I was going to begin with the millions of my fellow-creatures, born to no inheritance but slavery: but finding, however affecting the picture was, that I could not bring it near me, and that the multitude of sad groups in it did but distract me —
— I took a single captive, and having first shut him up in his dungeon, I then looked 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 hope deferr’d. Upon looking nearer I saw him pale and feverish: in thirty years the western breeze had not once fann’d his blood — he had seen no sun, no moon, in all that time — nor had the voice of friend or kinsman breathed through his lattice — his children —
— But here my heart began to bleed — and I was forced to go on with another part of the portrait.
He was sitting upon the ground upon a little straw, in the furthest corner of his dungeon, which was alternately his chair and bed: a little calendar of small sticks were laid at the head, notch’d all over with the dismal days and nights he had passed there — he had one of these little sticks in his hand, and with a rusty nail he was etching another day of misery to add to the heap. As I darkened the little light he had, he lifted up a hopeless eye towards the door, then cast it down — shook his head, and went on with his work of affliction. I heard his chains upon his legs, as he turned his body to lay his little stick upon the bundle — He gave a deep sigh — I saw the iron enter into his soul — I burst into tears — I could not sustain the picture of confinement which my fancy had drawn.
SENT. JOURNEY, P. 138.
THE DWARF.
I WAS walking down that which leads from the Carousal to the Palais Royal, and observing a little boy in some distress at the side of the gutter, which ran down the middle of it, I took hold of his hand, and help’d him over. Upon turning up his face to look at him after, I perceived he was about forty — Never mind, said I; some good body will do as much for me, when I am ninety.
I feel some little principles within me, which incline me to be merciful towards this poor blighted part of my species, who have neither size or strength to get on in the world — I cannot bear to see one of them trod upon; and had scarce got seated beside an old French officer at the Opera Comique, ere the disgust was exercised, by seeing the very thing happen under the box we sat in.
At the end of the orchestra, and betwixt that and the first side-box, there is a small esplenade left, where, when the house is full, numbers of all ranks take sanctuary. Though you stand, as in the parterre, you pay the same price as in the orchestra. A poor defenceless being of this order had got thrust somehow or other into this luckless place — the night was hot, and he was surrounded by beings two feet and a half higher than himself. The dwarf suffered inexpressibly on all sides; but the thing which incommoded him most was a tall corpulent German, near seven feet high, who stood directly betwixt him and all possibility of seeing either the stage or the actors. The poor dwarf did all he could to get a peep at what was going forwards, by seeking for some little opening betwixt the German’s arm and his body, trying first one side, then the other; but the German stood square in the most unaccommodating posture that can be imagined —— the dwarf might as well have been placed at the bottom of the deepest draw-well in Paris; so he civilly reach’d up his hand to the German’s sleeve, and told him his distress —— The German turn’d his head back, look’d down upon him as Goliah did upon David — and unfeelingly resumed his posture.
I was just then taking a pinch of snuff out of my monk’s little horn box — And how would thy meek and courteous spirit, my dear monk! so temper’d to bear and forbear! — how sweetly would it have lent an ear to this poor soul’s complaint!
The old French officer seeing me lift up my eyes with an emotion, as I made the apostrophe, took the liberty to ask me what was the matter — I told him the story in three words; and added, how inhuman it was.
By this time the dwarf was driven to extremes, and in his first transports, which are generally unreasonable, had told the German he would cut off his long queue with his knife — The German look’d back coolly, and told him he was welcome, if he could reach it.
An injury sharpened by an insult, be it to who it will, makes every man of sentiment a party: I could have leaped out of the box to have redressed it. — The old French officer did it with much less confusion; for leaning a little over, and modding to a centinel, and pointing at the same time with his finger to the distress — the centinel made his way up to it. — There was no occasion to tell the grievance — the thing told itself; so thrusting back the German instantly with his musket — he took the poor dwarf by the hand, and placed him before him — This is noble! said I, clapping my hands together — And yet you would not permit this, said the old officer, in England.
— In England, dear Sir, said I, we sit all at our ease.
The old French officer would have set me at unity with myself, in case I had been at variance, — by saying it was a bon mot — and as a bon mot is always worth something at Paris, he offered me a pinch of snuff.
SENT. JOURNEY, P. 113.
CHARITY.
WHEN all is ready, and every article is disputed and paid for in the inn, unless you are a little sour’d by the adventure, there is always a matter to compound at the door, before you can get into your chaise, and that is with the sons and daughters of poverty, who surround you. Let no man say, “Let them go to the devil”— ’tis a cruel journey to send a few miserables, and they have had sufferings enow without it: I always think it better to take a few sous out in my hand; and I would counsel every gentle traveller to do so likewise; he need not be so exact in setting down his motives for giving them — they will be register’d elsewhere.
For my own part, there is no man gives so little as I do; for few that I know have so little to give: but as this was the first public act of my charity in France, I took the more notice of it.
A well-a-way! said I. I have but eight sous in the world, shewing them in my hand, and there are eight poor men and eight poor women for ‘em.
