A Sentimental Journey Through France and Italy

  We stood still at the corner of the Rue de Nevers whilst this pass’d.—Wethen stopped a moment whilst she disposed of her _Egarements du Cœur_,&c. more commodiously than carrying them in her hand—they were twovolumes: so I held the second for her whilst she put the first into herpocket; 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 drawntogether.

  We set off afresh, and as she took her third step, the girl put her handwithin my arm.—I was just bidding her,—but she did it of herself, withthat undeliberating simplicity, which show’d it was out of her head thatshe had never seen me before. For my own part, I felt the conviction ofconsanguinity so strongly, that I could not help turning half round tolook in her face, and see if I could trace out any thing in it of afamily likeness.—Tut! said I, are we not all relations?

  When we arrived at the turning up of the Rue de Gueneguault, I stopp’d tobid her adieu for good and all: the girl would thank me again for mycompany and kindness.—She bid me adieu twice.—I repeated it as often; andso cordial was the parting between us, that had it happened any whereelse, I’m not sure but I should have signed it with a kiss of charity, aswarm and holy as an apostle.

  But in Paris, as none kiss each other but the men,—I did, what amountedto 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 afterby the Lieutenant de Police.—The deuce take it! said I,—I know thereason. It is time the reader should know it, for in the order of thingsin which it happened, it was omitted: not that it was out of my head; butthat had I told it then it might have been forgotten now;—and now is thetime I want it.

  I had left London with so much precipitation, that it never enter’d mymind that we were at war with France; and had reached Dover, and lookedthrough my glass at the hills beyond Boulogne, before the idea presenteditself; and with this in its train, that there was no getting therewithout a passport. Go but to the end of a street, I have a mortalaversion for returning back no wiser than I set out; and as this was oneof the greatest efforts I had ever made for knowledge, I could less bearthe thoughts of it: so hearing the Count de—had hired the packet, Ibegg’d he would take me in his suite. The Count had some littleknowledge of me, so made little or no difficulty,—only said, hisinclination to serve me could reach no farther than Calais, as he was toreturn by way of Brussels to Paris; however, when I had once pass’dthere, I might get to Paris without interruption; but that in Paris Imust make friends and shift for myself.—Let me get to Paris, Monsieur leCount, said I,—and I shall do very well. So I embark’d, and neverthought more of the matter.

  When La Fleur told me the Lieutenant de Police had been enquiring afterme,—the thing instantly recurred;—and by the time La Fleur had well toldme, 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 askedafter: the master of the hotel concluded with saying, He hoped I hadone.—Not I, faith! said I.

  The master of the hotel retired three steps from me, as from an infectedperson, as I declared this;—and poor La Fleur advanced three stepstowards me, and with that sort of movement which a good soul makes tosuccour a distress’d one:—the fellow won my heart by it; and from thatsingle trait I knew his character as perfectly, and could rely upon it asfirmly, as if he had served me with fidelity for seven years.

  _Mon seigneur_! cried the master of the hotel; but recollecting himselfas he made the exclamation, he instantly changed the tone of it.—IfMonsieur, said he, has not a passport (_apparemment_) in all likelihoodhe 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’llbe sent to the Bastile or the Chatelet _au moins_.—Poo! said I, the Kingof France is a good natur’d soul:—he’ll hurt nobody.—_Cela n’empêchepas_, said he—you will certainly be sent to the Bastile to-morrowmorning.—But I’ve taken your lodgings for a month, answer’d I, and I’llnot quit them a day before the time for all the kings of France in theworld. La Fleur whispered in my ear, That nobody could oppose the kingof France.

  _Pardi_! said my host, _ces Messieurs Anglois sont des gens trèsextraordinaires_;—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 lookupon the subject of my embarrassment, which was the reason I had treatedit so cavalierly: and to show him how light it lay upon my mind, I droptthe subject entirely; and whilst he waited upon me at supper, talk’d tohim with more than usual gaiety about Paris, and of the Opéra Comique.—LaFleur had been there himself, and had followed me through the streets asfar 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 hisown reflections upon it, he took a shorter cut,—and got to the hotel intime 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 suphimself, I then began to think a little seriously about my situation.—

  —And here, I know, Eugenius, thou wilt smile at the remembrance of ashort dialogue which passed betwixt us the moment I was going to setout:—I must tell it here.

  Eugenius, knowing that I was as little subject to be overburden’d withmoney as thought, had drawn me aside to interrogate me how much I hadtaken 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 itinto mine.—I’ve enough in conscience, Eugenius, said I.—Indeed, Yorick,you have not, replied Eugenius; I know France and Italy better thanyou.—But you don’t consider, Eugenius, said I, refusing his offer, thatbefore I have been three days in Paris, I shall take care to say or dosomething or other for which I shall get clapp’d up into the Bastile, andthat I shall live there a couple of months entirely at the king ofFrance’s expense.—I beg pardon, said Eugenius drily: really I had forgotthat resource.

