A Sentimental Journey Through France and Italy

she ought to have been a deist five years before the time I had the honour to pay my first visit.

She placed me upon the same sofa with her, for the sake of disputing the point of religion more closely. - In short Madame de V- told me she believed nothing. - I told Madame de V- it might be her principle, but I was sure it could not be her interest to level the outworks, without which I could not conceive how such a citadel as hers could be defended; - that there was not a more dangerous thing in the world than for a beauty to be a deist; - that it was a debt I owed my creed not to conceal it from her; - that I had not been five minutes sat upon the sofa beside her, but I had begun to form designs; - and what is it, but the sentiments of religion, and the persuasion they had excited in her breast, which could have check’d them as they rose up?

We are not adamant, said I, taking hold of her hand; - and there is need of all restraints, till age in her own time steals in and lays them on us. - But my dear lady, said I, kissing her hand, - ’tis too - too soon.

I declare I had the credit all over Paris of unperverting Madame de V-. - She affirmed to Monsieur D- and the Abbe M-, that in one half hour I had said more for revealed religion, than all their Encyclopaedia had said against it. - I was listed directly into Madame de V-’s coterie; - and she put off the epocha of deism for two years.

I remember it was in this coterie, in the middle of a discourse, in which I was showing the necessity of a first cause, when the young Count de Faineant took me by the hand to the farthest corner of the room, to tell me my solitaire was pinn’d too straight about my neck. - It should be plus badinant, said the Count, looking down upon his own; - but a word, Monsieur Yorick, to the wise -

And from the wise, Monsieur le Count, replied I, making him a bow, - is enough.

The Count de Faineant embraced me with more ardour than ever I was embraced by mortal man.

For three weeks together I was of every man’s opinion I met. - Pardi! ce Monsieur Yorick a autant d’esprit que nous autres. - Il raisonne bien, said another. - C’est un bon enfant, said a third. - And at this price I could have eaten and drank and been merry all the days of my life at Paris; but ’twas a dishonest reckoning; - I grew ashamed of it. - It was the gain of a slave; - every sentiment of honour revolted against it; - the higher I got, the more was I forced upon my beggarly system; - the better the coterie, - the more children of Art; - I languish’d for those of Nature: and one night, after a most vile prostitution of myself to half a dozen different people, I grew sick, - went to bed; - order’d La Fleur to get me horses in the morning to set out for Italy.

MARIA. MOULINES.

 I never felt what the distress of plenty was in any one shape till now, - to travel it through the Bourbonnois, the sweetest part of France, - in the heyday of the vintage, when Nature is pouring her abundance into every one’s lap, and every eye is lifted up, - a journey, through each step of which Music beats time to Labour, and all her children are rejoicing as they carry in their clusters: to pass through this with my affections flying out, and kindling at every group before me, - and every one of them was pregnant with adventures. -

Just heaven! - it would fill up twenty volumes; - and alas! I have but a few small pages left of this to crowd it into, - and half of these must be taken up with the poor Maria my friend, Mr. Shandy, met with near Moulines.

The story he had told of that disordered maid affected me not a little in the reading; but when I got within the neighbourhood where she lived, it returned so strong into the mind, that I could not resist an impulse which prompted me to go half a league out of the road, to the village where her parents dwelt, to enquire after her.

’Tis going, I own, like the Knight of the Woeful Countenance in quest of melancholy adventures.  But I know not how it is, but I am never so perfectly conscious of the existence of a soul within me, as when I am entangled in them.

The old mother came to the door; her looks told me the story before she open’d her mouth. - She had lost her husband; he had died, she said, of anguish, for the loss of Maria’s senses, about a month before. - She had feared at first, she added, that it would have plunder’d her poor girl of what little understanding was left; - but, on the contrary, it had brought her more to herself: - still, she could not rest. - Her poor daughter, she said, crying, was wandering somewhere about the road.

Why does my pulse beat languid as I write this? and what made La Fleur, whose heart seem’d only to be tuned to joy, to pass the back of his hand twice across his eyes, as the woman stood and told it?  I beckoned to the postilion to turn back into the road.

When we had got within half a league of Moulines, at a little opening in the road leading to a thicket, I discovered poor Maria sitting under a poplar.  She was sitting with her elbow in her lap, and her head leaning on one side within her hand: - a small brook ran at the foot of the tree.

I bid the postilion go on with the chaise to Moulines - and La Fleur to bespeak my supper; - and that I would walk after him.

She was dress’d in white, and much as my friend described her, except that her hair hung loose, which before was twisted within a silk net. - She had superadded likewise to her jacket, a pale green riband, which fell across her shoulder to the waist; at the end of which hung her pipe. - Her goat had been as faithless as her lover; and she had got a little dog in lieu of him, which she had kept tied by a string to her girdle: as I looked at her dog, she drew him towards her with the string. - “Thou shalt not leave me, Sylvio,” said she.  I look’d in Maria’s eyes and saw she was thinking more of her father than of her lover, or her little goat; for, as she utter’d them, the tears trickled down her cheeks.

I sat down close by her; and Maria let me 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 wip’d 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 can all the books with which materialists have pester’d the world ever convince me to the contrary.

MARIA.

 When Maria had come a little to herself, I ask’d her if she remembered a pale thin person of a man, who had sat down betwixt her and her goat about two years before?  She said she was unsettled much at that time, but remembered it upon two accounts: - that ill as she was, she saw the person pitied her; and next, that her goat had stolen his handkerchief, and she had beat him for the theft; - she had wash’d it, she said, in the brook, and kept it ever since in her pocket to restore it to him in case she should ever see him again, which, she added, he had half promised her.  As she told me this, she took the handkerchief out of her pocket to let me see it; she had folded it up neatly in a couple of vine leaves, tied round with a tendril; - on opening it, I saw an S. marked in one of the corners.

She had since that, she told me, stray’d as far as Rome, and walk’d round St. Peter’s once, - and return’d back; - that she found her way alone across the Apennines; - had travell’d over all Lombardy, without money, - and through the flinty roads of Savoy without shoes: - how she had borne it, and how she had got supported, she could not tell; - but God tempers the wind, said Maria, to the shorn lamb.

Shorn indeed! and to the quick, said I: and wast thou in my own land, where I have a cottage, I would take thee to it, and shelter thee: thou shouldst eat of my own bread and drink of my own cup; - I would be kind to thy Sylvio; - in all thy weaknesses and wanderings I would seek after thee and bring thee back; - when the sun went down I would say my prayers: and when I had done thou shouldst play thy evening song upon thy pipe, nor would the incense of my sacrifice be worse accepted for entering heaven along with that of a broken heart!