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A Sentimental Journey Through France and Italy

Laurence Sterne



  Transcribed from the 1892 George Bell and Son edition by David Price,email [email protected]

  A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY THROUGH FRANCE AND ITALY;

  BY MR. YORICK.

  [THE REV. LAURENCE STERNE, M.A.]

  [FIRST PUBLISHED IN 1768.]

  THEY order, said I, this matter better in France.—You have been inFrance? said my gentleman, turning quick upon me, with the most civiltriumph in the world.—Strange! quoth I, debating the matter with myself,That one and twenty miles sailing, for ’tis absolutely no further fromDover to Calais, should give a man these rights:—I’ll look into them: so,giving up the argument,—I went straight to my lodgings, put up half adozen shirts and a black pair of silk breeches,—“the coat I have on,”said I, looking at the sleeve, “will do;”—took a place in the Doverstage; and the packet sailing at nine the next morning,—by three I hadgot sat down to my dinner upon a fricaseed chicken, so incontestably inFrance, that had I died that night of an indigestion, the whole worldcould not have suspended the effects of the _droits d’aubaine_; {557}—myshirts, and black pair of silk breeches,—portmanteau and all, must havegone to the King of France;—even the little picture which I have so longworn, and so often have told thee, Eliza, I would carry with me into mygrave, would have been torn from my neck!—Ungenerous! to seize upon thewreck of an unwary passenger, whom your subjects had beckoned to theircoast!—By heaven! Sire, it is not well done; and much does it grieve me,’tis the monarch of a people so civilized and courteous, and so renownedfor sentiment and fine feelings, that I have to reason with!—

  But I have scarce set a foot in your dominions.—

  CALAIS.

  When I had fished my dinner, and drank the King of France’s health, tosatisfy my mind that I bore him no spleen, but, on the contrary, highhonour for the humanity of his temper,—I rose up an inch taller for theaccommodation.

  —No—said I—the Bourbon is by no means a cruel race: they may be misled,like other people; but there is a mildness in their blood. As Iacknowledged this, I felt a suffusion of a finer kind upon my cheek—morewarm and friendly to man, than what Burgundy (at least of two livres abottle, which was such as I had been drinking) could have produced.

  —Just God! said I, kicking my portmanteau aside, what is there in thisworld’s goods which should sharpen our spirits, and make so manykind-hearted brethren of us fall out so cruelly as we do by the way?

  When man is at peace with man, how much lighter than a feather is theheaviest of metals in his hand! he pulls out his purse, and holding itairily and uncompressed, looks round him, as if he sought for an objectto share it with.—In doing this, I felt every vessel in my framedilate,—the arteries beat all cheerily together, and every power whichsustained life, performed it with so little friction, that ’twould haveconfounded the most _physical précieuse_ in France; with all hermaterialism, she could scarce have called me a machine.—

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

  The accession of that idea carried nature, at that time, as high as shecould go;—I was at peace with the world before, and this finish’d thetreaty with myself.—

  —Now, was I King of France, cried I—what a moment for an orphan to havebegg’d his father’s portmanteau of me!

  THE MONK.CALAIS.

  I HAD scarce uttered the words, when a poor monk of the order of St.Francis came into the room to beg something for his convent. No mancares to have his virtues the sport of contingencies—or one man may begenerous, as another is puissant;—_sed non quoad hanc_—or be it as itmay,—for there is no regular reasoning upon the ebbs and flows of ourhumours; they may depend upon the same causes, for aught I know, whichinfluence the tides themselves: ’twould oft be no discredit to us, tosuppose it was so: I’m sure at least for myself, that in many a case Ishould be more highly satisfied, to have it said by the world, “I had hadan affair with the moon, in which there was neither sin nor shame,” thanhave it pass altogether as my own act and deed, wherein there was so muchof both.

