A Sentimental Journey Through France And Italy By Laurence Sterne

































































































 -  - But you can do something
else, La Fleur? said I. - O qu'oui! he could make spatterdashes, and
play a little - Page 35
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- But You Can Do Something Else, La Fleur?

Said I. - O qu'oui!

He could make spatterdashes, and play a little upon the fiddle. - Bravo! said Wisdom. - Why, I play a bass myself, said I; - we shall do very well. You can shave, and dress a wig a little, La Fleur? - He had all the dispositions in the world. - It is enough for heaven! said I, interrupting him, - and ought to be enough for me. - So, supper coming in, and having a frisky English spaniel on one side of my chair, and a French valet, with as much hilarity in his countenance as ever Nature painted in one, on the other, - I was satisfied to my heart's content with my empire; and if monarchs knew what they would be at, they might be as satisfied as I was.

MONTREUIL.

As La Fleur went the whole tour of France and Italy with me, and will be often upon the stage, I must interest the reader a little further in his behalf, by saying, that I had never less reason to repent of the impulses which generally do determine me, than in regard to this fellow; - he was a faithful, affectionate, simple soul as ever trudged after the heels of a philosopher; and, notwithstanding his talents of drum beating and spatterdash-making, which, though very good in themselves, happened to be of no great service to me, yet was I hourly recompensed by the festivity of his temper; - it supplied all defects: - I had a constant resource in his looks in all difficulties and distresses of my own - I was going to have added of his too; but La Fleur was out of the reach of every thing; for, whether 'twas hunger or thirst, or cold or nakedness, or watchings, or whatever stripes of ill luck La Fleur met with in our journeyings, there was no index in his physiognomy to point them out by, - he was eternally the same; so that if I am a piece of a philosopher, which Satan now and then puts it into my head I am, - it always mortifies the pride of the conceit, by reflecting how much I owe to the complexional philosophy of this poor fellow, for shaming me into one of a better kind.

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