The town-house seems to be but a sorry building, and not to be kept in the best repair; otherwise it had been a second great ornament to this place; it answers however its destination, and serves very well for the reception of the magistrates, who assemble in it from time to time; so that ’tis presumable, justice is regularly distributed.
I have heard much of it, but there is nothing at all curious in the Courgain; ’tis a distinct quarter of the town, inhabited solely by sailors and fishermen; it consists of a number of small streets, neatly built and mostly of brick; ’tis extremely populous, but as that may be accounted for, from the principles of their diet, — there is nothing curious in that neither. — A traveller may see it to satisfy himself — he must not omit however taking notice of La Tour de Guet, upon any account; ’tis so called from its particular destination, because in war it serves to discover and give notice of the enemies which approach the place, either by sea or land; — but ’tis monstrous high, and catches the eye so continually, you cannot avoid taking notice of it if you would.
It was a singular disappointment to me, that I could not have permission to take an exact survey of the fortifications, which are the strongest in the world, and which, from first to last, that is, from the time they were set about by Philip of France, Count of Boulogne, to the present war, wherein many reparations were made, have cost (as I learned afterwards from an engineer in Gascony) — above a hundred millions of livres. It is very remarkable, that at the Tête de Gravelenes, and where the town is naturally the weakest, they have expended the most money; so that the out-works stretch a great way into the campaign, and consequently occupy a large tract of ground — However, after all that is said and done, it must be acknowledged that Calais was never upon any account so considerable from itself, as from its situation, and that easy entrance which it gave our ancestors, upon all occasions, into France: it was not without its inconveniences also; being no less troublesome to the English in those times, than Dunkirk has been to us, in ours; so that it was deservedly looked upon as the key to both kingdoms, which no doubt is the reason that there have arisen so many contentions who should keep it: of these, the siege of Calais, or rather the blockade (for it was shut up both by land and sea), was the most memorable, as it withstood the efforts of Edward the Third a whole year, and was not terminated at last but by famine and extreme misery; the gallantry of Eustace de St. Pierre, who first offered himself a victim for his fellow-citizens, has rank’d his name with heroes. As it will not take up above fifty pages, it would be injustice to the reader, not to give him a minute account of that romantic transaction, as well as of the siege itself, in Rapin’s own words:
CHAPTER VI
— But courage! gentle reader! — I scorn it— ’tis enough to have thee in my power — but to make use of the advantage which the fortune of the pen has now gained over thee, would be too much — No — ! by that all-powerful fire which warms the visionary brain, and lights the spirits through unwordly tracts! ere I would force a helpless creature upon this hard service, and make thee pay, poor soul! for fifty pages, which I have no right to sell thee, — naked as I am, I would browse upon the mountains, and smile that the north wind brought me neither my tent or my supper.
— So put on, my brave boy! and make the best of thy way to Boulogne.
CHAPTER VII
— Boulogne! — hah! — so we are all got together — debtors and sinners before heaven; a jolly set of us — but I can’t stay and quaff it off with you — I’m pursued myself like a hundred devils, and shall be overtaken, before I can well change horses: — for heaven’s sake, make haste— ’Tis for high-treason, quoth a very little man, whispering as low as he could to a very tall man, that stood next him — Or else for murder; quoth the tall man — Well thrown, Size-ace! quoth I. No; quoth a third, the gentleman has been committing — .
Ah! ma chere fille! said I, as she tripp’d by from her matins — you look as rosy as the morning (for the sun was rising, and it made the compliment the more gracious) — No; it can’t be that, quoth a fourth — (she made a curt’sy to me — I kiss’d my hand) ’tis debt, continued he: ’Tis certainly for debt; quoth a fifth; I would not pay that gentleman’s debts, quoth Ace, for a thousand pounds; nor would I, quoth Size, for six times the sum — Well thrown, Size-ace, again! quoth I; — but I have no debt but the debt of NATURE, and I want but patience of her, and I will pay her every farthing I owe her — How can you be so hard-hearted, MADAM, to arrest a poor traveller going along without molestation to any one upon his lawful occasions? do stop that death-looking, long-striding scoundrel of a scare-sinner, who is posting after me — he never would have followed me but for you — if it be but for a stage or two, just to give me start of him, I beseech you, madam — do, dear lady —
— Now, in troth, ’tis a great pity, quoth mine Irish host, that all this good courtship should be lost; for the young gentlewoman has been after going out of hearing of it all along. —
— Simpleton! quoth I.
— So you have nothing else in Boulogne worth seeing?
— By Jasus! there is the finest SEMINARY for the HUMANITIES —
— There cannot be a finer; quoth I.
CHAPTER VIII
When the precipitancy of a man’s wishes hurries on his ideas ninety times faster than the vehicle he rides in — woe be to truth! and woe be to the vehicle and its tackling (let ‘em be made of what stuff you will) upon which he breathes forth the disappointment of his soul!
