The preserved Handkerchief. 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 remember'd 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 of it, I saw an S marked in one of the corners. She had since that, she told me, strayed 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 travel'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 Sympathy. 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 shouldest 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 should'st 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. Nature melted within me as I utter'd this; and Maria observing, as I took out my handkerchief, that it was steep'd too much already to be of use, would needs go wash it in the stream.-And where will you dry it, Maria? said I.-I'll dry it in my bosom, said she-'twill do me good. And is your heart still so warm, Maria? said I. I touch'd upon the string on which hung all her sorrows-she look'd with wistful disorder for some time in my face; and then without saying * This pious observation, drawn from holy writ, does as much honor to Sterne's heart as the brightest parts of any of his writings do to his vivid imagination. The Farewell. any thing, took her pipe, and play'd her service to the Virgin-The string I had touch'd ceased to vibrate-in a moment or two Maria returned to herself-let her pipe fall-and rose up. And where are you going, Maria? said I.She said, to Moulines.-Let us go, said I, together.-Maria put her arm within mine, and lengthening the string, to let the dog follow-in that order we enter'd Moulines. MARIA. MOULINES. THO' I hate salutations and greetings in the market-place, yet when we got into the middle of this I stopp'd to take my last look and last farewel of Maria. Maria though not tall, was nevertheless of the first order of fine forms-affliction had touch'd her looks with something that was scarce earthly; still she was feminine-and so much was there about her of all that the heart wishes, or the eye for in woman, that could the traces be ever worn out of her brain, and those of Eliza's out of mine, she should not mly eat of my bread and drink of my own cup, but Maria should lie in my bosom, and be unto me as a daughter. Adieu, poor luckless maiden!-Imbibe the oil Sensibility. and wine which the compassion of a stranger, as he journeyeth on his way, now pours into thy wounds-the Being who has twice bruised thee can only bind them for ever. up * THE BOURBONNOIS. THERE was nothing from which I had painted out for myself so joyous a riot of the affections, as in this journey in the vintage, through this part of France; but pressing through this gate of sorrow to it, my sufferings have totally unfitted me: in every scene of festivity I saw Maria in the back-ground of the piece, sitting pensive under her poplar; and 1 had got almost to Lyons before I was able to cast a shade across her. - Dear sensibility! +---source inexhausted of all that's precious in our joys, or costly in our sorrows! thou chainest thy martyr down upon his bed of straw-and 'tis thou who lifts him up to HEAVEN-Eternal fountain of our feelings! * Our author, when he chuses to be serious, is equally capable of animating the mind to the most sublime adoration of the Supreme Being, as he is at other times to sport with the imagination, and lead it to less worthy objects. + No one ever went beyond Sterne in pourtraying that exquisite sensibility which, no doubt, he strongly felt, and in this address he delineates a picture in indelible colours. Pity. "divi -'tis here I trace thee-and this is thy nity which stirs within me"-not, that in some sad and sickening moments, my soul shrinks back upon herself, and startles at destruction"- -mere pomp of words!—but that I feel some generous joys and generous cares beyond myself-all comes from thee, great-great SENSORIUM of the world! which vibrates, if a hair of our heads but falls upon the ground, in the remotest desert of thy creation.-Touch'd with thee, Eugenius draws my curtain when I languish-hears my tale of symptoms, and blames the weather for the disorder of his nerves. Thou giv'st a portion of it sometimes to the roughest peasant who traverses the bleakest mountains-he finds the lacerated lamb of another's flock---This moment I beheld him leaning with his head against his crook, with piteous inclination looking down upon it !---Oh! had I come one moment sooner! it bleeds to death---his gentle heart bleeds with it-- Peace to thee, generous swain!—I see thou walkest off with anguish-but thy joys shall balance it-for happy is thy cottage-and happy is the sharer of it—and happy are the lambs which sport about you. |