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

  Is it folly, or nonchalance, or philosophy, or pertinacity—or what is itin me, that, after all, when La Fleur had gone down stairs, and I wasquite alone, I could not bring down my mind to think of it otherwise thanI had then spoken of it to Eugenius?

  —And as for the Bastile; the terror is in the word.—Make the most of ityou can, said I to myself, the Bastile is but another word for atower;—and a tower is but another word for a house you can’t get outof.—Mercy on the gouty! for they are in it twice a year.—But with ninelivres a day, and pen and ink, and paper, and patience, albeit a mancan’t get out, he may do very well within,—at least for a mouth or sixweeks; at the end of which, if he is a harmless fellow, his innocenceappears, 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 Isettled this account; and remember I walk’d down stairs in no smalltriumph with the conceit of my reasoning.—Beshrew the sombre pencil! saidI, vauntingly—for I envy not its powers, which paints the evils of lifewith so hard and deadly a colouring. The mind sits terrified at theobjects she has magnified herself, and blackened: reduce them to theirproper size and hue, she overlooks them.—’Tis true, said I, correctingthe proposition,—the Bastile is not an evil to be despised;—but strip itof its towers—fill up the fosse,—unbarricade the doors—call it simply aconfinement, and suppose ’tis some tyrant of a distemper—and not of aman, which holds you in it,—the evil vanishes, and you bear the otherhalf without complaint.

  I was interrupted in the heyday of this soliloquy, with a voice which Itook to be of a child, which complained “it could not get out.”—I look’dup and down the passage, and seeing neither man, woman, nor child, I wentout without farther attention.

&nb
sp; In my return back through the passage, I heard the same words repeatedtwice over; and, looking up, I saw it was a starling hung in a littlecage.—“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 thepassage 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 thestarling.—God help thee! said I, but I’ll let thee out, cost what itwill; so I turned about the cage to get to the door: it was twisted anddouble twisted so fast with wire, there was no getting it open withoutpulling the cage to pieces.—I took both hands to it.

  The bird flew to the place where I was attempting his deliverance, andthrusting his head through the trellis pressed his breast against it asif impatient.—I fear, poor creature! said I, I cannot set thee atliberty.—“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 rememberan incident in my life, where the dissipated spirits, to which my reasonhad been a bubble, were so suddenly call’d home. Mechanical as the noteswere, yet so true in tune to nature were they chanted, that in one momentthey overthrew all my systematic reasonings upon the Bastile; and Iheavily walked upstairs, unsaying every word I had said in going downthem.

  Disguise thyself as thou wilt, still, Slavery! said I,—still thou art abitter draught! and though thousands in all ages have been made to drinkof thee, thou art no less bitter on that account.—’Tis thou, thrice sweetand gracious goddess, addressing myself to Liberty, whom all in public orin private worship, whose taste is grateful, and ever will be so, tillNature herself shall change.—No _tint_ of words can spot thy snowymantle, or chymic power turn thy sceptre into iron:—with thee to smileupon him as he eats his crust, the swain is happier than his monarch,from whose court thou art exiled!—Gracious Heaven! cried I, kneeling downupon the last step but one in my ascent, grant me but health, thou greatBestower of it, and give me but this fair goddess as my companion,—andshower down thy mitres, if it seems good unto thy divine providence, uponthose heads which are aching for them!

  THE CAPTIVE.PARIS.

  THE bird in his cage pursued me into my room; I sat down close to mytable, and leaning my head upon my hand, I began to figure to myself themiseries of confinement. I was in a right frame for it, and so I gavefull scope to my imagination.

  I was going to begin with the millions of my fellow-creatures born to noinheritance but slavery: but finding, however affecting the picture was,that I could not bring it near me, and that the multitude of sad groupsin it did but distract me.—

  —I took a single captive, and having first shut him up in his dungeon, Ithen 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 hopedeferr’d. Upon looking nearer I saw him pale and feverish: in thirtyyears the western breeze had not once fann’d his blood;—he had seen nosun, no moon, in all that time—nor had the voice of friend or kinsmanbreathed through his lattice.—His children—

  But here my heart began to bleed—and I was forced to go on with anotherpart of the portrait.

