GENTLE Spirit of sweetest humour, who erst did sit upon the easy pen of
my beloved CERVANTES; Thou who glidedst daily through his lattice, and
turned’st the twilight of his prison into noon-day brightness by thy
presence——tinged’st his little urn of water with heaven-sent nectar,
and all the time he wrote of _Sancho_ and his master, didst cast thy
mystic mantle o’er his wither’d stump[44], and wide extended it to all
the evils of his life——
——Turn in hither, I beseech thee!——behold these breeches!——they are all
I have in world——that piteous rent was given them at _Lyons_——
My shirts! see what a deadly schism has happen’d amongst ’em—for the
laps are in _Lombardy_, and the rest of ’em here—I never had but six,
and a cunning gypsey of a laundress at _Milan_ cut me off the
_fore_-laps of five—To do her justice, she did it with some
consideration—for I was returning out of _Italy._
And yet, notwithstanding all this, and a pistol tinder-box which was
moreover filch’d from me at _Sienna_, and twice that I pay’d five Pauls
for two hard eggs, once at _Raddicoffini_, and a second time at
_Capua_—I do not think a journey through _France_ and _Italy_, provided
a man keeps his temper all the way, so bad a thing as some people would
make you believe: there must be _ups_ and _downs_, or how the duce
should we get into vallies where Nature spreads so many tables of
entertainment.—’Tis nonsense to imagine they will lend you their
voitures to be shaken to pieces for nothing; and unless you pay twelve
sous for greasing your wheels, how should the poor peasant get butter
to his bread?—We really expect too much—and for the livre or two above
par for your suppers and bed—at the most they are but one shilling and
ninepence halfpenny——who would embroil their philosophy for it? for
heaven’s and for your own sake, pay it——pay it with both hands open,
rather than leave _Disappointment_ sitting drooping upon the eye of
your fair Hostess and her Damsels in the gate-way, at your
departure—and besides, my dear Sir, you get a sisterly kiss of each of
’em worth a pound——at least I did——
——For my uncle _Toby_’s amours running all the way in my head, they had
the same effect upon me as if they had been my own——I was in the most
perfect state of bounty and good-will; and felt the kindliest harmony
vibrating within me, with every oscillation of the chaise alike; so
that whether the roads were rough or smooth, it made no difference;
every thing I saw or had to do with, touch’d upon some secret spring
either of sentiment or rapture.
——They were the sweetest notes I ever heard; and I instantly let down
the fore-glass to hear them more distinctly——’Tis _Maria;_ said the
postillion, observing I was listening——Poor _Maria_, continued he
(leaning his body on one side to let me see her, for he was in a line
betwixt us), is sitting upon a bank playing her vespers upon her pipe,
with her little goat beside her.
The young fellow utter’d this with an accent and a look so perfectly in
tune to a feeling heart, that I instantly made a vow, I would give him
a four-and-twenty sous piece, when I got to _Moulins_——
——And who is poor _Maria?_ said I.
The love and piety of all the villages around us; said the
postillion——it is but three years ago, that the sun did not shine upon
so fair, so quick- witted and amiable a maid; and better fate did
_Maria_ deserve, than to have her Banns forbid, by the intrigues of the
curate of the parish who published them——
He was going on, when _Maria_, who had made a short pause, put the pipe
to her mouth, and began the air again——they were the same notes;——yet
were ten times sweeter: It is the evening service to the Virgin, said
the young man——but who has taught her to play it—or how she came by her
pipe, no one knows; we think that heaven has assisted her in both; for
ever since she has been unsettled in her mind, it seems her only
consolation——she has never once had the pipe out of her hand, but plays
that _service_ upon it almost night and day.
The postillion delivered this with so much discretion and natural
eloquence, that I could not help decyphering something in his face
above his condition, and should have sifted out his history, had not
poor _Maria_ taken such full possession of me.
We had got up by this time almost to the bank where _Maria_ was
sitting: she was in a thin white jacket, with her hair, all but two
tresses, drawn up into a silk-net, with a few olive leaves twisted a
little fantastically on one side——she was beautiful; and if ever I felt
the full force of an honest heart-ache, it was the moment I saw her——
——God help her! poor damsel! above a hundred masses, said the
postillion, have been said in the several parish churches and convents
around, for her,——but without effect; we have still hopes, as she is
sensible for short intervals, that the Virgin at last will restore her
to herself; but her parents, who know her best, are hopeless upon that
score, and think her senses are lost for ever.
As the postillion spoke this, MARIA made a cadence so melancholy, so
tender and querulous, that I sprung out of the chaise to help her, and
found myself sitting betwixt her and her goat before I relapsed from my
enthusiasm.
MARIA look’d wistfully for some time at me, and then at her goat——and
then at me——and then at her goat again, and so on, alternately——
——Well, _Maria_, said I softly——What resemblance do you find?
I do entreat the candid reader to believe me, that it was from the
humblest conviction of what a _Beast_ man is,——that I asked the
question; and that I would not have let fallen an unseasonable
pleasantry in the venerable presence of Misery, to be entitled to all
the wit that ever _Rabelais_ scatter’d——and yet I own my heart smote
me, and that I so smarted at the very idea of it, that I swore I would
set up for Wisdom, and utter grave sentences the rest of my days——and
never——never attempt again to commit mirth with man, woman, or child,
the longest day I had to live.
As for writing nonsense to them——I believe there was a reserve—but that
I leave to the world.
Adieu, _Maria!_—adieu, poor hapless damsel!——some time, but not now, I
may hear thy sorrows from thy own lips——but I was deceived; for that
moment she took her pipe and told me such a tale of woe with it, that I
rose up, and with broken and irregular steps walk’d softly to my
chaise.
——What an excellent inn at _Moulins!_
[44] He lost his hand at the battle of _Lepanto._