Travels Through France And Italy by Tobias Smollett (fastest ebook reader .txt) 📕

Barbarous Murder. He Received Sentence To Be Broke Alive Upon The

Wheel; But Was Pardoned By The Interposition Of The Governor Of

The County, And Carries On His Business As Usual In The Face Of

The Whole Community. A Furious Abbe, Being Refused Orders By The

Bishop, On Account Of His Irregular Life, Took An Opportunity To

Stab The Prelate With A Knife, One Sunday, As He Walked Out Of

The Cathedral. The Good Bishop Desired He Might Be Permitted To

Escape; But It Was Thought Proper To Punish, With The Utmost

Severity, Such An Atrocious Attempt. He Was Accordingly

Apprehended, And, Though The Wound Was Not Mortal, Condemned To

Be Broke. When This Dreadful Sentence Was Executed, He Cried Out,

That It Was Hard He Should Undergo Such Torments, For Having

Wounded A Worthless Priest, By Whom He Had Been Injured, While

Such-A-One (Naming The Burgher Mentioned Above) Lived In Ease And

Security, After Having Brutally Murdered A Poor Man, And A

Helpless Woman Big With Child, Who Had Not Given Him The Least

Provocation.

The Inhabitants Of Boulogne May Be Divided Into Three Classes;

The Noblesse Or Gentry, The Burghers, And The Canaille. I Don't

Mention The Clergy, And The People Belonging To The Law, Because

I Shall Occasionally Trouble You With My Thoughts Upon The

Religion And Ecclesiastics Of This Country; And As For The

Lawyers, Exclusive Of Their Profession, They May Be Considered As 

Belonging To One Or Other Of These Divisions. The Noblesse Are

Vain, Proud, Poor, And Slothful. Very Few Of Them Have Above Six

Thousand Livres A Year, Which May Amount To About Two Hundred And

Fifty Pounds Sterling; And Many Of Them Have Not Half This

Revenue. I Think There Is One Heiress, Said To Be Worth One

Hundred Thousand Livres, About Four Thousand Two Hundred Pounds;

But Then Her Jewels, Her Cloaths, And Even Her Linen, Are

Reckoned Part Of This Fortune. The Noblesse Have Not The Common

Sense To Reside At Their Houses In The Country, Where, By Farming

Their Own Grounds, They Might Live At A Small Expence, And

Improve Their Estates At The Same Time. They Allow Their Country

Houses To Go To Decay, And Their Gardens And Fields To Waste; And

Reside In Dark Holes In The Upper Town Of Boulogne Without Light,

Air, Or Convenience. There They Starve Within Doors,

That They May Have Wherewithal To Purchase Fine Cloaths, And

Appear Dressed Once A Day In The Church, Or On The Rampart. They

Have No Education, No Taste For Reading, No Housewifery, Nor

Indeed Any Earthly Occupation, But That Of Dressing Their Hair,

And Adorning Their Bodies. They Hate Walking, And Would Never Go

Abroad, If They Were Not Stimulated By The Vanity Of Being Seen.

I Ought To Except Indeed Those Who Turn Devotees, And Spend The

Greatest Part Of Their Time With The Priest, Either At Church Or

In Their Own Houses. Other Amusements They Have None In This

Place, Except Private Parties Of Card-Playing, Which Are Far From

Being Expensive. Nothing Can Be More Parsimonious Than The

Oeconomy Of These People: They Live Upon Soupe And Bouille, Fish

And Sallad: They Never Think Of Giving Dinners, Or Entertaining

Their Friends; They Even Save The Expence Of Coffee And Tea,

Though Both Are Very Cheap At Boulogne. They Presume That Every

Person Drinks Coffee At Home, Immediately After Dinner, Which Is

Always Over By One O'clock; And, In Lieu Of Tea In The Afternoon,

They Treat With A Glass Of Sherbet, Or Capillaire. In A Word, I

Know Not A More Insignificant Set Of Mortals Than The Noblesse Of

Boulogne; Helpless In Themselves, And Useless To The Community;

Without Dignity, Sense, Or Sentiment; Contemptible From Pride.

And Ridiculous From Vanity. They Pretend To Be Jealous Of Their

Rank, And Will Entertain No Correspondence With The Merchants,

Whom They Term Plebeians. They Likewise Keep At A Great Distance

From Strangers, On Pretence Of A Delicacy In The Article Of

Punctilio: But, As I Am Informed, This Stateliness Is In A Great

Measure Affected, In Order To Conceal Their Poverty, Which Would

Appear To Greater Disadvantage, If They Admitted Of A More

Familiar Communication. Considering The Vivacity Of The French

People, One Would Imagine They Could Not Possibly Lead Such An

Insipid Life, Altogether Unanimated By Society, Or Diversion.

True It Is, The Only Profane Diversions Of This Place Are A

Puppet-Show And A Mountebank; But Then Their Religion Affords A

Perpetual Comedy. Their High Masses, Their Feasts, Their

Processions, Their Pilgrimages, Confessions, Images, Tapers,

Robes, Incense, Benedictions, Spectacles, Representations, And

Innumerable Ceremonies, Which Revolve Almost Incessantly, Furnish

A Variety Of Entertainment From One End Of The Year To The Other.