As I never give general characters either of men or things in choler, “the most haste the worst speed,” was all the reflection I made upon the affair, the first time it happen’d; — the second, third, fourth, and fifth time, I confined it respectively to those times, and accordingly blamed only the second, third, fourth, and fifth post-boy for it, without carrying my reflections further; but the event continuing to befal me from the fifth, to the sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth time, and without one exception, I then could not avoid making a national reflection of it, which I do in these words;
That something is always wrong in a French post-chaise, upon first setting out.
Or the proposition may stand thus:
A French postilion has always to alight before he has got three hundred yards out of town.
What’s wrong now? — Diable! — a rope’s broke! — a knot has slipt! — a staple’s drawn! — a bolt’s to whittle! — a tag, a rag, a jag, a strap, a buckle, or a buckle’s tongue, want altering.
Now true as all this is, I never think myself impowered to excommunicate thereupon either the post-chaise, or its driver — nor do I take it into my head to swear by the living G — , I would rather go a-foot ten thousand times — or that I will be damn’d, if ever I get into another — but I take the matter coolly before me, and consider, that some tag, or rag, or jag, or bolt, or buckle, or buckle’s tongue, will ever be a wanting, or want altering, travel where I will — so I never chaff, but take the good and the bad as they fall in my road, and get on: — Do so, my lad! said I; he had lost five minutes already, in alighting in order to get at a luncheon of black bread, which he had cramm’d into the chaise-pocket, and was remounted, and going leisurely on, to relish it the better — Get on, my lad, said I, briskly — but in the most persuasive tone imaginable, for I jingled a four-and-twenty sous piece against the glass, taking care to hold the flat side towards him, as he look’d back: the dog grinn’d intelligence from his right ear to his left, and behind his sooty muzzle discovered such a pearly row of teeth, that Sovereignty would have pawn’d her jewels for them. —
Just heaven! {What masticators! —
{What bread! —
and so as he finished the last mouthful of it, we entered the town of Montreuil.
CHAPTER IX
There is not a town in all France, which, in my opinion, looks better in the map, than MONTREUIL; — I own, it does not look so well in the book of post-roads; but when you come to see it — to be sure it looks most pitifully.
There is one thing, however, in it at present very handsome; and that is, the inn-keeper’s daughter: She has been eighteen months at Amiens, and six at Paris, in going through her classes; so knits, and sews, and dances, and does the little coquetries very well. —
— A slut! in running them over within these five minutes that I have stood looking at her, she has let fall at least a dozen loops in a white thread stocking — yes, yes — I see, you cunning gipsy!— ’tis long and taper — you need not pin it to your knee — and that ’tis your own — and fits you exactly. —
— That Nature should have told this creature a word about a statue’s thumb!
— But as this sample is worth all their thumbs — besides, I have her thumbs and fingers in at the bargain, if they can be any guide to me, — and as Janatone withal (for that is her name) stands so well for a drawing — may I never draw more, or rather may I draw like a draught-horse, by main strength all the days of my life, — if I do not draw her in all her proportions, and with as determined a pencil, as if I had her in the wettest drapery. —
— But your worships chuse rather that I give you the length, breadth, and perpendicular height of the great parish-church, or drawing of the façade of the abbey of Saint Austerberte which has been transported from Artois hither — everything is just I suppose as the masons and carpenters left them, — and if the belief in Christ continues so long, will be so these fifty years to come — so your worships and reverences may all measure them at your leisures — but he who measures thee, Janatone, must do it now — thou carriest the principles of change within thy frame; and considering the chances of a transitory life, I would not answer for thee a moment; ere twice twelve months are passed and gone, thou mayest grow out like a pumpkin, and lose thy shapes — or thou mayest go off like a flower, and lose thy beauty — nay, thou mayest go off like a hussy — and lose thyself. — I would not answer for my aunt Dinah, was she alive— ‘faith, scarce for her picture — were it but painted by Reynolds —
But if I go on with my drawing, after naming that son of Apollo, I’ll be shot —
So you must e’en be content with the original; which, if the evening is fine in passing thro’ Montreuil, you will see at your chaise-door, as you change horses: but unless you have as bad a reason for haste as I have — you had better stop: — She has a little of the devote: but that, sir, is a terce to a nine in your favour —
— L — help me! I could not count a single point: so had been piqued and repiqued, and capotted to the devil.
CHAPTER X
All which being considered, and that Death moreover might be much nearer me than I imagined — I wish I was at Abbeville, quoth I, were it only to see how they card and spin — so off we set.
de Montreuil à Nampont - poste et demi de Nampont à Bernay - - - poste de Bernay à Nouvion - - - poste de Nouvion à ABBEVILLE - - poste
— but the carders and spinners were all gone to bed.
[Footnote 7.1: Vid. Book of French post roads, page 36, edition of 1762.]
CHAPTER XI
What a vast advantage is travelling! only it heats one; but there is a remedy for that, which you may pick out of the next chapter.
