera, with a large pair of spectacles. As soon as I sat

down, he took his spectacles off, and putting them into a shagreen case,

return’d them and the book into his pocket together. I half rose up, and

made him a bow.

Translate this into any civilized language in the world—the sense is

this:

“Here’s a poor stranger come into the box—he seems as if he knew nobody;

and is never likely, was he to be seven years in Paris, if every man he

comes near keeps his spectacles upon his nose:—’tis shutting the door of

conversation absolutely in his face—and using him worse than a German.”

The French officer might as well have said it all aloud: and if he had, I

should in course have put the bow I made him into French too, and told

him, “I was sensible of his attention, and return’d him a thousand thanks

for it.”

There is not a secret so aiding to the progress of sociality, as to get

master of this _short hand_, and to be quick in rendering the several

turns of looks and limbs with all their inflections and delineations,

into plain words. For my own part, by long habitude, I do it so

mechanically, that, when I walk the streets of London, I go translating

all the way; and have more than once stood behind in the circle, where

not three words have been said, and have brought off twenty different

dialogues with me, which I could have fairly wrote down and sworn to.

I was going one evening to Martini’s concert at Milan, and, was just

entering the door of the hall, when the Marquisina di F— was coming out

in a sort of a hurry:—she was almost upon me before I saw her; so I gave

a spring to once side to let her pass.—She had done the same, and on the

same side too; so we ran our heads together: she instantly got to the

other side to get out: I was just as unfortunate as she had been, for I

had sprung to that side, and opposed her passage again.—We both flew

together to the other side, and then back,—and so on:—it was ridiculous:

we both blush’d intolerably: so I did at last the thing I should have

done at first;—I stood stock-still, and the Marquisina had no more

difficulty. I had no power to go into the room, till I had made her so

much reparation as to wait and follow her with my eye to the end of the

passage. She look’d back twice, and walk’d along it rather sideways, as

if she would make room for any one coming up stairs to pass her.—No, said

I—that’s a vile translation: the Marquisina has a right to the best

apology I can make her, and that opening is left for me to do it in;—so I

ran and begg’d pardon for the embarrassment I had given her, saying it

was my intention to have made her way. She answered, she was guided by

the same intention towards me;—so we reciprocally thank’d each other.

She was at the top of the stairs; and seeing no _cicisbeo_ near her, I

begg’d to hand her to her coach;—so we went down the stairs, stopping at

every third step to talk of the concert and the adventure.—Upon my word,

Madame, said I, when I had handed her in, I made six different efforts to

let you go out.—And I made six efforts, replied she, to let you enter.—I

wish to heaven you would make a seventh, said I.—With all my heart, said

she, making room.—Life is too short to be long about the forms of it,—so

I instantly stepp’d in, and she carried me home with her.—And what became

of the concert, St. Cecilia, who I suppose was at it, knows more than I.

I will only add, that the connexion which arose out of the translation

gave me more pleasure than any one I had the honour to make in Italy.

THE DWARF.

PARIS.

I HAD never heard the remark made by any one in my life, except by one;

and who that was will probably come out in this chapter; so that being

pretty much unprepossessed, there must have been grounds for what struck

me the moment I cast my eyes over the parterre,—and that was, the

unaccountable sport of Nature in forming such numbers of dwarfs.—No doubt

she sports at certain times in almost every corner of the world; but in

Paris there is no end to her amusements.—The goddess seems almost as

merry as she is wise.

As I carried my idea out of the _Opéra Comique_ with me, I measured every

body I saw walking in the streets by it.—Melancholy application!

especially where the size was extremely little,—the face extremely

dark,—the eyes quick,—the nose long,—the teeth white,—the jaw

prominent,—to see so many miserables, by force of accidents driven out of

their own proper class into the very verge of another, which it gives me

pain to write down:—every third man a pigmy!—some by rickety heads and

hump backs;—others by bandy legs;—a third set arrested by the hand of

Nature in the sixth and seventh years of their growth;—a fourth, in their

perfect and natural state like dwarf apple trees; from the first

rudiments and stamina of their existence, never meant to grow higher.

A Medical Traveller might say, ’tis owing to undue bandages;—a Splenetic

one, to want of air;—and an Inquisitive Traveller, to fortify the system,

may measure the height of their houses,—the narrowness of their streets,

and in how few feet square in the sixth and seventh stories such numbers

of the bourgeoisie eat and sleep together; but I remember Mr. Shandy the

elder, who accounted for nothing like any body else, in speaking one

evening of these matters, averred that children, like other animals,

might be increased almost to any size, provided they came right into the

world; but the misery was, the citizens of were Paris so coop’d up, that

they had not actually room enough to get them.—I do not call it getting

anything, said he;—’tis getting nothing.—Nay, continued he, rising in his

argument, ’tis getting worse than nothing, when all you have got after

twenty or five and twenty years of the tenderest care and most nutritious

aliment bestowed upon it, shall not at last be as high as my leg. Now,

Mr. Shandy being very short, there could be nothing more said of it.

As this is not a work of reasoning, I leave the solution as I found it,

and content myself with the truth only of the remark, which is verified

in every lane and by-lane of Paris. I was walking down that which leads

from the Carousal to the Palais Royal, and observing a little boy in some

distress at the side of the gutter which ran down the middle of it, I

took hold of his hand and help’d him over. Upon turning up his face to

look at him after, I perceived he was about forty.—Never mind, said I,

some good body will do as much for me when I am ninety.

I feel some little principles within me which incline me to be merciful

towards this poor blighted part of my species, who have neither size nor

strength to get on in the world.—I cannot bear to see one of them trod

upon; and had scarce got seated beside my old French officer, ere the

disgust was exercised, by seeing the very thing happen under the box we

sat in.

At the end of the orchestra, and betwixt that and the first side box,

there is a small esplanade left, where, when the house is full, numbers

of all ranks take sanctuary. Though you stand, as in the parterre, you

pay the same price as in the orchestra. A poor defenceless being of this

order had got thrust somehow or other into this luckless place;—the night

was hot, and he was surrounded by beings two feet and a half higher than

himself. The dwarf suffered inexpressibly on all sides; but the thing

which incommoded him most, was a tall corpulent German, near seven feet

high, who stood directly betwixt him and all possibility of his seeing

either the stage or the actors. The poor dwarf did all he could to get a

peep at what was going forwards, by seeking for some little opening

betwixt the German’s arm and his body, trying first on one side, then the

other; but the German stood square in the most unaccommodating posture

that can be imagined:—the dwarf might as well have been placed at the

bottom of the deepest draw-well in Paris; so he civilly reached up his

hand to the German’s sleeve, and told him his distress.—The German turn’d

his head back, looked down upon him as Goliah did upon David,—and

unfeelingly resumed his posture.

I was just then taking a pinch of snuff out of my monk’s little horn

box.—And how would thy meek and courteous spirit, my dear monk! so

temper’d to _bear and forbear_!—how sweetly would it have lent an ear to

this poor soul’s complaint!

The old French officer, seeing me lift up my eyes with an emotion, as I

made the apostrophe, took the liberty to ask me what was the matter?—I

told him the story in three words; and added, how inhuman it was.