  —But, be this as it may,—the moment I cast my eyes upon him, I waspredetermined not to give him a single sous; and, accordingly, I put mypurse into my pocket—buttoned it—set myself a little more upon my centre,and advanced up gravely to him; there was something, I fear, forbiddingin my look: I have his figure this moment before my eyes, and think therewas that in it which deserved better.

  The monk, as I judged by the break in his tonsure, a few scattered whitehairs upon his temples, being all that remained of it, might be aboutseventy;—but from his eyes, and that sort of fire which was in them,which seemed more temper’d by courtesy than years, could be no more thansixty:—Truth might lie between—He was certainly sixty-five; and thegeneral air of his countenance, notwithstanding something seem’d to havebeen planting-wrinkles in it before their time, agreed to the account.

  It was one of those heads which Guido has often painted,—mild,pale—penetrating, free from all commonplace ideas of fat contentedignorance looking downwards upon the earth;—it look’d forwards; butlook’d as if it look’d at something beyond this world.—How one of hisorder came by it, heaven above, who let it fall upon a monk’s shouldersbest knows: but it would have suited a Bramin, and had I met it upon theplains of Indostan, I had reverenced it.

  The rest of his outline may be given in a few strokes; one might put itinto the hands of any one to design, for ’twas neither elegant norotherwise, but as character and expression made it so: it was a thin,spare form, something above the common size, if it lost not thedistinction by a bend forward in the figure,—but it was the attitude ofIntreaty; and, as it now stands presented to my imagination, it gainedmore than it lost by it.

  When he had entered the room three paces, he stood still; and laying hisleft hand upon his breast (a slender white staff with which he journey’dbeing in his right)—when I had got close up to him, he introduced himselfwith the little story of the wants of his convent, and the poverty of hisorder;—and did it with so simple a grace,—and such an air of deprecationwas there in the whole cast of his look and figure,—I was bewitch’d notto have been struck with it.

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

  THE MONK.CALAIS.

  —’TIS very true, said I, replying to a cast upwards with his eyes, withwhich he had concluded his address;—’tis very true,—and heaven be theirresource who have no other but the charity of the world, the stock ofwhich, I fear, is no way sufficient for the many _great claims_ which arehourly made upon it.

  As I pronounced the words _great claims_, he gave a slight glance withhis eye downwards upon the sleeve of his tunic:—I felt the full force ofthe appeal—I acknowledge it, said I:—a coarse habit, and that but once inthree years with meagre diet,—are no great matters; and the true point ofpity is, as they can be earn’d in the world with so little industry, thatyour order should wish to procure them by pressing upon a fund which isthe property of the lame, the blind, the aged and the infirm;—the captivewho lies down counting over and over again the days of his afflictions,languishes also for his share of it; and had you been of the _order ofmercy_, instead of the order of St. Francis, poor as I am, continued I,pointing at my portmanteau, full cheerfully should it have been open’d toyou, for the ransom of the unfortunate.—The monk made me a bow.—But ofall others, resumed I, the unfortunate of our own country, surely, havethe first rights; and I have left thousands in distress upon our ownshore.—Th
e monk gave a cordial wave with his head,—as much as to say, Nodoubt there is misery enough in every corner of the world, as well aswithin our convent—But we distinguish, said I, laying my hand upon thesleeve of his tunic, in return for his appeal—we distinguish, my goodfather! betwixt those who wish only to eat the bread of their ownlabour—and those who eat the bread of other people’s, and have no otherplan in life, but to get through it in sloth and ignorance, _for the loveof God_.

  The poor Franciscan made no reply: a hectic of a moment pass’d across hischeek, but could not tarry—Nature seemed to have done with herresentments in him;—he showed none:—but letting his staff fall within hisarms, he pressed both his hands with resignation upon his breast, andretired.

  THE MONK.CALAIS.

