[sterne 2008, p. 98]. Defining sentiment and its affect on the body was however a thorny question. In a 1749 letter to Richardson, a Mrs. Balfour voiced her uneasiness in defining such an increasingly fashionable word: «I am frequently astonished to hear such a one is a sentimental man; we were a sentimental party; I have been taking a sentimental walk» [cit. in wilson 1931, p. 45]. In England, sentimenthadbegun to be associated with feeling in Shaftesbury’s attack against Locke arguing that men had an inward eye enabling them to perceive the morally good [barker-benfield 1992]. In France, the period between 1650 and 1789 also saw a vast alteration in emotional common sense: once given access «to émotion, sentiment  and sensibilité […] individuals became able […] to access previously unrecorded affective possibilities» [reddy 2000, p. 111]. Sentiments were more powerful than ideas: «les idées nous amusent, […] mais les sentimens nous dominent, ils s’emparent de nous» [crousaz 1970, p. 8]. The invention of sentiment overlapped with the birth of the modern subject: «Au centre du sentiment il y a le sujet sentant; et même […] un sujet qui s’origine dans la sensation, qui n’est peut-etre elle-même que l’autre face du sentiment» [stewart 2010, p. 11]. Sentiment was made contagious by sympathy. According to Shaftesbury, sympathy can put people «beyond themselves» and cause «their very looks» to «be infectious», taking on the form of enthusiasm: «Such force has society in ill as well as in good passions: and so much stronger any affection is forbeing social and communicative» [shaftesbury 1964, P. 14]. Communication within society, argued Hume, is made possible by the fact that «nature has preserv’d a great resemblance among all human creatures, and that we never remark any passion or principle in others, of which, in some degree or other, we may not find a parallel in ourselves» [hume 1978, p. 316; cfr. mullan 1988, pp. 29-31]. Yorick similarly describes sympathy as a panache for the «boundaries and fences» set up by nature «to circumscribe the discontent of man», among which communication: «from the want of languages, connections, and dependencies, and from the difference in education, customs and habits, we lie under so many impediments in communicating our sensations out of our own sphere, as often amount to a total impossibility» [sterne 2008, p. 8]. Yet sympathy found an obstacle in distance: «though we always sympathize with our relations, and with those under our eye, the distress of persons remote and unknown affects us very little» [kames 1767, p. 17]. As Yorick claims while trying to dissever sentiment and physical perturbations, «there are certain combined looks of simple subtlety—where whim, and sense, and seriousness, and nonsense, are so blended, that all the languages of Babel set loose together could not express them—they are communicated and caught so instantaneously, that you can scarce say which party is the infecter» [sterne 2008, p. 46]. In A Sentimental Journey,sensibility manifests itself chiefly through the body. In the very absence of verbal communication, the casual encounters affect Yorick’s body and cause emotions. Meeting the Lady in Calais, Yorick already «settled the affair in my fancy, ‘that she was of the better order of beings’» [sterne 2008, p. 20]. Even without fully perceiving her face, «the drawing was instantly set about, and long before we had got to the door of the Remise, Fancy had finished the whole head» [p. 14]. Sentiment arises at once («In a word, I felt benevolence for her», p. 15) and is translated into body language: «the muscles relaxed, and I beheld the same unprotected look of distress which first won me to her interest—melancholy! […] [t]he pulsations of the arteries along my fingers pressing across hers, told her what was passing within me» [p. 16]. The Calais episode clearly bespeaks the eighteenth-century belief in a more truthful, immediate speech apart from conventional language:   [t]he natural signs of emotion, voluntary and involuntary, being nearly the same in all men, form a universal language, which no distance of place, no difference of tribe, no diversity of tongue, can darken or render doubtful […] the external appearances of joy, grief, anger, fear, shame, and of the other passions, forming an universal language, open a direct avenue to the heart. [kames 1762, I. 127-28]   The physicality of sentiment uncannily referred both to the body/mind problem and the the mechanicist description of all living beings, including humankind, as automata. Descartes had avowed to study first the human body and then the soul piecemeal in order to show the union of the two parts: «il faut que je vous