By this time the dwarf was driven to extremes, and in his first

transports, which are generally unreasonable, had told the German he

would cut off his long queue with his knife.—The German look’d back

coolly, and told him he was welcome, if he could reach it.

An injury sharpen’d by an insult, be it to whom it will, makes every man

of sentiment a party: I could have leap’d out of the box to have

redressed it.—The old French officer did it with much less confusion; for

leaning a little over, and nodding to a sentinel, and pointing at the

same time with his finger at the distress,—the sentinel made his way to

it.—There was no occasion to tell the grievance,—the thing told himself;

so thrusting back the German instantly with his musket,—he took the poor

dwarf by the hand, and placed him before him.—This is noble! said I,

clapping my hands together.—And yet you would not permit this, said the

old officer, in England.

—In England, dear Sir, said I, _we sit all at our ease_.

The old French officer would have set me at unity with myself, in case I

had been at variance,—by saying it was a _bon mot_;—and, as a _bon mot_

is always worth something at Paris, he offered me a pinch of snuff.

THE ROSE.

PARIS.

IT was now my turn to ask the old French officer “What was the matter?”

for a cry of “_Haussez les mains_, _Monsieur l’Abbé_!” re-echoed from a

dozen different parts of the parterre, was as unintelligible to me, as my

apostrophe to the monk had been to him.

He told me it was some poor Abbé in one of the upper loges, who, he

supposed, had got planted perdu behind a couple of grisettes in order to

see the opera, and that the parterre espying him, were insisting upon his

holding up both his hands during the representation.—And can it be

supposed, said I, that an ecclesiastic would pick the grisettes’ pockets?

The old French officer smiled, and whispering in my ear, opened a door of

knowledge which I had no idea of.

Good God! said I, turning pale with astonishment—is it possible, that a

people so smit with sentiment should at the same time be so unclean, and

so unlike themselves,—_Quelle grossièrté_! added I.

The French officer told me, it was an illiberal sarcasm at the church,

which had begun in the theatre about the time the Tartuffe was given in

it by Molière: but like other remains of Gothic manners, was

declining.—Every nation, continued he, have their refinements and

_grossièrtés_, in which they take the lead, and lose it of one another by

turns:—that he had been in most countries, but never in one where he

found not some delicacies, which others seemed to want. _Le_ POUR _et

le_ CONTRE _se trouvent en chaque nation_; there is a balance, said he,

of good and bad everywhere; and nothing but the knowing it is so, can

emancipate one half of the world from the prepossession which it holds

against the other:—that the advantage of travel, as it regarded the

_sçavoir vivre_, was by seeing a great deal both of men and manners; it

taught us mutual toleration; and mutual toleration, concluded he, making

me a bow, taught us mutual love.

The old French officer delivered this with an air of such candour and

good sense, as coincided with my first favourable impressions of his

character:—I thought I loved the man; but I fear I mistook the

object;—’twas my own way of thinking—the difference was, I could not have

expressed it half so well.

It is alike troublesome to both the rider and his beast,—if the latter

goes pricking up his ears, and starting all the way at every object which

he never saw before.—I have as little torment of this kind as any

creature alive; and yet I honestly confess, that many a thing gave me

pain, and that I blush’d at many a word the first month,—which I found

inconsequent and perfectly innocent the second.

Madame do Rambouliet, after an acquaintance of about six weeks with her,

had done me the honour to take me in her coach about two leagues out of

town.—Of all women, Madame de Rambouliet is the most correct; and I never

wish to see one of more virtues and purity of heart.—In our return back,

Madame de Rambouliet desired me to pull the cord.—I asked her if she

wanted anything—_Rien que pour pisser_, said Madame de Rambouliet.

Grieve not, gentle traveller, to let Madame de Rambouliet p—ss on.—And,

ye fair mystic nymphs! go each one _pluck your rose_, and scatter them in

your path,—for Madame de Rambouliet did no more.—I handed Madame de

Rambouliet out of the coach; and had I been the priest of the chaste

Castalia, I could not have served at her fountain with a more respectful

decorum.

THE FILLE DE CHAMBRE.

PARIS.

WHAT the old French officer had delivered upon travelling, bringing

Polonius’s advice to his son upon the same subject into my head,—and that

bringing in Hamlet, and Hamlet the rest of Shakespeare’s works, I stopp’d

at the Quai de Conti in my return home, to purchase the whole set.

The bookseller said he had not a set in the world. _Comment_! said I,

taking one up out of a set which lay upon the counter betwixt us.—He said

they were sent him only to be got bound, and were to be sent back to

Versailles in the morning to the Count de B—.

—And does the Count de B—, said I, read Shakespeare? _C’est un esprit

fort_, replied the bookseller.—He loves English books! and what is more

to his honour, Monsieur, he loves the English too. You speak this so

civilly, said I, that it is enough to oblige an Englishman to lay out a

louis d’or or two at your shop.—The bookseller made a bow, and was going

to say something, when a young decent girl about twenty, who by her air

and dress seemed to be _fille de chambre_ to some devout woman of

fashion, come into the shop and asked for _Les Égarements du Cœur et de

l’Esprit_: the bookseller gave her the book directly; she pulled out a

little green satin purse run round with a riband of the same colour, and

putting her finger and thumb into it, she took out the money and paid for

it. As I had nothing more to stay me in the shop, we both walk’d out at

the door together.

—And what have you to do, my dear, said I, with _The Wanderings of the

Heart_, who scarce know yet you have one? nor, till love has first told

you it, or some faithless shepherd has made it ache, canst thou ever be

sure it is so.—_Le Dieu m’en garde_! said the girl.—With reason, said I,

for if it is a good one, ’tis pity it should be stolen; ’tis a little

treasure to thee, and gives a better air to your face, than if it was

dress’d out with pearls.

The young girl listened with a submissive attention, holding her satin

purse by its riband in her hand all the time.—’Tis a very small one, said

I, taking hold of the bottom of it—she held it towards me—and there is

very little in it, my dear, said I; but be but as good as thou art

handsome, and heaven will fill it. I had a parcel of crowns in my hand

to pay for Shakespeare; and, as she had let go the purse entirely, I put

a single one in; and, tying up the riband in a bow-knot, returned it to

her.

The young girl made me more a humble courtesy than a low one:—’twas one

of those quiet, thankful sinkings, where the spirit bows itself down,—the

body does no more than tell it. I never gave a girl a crown in my life

which gave me half the pleasure.

My advice, my dear, would not have been worth a pin to you, said I, if I

had not given this along with it: but now, when you see the crown, you’ll

remember it;—so don’t, my dear, lay it out in ribands.

Upon my word, Sir, said the girl, earnestly, I am incapable;—in saying

which, as is usual in little bargains of honour, she gave me her

hand:—_En vérité_, _Monsieur_, _je mettrai cet argent àpart_, said she.

When a virtuous convention is made betwixt man and woman, it sanctifies

their most private walks: so, notwithstanding it was dusky, yet as both

our roads lay the same way, we made no scruple of walking along the Quai

de Conti together.

She made me a second courtesy in setting off, and before we got twenty

yards from the door, as if she had not done enough before, she made a

sort of a little stop to tell me again—she thank’d me.

