A Sentimental Journey | Page 7

be one of Fortune's whimsical doings; to take two utter strangers by their hands,--of different sexes, and perhaps from different corners of the globe, and in one moment place them together in such a cordial situation as Friendship herself could scarce have achieved for them, had she projected it for a month.
- And your reflection upon it shows how much, Monsieur, she has embarrassed you by the adventure -
When the situation is what we would wish, nothing is so ill-timed as to hint at the circumstances which make it so: you thank Fortune, continued she--you had reason--the heart knew it, and was satisfied; and who but an English philosopher would have sent notice of it to the brain to reverse the judgment?
In saying this, she disengaged her hand with a look which I thought a sufficient commentary upon the text.
It is a miserable picture which I am going to give of the weakness of my heart, by owning, that it suffered a pain, which worthier occasions could not have inflicted.--I was mortified with the loss of her hand, and the manner in which I had lost it carried neither oil nor wine to the wound: I never felt the pain of a sheepish inferiority so miserably in my life.
The triumphs of a true feminine heart are short upon these discomfitures. In a very few seconds she laid her hand upon the cuff of my coat, in order to finish her reply; so, some way or other, God knows how, I regained my situation.
- She had nothing to add.
I forthwith began to model a different conversation for the lady, thinking from the spirit as well as moral of this, that I had been mistaken in her character; but upon turning her face towards me, the spirit which had animated the reply was fled,--the muscles relaxed, and I beheld the same unprotected look of distress which first won me to her interest: --melancholy! to see such sprightliness the prey of sorrow,--I pitied her from my soul; and though it may seem ridiculous enough to a torpid heart,--I could have taken her into my arms, and cherished her, though it was in the open street, without brushing.
The pulsations of the arteries along my fingers pressing across hers, told her what was passing within me: she looked down--a silence of some moments followed.
I fear in this interval, I must have made some slight efforts towards a closer compression of her hand, from a subtle sensation I felt in the palm of my own,--not as if she was going to withdraw hers--but as if she thought about it;--and I had infallibly lost it a second time, had not instinct more than reason directed me to the last resource in these dangers,--to hold it loosely, and in a manner as if I was every moment going to release it, of myself; so she let it continue, till Monsieur Dessein returned with the key; and in the mean time I set myself to consider how I should undo the ill impressions which the poor monk's story, in case he had told it her, must have planted in her breast against me.
THE SNUFF BOX. CALAIS.
The good old monk was within six paces of us, as the idea of him crossed my mind; and was advancing towards us a little out of the line, as if uncertain whether he should break in upon us or no.--He stopp'd, however, as soon as he came up to us, with a world of frankness: and having a horn snuff box in his hand, he presented it open to me.--You shall taste mine--said I, pulling out my box (which was a small tortoise one) and putting it into his hand.-- 'Tis most excellent, said the monk. Then do me the favour, I replied, to accept of the box and all, and when you take a pinch out of it, sometimes recollect it was the peace offering of a man who once used you unkindly, but not from his heart.
The poor monk blush'd as red as scarlet. Mon Dieu! said he, pressing his hands together--you never used me unkindly.--I should think, said the lady, he is not likely. I blush'd in my turn; but from what movements, I leave to the few who feel, to analyze.-- Excuse me, Madame, replied I,--I treated him most unkindly; and from no provocations.--'Tis impossible, said the lady.--My God! cried the monk, with a warmth of asseveration which seem'd not to belong to him--the fault was in me, and in the indiscretion of my zeal.--The lady opposed it, and I joined with her in maintaining it was impossible, that a spirit so regulated as his, could give offence to any.
I knew not that contention could be rendered so sweet and pleasurable a thing to the nerves as I then