Blessed Jupiter! and blessed every other heathen god and goddess! for now ye will all come into play again, and with Priapus2 at your tails——what jovial times!——but where am I? and into what a delicious riot of things am I rushing?3 I—— I who must be cut short in the midst of my days,4 and taste no more of ’em than what I borrow from my imagination—— peace to thee, generous fool! and let me go on.
CHAP. XV.
———“So hating, I say, to make mysteries of nothing”—— I intrusted it with the post-boy, as soon as ever I got off the stones; he gave a crack with his whip to balance the compliment; and with the thill-horse1 trotting, and a sort of an up and a down of the other, we danced it along to Ailly au clochers,2 famed in days of yore for the finest chimes in the world; but we danced through it without music——the chimes being greatly out of order—(as in truth they were through all France).
And so making all possible speed, from
Ailly au clochers, I got to Hixcourt,3
from Hixcourt, I got to Pequignay, and
from Pequignay, I got to AMIENS,
concerning which town I have nothing to inform you, but
what I have informed you once before——and that was—–that
Janatone went there to school.
CHAP. XVI.
IN the whole catalogue of those whiffling vexations which come puffing across a man’s canvass, there is not one of a more teasing and tormenting nature, than this particular one which I am going to describe——and for which, (unless you travel with an avance-courier,1 which numbers do in order to prevent it)——there is no help: and it is this.
That be you in never so kindly a propensity to sleep——tho’ you are passing perhaps through the finest country—upon the best roads,—and in the easiest carriage for doing it in the world——nay was you sure you could sleep fifty miles straight forwards, without once opening your eyes——nay what is more, was you as demonstratively satisfied as you can be of any truth in Euclid, that you should upon all accounts be full as well asleep as awake——nay perhaps better——Yet the incessant returns of paying for the horses at every stage,——with the necessity thereupon of putting your hand into your pocket, and counting out from thence, three livres fifteen sous (sous by sous) puts an end to so much of the project, that you cannot execute above six miles of it (or supposing it is a post and a half, that is but nine)——were it to save your soul from destruction.
—I’ll be even with ’em, quoth I, for I’ll put the precise sum into a piece of paper, and hold it ready in my hand all the way: “Now I shall have nothing to do” said I (composing myself to rest) “but to drop this gently into the post-boy’s hat, and not say a word.”——Then there wants two sous more to drink ——or there is a twelve sous piece of Louis XIV. which will not pass—or a livre and some odd liards2 to be brought over from the last stage, which Monsieur had forgot; which altercations (as a man cannot dispute very well asleep) rouse him: still is sweet sleep retrievable; and still might the flesh weigh down the spirit,3 and recover itself of these blows—but then, by heaven! you have paid but for a single post—whereas ’tis a post and a half; and this obliges you to pull out your book of post-roads, the print of which is so very small, it forces you to open your eyes, whether you will or no: then Monsieur le Curè4 offers you a pinch of snuff——or a poor soldier shews you his leg——or a shaveling5 his box——or the priestesse of the cistern will water your wheels——they do not want it——but she swears by her priesthood (throwing it back) that they do:——then you have all these points to argue, or consider over in your mind; in doing of which, the rational powers get so thoroughly awakened ——you may get ’em to sleep again as you can.
It was entirely owing to one of these misfortunes, or I had pass’d clean by the stables of Chantilly6——
——But the postillion first affirming, and then persisting in it to my face, that there was no mark upon the two sous piece, I open’d my eyes to be convinced—and seeing the mark upon it, as plain as my nose—I leap’d out of the chaise in a passion, and so saw every thing at Chantilly in spite.—I tried it but for three posts and a half, but believe ’tis the best principle in the world to travel speedily upon; for as few objects look very inviting in that mood—you have little or nothing to stop you; by which means it was that I pass’d through St. Dennis,7 without turning my head so much as on side towards the Abby——
——Richness of their treasury! stuff and nonsense!—bating their jewels, which are all false, I would not give three sous for any one thing in it, but Judas’s lantern——nor for that either, only as it grows dark, it might be of use.