A poor tatter’d soul without a shirt on, instantly withdrew his claim, by retiring two steps out of the circle, and making a disqualifying bow on his part. Had the whole parterre cried out Place aux dames, with one voice, it would not have conveyed the sentiment of a deference for the sex with half the effect.
Just heaven! for what wise reasons hast thou order’d it that beggary and urbanity, which are at such variance in other countries, should find a way to be at unity in this?
— I insisted upon presenting him with a single sous, merely for his politesse.
A poor little dwarfish, brisk fellow, who stood over-against me in the circle, putting something first under his arm, which had once been a hat, took his snuff-box out of his pocket, and generously offered a pinch on both sides of him: it was a gift of consequence and modestly declined — The poor little fellow press’d it upon them with a nod of welcomeness — Prenez en — Prenez, said he, looking another way; so they each took a pinch — Pity thy box should ever want one! said I to myself; so I put a couple of sous into it — taking a small pinch out of his box, to enhance their value, as I did it — He felt the weight of the second obligation more than that of the first— ’twas doing him an honour — the other was only doing him a charity — and he made me a bow down to the ground for it.
— Here! said I, to an old soldier with one hand, who had been compaign’d and worn out to death in the service — here’s a couple of sous for thee, Vive le Roi! said the old soldier.
I had then but three sous left; so I gave one, simply pour l’amour de Dieu, which was the footing on which it was begg’d — The poor woman had a dislocated hip: so it could not be well, upon any other motive.
Mon cher et tres charitable Monsieur — There’s no opposing this, said I.
My Lord Anglois — the very sound was worth the money — so
I gave my last sous for it. But in the eagerness of giving, I had overlook’d a pauvre honteux, who had no one to ask a sous for him, and who, I believed, would have perish’d, ere he could have ask’d one for himself: he stood by the chaise a little without the circle, and wiped a tear from a face which I thought had seen better days — Good God! said I — and I have not one single sous left to give him — But you have a thousand! cried all the powers of nature stirring within me — so I gave him — no matter what — I am ashamed to say how much, now — and was ashamed to think how little, then: so if the reader can form any conjecture of my disposition, as these two fixed points are given him, he may judge within a livre or two what was the precise sum.
I could afford nothing for the rest, but Dieu vous benisse — Et le bon Dieu vous benisse encore — said the old soldier, the dwarf, &c. The pauvre honteux could say nothing — he pull’d out a little handkerchief, and wiped his face as he turned away — and I thought he thank’d me more than them all.
SENT. JOURNEY, P. 66.
REFLECTIONS ON DEATH.
THE Corporal —
— Tread lightly on his ashes, ye men of genius, — for he was your kinsman:
Weed his grave clean ye men goodness, — for he was your brother. — Oh Corporal! had I thee but now, — now, that I am able to give thee a dinner and protection, — how would I cherish thee! thou should’st wear thy Monterocap every hour of the day, and every day of the week, — and when it was worn out, I would purchase thee a couple like it: — but alas! alas! alas! now that I can do this, in spite of their reverences — the occasion is lost — for thou art gone; — thy genius fled up to the stars from whence it came; — and that warm heart of thine with all its generous and open vessels, compressed into a clod of the valley!
— But what is this — what is this, to that future and dreadful page, where I look towards the velvet pall, decorated with the military ensigns of thy master — the first — the foremost of created beings; where, I shall see thee, faithful servant! laying his sword and scabbard with a trembling hand across his coffin, and then returning pale as ashes to the door, to take his mourning horse by the bridle, to follow his hearse, as he directed thee; — where — all my father’s systems shall be baffled by his sorrows; and, in spite of his philosophy, I shall behold him, as he inspects the lackered plate, twice taking his spectacles from off his nose, to wipe away the dew which nature has shed upon them — When I see him cast in the rosemary with an air of disconsolation, which cries through my ears, — O Toby! in what corner of the world shall I seek thy fellow?
— Gracious powers! which erst have opened the lips of the dumb in his distress, and made the tongue of the stammerer speak plain — when I shall arrive at this dreaded page, deal not with me, then, with a stinted hand.
T. SHANDY, VOL. III. C. 68.
PLEASURES OF OBSERVATION AND STUDY.
— WHAT a large volume of adventures may be grasped within this little span of life, by him who interests his heart in every thing, and who, having eyes to see what tinse and chance are perpetually holding out to him as he journeyeth on his way, misses nothing he can fairly lay his hands on. —
— If this wont turn out something — another will — no matter— ’tis an essay upon human nature — I get my labour for my pains— ’tis enough — the pleasure of the experiment has kept my senses, and the best part of my blood awake, and laid the gross to sleep.
I pity the man who can travel from Dan to Beersheba, and cry, ’Tis all barren — and so it is; and so is all the world to him who will not cultivate the fruits it offers. I declare, said I, clapping my hands cheerily together, that was I in a desert, I would find out wherewith in it to call forth my affections — If I could do no better, I would fasten them upon some sweet myrtle, or seek some melancholy cypress to connect myself to — I would court their shade, and greet them kindly for their protection — I would cut my name upon them, and swear they were the loveliest trees throughout the desert: if their leaves wither’d, I would teach myself to mourn, and when they rejoiced, I would rejoice along with them.