It was a small tribute, I told her, which I could not avoid paying to

virtue, and would not be mistaken in the person I had been rendering it

to for the world;—but I see innocence, my dear, in your face,—and foul

befall the man who ever lays a snare in its way!

The girl seem’d affected some way or other with what I said;—she gave a

low sigh:—I found I was not empowered to enquire at all after it,—so said

nothing more till I got to the corner of the Rue de Nevers, where, we

were to part.

—But is this the way, my dear, said I, to the Hotel de Modene? She told

me it was;—or that I might go by the Rue de Gueneguault, which was the

next turn.—Then I’ll go, my dear, by the Rue de Gueneguault, said I, for

two reasons; first, I shall please myself, and next, I shall give you the

protection of my company as far on your way as I can. The girl was

sensible I was civil—and said, she wished the Hotel de Modene was in the

Rue de St. Pierre.—You live there? said I.—She told me she was _fille de

chambre_ to Madame R—.—Good God! said I, ’tis the very lady for whom I

have brought a letter from Amiens.—The girl told me that Madame R—, she

believed, expected a stranger with a letter, and was impatient to see

him:—so I desired the girl to present my compliments to Madame R—, and

say, I would certainly wait upon her in the morning.

We stood still at the corner of the Rue de Nevers whilst this pass’d.—We

then stopped a moment whilst she disposed of her _Égarements du Cœur_,

&c. more commodiously than carrying them in her hand—they were two

volumes: so I held the second for her whilst she put the first into her

pocket; and then she held her pocket, and I put in the other after it.

’Tis sweet to feel by what fine spun threads our affections are drawn

together.

We set off afresh, and as she took her third step, the girl put her hand

within my arm.—I was just bidding her,—but she did it of herself, with

that undeliberating simplicity, which show’d it was out of her head that

she had never seen me before. For my own part, I felt the conviction of

consanguinity so strongly, that I could not help turning half round to

look in her face, and see if I could trace out any thing in it of a

family likeness.—Tut! said I, are we not all relations?

When we arrived at the turning up of the Rue de Gueneguault, I stopp’d to

bid her adieu for good and all: the girl would thank me again for my

company and kindness.—She bid me adieu twice.—I repeated it as often; and

so cordial was the parting between us, that had it happened any where

else, I’m not sure but I should have signed it with a kiss of charity, as

warm and holy as an apostle.

But in Paris, as none kiss each other but the men,—I did, what amounted

to the same thing—

—I bid God bless her.

THE PASSPORT.

PARIS.

WHEN I got home to my hotel, La Fleur told me I had been enquired after

by the Lieutenant de Police.—The deuce take it! said I,—I know the

reason. It is time the reader should know it, for in the order of things

in which it happened, it was omitted: not that it was out of my head; but

that had I told it then it might have been forgotten now;—and now is the

time I want it.

I had left London with so much precipitation, that it never enter’d my

mind that we were at war with France; and had reached Dover, and looked

through my glass at the hills beyond Boulogne, before the idea presented

itself; and with this in its train, that there was no getting there

without a passport. Go but to the end of a street, I have a mortal

aversion for returning back no wiser than I set out; and as this was one

of the greatest efforts I had ever made for knowledge, I could less bear

the thoughts of it: so hearing the Count de —— had hired the packet, I

begg’d he would take me in his suite. The Count had some little

knowledge of me, so made little or no difficulty,—only said, his

inclination to serve me could reach no farther than Calais, as he was to

return by way of Brussels to Paris; however, when I had once pass’d

there, I might get to Paris without interruption; but that in Paris I

must make friends and shift for myself.—Let me get to Paris, Monsieur le

Count, said I,—and I shall do very well. So I embark’d, and never

thought more of the matter.

When La Fleur told me the Lieutenant de Police had been enquiring after

me,—the thing instantly recurred;—and by the time La Fleur had well told

me, the master of the hotel came into my room to tell me the same thing,

with this addition to it, that my passport had been particularly asked

after: the master of the hotel concluded with saying, He hoped I had

one.—Not I, faith! said I.

The master of the hotel retired three steps from me, as from an infected

person, as I declared this;—and poor La Fleur advanced three steps

towards me, and with that sort of movement which a good soul makes to

succour a distress’d one:—the fellow won my heart by it; and from that

single trait I knew his character as perfectly, and could rely upon it as

firmly, as if he had served me with fidelity for seven years.

_Mon seigneur_! cried the master of the hotel; but recollecting himself

as he made the exclamation, he instantly changed the tone of it.—If

Monsieur, said he, has not a passport (_apparemment_) in all likelihood

he has friends in Paris who can procure him one.—Not that I know of,

quoth I, with an air of indifference.—Then _certes_, replied he, you’ll

be sent to the Bastile or the Chatelet _au moins_.—Poo! said I, the King

of France is a good natur’d soul:—he’ll hurt nobody.—_Cela n’empêche

pas_, said he—you will certainly be sent to the Bastile to-morrow

morning.—But I’ve taken your lodgings for a month, answer’d I, and I’ll

not quit them a day before the time for all the kings of France in the

world. La Fleur whispered in my ear, That nobody could oppose the king

of France.

_Pardi_! said my host, _ces Messieurs Anglois sont des gens très

extraordinaires_;—and, having both said and sworn it,—he went out.

THE PASSPORT.

THE HOTEL AT PARIS.

I COULD not find in my heart to torture La Fleur’s with a serious look

upon the subject of my embarrassment, which was the reason I had treated

it so cavalierly: and to show him how light it lay upon my mind, I dropt

the subject entirely; and whilst he waited upon me at supper, talk’d to

him with more than usual gaiety about Paris, and of the Opéra Comique.—La

Fleur had been there himself, and had followed me through the streets as

far as the bookseller’s shop; but seeing me come out with the young

_fille de chambre_, and that we walk’d down the Quai de Conti together,

La Fleur deem’d it unnecessary to follow me a step further;—so making his

own reflections upon it, he took a shorter cut,—and got to the hotel in

time to be inform’d of the affair of the police against my arrival.

As soon as the honest creature had taken away, and gone down to sup

himself, I then began to think a little seriously about my situation.—

—And here, I know, Eugenius, thou wilt smile at the remembrance of a

short dialogue which passed betwixt us the moment I was going to set

out:—I must tell it here.

Eugenius, knowing that I was as little subject to be overburden’d with

money as thought, had drawn me aside to interrogate me how much I had

taken care for. Upon telling him the exact sum, Eugenius shook his head,

and said it would not do; so pull’d out his purse in order to empty it

into mine.—I’ve enough in conscience, Eugenius, said I.—Indeed, Yorick,

you have not, replied Eugenius; I know France and Italy better than

you.—But you don’t consider, Eugenius, said I, refusing his offer, that

before I have been three days in Paris, I shall take care to say or do

something or other for which I shall get clapp’d up into the Bastile, and

that I shall live there a couple of months entirely at the king of

France’s expense.—I beg pardon, said Eugenius drily: really I had forgot

that resource.

Now the event I treated gaily came seriously to my door.