décrive, premièrement, le corps à part, puis après l’âme aussi à part; et enfin, que je vous montre comment ces deux natures doivent être jointes et unies, pour composer des hommes qui nous ressemblent». By means of this observation, the body was finally interpreted as a machine: «ces fonctions suivent tout naturellement, en cette machine, de la seule disposition de ces organes, ne plus ne moins que font les mouvements d’une horloge, ou autre automate, de celle de ses contrepoids et de ses roues» [descartes 1988, I.379, 479-80]. In a 1649 letter to Henry More, Descartes proposed language as the only way of distinguishing men from beasts:   [f]or language is the one certain indication of a latent cogitation in a body, and all men use it, even the most stupid and mentally deranged, and those deprived of their tongue and vocal organs, whereas on the hand not a single brute speaks, and consequently this we may take for the true difference between man and beast. [cit. in cohen 1936, p. 53; see arikha 2006]   Descartes’s view that animals were pure machines and that the human body was nothing more than a machine branched out in the late seventeenth century and eighteenth century in a mechanistic debate on the connection between the soul and the body-machine. Oddly rebutting Descartes’s view only to reach a similar mechanistic result, LaMettrie, the author of L’Homme machine, claimedthat there was no essential difference between human beings and animals, implying that animals shared our intelligence to some degree and conversely that we shared their machineness:   it was necessary that nature should use more elaborate art in making and sustaining a machine which for a whole century could mark all motions of the art and of the mind; for though one does not tell time by the pulse, it is as least the barometer of the warmth and the vivacity by which one may estimate the nature of the soul. […] The human body is a watch, a large watch constructed with such skill and ingenuity. [offray de la mettrie 1912, p. 141; see gunderson 1964, pp. 214-215; marr 2006]   In the entry on «Âme des bêtes» for the Encyclopédie, the Abbé Yvon had analogously opined that «if God can make a machine that, solely by the disposition of its forces, performs all the surprising actions that we admire in a dog or a monkey, he can form other machines that imitate perfectly all the actions of men» [diderot 1751-65, 1.345-346]. Automata were the next logical step, as «scholarly authors increasingly agreed that the wonder-working or ‘thaumaturgy’ which gave rise to self-moving machines fell into the category of acceptable, natural magic» [marr 2002, p. 207]. The sixteenth and the seventeenth centuries had already been busily occupied with hydraulics and pneumatics: thanks to the translations of Heron (1501, 1575), ancient Greek technology had given rise to pleasure gardens, hydraulics displays, elaborate waterworks, right to the appearance of fully mechanical automata where the art of the clockmaker combined with the effort to vividly represent a living being as a machine. Eighteenth-century  technology created a series of biological automata peaking in the figure of the android, «a completely mechanical figure which simulated a living human or animal, operating with apparently responsive action [Bedini 1964: 31]». The period between the 1730s and the 1790s saw a dramatic upsurge in mechanical figures of people and animals, a veritable age «of simulation, in which mechanicians tried earnestly the very literal way in which it construed the similarity between animal and artificial machinery» [riskin 2003a, p. 104]. In 1648 John Wilkins had already made plans for a speaking statue. A similar attempt was performed in 1700 by Denys Dodart, personal physician to Louis XIV. In 1739 Claude-Nicolas Le Cat had planned an automaton man executing the principal functions of the animal economy, circulation, respiration, and «the secretions». In 1771 Erasmus Darwin contrived a wooden mouth with lips of soft leather; a pair of talking heads were credited to abbé Mical in 1778. By far the most renowned applications were Jacques-Droz’s automata and anatomical and physiological simulations like the Lady-musician and the Draughtsman, or Vaucansons’s android Flute-player and defecating Duck. After displaying his androids in the winter of 1738 in the salle des quatre saisons at the Hôtel de Longueville in Paris, Vaucanson was later affiliated with the Paris Academy of Sciences as «associated mechanician» and went on to project the Automatic Loom in 1747. His claims to have «copied from nature» for his Defecating Duck bespoke a «growing confidence, derived from ever-improved instruments, that experimentation