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 liards 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, 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 Curé offers you a pinch of snuff — or a poor soldier shews you his leg — or a shaveling his box — or the priestess 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 Chantilly —
— But the postilion 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 everything 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 passed through St. Dennis, without turning my head so much as on one 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 Jaidas’s lantern — nor for that either, only as it grows dark, it might be of use.
CHAPTER XVII
Crack, crack — crack, crack — crack, crack — so this is Paris! 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 concerned the good people to be informed, 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 calamanco — 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! — 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 wheelbarrow? 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 barbers! 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 belly — their cooks must be gentlemen: and forasmuch as the periwig maketh the man, 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 Capitouls at least — pardi! 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.
[Footnote 7.2: Chief Magistrate in Toulouse, &c. &c. &c.]
CHAPTER 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 everything,” 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 five hundred grand Hôtels, 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 Hôtel), which by candle-light are best to be seen, felt, heard, and understood (which, by the bye, is a quotation from Lilly) — 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 survey taken in the year one thousand seven hundred and sixteen, since which time there have been considerable argumentations, 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. Andre
ws 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 Sulpice - - - 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 of it yourself upon the portico of the Louvre, 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 everything that is Great; and that is all can be said upon it.
[Footnote 7.3: Non orbis gentem, non urbem gens habet ullam — ulla parem.]
CHAPTER 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 anything 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 undercraft 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 to each 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 any one’s service — it has spoiled me the digestion of a good supper, and brought on a bilious diarrhœa, 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 customs — 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 —
CHAPTER 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; 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 — fell well I wot, they will abuse it in the parlour: for which cause, I have been volving and revolving in my fancy some time, but to no purpose, by what clean device or facette 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.
— My ink burns my finger to try — 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 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.
CHAPTER 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 sinovia 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, 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 lap — 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 whitloe 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, belonging to the abbesse, lined with green frize, 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 couple of lay-sisters were busied, the one in darning the lining, and the other in sewing on the shreads of yellow binding, which the teeth of time had unravelled — the under-gardener dress’d the muleteer’s hat in hot wine-lees — and a taylor sat musically at it, in a shed over-against 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 a council 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; and 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, whom 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.
Man is a creature born to habitudes. The day had been sultry — the evening was delicious — the wine was generous — the Burgundian hill on which it grew was steep — a little tempting bush over the door of a cool cottage at the foot of it, hung vibrating in full harmony with the passions — a gentle air rustled distinctly through the leaves— “Come — come, thirsty muleteer — come in.”
— The muleteer was a son of Adam; I need not say a word more. He gave the mules, each of ‘em, a sound lash, and looking in the abbess’s and Margarita’s faces (as he did it) — as much as to say “here I am” — he gave a second good crack — as much as to say to his mules, “get on” — so slinking behind, he enter’d the little inn at the foot of the hill.
The muleteer, as I told you, was a little, joyous, chirping fellow, who thought not of to-morrow, nor of what had gone before, or what was to follow it, provided he got but his scantling of Burgundy, and a little chit-chat along with it; so entering into a long conversation, as how he was chief gardener to the convent of Andoüillets, &c. &c., and out of friendship for the abbess and Mademoiselle Margarita, who was only in her noviciate, he had come along with them from the confines of Savoy, &c. &c. — and as how she had got a white swelling by her devotions — and what a nation of herbs he had procured to mollify her humours, &c. &c., and that if the waters of Bourbon did not mend that leg — she might as well be lame of both — &c. &c. &c. — He so contrived his story, as absolutely to forget the heroine of it — and with her the little novice, and what was a more ticklish point to be forgot than both — the two mules; who being creatures that take advantage of the world, inasmuch as their parents took it of them — and they not being in a condition to return the obligation downwards (as men and women and beasts are) — they do it side-ways, and long-ways, and back-ways — and up hill, and down hill, and which way they can. — Philosophers, with all their ethicks, have never considered this rightly — how should the poor muleteer, then in his cups, consider it at all? he did not in the least— ’tis time we do; let us leave him then in the vortex of his element, the happiest and most thoughtless of mortal men — and for a moment let us look after the mules, the abbess, and Margarita.
Complete Works of Laurence Sterne Page 50