Is it folly, or nonchalance, or philosophy, or pertinacity—or what is it

in me, that, after all, when La Fleur had gone down stairs, and I was

quite alone, I could not bring down my mind to think of it otherwise than

I had then spoken of it to Eugenius?

—And as for the Bastile; the terror is in the word.—Make the most of it

you can, said I to myself, the Bastile is but another word for a

tower;—and a tower is but another word for a house you can’t get out

of.—Mercy on the gouty! for they are in it twice a year.—But with nine

livres a day, and pen and ink, and paper, and patience, albeit a man

can’t get out, he may do very well within,—at least for a month or six

weeks; at the end of which, if he is a harmless fellow, his innocence

appears, and he comes out a better and wiser man than he went in.

I had some occasion (I forget what) to step into the court-yard, as I

settled this account; and remember I walk’d down stairs in no small

triumph with the conceit of my reasoning.—Beshrew the sombre pencil! said

I, vauntingly—for I envy not its powers, which paints the evils of life

with so hard and deadly a colouring. The mind sits terrified at the

objects she has magnified herself, and blackened: reduce them to their

proper size and hue, she overlooks them.—’Tis true, said I, correcting

the proposition,—the Bastile is not an evil to be despised;—but strip it

of its towers—fill up the fosse,—unbarricade the doors—call it simply a

confinement, and suppose ’tis some tyrant of a distemper—and not of a

man, which holds you in it,—the evil vanishes, and you bear the other

half without complaint.

I was interrupted in the heyday of this soliloquy, with a voice which I

took to be of a child, which complained “it could not get out.”—I look’d

up and down the passage, and seeing neither man, woman, nor child, I went

out without farther attention.

In my return back through the passage, I heard the same words repeated

twice over; and, looking up, I saw it was a starling hung in a little

cage.—“I can’t get out,—I can’t get out,” said the starling.

I stood looking at the bird: and to every person who came through the

passage it ran fluttering to the side towards which they approach’d it,

with the same lamentation of its captivity. “I can’t get out,” said the

starling.—God help thee! said I, but I’ll let thee out, cost what it

will; so I turned about the cage to get to the door: it was twisted and

double twisted so fast with wire, there was no getting it open without

pulling the cage to pieces.—I took both hands to it.

The bird flew to the place where I was attempting his deliverance, and

thrusting his head through the trellis pressed his breast against it as

if impatient.—I fear, poor creature! said I, I cannot set thee at

liberty.—“No,” said the starling,— “I can’t get out—I can’t get out,”

said the starling.

I vow I never had my affections more tenderly awakened; nor do I remember

an incident in my life, where the dissipated spirits, to which my reason

had been a bubble, were so suddenly call’d home. Mechanical as the notes

were, yet so true in tune to nature were they chanted, that in one moment

they overthrew all my systematic reasonings upon the Bastile; and I

heavily walked upstairs, unsaying every word I had said in going down

them.

Disguise thyself as thou wilt, still, Slavery! said I,—still thou art a

bitter draught! and though thousands in all ages have been made to drink

of thee, thou art no less bitter on that account.—’Tis thou, thrice sweet

and gracious goddess, addressing myself to Liberty, whom all in public or

in private worship, whose taste is grateful, and ever will be so, till

Nature herself shall change.—No _tint_ of words can spot thy snowy

mantle, or chymic power turn thy sceptre into iron:—with thee to smile

upon him as he eats his crust, the swain is happier than his monarch,

from whose court thou art exiled!—Gracious Heaven! cried I, kneeling down

upon the last step but one in my ascent, grant me but health, thou great

Bestower of it, and give me but this fair goddess as my companion,—and

shower down thy mitres, if it seems good unto thy divine providence, upon

those heads which are aching for them!

THE CAPTIVE.

PARIS.

THE bird in his cage pursued me into my room; I sat down close to my

table, and leaning my head upon my hand, I began to figure to myself the

miseries of confinement. I was in a right frame for it, and so I gave

full scope to my imagination.

I was going to begin with the millions of my fellow-creatures born to no

inheritance but slavery: but finding, however affecting the picture was,

that I could not bring it near me, and that the multitude of sad groups

in it did but distract me.—

—I took a single captive, and having first shut him up in his dungeon, I

then look’d through the twilight of his grated door to take his picture.

I beheld his body half-wasted away with long expectation and confinement,

and felt what kind of sickness of the heart it was which arises from hope

deferr’d. Upon looking nearer I saw him pale and feverish: in thirty

years the western breeze had not once fann’d his blood;—he had seen no

sun, no moon, in all that time—nor had the voice of friend or kinsman

breathed through his lattice.—His children—

But here my heart began to bleed—and I was forced to go on with another

part of the portrait.

He was sitting upon the ground upon a little straw, in the furthest

corner of his dungeon, which was alternately his chair and bed: a little

calendar of small sticks were laid at the head, notch’d all over with the

dismal days and nights he had passed there;—he had one of these little

sticks in his hand, and, with a rusty nail he was etching another day of

misery to add to the heap. As I darkened the little light he had, he

lifted up a hopeless eye towards the door, then cast it down,—shook his

head, and went on with his work of affliction. I heard his chains upon

his legs, as he turned his body to lay his little stick upon the

bundle.—He gave a deep sigh.—I saw the iron enter into his soul!—I burst

into tears.—I could not sustain the picture of confinement which my fancy

had drawn.—I started up from my chair, and calling La Fleur: I bid him

bespeak me a remise, and have it ready at the door of the hotel by nine

in the morning.

I’ll go directly, said I, myself to Monsieur le Duc de Choiseul.

La Fleur would have put me to bed; but—not willing he should see anything

upon my cheek which would cost the honest fellow a heart-ache,—I told him

I would go to bed by myself,—and bid him go do the same.

THE STARLING.

ROAD TO VERSAILLES.

I GOT into my remise the hour I proposed: La Fleur got up behind, and I

bid the coachman make the best of his way to Versailles.

As there was nothing in this road, or rather nothing which I look for in

travelling, I cannot fill up the blank better than with a short history

of this self-same bird, which became the subject of the last chapter.

Whilst the Honourable Mr. — was waiting for a wind at Dover, it had been

caught upon the cliffs, before it could well fly, by an English lad who

was his groom; who, not caring to destroy it, had taken it in his breast

into the packet;—and, by course of feeding it, and taking it once under

his protection, in a day or two grew fond of it, and got it safe along

with him to Paris.

At Paris the lad had laid out a livre in a little cage for the starling,

and as he had little to do better the five months his master staid there,

he taught it, in his mother’s tongue, the four simple words—(and no

more)—to which I own’d myself so much its debtor.

Upon his master’s going on for Italy, the lad had given it to the master

of the hotel. But his little song for liberty being in an _unknown_

language at Paris, the bird had little or no store set by him: so La

Fleur bought both him and his cage for me for a bottle of Burgundy.

In my return from Italy I brought him with me to the country in whose

language he had learned his notes; and telling the story of him to Lord

A—, Lord A— begg’d the bird of me;—in a week Lord A— gave him to Lord B—;

Lord B— made a present of him to Lord C—; and Lord C—’s gentleman sold

him to Lord D—’s for a shilling; Lord D— gave him to Lord E—; and so

on—half round the alphabet. From that rank he pass’d into the lower

house, and pass’d the hands of as many commoners. But as all these

wanted to _get in_, and my bird wanted to _get out_, he had almost as

little store set by him in London as in Paris.