CHAP. XVII.
CRACK, crack——crack, crack——crack, crack——so this is Paris!1 quoth I (continuing in the same mood)—— and this is Paris!——humph!——Paris! cried I, repeating the name the third time——
The first, the finest, the most brilliant——
—The streets however are nasty;
But it looks, I suppose, better than it smells——crack, crack ——crack, crack——What a fuss thou makest!—as if it con-cern’d the good people to be inform’d, That a man with pale face, and clad in black, had the honour to be driven into Paris at nine o’clock at night, by a postilion in a tawny yellow jerkin turned up with red calamanco2——crack, crack——crack, crack——crack, crack——I wish thy whip——
——But ’tis the spirit of thy nation; so crack—crack on.
Ha!——and no one gives the wall!3——but in the SCHOOL of URBANITY herself, if the walls are besh—t—how can you do otherwise?
And prithee when do they light the lamps? What?—never in the summer months!——Ho! ’tis the time of sallads.——O rare! sallad and soup—soup and sallad—sallad and soup, encore——
——’Tis too much for sinners.
Now I cannot bear the barbarity of it; how can that unconscionable coachman talk so much bawdy to that lean horse? don’t you see, friend, the streets are so villainously narrow, that there is not room in all Paris to turn a wheel-barrow? In the grandest city of the whole world, it would not have been amiss, if they had been left a thought wider; nay were it only so much in every single street, as that a man might know (was it only for satisfaction) on which side of it he was walking.
One—two—three—four—five—six—seven—eight—nine— ten.— Ten cook’s shops! and twice the number of barber’s! and all within three minutes driving! one would think that all the cooks in the world on some great merry-meeting with the barbers, by joint consent had said—Come, let us all go live at Paris: the French love good eating——they are all gourmands——we shall rank high; if their god is their belly4——their cooks must be gentlemen: and forasmuch as the periwig maketh the man,5 and the periwig-maker maketh the periwig—–ergo, would the barbers say, we shall rank higher still—we shall be above you all—we shall be * Capitouls6 at least—pardi!7 we shall all wear swords——
—And so, one would swear, (that is by candle-light,— but there is no depending upon it) they continue to do, to this day.
CHAP. XVIII.
THE French are certainly misunderstood:———but whether the fault is theirs, in not sufficiently explaining themselves; or speaking with that exact limitation and precision which one would expect on a point of such importance, and which moreover, is so likely to be contested by us——or whether the fault may not be altogether on our side, in not understanding their language always so critically as to know “what they would be at”——I shall not decide; but ’tis evident to me, when they affirm, “That they who have seen Paris, have seen every thing,” they must mean to speak of those who have seen it by day-light.
As for candle-light—I give it up——I have said before, there was no depending upon it—and I repeat it again; but not because the lights and shades are too sharp—or the tints confounded— or that there is neither beauty or keeping, &c…. for that’s not truth—but it is an uncertain light in this respect, That in all the fi
ve hundred grand Hôtels,1 which they number up to you in Paris—and the five hundred good things, at a modest computation (for ’tis only allowing one good thing to a Hô tel) which by candle-light are best to be seen, felt, heard and understood (which, by the bye is a quotation from Lilly)2——the devil a one of us out of fifty, can get our heads fairly thrust in amongst them.
This is no part of the French computation: ’tis simply this.
That by the last survey3 taken in the year one thousand seven hundred and sixteen, since which time there have been considerable augmentations, Paris doth contain nine hundred streets; (viz.)
In the quarter called the City—there are fifty three streets.
In St. James of the Shambles, fifty five streets.
In St. Oportune, thirty four streets.
In the quarter of the Louvre, twenty five streets.
In the Palace Royal, or St. Honorius, forty nine streets.
In Mont. Martyr, forty one streets.
In St. Eustace, twenty nine streets.
In the Halles, twenty seven streets.
In St. Dennis, fifty five streets.
