And that all of us, both old and young, being ten times worse frightened
than hurt by the very _report_,—what a want of knowledge in this branch
of commerce a man betrays, whoever lets the word come out of his lips,
till an hour or two, at least, after the time that his silence upon it
becomes tormenting. A course of small, quiet attentions, not so pointed
as to alarm,—nor so vague as to be misunderstood—with now and then a look
of kindness, and little or nothing said upon it,—leaves nature for your
mistress, and she fashions it to her mind.—
Then I solemnly declare, said the lady, blushing, you have been making
love to me all this while.
THE REMISE.
CALAIS.
MONSIEUR DESSEIN came back to let us out of the chaise, and acquaint the
lady, the count de L—, her brother, was just arrived at the hotel.
Though I had infinite good will for the lady, I cannot say that I
rejoiced in my heart at the event—and could not help telling her so;—for
it is fatal to a proposal, Madame, said I, that I was going to make to
you—
—You need not tell me what the proposal was, said she, laying her hand
upon both mine, as she interrupted me.—A man my good Sir, has seldom an
offer of kindness to make to a woman, but she has a presentiment of it
some moments before.—
Nature arms her with it, said I, for immediate preservation.—But I think,
said she, looking in my face, I had no evil to apprehend,—and, to deal
frankly with you, had determined to accept it.—If I had—(she stopped a
moment)—I believe your good will would have drawn a story from me, which
would have made pity the only dangerous thing in the journey.
In saying this, she suffered me to kiss her hand twice, and with a look
of sensibility mixed with concern, she got out of the chaise,—and bid
adieu.
IN THE STREET.
CALAIS.
I NEVER finished a twelve guinea bargain so expeditiously in my life: my
time seemed heavy, upon the loss of the lady, and knowing every moment of
it would be as two, till I put myself into motion,—I ordered post horses
directly, and walked towards the hotel.
Lord! said I, hearing the town clock strike four, and recollecting that I
had been little more than a single hour in Calais,—
—What a large volume of adventures may be grasped within this little span
of life by him who interests his heart in every thing, and who, having
eyes to see what time and chance are perpetually holding out to him as he
journeyeth on his way, misses nothing he can _fairly_ lay his hands on!
—If this won’t turn out something,—another will;—no matter,—’tis an assay
upon human nature—I get my labour for my pains,—’tis enough;—the pleasure
of the experiment has kept my senses and the best part of my blood awake,
and laid the gross to sleep.
I pity the man who can travel from Dan to Beersheba, and cry, ’Tis all
barren;—and so it is: and so is all the world to him who will not
cultivate the fruits it offers. I declare, said I, clapping my hands
cheerily together, that were I in a desert, I would find out wherewith in
it to call forth my affections:—if I could not do better, I would fasten
them upon some sweet myrtle, or seek some melancholy cypress to connect
myself to;—I would court their shade, and greet them kindly for their
protection.—I would cut my name upon them, and swear they were the
loveliest trees throughout the desert: if their leaves wither’d, I would
teach myself to mourn; and, when they rejoiced, I would rejoice along
with them.
The learned Smelfungus travelled from Boulogne to Paris,—from Paris to
Rome,—and so on;—but he set out with the spleen and jaundice, and every
object he pass’d by was discoloured or distorted.—He wrote an account of
them, but ’twas nothing but the account of his miserable feelings.
I met Smelfungus in the grand portico of the Pantheon:—he was just coming
out of it.—’_Tis nothing but a huge cockpit_, {580} said he:—I wish you
had said nothing worse of the Venus of Medicis, replied I;—for in passing
through Florence, I had heard he had fallen foul upon the goddess, and
used her worse than a common strumpet, without the least provocation in
nature.
I popp’d upon Smelfungus again at Turin, in his return home; and a sad
tale of sorrowful adventures had he to tell, “wherein he spoke of moving
accidents by flood and field, and of the cannibals that each other eat:
the Anthropophagi:”—he had been flayed alive, and bedevil’d, and used
worse than St. Bartholomew, at every stage he had come at.—
—I’ll tell it, cried Smelfungus, to the world. You had better tell it,
said I, to your physician.
Mundungus, with an immense fortune, made the whole tour; going on from
Rome to Naples,—from Naples to Venice,—from Venice to Vienna,—to Dresden,
to Berlin, without one generous connection or pleasurable anecdote to
tell of; but he had travell’d straight on, looking neither to his right
hand nor his left, lest Love or Pity should seduce him out of his road.
Peace be to them! if it is to be found; but heaven itself, were it
possible to get there with such tempers, would want objects to give it;
every gentle spirit would come flying upon the wings of Love to hail
their arrival.—Nothing would the souls of Smelfungus and Mundungus hear
of, but fresh anthems of joy, fresh raptures of love, and fresh
congratulations of their common felicity.—I heartily pity them; they have
brought up no faculties for this work; and, were the happiest mansion in
heaven to be allotted to Smelfungus and Mundungus, they would be so far
from being happy, that the souls of Smelfungus and Mundungus would do
penance there to all eternity!