It is impossible but many of my readers must have heard of him; and if

any by mere chance have ever seen him, I beg leave to inform them, that

that bird was my bird, or some vile copy set up to represent him.

[Picture: The starling as the crest of arms] I have nothing farther to

add upon him, but that from that time to this I have borne this poor

starling as the crest to my arms.—Thus:

—And let the herald’s officers twist his neck about if they dare.

THE ADDRESS.

VERSAILLES.

I SHOULD not like to have my enemy take a view of my mind when I am going

to ask protection of any man; for which reason I generally endeavour to

protect myself; but this going to Monsieur le Duc de C— was an act of

compulsion; had it been an act of choice, I should have done it, I

suppose, like other people.

How many mean plans of dirty address, as I went along, did my servile

heart form! I deserved the Bastile for every one of them.

Then nothing would serve me when I got within sight of Versailles, but

putting words and sentences together, and conceiving attitudes and tones

to wreath myself into Monsieur le Duc de C—’s good graces.—This will do,

said I.—Just as well, retorted I again, as a coat carried up to him by an

adventurous tailor, without taking his measure. Fool! continued I,—see

Monsieur le Duc’s face first;—observe what character is written in

it;—take notice in what posture he stands to hear you;—mark the turns and

expressions of his body and limbs;—and for the tone,—the first sound

which comes from his lips will give it you; and from all these together

you’ll compound an address at once upon the spot, which cannot disgust

the Duke;—the ingredients are his own, and most likely to go down.

Well! said I, I wish it well over.—Coward again! as if man to man was not

equal throughout the whole surface of the globe; and if in the field—why

not face to face in the cabinet too? And trust me, Yorick, whenever it

is not so, man is false to himself and betrays his own succours ten times

where nature does it once. Go to the Duc de C— with the Bastile in thy

looks;—my life for it, thou wilt be sent back to Paris in half an hour

with an escort.

I believe so, said I.—Then I’ll go to the Duke, by heaven! with all the

gaiety and debonairness in the world.—

—And there you are wrong again, replied I.—A heart at ease, Yorick, flies

into no extremes—’tis ever on its centre.—Well! well! cried I, as the

coachman turn’d in at the gates, I find I shall do very well: and by the

time he had wheel’d round the court, and brought me up to the door, I

found myself so much the better for my own lecture, that I neither

ascended the steps like a victim to justice, who was to part with life

upon the top most,—nor did I mount them with a skip and a couple of

strides, as I do when I fly up, Eliza! to thee to meet it.

As I entered the door of the saloon I was met by a person, who possibly

might be the _maître d’hôtel_, but had more the air of one of the under

secretaries, who told me the Duc de C— was busy.—I am utterly ignorant,

said I, of the forms of obtaining an audience, being an absolute

stranger, and what is worse in the present conjuncture of affairs, being

an Englishman too.—He replied, that did not increase the difficulty.—I

made him a slight bow, and told him, I had something of importance to say

to Monsieur le Duc. The secretary look’d towards the stairs, as if he

was about to leave me to carry up this account to some one.—But I must

not mislead you, said I,—for what I have to say is of no manner of

importance to Monsieur le Duc de C— —but of great importance to

myself.—_C’est une autre affaire_, replied he.—Not at all, said I, to a

man of gallantry.—But pray, good sir, continued I, when can a stranger

hope to have access?—In not less than two hours, said he, looking at his

watch. The number of equipages in the court-yard seemed to justify the

calculation, that I could have no nearer a prospect;—and as walking

backwards and forwards in the saloon, without a soul to commune with, was

for the time as bad as being in the Bastile itself, I instantly went back

to my remise, and bid the coachman drive me to the _Cordon Bleu_, which

was the nearest hotel.

I think there is a fatality in it;—I seldom go to the place I set out

for.

LE PATISSIER.

VERSAILLES.

BEFORE I had got half way down the street I changed my mind: as I am at

Versailles, thought I, I might as well take a view of the town; so I

pull’d the cord, and ordered the coachman to drive round some of the

principal streets.—I suppose the town is not very large, said I.—The

coachman begg’d pardon for setting me right, and told me it was very

superb, and that numbers of the first dukes and marquises and counts had

hotels.—The Count de B—, of whom the bookseller at the Quai de Conti had

spoke so handsomely the night before, came instantly into my mind.—And

why should I not go, thought I, to the Count de B—, who has so high an

idea of English books and English men—and tell him my story? so I changed

my mind a second time.—In truth it was the third; for I had intended that

day for Madame de R—, in the Rue St. Pierre, and had devoutly sent her

word by her _fille de chambre_ that I would assuredly wait upon her;—but

I am governed by circumstances;—I cannot govern them: so seeing a man

standing with a basket on the other side of the street, as if he had

something to sell, I bid La Fleur go up to him, and enquire for the

Count’s hotel.

La Fleur returned a little pale; and told me it was a Chevalier de St.

Louis selling pâtés.—It is impossible, La Fleur, said I.—La Fleur could

no more account for the phenomenon than myself; but persisted in his

story: he had seen the croix set in gold, with its red riband, he said,

tied to his buttonhole—and had looked into the basket and seen the pâtés

which the Chevalier was selling; so could not be mistaken in that.

Such a reverse in man’s life awakens a better principle than curiosity: I

could not help looking for some time at him as I sat in the remise:—the

more I look’d at him, his croix, and his basket, the stronger they wove

themselves into my brain.—I got out of the remise, and went towards him.

He was begirt with a clean linen apron which fell below his knees, and

with a sort of a bib that went half way up his breast; upon the top of

this, but a little below the hem, hung his croix. His basket of little

pâtés was covered over with a white damask napkin; another of the same

kind was spread at the bottom; and there was a look of _propreté_ and

neatness throughout, that one might have bought his pâtés of him, as much

from appetite as sentiment.

He made an offer of them to neither; but stood still with them at the

corner of an hotel, for those to buy who chose it without solicitation.

He was about forty-eight;—of a sedate look, something approaching to

gravity. I did not wonder.—I went up rather to the basket than him, and

having lifted up the napkin, and taking one of his pâtés into my hand,—I

begg’d he would explain the appearance which affected me.

He told me in a few words, that the best part of his life had passed in

the service, in which, after spending a small patrimony, he had obtained

a company and the croix with it; but that, at the conclusion of the last

peace, his regiment being reformed, and the whole corps, with those of

some other regiments, left without any provision, he found himself in a

wide world without friends, without a livre,—and indeed, said he, without

anything but this,—(pointing, as he said it, to his croix).—The poor

Chevalier won my pity, and he finished the scene with winning my esteem

too.

The king, he said, was the most generous of princes, but his generosity

could neither relieve nor reward everyone, and it was only his misfortune

to be amongst the number. He had a little wife, he said, whom he loved,

who did the _pâtisserie_; and added, he felt no dishonour in defending

her and himself from want in this way—unless Providence had offer’d him a

better.