  He was sitting upon the ground upon a little straw, in the furthestcorner of his dungeon, which was alternately his chair and bed: a littlecalendar of small sticks were laid at the head, notch’d all over with thedismal days and nights he had passed there;—he had one of these littlesticks in his hand, and, with a rusty nail he was etching another day ofmisery to add to the heap. As I darkened the little light he had, helifted up a hopeless eye towards the door, then cast it down,—shook hishead, and went on with his work of affliction. I heard his chains uponhis legs, as he turned his body to lay his little stick upon thebundle.—He gave a deep sigh.—I saw the iron enter into his soul!—I burstinto tears.—I could not sustain the picture of confinement which my fancyhad drawn.—I started up from my chair, and calling La Fleur: I bid himbespeak me a remise, and have it ready at the door of the hotel by ninein 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 anythingupon my cheek which would cost the honest fellow a heart-ache,—I told himI 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 Ibid the coachman make the best of his way to Versailles.

  As there was nothing in this road, or rather nothing which I look for intravelling, I cannot fill up the blank better than with a short historyof 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 beencaught upon the cliffs, before it could well fly, by an English lad whowas his groom; who, not caring to destroy it, had taken it in his breastinto the packet;—and, by course of feeding it, and taking it once underhis protection, in a day or two grew fond of it, and got it safe alongwith 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 nomore)—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 masterof 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 LaFleur 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 whoselanguage he had learned his notes; and telling the story of him to LordA—, 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 soldhim to Lord D—’s for a shilling; Lord D— gave him to Lord E—; and soon—half round the alphabet. From that rank he pass’d into the lowerhouse, and pass’d the hands of as many commoners. But as all thesewanted to _get in_, and my bird wanted to _get out_, he had almost aslittle store set by him in London as in Paris.

  It is impossible but many of my readers must have heard of him; and ifany by mere chance have ever seen him, I beg leave to inform them, thatthat 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 toadd upon him, but that from that time to this I have borne this poorstarling 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 goingto ask protection of any man; for which reason I generally endeavour toprotect myself; but this going to Monsieur le Duc de C— was an act ofcompulsion; had it been an act of choice, I should have done it, Isuppose, like other people.

  How many mean plans of dirty address, as I went along, did my servileheart form! I deserved the Bastile for every one of them.

  Then nothing would serve me when I got within sight of Versailles, butputting words and sentences together, and conceiving attitudes and tonesto 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 anadventurous tailor, without taking his measure. Fool! continued I,—seeMonsieur le Duc’s face first;—observe what character is written init;—take notice in what posture he stands to hear you;—mark the turns andexpressions of his body and limbs;—and for the tone,—the first soundwhich comes from his lips will give it you; and from all these togetheryou’ll compound an address at once upon the spot, which cannot disgustthe 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—whynot face to face in the cabinet too? And trust me, Yorick, whenever itis not so, man is false to himself and betrays his own succours ten timeswhere nature does it once. Go to the Duc de C— with the Bastile in thylooks;—my life for it, thou wilt be sent back to Paris in half an hourwith an escort.

  I believe so, said I.—Then I’ll go to the Duke, by heaven! with all thegaiety and debonairness in the world.—

  —And there you are wrong again, replied I.—A heart at ease, Yorick, fliesinto no extremes—’tis ever on its centre.—Well! well! cried I, as thecoachman turn’d in at the gates, I find I shall do very well: and by thetime he had wheel’d round the court, and brought me up to the door, Ifound myself so much the better for my own lecture, that I neitherascended the steps like a victim to justice, who was to part with lifeupon the top most,—nor did I mount them with a skip and a couple ofstrides, 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 possiblymight be the _maître d’hôtel_, but had more the air of one of the undersecretaries, who told me the Duc de C— was busy.—I am utterly ignorant,said I, of the forms of obtaining an audience, being an absolutestranger, and what is worse in the present conjuncture of affairs, beingan Englishman too.—He replied, that did not increase the difficulty.—Imade him a slight bow, and told him, I had something of importance to sayto Monsieur le Duc. The secretary look’d towards the stairs, as if hewas about to leave me to carry up this account to some one.—But I mustnot mislead you, said I,—for what I have to say is of no manner ofimportance to Monsieur le Duc de C— —but of great importance tomyself.—_C’est une autre affaire_, replied he.—Not at all, said I, to aman of gallantry.—But pray, good sir, continued I, when can a strangerhope to have access?—In not less than two hours, said he, looking at hiswatch. The number of equipages in the court-yard seemed to justify thecalculation, that I could have no nearer a prospect;—and as walkingbackwards and forwards in the saloon, without a soul to commune with, wasfor the time as bad as being in the Bastile itself, I instantly went backto my remise, and bid the coachman drive me to the _Cordon Bleu_, whichwas the nearest hotel.