t upon my travels, and shall learn
better manners as I get along.

_III.--The Remise Door--Calais_

Now, there being no travelling through France and Italy without a
chaise--and Nature generally prompting us to the thing we are fittest
for, I walk'd out into the coach yard to buy or hire something of that
kind to my purpose. Mons. Dessein, the master of the hotel, having just
returned from vespers, we walk'd together towards his remise, to take a
view of his magazine of chaises. Suddenly I had turned upon a lady who
had just arrived at the inn and had followed us unperceived, and whom I
had already seen in conference with the Franciscan.

Monsieur Dessein had _diabled_ the key above fifty times before he found
out that he had come with a wrong one in his hand: we were as impatient
as himself to have it open'd, when he left us together, with our faces
towards the door, and said he would be back in five minutes. "This,
certainly, fair lady!" said I, "must be one of Fortune's whimsical
doings; to take two utter strangers by their hands, and in one moment
place them together in such a cordial situation as Friendship herself
could scarce have achieved for them." Then I set myself to consider how
I should undo the ill impressions which the poor monk's story, in case
he had told it to her, must have planted in her breast against me.

_IV.--The Snuff-box--Calais_

The good old monk was within six paces from us, as the idea of him
cross'd 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. "Excuse me, Madam,"
replied I, "I treated him most unkindly; and from no provocations."
"'Tis impossible," said the lady. "My God!" cried the monk, with a
warmth of