It would be wicked to withhold a pleasure from the good, in passing over

what happen’d to this poor Chevalier of St. Louis about nine months

after.

It seems he usually took his stand near the iron gates which lead up to

the palace, and as his croix had caught the eyes of numbers, numbers had

made the same enquiry which I had done.—He had told them the same story,

and always with so much modesty and good sense, that it had reach’d at

last the king’s ears;—who, hearing the Chevalier had been a gallant

officer, and respected by the whole regiment as a man of honour and

integrity,—he broke up his little trade by a pension of fifteen hundred

livres a year.

As I have told this to please the reader, I beg he will allow me to

relate another, out of its order, to please myself:—the two stories

reflect light upon each other,—and ’tis a pity they should be parted.

THE SWORD.

RENNES.

WHEN states and empires have their periods of declension, and feel in

their turns what distress and poverty is,—I stop not to tell the causes

which gradually brought the house d’E—, in Brittany, into decay. The

Marquis d’E— had fought up against his condition with great firmness;

wishing to preserve, and still show to the world, some little fragments

of what his ancestors had been;—their indiscretions had put it out of his

power. There was enough left for the little exigencies of

_obscurity_.—But he had two boys who looked up to him for _light_;—he

thought they deserved it. He had tried his sword—it could not open the

way,—the _mounting_ was too expensive,—and simple economy was not a match

for it:—there was no resource but commerce.

In any other province in France, save Brittany, this was smiting the root

for ever of the little tree his pride and affection wish’d to see

re-blossom.—But in Brittany, there being a provision for this, he avail’d

himself of it; and, taking an occasion when the states were assembled at

Rennes, the Marquis, attended with his two boys, entered the court; and

having pleaded the right of an ancient law of the duchy, which, though

seldom claim’d, he said, was no less in force, he took his sword from his

side:—Here, said he, take it; and be trusty guardians of it, till better

times put me in condition to reclaim it.

The president accepted the Marquis’s sword: he staid a few minutes to see

it deposited in the archives of his house—and departed.

The Marquis and his whole family embarked the next day for Martinico,

and in about nineteen or twenty years of successful application to

business, with some unlook’d for bequests from distant branches of his

house, return home to reclaim his nobility, and to support it.

It was an incident of good fortune which will never happen to any

traveller but a Sentimental one, that I should be at Rennes at the very

time of this solemn requisition: I call it solemn;—it was so to me.

The Marquis entered the court with his whole family: he supported his

lady,—his eldest son supported his sister, and his youngest was at the

other extreme of the line next his mother;—he put his handkerchief to his

face twice.—

—There was a dead silence. When the Marquis had approached within six

paces of the tribunal, he gave the Marchioness to his youngest son, and

advancing three steps before his family,—he reclaim’d his sword. His

sword was given him, and the moment he got it into his hand he drew it

almost out of the scabbard:—’twas the shining face of a friend he had

once given up—he look’d attentively along it, beginning at the hilt, as

if to see whether it was the same,—when, observing a little rust which it

had contracted near the point, he brought it near his eye, and bending

his head down over it,—I think—I saw a tear fall upon the place. I could

not be deceived by what followed.

“I shall find,” said he, “some _other way_ to get it off.”

When the Marquis had said this, he returned his sword into its scabbard,

made a bow to the guardians of it,—and, with his wife and daughter, and

his two sons following him, walk’d out.

O, how I envied him his feelings!

THE PASSPORT.

VERSAILLES.

I FOUND no difficulty in getting admittance to Monsieur le Count de B—.

The set of Shakespeares was laid upon the table, and he was tumbling them

over. I walk’d up close to the table, and giving first such a look at

the books as to make him conceive I knew what they were,—I told him I had

come without any one to present me, knowing I should meet with a friend

in his apartment, who, I trusted, would do it for me:—it is my

countryman, the great Shakespeare, said I, pointing to his works—_et ayez

la bonté_, _mon cher ami_, apostrophizing his spirit, added I, _de me

faire cet honneur-là_.—

The Count smiled at the singularity of the introduction; and seeing I

look’d a little pale and sickly, insisted upon my taking an arm-chair; so

I sat down; and to save him conjectures upon a visit so out of all rule,

I told him simply of the incident in the bookseller’s shop, and how that

had impelled me rather to go to him with the story of a little

embarrassment I was under, than to any other man in France.—And what is

your embarrassment? let me hear it, said the Count. So I told him the

story just as I have told it the reader.

—And the master of my hotel, said I, as I concluded it, will needs have

it, Monsieur le Count, that I shall be sent to the Bastile;—but I have no

apprehensions, continued I;—for, in falling into the hands of the most

polish’d people in the world, and being conscious I was a true man, and

not come to spy the nakedness of the land, I scarce thought I lay at

their mercy.—It does not suit the gallantry of the French, Monsieur le

Count, said I, to show it against invalids.

An animated blush came into the Count de B—’s cheeks as I spoke this.—_Ne

craignez rien_—Don’t fear, said he.—Indeed, I don’t, replied I

again.—Besides, continued I, a little sportingly, I have come laughing

all the way from London to Paris, and I do not think Monsieur le Duc de

Choiseul is such an enemy to mirth as to send me back crying for my

pains.

—My application to you, Monsieur le Count de B— (making him a low bow),

is to desire he will not.

The Count heard me with great good nature, or I had not said half as

much,—and once or twice said,—_C’est bien dit_. So I rested my cause

there—and determined to say no more about it.

The Count led the discourse: we talk’d of indifferent things,—of books,

and politics, and men;—and then of women.—God bless them all! said I,

after much discourse about them—there is not a man upon earth who loves

them so much as I do: after all the foibles I have seen, and all the

satires I have read against them, still I love them; being firmly

persuaded that a man, who has not a sort of affection for the whole sex,

is incapable of ever loving a single one as he ought.

_Eh bien_! _Monsieur l’Anglois_, said the Count, gaily;—you are not come

to spy the nakedness of the land;—I believe you;—_ni encore_, I dare say,

_that_ of our women!—But permit me to conjecture,—if, _par hazard_, they

fell into your way, that the prospect would not affect you.

I have something within me which cannot bear the shock of the least

indecent insinuation: in the sportability of chit-chat I have often

endeavoured to conquer it, and with infinite pain have hazarded a

thousand things to a dozen of the sex together,—the least of which I

could not venture to a single one to gain heaven.

Excuse me, Monsieur le Count, said I;—as for the nakedness of your land,

if I saw it, I should cast my eyes over it with tears in them;—and for

that of your women (blushing at the idea he had excited in me) I am so

evangelical in this, and have such a fellow-feeling for whatever is weak

about them, that I would cover it with a garment if I knew how to throw

it on:—But I could wish, continued I, to spy the nakedness of their

hearts, and through the different disguises of customs, climates, and

religion, find out what is good in them to fashion my own by:—and

therefore am I come.

It is for this reason, Monsieur le Count, continued I, that I have not

seen the Palais Royal,—nor the Luxembourg,—nor the Façade of the

Louvre,—nor have attempted to swell the catalogues we have of pictures,

statues, and churches.—I conceive every fair being as a temple, and would

rather enter in, and see the original drawings and loose sketches hung up

in it, than the Transfiguration of Raphael itself.