  MY heart smote me the moment he shut the door—Psha! said I, with an airof carelessness, three several times—but it would not do: everyungracious syllable I had utter’d crowded back into my imagination: Ireflected, I had no right over the poor Franciscan, but to deny him; andthat the punishment of that was enough to the disappointed, without theaddition of unkind language.—I consider’d his gray hairs—his courteousfigure seem’d to re-enter and gently ask me what injury he had doneme?—and why I could use him thus?—I would have given twenty livres for anadvocate.—I have behaved very ill, said I within myself; but I have onlyjust set out upon my travels; and shall learn better manners as I getalong.

  THE DESOBLIGEANT.CALAIS.

  WHEN a man is discontented with himself, it has one advantage however,that it puts him into an excellent frame of mind for making a bargain.Now there being no travelling through France and Italy without achaise,—and nature generally prompting us to the thing we are fittestfor, I walk’d out into the coach-yard to buy or hire something of thatkind to my purpose: an old _désobligeant_ {562} in the furthest corner ofthe court, hit my fancy at first sight, so I instantly got into it, andfinding it in tolerable harmony with my feelings, I ordered the waiter tocall Monsieur Dessein, the master of the hotel:—but Monsieur Desseinbeing gone to vespers, and not caring to face the Franciscan, whom I sawon the opposite side of the court, in conference with a lady just arrivedat the inn,—I drew the taffeta curtain betwixt us, and being determinedto write my journey, I took out my pen and ink and wrote the preface toit in the _désobligeant_.

  PREFACE.IN THE DESOBLIGEANT.

  IT must have been observed by many a peripatetic philosopher, That naturehas set up by her own unquestionable authority certain boundaries andfences to circumscribe the discontent of man; she has effected herpurpose in the quietest and easiest manner by laying him under almostinsuperable obligations to work out his ease, and to sustain hissufferings at home. It is there only that she has provided him with themost suitable objects to partake of his happiness, and bear a part ofthat burden which in all countries and ages has ever been too heavy forone pair of shoulders. ’Tis true, we are endued with an imperfect powerof spreading our happiness sometimes beyond _her_ limits, but ’tis soordered, that, from the want of languages, connections, and dependencies,and from the difference in education, customs, and habits, we lie underso many impediments in communicating our sensations out of our ownsphere, as often amount to a total impossibility.

  It will always follow from hence, that the balance of sentimentalcommerce is always against the expatriated adventurer: he must buy whathe has little occasion for, at their own price;—his conversation willseldom be taken in exchange for theirs without a large discount,—andthis, by the by, eternally driving him into the hands of more equitablebrokers, for such conversation as he can find, it requires no greatspirit of divination to guess at his party—

  This brings me to my point; and naturally leads me (if the see-saw ofthis _désobligeant_ will but let me get on) into the efficient as well asfinal causes of travelling—

  Your idle people that leave their native country, and go abroad for somereason or reasons which may be derived from one of these general causes:—

  Infirmity of body, Imbecility of mind, or Inevitable necessity.

  The first two include all those who travel by land or by water, labouringwith pride, curiosity, vanity, or spleen, subdivided and combined _adinfinitum_.

  The third class includes the whole army of peregrine martyrs; moreespecially those travellers who set out upon their travels with thebenefit of the clergy, either as delinquents travelling under thedirection of governors recommended by the magistrate;—or young gentlementransported by the cruelty of parents and guardians, and travelling underthe direction of governors recommended by Oxford, Aberdeen, and Glasgow.

  There is a fourth class, but their number is so small that they would notdeserve a distinction, were it not necessary in a work of this nature toobserve the greatest precision and nicety, to avoid a confusion ofcharacter. And these men I speak of, are such as cross the seas andsojourn in a land of strangers, with a view of saving money for variousreasons and upon various pretences: but as they might also savethemselves and others a great deal of unnecessary trouble by saving theirmoney at home,—and as their reasons for travelling are the least complexof any other species of emigrants, I shall distinguish these gentlemen bythe name of

  Simple Travellers.