could reveal nature’s actual design» [Riskin 2003]; his automata were «philosophical experiments, attempts to discern which aspects of living creatures could be reproduced in machinery, and to what degree», in a period controversially marked by «profund uncertainty about the validity of philosophical mechanism» [riskin 2003b, pp. 604, 601, 611; see de vaucanson 1742]. His description of the fluteur automate accounted for a large part of the entry on Android in the Encyclopédie [diderot1751-65, 1.448-451]; his memoir was also translated in English at the time of his shows at the King’s Theatre in London [cottom 1999, p. 54]. Another famous mechanism was the Automaton Chess-Player (actually hiding a human being inside its machinery) devised in 1769 by the Hungarian engineer and mechanician Farkas de Kempelen. Despite its being a mere deception «more beautiful, more surprising, more astonishing, than any to be met with, in the different accounts of mathematical recreations» [de kempelen 1784, p. 13; see standage 2002], the Chess-Player extensively toured Europe and America well into the early 1820s [sussman 1999]. In an illuminating cross-fertilisation, «[i]t was the articulation of certain differences between natural and artificial life that triggered the invention of machines that undermined those differences. But these machines in turn led people to rethink what constituted life» [riskin 2003a, p. 115]. The question of automata prompted materialists who repudiated Descartes’s separation between mind and body «to invoke a vital property of matter called ‘sensibility’ that […] was inherent in organic substance», whereas the «mechanicists and mechanicians of the eighteenth century described animal machinery that was sensitive and passionate. Seeing animals as machinery, they began also to see machinery as animal» [Riskin 2003a: pp. 99-100]. A 1768 passage later inserted by Diderot in Le Rêve de d’Alembert offered the description of a single day where an unnamed person (arguably D’Alembert himself) was never seen to perform a single free act, in a sequence of monotonous, repetitive actions:   il ne sais rien, mais rien du tout de ce qu’il a fait, et je vois que machine pure, simple, et passive […] loin d’avoir été libre, il n’a pas même produit un seul acte exprès de sa volonté: il a pense, il a senti, mais il n’a pas agi plus librement qu’un corps inerte, qu’un automate de bois, qui aurait exécuté les mêmes choses que lui. [diderot 1964, pp. 264-265; see vartanian 1981]   In its paradoxical union with the body, Sterne’s demands a similar mechanistic description. While depicting the bliss obtained «[w]hen man is at peace with man», Yorick pays testimony to the corporeal mutations effected by sentiment and evokes the contemporary French debate on mechanicism:   I felt a suffusion of a finer kind upon my cheek […] I felt every vessel in my frame dilate—the arteries beat all chearily together, and every power which sustained life, perform’d it with so little friction, that ’twould have confounded the most physical precieuse in France: with all her materialism, she could scarce have called me a machine—. [sterne 2008, p. 4]   Sympathy bends the body into a pliant machine to be studied and distinguished into its parts and functions like an automaton. On judging his servant’s humble behaviour, Yorick admits to being «apt to be taken with all kinds of people at first sight»; sympathy ensues presently: «the genuine look and air of the fellow determined the matter at once in his favour» [p. 26]. «Impulses» these might well be [p. 27], but then Yorick confesses to a similar transiency of moods concerning love, «having been in love with one princess or another almost all my life, and I hope I shall go on so, till I die, being firmly persuaded, that if ever I do a mean action, it must be in some interval betwixt one passion and another: whilst this interregnum lasts, I always perceive my heart locked up» [pp. 28-29]. On meeting the Monk in Calais, Yorick likens the fluidity of sentiment to the flux of tides: «there is no regular reasoning upon the ebbs and flows of our humours; they may depend upon the same causes, for ought I know, which influence the tides themselves—» [p. 4]. In its mechanistic respondence to sentiment, the body follows closely the spread of the invisible emotions. During the protracted temptation aroused by the fille de chambre, the cogency of blood nearly elides sentiment from view: «there is a sort of a pleasing half guilty blush, where the blood is more in fault than the man—’tis sent impetuous from the heart, and virtue flies after it—not to call it back, but to make the sensation of it more delicious to the nerves—’tis associated» [p. 