CHAPTER XII
Was I in a condition to stipulate with Death, as I am this moment with my apothecary, how and where I will take his clyster — I should certainly declare against submitting to it before my friends; and therefore I never seriously think upon the mode and manner of this great catastrophe, which generally takes up and torments my thoughts as much as the catastrophe itself; but I constantly draw the curtain across it with this wish, that the Disposer of all things may so order it, that it happen not to me in my own house — but rather in some decent inn — at home, I know it, — the concern of my friends, and the last services of wiping my brows, and smoothing my pillow, which the quivering hand of pale affection shall pay me, will so crucify my soul; that I shall die of a distemper which my physician is not aware of: but in an inn, the few cold offices I wanted, would be purchased with a few guineas, and paid me with an undisturbed, but punctual attention — but mark. This inn should not be the inn at Abbeville — if there was not another inn in the universe, I would strike that inn out of the capitulation: so
Let the horses be in the chaise exactly by four in the morning — Yes, by four, Sir, — or by Genevieve! I’ll raise a clatter in the house shall wake the dead.
CHAPTER XIII
“Make them like unto a wheel,” is a bitter sarcasm, as all the learned know, against the grand tour, and that restless spirit for making it, which David prophetically foresaw would haunt the children of men in the latter days; and therefore, as thinketh the great bishop Hall, ’tis one of the severest imprecations which David ever utter’d against the enemies of the Lord — and, as if he had said, “I wish them no worse luck than always to be rolling about” — So much motion, continues he (for he was very corpulent) — is so much unquietness; and so much of rest, by the same analogy, is so much of heaven.
Now, I (being very thin) think differently; and that so much of motion, is so much of life, and so much of joy — and that to stand still, or get on but slowly, is death and the devil —
Hollo! Ho! — the whole world’s asleep! — bring out the horses — grease the wheels — tie on the mail — and drive a nail into that moulding — I’ll not lose a moment —
Now the wheel we are talking of, and whereinto (but not whereunto, for that would make an Ixion’s wheel of it) he curseth his enemies, according to the bishop’s habit of body, should certainly be a post-chaise wheel, whether they were set up in Palestine at that time or not — and my wheel, for the contrary reasons, must as certainly be a cart-wheel groaning round its revolution once in an age; and of which sort, were I to turn commentator, I should make no scruple to affirm, they had great store in that hilly country.
I love the Pythagoreans (much more than ever I dare tell my dear Jenny) for their “χωρισμὸν ἀπὸ τοῦ Σώματος, εἰς τὸ καλῶς φιλοσοφεῖν” — [their] “getting out of the body, in order to think well.” No man thinks right, whilst he is in it; blinded as he must be, with his congenial humours, and drawn differently aside, as the bishop and myself have been, with too lax or too tense a fibre — REASON is, half of it, SENSE; and the measure of heaven itself is but the measure of our present appetites and concoctions —
— But which of the two, in the present case, do you think to be mostly in the wrong?
You, certainly: quoth she, to disturb a whole family so early.
CHAPTER XIV
— But she did not know I was under a vow not to shave my beard till I got to Paris; — yet I hate to make mysteries of nothing;— ’tis the cold cautiousness of one of those little souls from which Lessius (lib. 13, de moribus divinis, cap. 24) hath made his estimate, wherein he setteth forth, That one Dutch mile, cubically multiplied, will allow room enough, and to spare, for eight hundred thousand millions, which he supposes to be as great a number of souls (counting from the fall of Adam) as can possibly be damn’d to the end of the world.
From what he has made this second estimate — unless from the parental goodness of God — I don’t know — I am much more at a loss what could be in Franciscus Ribbera’s head, who pretends that no less a space than one of two hundred Italian miles multiplied into itself, will be sufficient to hold the like number — he certainly must have gone upon some of the old Roman souls, of which he had read, without reflecting how much, by a gradual and most tabid decline, in the course of eighteen hundred years, they must unavoidably have shrunk so as to have come, when he wrote, almost to nothing.
In Lessius’s time, who seems the cooler man, they were as little as can be imagined —
— We find them less now —
And next winter we shall find them less again; so that if we go on from little to less, and from less to nothing, I hesitate not one moment to affirm, that in half a century, at this rate, we shall have no souls at
all; which being the period beyond which I doubt likewise of the existence of the Christian faith, ‘twill be one advantage that both of ‘em will be exactly worn out together.
Blessed Jupiter! and blessed every other heathen god and goddess! for now ye will all come into play again, and with Priapus at your tails — what jovial times! — but where am I? and into what a delicious riot of things am I rushing? I — I who must be cut short in the midst of my days, and taste no more of ‘em than what I borrow from my imagination — peace to thee, generous fool! and let me go on.
CHAPTER 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-horse trotting, and a sort of an up and a down of the other, we danced it along to Ailly au clochers, 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, 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.
CHAPTER 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, which numbers do in order to prevent it) — there is no help: and it is this.
Complete Works of Laurence Sterne Page 49