In St. Martin, fifty four streets.
In St. Paul, or the Mortellerie, twenty seven streets.
The Greve, thirty eight streets.
In St. Avoy, or the Verrerie, nineteen streets.
In the Marais, or the Temple, fifty two streets.
In St. Antony’s, sixty eight streets.
In the Place Maubert, eighty one streets.
In St. Bennet, sixty streets.
In St. Andrews de Arcs, fifty one streets.
In the quarter of the Luxembourg, sixty two streets.
And in that of St. Germain, fifty five streets, into any of which you may walk; and that when you have seen them with all that belongs to them, fairly by day-light—their gates, their bridges, their squares, their statues –––– and have crusaded it moreover through all their parish churches, by no means omitting St. Roche and Sulplice4 ––– and to crown all, have taken a walk to the four palaces, which you may see either with or without the statues and pictures, just as you chuse—— —Then you will have seen—— ——but,
’tis what no one needeth to tell you, for you will read it yourself upon the portico of the Louvre,5 in these words,
*EARTH NO SUCH FOLKS!—NO FOLKS E’ER SUCH A TOWN AS PARIS IS!—SING, DERRY, DERRY, DOWN.
The French have a gay way of treating every thing that is Great; and that is all can be said upon it.
CHAP. XIX.
IN mentioning the word gay (as in the close of the last chapter) it puts one (i.e. an author) in mind of the word spleen—— especially if he has any thing to say upon it: not that by any analysis—or that from any table of interest or genealogy, there appears much more ground of alliance betwixt them, than betwixt light and darkness, or any two of the most unfriendly opposites in nature——only ’tis an undercraft1 of authors to keep up a good understanding amongst words, as politicians do amongst men—not knowing how near they may be under a necessity of placing them toeach other—which point being now gain’d, and that I may place mine exactly to my mind, I write it down here—
SPLEEN.
This, upon leaving Chantilly, I declared to be the best principle in the world to travel speedily upon; but I gave it only as matter of opinion, I still continue in the same sentiments—only I had not then experience enough of its working to add this, that though you do get on at a tearing rate, yet you get on but uneasily to yourself at the same time; for which reason I here quit it entirely, and for ever, and ’tis heartily at one’s service— it has spoiled me the digestion of a good supper, and brought on a bilious diarrhæa, which has brought me back again to my first principle on which I set out——and with which I shall now scamper it away to the banks of the Garonne—
——No;——I cannot stop a moment to give you the character of the people—their genius—their manners—their cus-toms—their laws—their religion—their government—their manufactures—their commerce—their finances, with all the resources and hidden springs which sustain them: qualified as I may be, by spending three days and two nights amongst them, and during all that time, making these things the entire subject of my enquiries and reflections——
Still—still I must away——the roads are paved—the posts are short—the days are long—’tis no more than noon—I shall be at Fontainbleau before the king——
—Was he going there? not that I know——
CHAP. XX.
NOW I hate to hear a person, especially if he be a traveller, complain that we do not get on so fast in France as we do in England; whereas we get on much faster, consideratis, considerandis;1 thereby always meaning, that if you weigh their vehicles with the mountains of baggage which you lay both before and behind upon them—and then consider their puny horses, with the very little they give them— ’tis a wonder they get on at all: their suffering is most unchristian, and ’tis evident thereupon to me, that a French post-horse would not know what in the world to do, was it not for the two words * * * * * * and * * * * * * in which there is as much sustenance, as if you gave him a peck of corn: now as these words cost nothing, I long from my soul to tell the reader what they are; but here is the question—they must be told him plainly, and with the most distinct articulation, or it will answer no end—and yet to do it in that plain way—though their reverences may laugh at it in the bed-chamber—full well I wot, they will abuse it in the parlour:2 for which cause, I have been volving3 and revolving in my fancy some time, but to no purpose, by what clean device or facete contrivance I might so modulate them, that whilst I satisfy that ear which the reader chuses to lend me—I might not dissatisfy the other which he keeps to himself.