The thirst of this, continued I, as impatient as that which inflames the

breast of the connoisseur, has led me from my own home into France,—and

from France will lead me through Italy;—’tis a quiet journey of the heart

in pursuit of Nature, and those affections which arise out of her, which

make us love each other,—and the world, better than we do.

The Count said a great many civil things to me upon the occasion; and

added very politely, how much he stood obliged to Shakespeare for making

me known to him.—But _à propos_, said he;—Shakespeare is full of great

things;—he forgot a small punctilio of announcing your name:—it puts you

under a necessity of doing it yourself.

THE PASSPORT.

VERSAILLES.

THERE is not a more perplexing affair in life to me, than to set about

telling any one who I am,—for there is scarce any body I cannot give a

better account of than myself; and I have often wished I could do it in a

single word,—and have an end of it. It was the only time and occasion in

my life I could accomplish this to any purpose;—for Shakespeare lying

upon the table, and recollecting I was in his books, I took up Hamlet,

and turning immediately to the grave-diggers’ scene in the fifth act, I

laid my finger upon Yorick, and advancing the book to the Count, with my

finger all the way over the name,—_Me voici_! said I.

Now, whether the idea of poor Yorick’s skull was put out of the Count’s

mind by the reality of my own, or by what magic he could drop a period of

seven or eight hundred years, makes nothing in this account;—’tis certain

the French conceive better than they combine;—I wonder at nothing in this

world, and the less at this; inasmuch as one of the first of our own

Church, for whose candour and paternal sentiments I have the highest

veneration, fell into the same mistake in the very same case:—“He could

not bear,” he said, “to look into the sermons wrote by the King of

Denmark’s jester.” Good, my Lord said I; but there are two Yoricks. The

Yorick your Lordship thinks of, has been dead and buried eight hundred

years ago; he flourished in Horwendillus’s court;—the other Yorick is

myself, who have flourished, my Lord, in no court.—He shook his head.

Good God! said I, you might as well confound Alexander the Great with

Alexander the Coppersmith, my lord!—“’Twas all one,” he replied.—

—If Alexander, King of Macedon, could have translated your Lordship, said

I, I’m sure your Lordship would not have said so.

The poor Count de B— fell but into the same _error_.

—_Et_, _Monsieur_, _est-il Yorick_? cried the Count.—_Je le suis_, said

I.—_Vous_?—_Moi_,—_moi qui ai l’honneur de vous parler_, _Monsieur le

Comte_.—_Mon Dieu_! said he, embracing me,—_Vous êtes Yorick_!

The Count instantly put the Shakespeare into his pocket, and left me

alone in his room.

THE PASSPORT.

VERSAILLES.

I COULD not conceive why the Count de B— had gone so abruptly out of the

room, any more than I could conceive why he had put the Shakespeare into

his pocket.—_Mysteries which must explain themselves are not worth the

loss of time which a conjecture about them takes up_: ’twas better to

read Shakespeare; so taking up “_Much Ado About Nothing_,” I transported

myself instantly from the chair I sat in to Messina in Sicily, and got so

busy with Don Pedro, and Benedict, and Beatrice, that I thought not of

Versailles, the Count, or the passport.

Sweet pliability of man’s spirit, that can at once surrender itself to

illusions, which cheat expectation and sorrow of their weary

moments!—Long,—long since had ye number’d out my days, had I not trod so

great a part of them upon this enchanted ground. When my way is too

rough for my feet, or too steep for my strength, I get off it, to some

smooth velvet path, which Fancy has scattered over with rosebuds of

delights; and having taken a few turns in it, come back strengthened and

refresh’d.—When evils press sore upon me, and there is no retreat from

them in this world, then I take a new course;—I leave it,—and as I have a

clearer idea of the Elysian fields than I have of heaven, I force myself,

like Æneas, into them.—I see him meet the pensive shade of his forsaken

Dido, and wish to recognise it;—I see the injured spirit wave her head,

and turn off silent from the author of her miseries and dishonours;—I

lose the feelings for myself in hers, and in those affections which were

wont to make me mourn for her when I was at school.

_Surely this is not walking in a vain shadow—nor does man disquiet

himself_ in vain _by it_:—he oftener does so in trusting the issue of his

commotions to reason only.—I can safely say for myself, I was never able

to conquer any one single bad sensation in my heart so decisively, as

beating up as fast as I could for some kindly and gentle sensation to

fight it upon its own ground.

When I had got to the end of the third act the Count de B— entered, with

my passport in his hand. Monsieur le Duc de C—, said the Count, is as

good a prophet, I dare say, as he is a statesman. _Un homme qui rit_,

said the Duke, _ne sera jamais dangereux_.—Had it been for any one but

the king’s jester, added the Count, I could not have got it these two

hours.—_Pardonnez moi_, Monsieur le Count, said I—I am not the king’s

jester.—But you are Yorick?—Yes.—_Et vous plaisantez_?—I answered, Indeed

I did jest,—but was not paid for it;—’twas entirely at my own expense.

We have no jester at court, Monsieur le Count, said I; the last we had

was in the licentious reign of Charles II.;—since which time our manners

have been so gradually refining, that our court at present is so full of

patriots, who wish for _nothing_ but the honours and wealth of their

country;—and our ladies are all so chaste, so spotless, so good, so

devout,—there is nothing for a jester to make a jest of.—

_Voilà un persiflage_! cried the Count.

THE PASSPORT.

VERSAILLES.

AS the passport was directed to all lieutenant-governors, governors, and

commandants of cities, generals of armies, justiciaries, and all officers

of justice, to let Mr. Yorick the king’s jester, and his baggage, travel

quietly along, I own the triumph of obtaining the passport was not a

little tarnish’d by the figure I cut in it.—But there is nothing unmix’d

in this world; and some of the gravest of our divines have carried it so

far as to affirm, that enjoyment itself was attended even with a

sigh,—and that the greatest _they knew of_ terminated, _in a general

way_, in little better than a convulsion.

I remember the grave and learned Bevoriskius, in his Commentary upon the

Generations from Adam, very naturally breaks off in the middle of a note

to give an account to the world of a couple of sparrows upon the out-edge

of his window, which had incommoded him all the time he wrote, and at

last had entirely taken him off from his genealogy.

—’Tis strange! writes Bevoriskius; but the facts are certain, for I have

had the curiosity to mark them down one by one with my pen;—but the cock

sparrow, during the little time that I could have finished the other half

of this note, has actually interrupted me with the reiteration of his

caresses three-and-twenty times and a half.

How merciful, adds Bevoriskius, is heaven to his creatures!

Ill fated Yorick! that the gravest of thy brethren should be able to

write that to the world, which stains thy face with crimson to copy, even

in thy study.

But this is nothing to my travels.—So I twice,—twice beg pardon for it.

CHARACTER.

VERSAILLES.

AND how do you find the French? said the Count de B—, after he had given

me the passport.

The reader may suppose, that after so obliging a proof of courtesy, I

could not be at a loss to say something handsome to the enquiry.

—_Mais passe_, _pour cela_.—Speak frankly, said he: do you find all the

urbanity in the French which the world give us the honour of?—I had found

every thing, I said, which confirmed it.—_Vraiment_, said the Count, _les

François sont polis_.—To an excess, replied I.