SEN. JOURNEY, P. 51.
FEELING AND BENEFICENCE.
WAS it Mackay’s regiment, quoth my uncle Toby, where the poor grenadier was so unmercifully whipp’d at Bruges about the ducats? — O Christ! he was innocent! cried Trim, with a deep sigh, — And he was whipp’d, may it please your honour, almost to death’s door. — They had better have shot him outright, as he begged, and he had gone directly to heaven, for he was as innocent as your honour. — I thank thee, Trim, quoth my uncle Toby. I never think of his, continued Trim, and my poor brother Tom’s misfortunes, for we were all three school-fellows, but I cry like a coward. — Tears are no proof of cowardice, Trim, I drop them oft times myself, cried my uncle Toby — I know your honour does, replied Trim, and so am not ashamed of it myself. — But to think, may it please your honour, continued Trim, a tear stealing into the corner of his eye as he spoke — to think of two virtuous lads, with hearts as warm in their bodies, and as honest as God could make them — The children of honest people, going forth with gallant spirits to seek their fortunes in the world — and fall into such evils! poor Tom! to be tortured upon a rack for nothing — but marrying a Jew’s widow who sold sausages — honest Dick Johnson’s soul to be scourged out of his body, for the ducats another man put into his knapsack! — O! — these are misfortunes, cried Trim, pulling out his handkerchief, — these are misfortunes, may it please your honour, worth laying down and crying over.
— ‘Twould be a pity, Trim, quoth my uncle Toby, thou should’st ever feel sorrow of thy own — thou feelest it so tenderly for others. — Alack-o-day, replied the Corporal, brightening up his face — your honour knows I have neither wife or child — I can have no sorrows in this world. As few as any man, Trim, replied my uncle Toby; nor can I see how a fellow of thy light heart can suffer, but from the distress of poverty in thy old age — when thou art passed all services, Trim, — and hast outliv’d thy friends. — An’ please your honour, never fear, replied Trim, cheerily — But I would have thee never fear, Trim, replied my uncle Toby, and therefore, continued my uncle Toby, throwing down his crutch, and getting upon his legs as he uttered the word therefore — in recompence, Trim, of thy long fidelity to me, and that goodness of thy heart I have had such proofs of — whilst thy master is worth a shilling — thou shalt never ask elsewhere, Trim, for a penny. Trim attempted to thank my uncle Toby, — but had not power — tears trickled down his cheeks faster than he could wipe them off — he laid his hands upon his breast — made a bow to the ground, and shut the door.
T. SHANDY, V. II. C. 39.
SLAVERY.
CONSIDER slavery, — what it is, — how bitter a draught, and how many millions have been made to drink of it; — which if it can poison all earthly happiness when exercised barely upon our bodies, what must it be, when it comprehends both the slavery of body and mind? — to conceive this, look into the history of the Romish church and her tyrants (or rather executioners), who seem to have taken pleasure in the pangs and convulsions of their fellow-creatures. — Examine the Inquisition, hear the melancholy notes sounded in every cell. — Consider the anguish of mock trials, and the exquisite tortures consequent thereupon mercilessly inflicted upon the unfortunate, where the racked and weary soul has so often wished to take its leave, — but cruelly not suffered to depart. — Consider how many of these helpless wretches have been haled from thence in all periods of this tyrannic usurpation, to undergo the massacres and flames to which a false and a bloody religion has condemned them.
— Let us behold him in another light. —
If we consider man as a creature full of wants and necessities (whether real or imaginary), which he is not able to supply of himself, what a train of disappointments, vexations and dependencies are to be seen, issuing from thence to perplex and make his being uneasy! — How many justlings and hard struggles do we undergo in making our way in the world! — How barbarously held back! �
� How often and basely overthrown, in aiming only at getting bread! — How many of us never attain it — at least not comfortably, — but from various unknown causes — eat it all our lives long in bitterness!
SERMON, 10. PAGE, 202.
OPPRESSION VANQUISHED.
I HAVE not been a furlong from Shandy-hall, since I wrote to you last — but why is my pen so perverse? I have been to *****, and my errand was of so peculiar a nature, that I must give you an account of it. — You will scarce believe me, when I tell you, it was to outjuggle a juggling attorney; to put craft, and all its power, to defiance; and to obtain justice from one — who has a heart foul enough to take advantage of the mistakes of honest simplicity, and who has raised a considerable fortune by artifice and injustice. However, I gained my point! — it was a star and garter to me! — the matter was as follows. —
“A poor man, the father of my Vestal, having by the sweat of his brow, during a course of many laborious years, saved a small sum of money, applied to this scribe to put it out to use for him: this was done and a bond given for the money. — The honest man, having no place in his cottage which he thought sufficiently secure, put it in a hole in the thatch, which had served instead of a strong box, to keep his money. — In this situation the bond remained till the time of receiving his interest drew nigh. — But alas! — the rain which had done no mischief to his gold, had found out his paper-security, and had rotted it to pieces!” — It would be a difficult matter to paint the distress of the old countryman upon this discovery; — Le came to me weeping, and begged my advice and assistance! — it cut me to the heart!
Complete Works of Laurence Sterne Page 137