——Myink burns my fingertotry——and when I have—— ’twill have a worse consequence——it will burn (I fear) my paper.
——No;——I dare not——
But if you wish to know how the abbess of Andoüillets,4 and a novice of her convent got over the difficulty (only first wishing myself all imaginable success)—I’ll tell you without the least scruple.
CHAP. XXI.
THE abbess of Andoüillets, which if you look into the large set of provincial maps now publishing at Paris, you will find situated amongst the hills which divide Burgundy from Savoy, being in danger of an Anchylosis or stiff joint (the sinovia1 of her knee becoming hard by long matins) and having tried every remedy——first, prayers and thanksgiving; then invocations to all the saints in heaven promiscuously——then particularly to every saint who had ever had a stiff leg before her——then touching it with all the reliques of the convent, principally with the thigh-bone of the man of Lystra,2 who had been impotent from his youth——then wrapping it up in her veil when she went to bed——then cross-wise her rosary—— then bringing in to her aid the secular arm, and anointing it with oils and hot fat of animals——then treating it with emollient and resolving fomentations——then with poultices of marsh-mallows, mallows, bonus Henricus, white lillies and fenugreek ——then taking the woods, I mean the smoak of ’em, holding her scapulary across her lap3——then decoctions of wild chicory, water cresses, chervil, sweet cecily and cochlearia——and nothing all this while answering, was prevailed on at last to try the hot baths of Bourbon——so having first obtain’d leave of the visitor-general to take care of her existence—she ordered all to be got ready for her journey: a novice of the convent of about seventeen, who had been troubled with a whitloe4 in her middle finger, by sticking it constantly into the abbess’s cast poultices, &c.—had gained such an interest, that overlooking a sciatical old nun, who might have been set up for ever by the hot baths of Bourbon, Margarita, the little novice, was elected as the companion of the journey.
An old calesh,5 belonging to the abbesse, lined with green frize,6 was ordered to be drawn out into the sun—the gardener of the convent being chosen muleteer, led out the two old mules to clip the hair from the rump-ends of their tails, whilst a cou
ple of lay-sisters were busied, the one in darning the lining, and the other in sewing on the shreds of yellow binding, which the teeth of time had unravelled——the under-gardener dress’d the muleteer’s hat in hot-wine-lees7 ——and a taylor sat musically at it, in a shed overagainst the convent, in assorting four dozen of bells for the harness, whistling to each bell as he tied it on with a thong——
——The carpenter and the smith of Andoüillets held acouncil of wheels; and by seven, the morning after, all look’d spruce, and was ready at the gate of the convent for the hot-baths of Bourbon—two rows of the unfortunate stood ready there an hour before.
The abbess of Andoüillets, supported by Margarita the novice, advanced slowly to the calesh, both clad in white, with their black rosaries hanging at their breasts——
——There was a simple solemnity in the contrast: they entered the calesh; the nuns in the same uniform, sweet emblem of innocence, each occupied a window, and as the abbess and Margarita look’d up—each (the sciatical poor nun excepted)— each stream’d out the end of her veil in the air—then kiss’d the lilly hand which let it go: the good abbess and Margarita laid their hands saint-wise upon their breasts—look’d up to heaven—then to them—and look’d “God bless you, dear sisters.”
I declare I am interested in this story, and wish I had been there.
The gardener, who I shall now call the muleteer, was a little, hearty, broad-set, good natured, chattering, toping kind of a fellow, who troubled his head very little with the hows and whens of life; so had mortgaged a month of his conventical wages in a borrachio, or leathern cask of wine, which he had disposed behind the calesh, with a large russet coloured riding coat over it, to guard it from the sun; and as the weather was hot, and he, not a niggard of his labours, walking ten times more than he rode—he found more occasions than those of nature, to fall back to the rear of his carriage; till by frequent coming and going, it had so happen’d, that all his wine had leak’d out at the legal vent of the borrachio, before one half of the journey was finish’d.