77]. But the immediate association between body and soul provided by sentiment ushers in other mechanistic images: «I felt something at first within me which was not in strict unison with the lesson of virtue I had given her the night before […] If nature has so wove her web of kindness, that some threads of love and desire are entangled with the piece—must the whole web be rent in drawing them out?» [pp. 77-78]. The conclusion is attuned to a musical image: «it was touching a cold key with a flat third to it, upon the close of a piece of musick, which had call’d forth my affections» [p. 79]. Pondering the universal ties of brotherhood uncannily evokes a  mechanical image. On meeting the fille de chambre, Yorickopines that «’[t]is sweet to feel by what fine-spun threads our affections are drawn together. […] I feel the conviction of consanguinity so strongly, that I could not help turning half round to look in her face, and see if I could trace out any thing in it of a family likeness—Tut! Said I, are we not all relations?» [p. 56]. The mechanistic account of sentiment is adamant even in less ennobling passions, for instance the flattery shrewdly used by «a tall figure of a philosophic serious, adust look» mechanically repeating his motions in a Paris street: «[he] pass’d and repass’d sedately along the street, making a turn of about sixty paces on each side of the gate of the hotel […] asking charity», making «a dozen turns backwards and forwards» [p. 79]. Such a close observation modulates into a homage to the corporeal workings of flattery: «Delicious essence! How refreshing art thou to nature! How strongly are all its powers and all its weaknesses on thy side! How sweetly dost thou mix with the blood, and help it through the most difficult and tortuous passages to the heart!» [p. 91]. Good nature is based on the body and affects it, argues Yorick at the Paris shop by physically testing the woman’s body as evidence:   Any one may do a casual act of good nature, but a continuation of them shews it is a part of the temperature; and certainly, added I, if it is the same blood which comes from the heart, which descends to the extremes (touching her wrist) I am sure you must have one of the best pulses of any woman in the world—Feel it, said she, holding out her arm. So laying down my hat, I took hold of her fingers in one hand, and applied the two forefingers of my other to the artery [p. 44]   The stronger the sentiment evoked by sympathy, the more cogent its rendition as a mechanical effect. Even animals, the dialectical term of comparison to the man-machine in the body/mind problem, are characterized as automata. At first Yorick mistakes the voice of the starling in the cage for that of a child, «which complained ‘it could not get out’». Repetition increasingly estranges the animal into a sort of automaton, with «the same words repeated twice over» [p. 59]. As a result, the violent outburst of sentiment overlaps with the recognition of the inherent mechanisation of the scene:   ‘I fear, poor creature!’ said I, I cannot set thee at liberty—‘No’, said the starling—‘I can’t get out—I can’t get out,’ … I vow, I never had my affections more tenderly awakened; nor do I remember an incident in my life, where the dissipated spirits, to which my reason had been a bubble, were so suddenly call’d home. Mechanical as the notes were, yet so true in tune to nature were they chanted [pp. 59-60].   The brute prompts Yorick into universal sympathy and bodily commotion: «the bird in his cage pursued me into my room; I sat down close to my table, and leaning my head upon my hand, I begun to figure to myself the miseries of confinement [… ] But here my heart began to bleed» [p. 61]. Sentiment constantly calls for its opposite, the mechanisation of life, for instance through the physical or mnestic contact with an object. Mons. Dessein’s getting rid of the Desobligeant prompts a short debate on sensations and an ultimate comparison with a mechanism: «Mon Dieu! Said Mons. Dessein—I have no interest—Except the interest, said I, which men of a certain turn of mind take, Mons. Dessein, in their own sensation—I’m persuaded, to a man who feels for others as well as for himself, every rainy night, disguise it as you will, must cast a damp upon your spirits—You suffer, Mons. Dessein, as much as the machine—» [p. 12]. The very sight of «another old tatter’d Desobligeant […] stirr’d up a disagreeable sensation within me now; and I thought ’twas a churlish beast into whose heart the idea could first enter, to construct such a machine» [p. 21]. The physical gesture of rubbing the horn box upon the sleeve of the Monk’s tunick elicits a later coalescing of person and object in