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—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 liards2 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 Curè3 offers you a pinch of snuff——or a poor soldier shews you his leg——or a shaveling4 his box——or the priestesse 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 Chantilly5——

——But the postillion 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 every thing 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 pass’d through St. Dennis, without turning my head so much as on 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 Judas’s lantern6——nor for that either, only as it grows dark, it might be of use.

CHAP. 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 concern’d the good people to be inform’d, 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 calamanco1——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!2——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 wheel-barrow? 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 barber’s! 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