If Superstition Implies Fear, Never Was A Word More Misapplied

Than It Is To The Mummery Of The Religion Of Rome. The People Are 

So Far From Being Impressed With Awe And Religious Terror By This

Sort Of Machinery, That It Amuses Their Imaginations In The Most

Agreeable Manner, And Keeps Them Always In Good Humour. A Roman

Catholic Longs As Impatiently For The Festival Of St. Suaire, Or

St. Croix, Or St. Veronique, As A Schoolboy In England For The

Representation Of Punch And The Devil; And There Is Generally As

Much Laughing At One Farce As At The Other. Even When The Descent

From The Cross Is Acted, In The Holy Week, With All The

Circumstances That Ought Naturally To Inspire The Gravest

Sentiments, If You Cast Your Eyes Among The Multitude That Croud

The Place, You Will Not Discover One Melancholy Face: All Is

Prattling, Tittering, Or Laughing; And Ten To One But You

Perceive A Number Of Them Employed In Hissing The Female Who

Personates The Virgin Mary. And Here It May Not Be Amiss To

Observe, That The Roman Catholics, Not Content With The Infinite

Number Of Saints Who Really Existed, Have Not Only Personified

The Cross, But Made Two Female Saints Out Of A Piece Of Linen.

Veronique, Or Veronica, Is No Other Than A Corruption Of Vera

Icon, Or Vera Effigies, Said To Be The Exact Representation Of

Our Saviour's Face, Impressed Upon A Piece Of Linen, With Which

He Wiped The Sweat From His Forehead In His Way To The Place Of

Crucifixion. The Same Is Worshipped Under The Name Of St. Suaire,

From The Latin Word Sudarium. This Same Handkerchief Is Said To

Have Had Three Folds, On Every One Of Which Was The Impression:

One Of These Remains At Jerusalem, A Second Was Brought To Rome,

And A Third Was Conveyed To Spain. Baronius Says, There Is A Very

Antient History Of The

Sancta Facies In The Vatican. Tillemont, However, Looks Upon The

Whole As A Fable. Some Suppose Veronica To Be The Same With St.

Haemorrhoissa, The Patroness Of Those Who Are Afflicted With The

Piles, Who Make Their Joint Invocations To Her And St. Fiacre,

The Son Of A Scotch King, Who Lived And Died A Hermit In France.

The Troops Of Henry V. Of England Are Said To Have Pillaged The

Chapel Of This Highland Saint; Who, In Revenge, Assisted His

Countrymen, In The French Service, To Defeat The English At

Bauge, And Afterwards Afflicted Henry With The Piles, Of Which He

Died. This Prince Complained, That He Was Not Only Plagued By The

Living Scots, But Even Persecuted By Those Who Were Dead.

I Know Not Whether I May Be Allowed To Compare The Romish

Religion To Comedy, And Calvinism To Tragedy. The First Amuses

The Senses, And Excites Ideas Of Mirth And Good-Humour; The

Other, Like Tragedy, Deals In The Passions Of Terror And Pity.

Step Into A Conventicle Of Dissenters, You Will, Ten To One, Hear

The Minister Holding Forth Upon The Sufferings Of Christ, Or The

Torments Of Hell, And See Many Marks Of Religious Horror In The

Faces Of The Hearers. This Is Perhaps One Reason Why The

Reformation Did Not Succeed In France, Among A Volatile, Giddy,

Unthinking People, Shocked At The Mortified Appearances Of The

Calvinists; And Accounts For Its Rapid Progress Among Nations Of

A More Melancholy Turn Of Character And Complexion: For, In The

Conversion Of The Multitude, Reason Is Generally Out Of The 

Question. Even The Penance Imposed Upon The Catholics Is Little

More Than Mock Mortification: A Murderer Is Often Quit With His

Confessor For Saying Three Prayers Extraordinary; And These Easy

Terms, On Which Absolution Is Obtained, Certainly Encourage The

Repetition Of The Most Enormous Crimes. The Pomp And Ceremonies

Of This Religion, Together With The Great Number Of Holidays They

Observe, Howsoever They May Keep Up The Spirits Of The

Commonalty, And Help To Diminish The Sense Of Their Own Misery,

Must Certainly, At The Same Time, Produce A Frivolous Taste For

Frippery And Shew, And Encourage A Habit Of Idleness, To Which I,

In A Great Measure, Ascribe The Extreme Poverty Of The Lower

People. Very Near Half Of Their Time, Which Might He Profitably

Employed In The Exercise Of Industry, Is Lost To Themselves And

The Community, In Attendance Upon The Different Exhibitions Of

Religious Mummery.

But As This Letter Has Already Run To An Unconscionable Length, I

Shall Defer, Till Another Occasion, What I Have Further To Say On

The People Of This Place, And In The Mean Time Assure You, That I

Am Always--Yours Affectionately.

Dear Sir,--My Stay In This Place Now Draws Towards A Period.

'Till Within These Few Days I Have Continued Bathing, With Some

Advantage To My Health, Though The Season Has Been Cold And Wet,

And Disagreeable. There Was A Fine Prospect Of A