The Count took notice of the word _excès_; and would have it I meant more

than I said. I defended myself a long time as well as I could against

it.—He insisted I had a reserve, and that I would speak my opinion

frankly.

I believe, Monsieur le Count, said I, that man has a certain compass, as

well as an instrument; and that the social and other calls have occasion

by turns for every key in him; so that if you begin a note too high or

too low, there must be a want either in the upper or under part, to fill

up the system of harmony.—The Count de B— did not understand music, so

desired me to explain it some other way. A polish’d nation, my dear

Count, said I, makes every one its debtor: and besides, Urbanity itself,

like the fair sex, has so many charms, it goes against the heart to say

it can do ill; and yet, I believe, there is but a certain line of

perfection, that man, take him altogether, is empower’d to arrive at:—if

he gets beyond, he rather exchanges qualities than gets them. I must not

presume to say how far this has affected the French in the subject we are

speaking of;—but, should it ever be the case of the English, in the

progress of their refinements, to arrive at the same polish which

distinguishes the French, if we did not lose the _politesse du cœur_,

which inclines men more to humane actions than courteous ones,—we should

at least lose that distinct variety and originality of character, which

distinguishes them, not only from each other, but from all the world

besides.

I had a few of King William’s shillings, as smooth as glass, in my

pocket; and foreseeing they would be of use in the illustration of my

hypothesis, I had got them into my hand when I had proceeded so far:—

See, Monsieur le Count, said I, rising up, and laying them before him

upon the table,—by jingling and rubbing one against another for seventy

years together in one body’s pocket or another’s, they are become so much

alike, you can scarce distinguish one shilling from another.

The English, like ancient medals, kept more apart, and passing but few

people’s hands, preserve the first sharpnesses which the fine hand of

Nature has given them;—they are not so pleasant to feel,—but in return

the legend is so visible, that at the first look you see whose image and

superscription they bear.—But the French, Monsieur le Count, added I

(wishing to soften what I had said), have so many excellences, they can

the better spare this;—they are a loyal, a gallant, a generous, an

ingenious, and good temper’d people as is under heaven;—if they have a

fault—they are too _serious_.

_Mon Dieu_! cried the Count, rising out of his chair.

_Mais vous plaisantez_, said he, correcting his exclamation.—I laid my

hand upon my breast, and with earnest gravity assured him it was my most

settled opinion.

The Count said he was mortified he could not stay to hear my reasons,

being engaged to go that moment to dine with the Duc de C—.

But if it is not too far to come to Versailles to eat your soup with me,

I beg, before you leave France, I may have the pleasure of knowing you

retract your opinion,—or, in what manner you support it.—But, if you do

support it, Monsieur Anglois, said he, you must do it with all your

powers, because you have the whole world against you.—I promised the

Count I would do myself the honour of dining with him before I set out

for Italy;—so took my leave.

THE TEMPTATION.

PARIS.

WHEN I alighted at the hotel, the porter told me a young woman with a

bandbox had been that moment enquiring for me.—I do not know, said the

porter, whether she is gone away or not. I took the key of my chamber of

him, and went upstairs; and when I had got within ten steps of the top of

the landing before my door, I met her coming easily down.

It was the fair _fille de chambre_ I had walked along the Quai de Conti

with; Madame de R— had sent her upon some commission to a _marchande des

modes_ within a step or two of the Hôtel de Modene; and as I had fail’d

in waiting upon her, had bid her enquire if I had left Paris; and if so,

whether I had not left a letter addressed to her.

As the fair _fille de chambre_ was so near my door, she returned back,

and went into the room with me for a moment or two whilst I wrote a card.

It was a fine still evening in the latter end of the month of May,—the

crimson window curtains (which were of the same colour as those of the

bed) were drawn close:—the sun was setting, and reflected through them so

warm a tint into the fair _fille de chambre’s_ face,—I thought she

blush’d;—the idea of it made me blush myself:—we were quite alone; and

that superinduced a second blush before the first could get off.

There is a sort of a pleasing half guilty blush, where the blood is more

in fault than the man:—’tis sent impetuous from the heart, and virtue

flies after it,—not to call it back, but to make the sensation of it more

delicious to the nerves:—’tis associated.—

But I’ll not describe it;—I felt something at first within me which was

not in strict unison with the lesson of virtue I had given her the night

before.—I sought five minutes for a card;—I knew I had not one.—I took up

a pen.—I laid it down again;—my hand trembled:—the devil was in me.

I know as well as any one he is an adversary, whom, if we resist, he will

fly from us;—but I seldom resist him at all; from a terror, though I may

conquer, I may still get a hurt in the combat;—so I give up the triumph

for security; and, instead of thinking to make him fly, I generally fly

myself.

The fair _fille de chambre_ came close up to the bureau where I was

looking for a card—took up first the pen I cast down, then offer’d to

hold me the ink; she offer’d it so sweetly, I was going to accept it;—but

I durst not;—I have nothing, my dear, said I, to write upon.—Write it,

said she, simply, upon anything.—

I was just going to cry out, Then I will write it, fair girl! upon thy

lips.—

If I do, said I, I shall perish;—so I took her by the hand, and led her

to the door, and begg’d she would not forget the lesson I had given

her.—She said, indeed she would not;—and, as she uttered it with some

earnestness, she turn’d about, and gave me both her hands, closed

together, into mine;—it was impossible not to compress them in that

situation;—I wish’d to let them go; and all the time I held them, I kept

arguing within myself against it,—and still I held them on.—In two

minutes I found I had all the battle to fight over again;—and I felt my

legs and every limb about me tremble at the idea.

The foot of the bed was within a yard and a half of the place where we

were standing.—I had still hold of her hands—and how it happened I can

give no account; but I neither ask’d her—nor drew her—nor did I think of

the bed;—but so it did happen, we both sat down.

I’ll just show you, said the fair _fille de chambre_, the little purse I

have been making to-day to hold your crown. So she put her hand into her

right pocket, which was next me, and felt for it some time—then into the

left.—“She had lost it.”—I never bore expectation more quietly;—it was in

her right pocket at last;—she pull’d it out; it was of green taffeta,

lined with a little bit of white quilted satin, and just big enough to

hold the crown: she put it into my hand;—it was pretty; and I held it ten

minutes with the back of my hand resting upon her lap—looking sometimes

at the purse, sometimes on one side of it.

A stitch or two had broke out in the gathers of my stock; the fair _fille

de chambre_, without saying a word, took out her little housewife,

threaded a small needle, and sew’d it up.—I foresaw it would hazard the

glory of the day; and, as she pass’d her hand in silence across and

across my neck in the manœuvre, I felt the laurels shake which fancy had

wreath’d about my head.

A strap had given way in her walk, and the buckle of her shoe was just

falling off.—See, said the _fille de chambre_, holding up her foot.—I

could not, for my soul but fasten the buckle in return, and putting in

the strap,—and lifting up the other foot with it, when I had done, to see

both were right,—in doing it too suddenly, it unavoidably threw the fair

_fille de chambre_ off her centre,—and then—