Yorick’s memory, as overwhelming sentiment sets the body in motion: «upon pulling out his little horn box, as I sat by his grave, and plucking up a nettle or two at the head of it, which had no business to grow there, they all struck together so forcibly upon my affections, that I burst into a flood of tears—but I am as weak as a woman; and I beg the world not to smile, but pity me» [p. 18]. When in the throes of sentiment, the sentimental traveller is paradoxically induced to both experience his own body and sensing its proximity to a mechanism. Sympathy, bodily communication, the very motions of sentiment, all demand an unflagging work of corporeal and mechanistic translation. While at the Opéra comique, Yorick mechanically abridges the gap between fellow sufferers from the strength of sentiment:   There is no secret so aiding to the progress of sociality, as to get master of this short hand, and be quick in rendering the several turns of looks and limbs, with all their inflections and delineations, into plain words. For my own part, by long habitude, I do it so mechanically, that when I walk the streets of London, I go translatingall the way; and have more than once stood behind in the circle, where not three words have been said, and have brought off twenty different dialogues with me, which I could have fairly wrote down and sworn to. [pp. 47-48]   Yorick mechanically gauges and measures all passers-by:   I measuredevery body I saw walking in the streets by it—Melancholy application! especially where the size was extremely little—the face extremely dark—the eyes quick—the nose long—the teeth white—the jaw prominent—to see so many miserables, by force of accidents driven out of their own proper class into the very verge of another, which it gives me pain to write down—every third man a pigmy! [p. 49]   The underlying mechanistic imagery is explicitly expressed when Yorick generalises on the human flair for understanding, a distinctly sentimental, sympathy-related activity that is modulated on a mechanistic image: «man has a certain compass, as well as an instrument; and […] the social and other calls have occasion by turns for every key in him; so that if you begin a note too high o too low, there must be a want either in the upper or under part, to fill up the system of harmony» [p. 75]. Nowhere is the mechanistic account of sentiment more evident than in the episode of Maria. Yorick furnishes a detailed portrait of her physical appearance by means of a list of different, instantaneous actions of unmistakable automatic garb:   the tears trickled down her cheeks. I sat down close by her; and Maria let her wipe them away as they fell with my handkerchief.—I then steep’d it in my own—and then in hers—and then in mine—and then I wiped hers again—and as I did it, I felt such undescribable emotions within me, as I am sure could not be accounted for from any combinations of matter and motion. I am positive I have a soul; nor cann the books with which materialistshave pester’d the world ever convince me of the contrary. [p. 95]   Apparently Yorick is making his case against materialism. The continuation of the scene, however, unveils its mechanicist penchant. As Maria plays her evening song upon her pipe, the sentimental traveller, in face of sheer, nearly mechanical repetition, is moved to the acme of sentiment and his body is consequently set in motion: «Nature melted within me, as I utter’d this». The conclusion revamps the imagery of musical automata: «I touch’d upon the string on which hung all her sorrows—she look’d with wistful disorder for some time in my face; and then, without saying any thing, took her pipe, and play’d her service to the Virgin—The string I had touch’d ceased to vibrate—in a moment or two Maria returned to herself—let her pipe fall—and rose up» [pp. 96-97]. It has been suggested that Sterne conflated the suggestive and the sentimental «by interposing a body – the body of the narrator- whose sentimental whims sanction its erotic encounters» [mullan 1988, p. 189]. Yet the body is more clearly seen and felt when shaken up by sentiment and thus compared by contrast to a mechanism. Yorick promises «a quiet journey of the heart in pursuit of NATURE, and those affections which rise out of her, which make us love each other—and the world, better than we do» [sterne 2008, p. 71].  In the uneasy union between body and mind, this journey still needs the contrastive backdrop of mechanism and automata in order to feel the music of human experience and sympathy, a set of individual and social, physical and emotional tools that will pave the way for the Romantic triumph of sensibility.

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