  Thus the whole circle of travellers may be reduced to the following_heads_:—

  Idle Travellers,

  Inquisitive Travellers,

  Lying Travellers,

  Proud Travellers,

  Vain Travellers,

  Splenetic Travellers.

  Then follow:

  The Travellers of Necessity,

  The Delinquent and Felonious Traveller,

  The Unfortunate and Innocent Traveller,

  The Simple Traveller,

  And last of all (if you please) The Sentimental Traveller, (meaningthereby myself) who have travell’d, and of which I am now sitting down togive an account,—as much out of _Necessity_, and the _besoin de Voyager_,as any one in the class.

  I am well aware, at the same time, as both my travels and observationswill be altogether of a different cast from any of my forerunners, that Imight have insisted upon a whole nitch entirely to myself;—but I shouldbreak in upon the confines of the _Vain_ Traveller, in wishing to drawattention towards me, till I have some better grounds for it than themere _Novelty of my Vehicle_.

  It is sufficient for my reader, if he has been a traveller himself, thatwith study and reflection hereupon he may be able to determine his ownplace and rank in the catalogue;—it will be one step towards knowinghimself; as it is great odds but he retains some tincture andresemblance, of what he imbibed or carried out, to the present hour.

  The man who first transplanted the grape of Burgundy to the Cape of GoodHope (observe he was a Dutchman) never dreamt of drinking the same wineat the Cape, that the same grape produced upon the French mountains,—hewas too phlegmatic for that—but undoubtedly he expected to drink somesort of vinous liquor; but whether good or bad, or indifferent,—he knewenough of this world to know, that it did not depend upon his choice, butthat what is generally called _choice_, was to decide his success:however, he hoped for the best; and in these hopes, by an intemperateconfidence in the fortitude of his head, and the depth of his discretion,_Mynheer_ might possibly oversee both in his new vineyard; and bydiscovering his nakedness, become a laughing stock to his people.

  Even so it fares with the Poor Traveller, sailing and posting through thepoliter kingdoms of the globe, in pursuit of knowledge and improvements.

  Knowledge and improvements are to be got by sailing and posting for thatpurpose; but whether useful knowledge and real improvements is all alottery;—and even where the adventurer is successful, the acquired stockmust be used with caution and sobriety, to turn to any profit:—but, asthe chances run prodigiously the other way, both as to the acquisitionand application, I am of opinion, That a man would act as wisely, if hecould prevail upon himself to live contented without foreign knowledge orforeign improvem
ents, especially if he lives in a country that has noabsolute want of either;—and indeed, much grief of heart has it oft andmany a time cost me, when I have observed how many a foul step theInquisitive Traveller has measured to see sights and look intodiscoveries; all which, as Sancho Panza said to Don Quixote, they mighthave seen dry-shod at home. It is an age so full of light, that there isscarce a country or corner in Europe whose beams are not crossed andinterchanged with others.—Knowledge in most of its branches, and in mostaffairs, is like music in an Italian street, whereof those may partakewho pay nothing.—But there is no nation under heaven—and God is my record(before whose tribunal I must one day come and give an account of thiswork)—that I do not speak it vauntingly,—but there is no nation underheaven abounding with more variety of learning,—where the sciences may bemore fitly woo’d, or more surely won, than here,—where art is encouraged,and will so soon rise high,—where Nature (take her altogether) has solittle to answer for,—and, to close all, where there is more wit andvariety of character to feed the mind with:—Where then, my dearcountrymen, are you going?—

  We are only looking at this chaise, said they.—Your most obedientservant, said I, skipping out of it, and pulling off my hat.—We werewondering, said one of them, who, I found was an _InquisitiveTraveller_,—what could occasion its motion.—’Twas the agitation, said I,coolly, of writing a preface.—I never heard, said the other, who was a_Simple Traveller_, of a preface wrote in a _désobligeant_.—It would havebeen better, said I, in a _vis-a-vis_.

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