A Sentimental Journey | Page 7

and
resolv'd some way or other to throw in my mite of courtesy,--if not of
service.
Such were my temptations;--and in this disposition to give way to them,
was I left alone with the lady with her hand in mine, and with our faces
both turned closer to the door of the Remise than what was absolutely
necessary.
THE REMISE DOOR. CALAIS.
This certainly, fair lady, said I, raising her hand up little lightly as I
began, must 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.--