ink 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."

But then follows more whimpering:

"Nature melted within me [continues Sterne] as I said this; and
Maria observing, as I took out my handkerchief, that it was steeped
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 touched upon the string on which hung all her sorrows.
She looked with wistful disorder for some time in my face; and then,
without saying anything, took her pipe and played her service to the
Virgin."

Which are we meant to look at--the sorrows of Maria? or the
sensibilities of the Sentimental Traveller? or the condition of the
pocket-handkerchief? I think it doubtful whether any writer of the
first rank has ever perpetrated so disastrous a literary failure
as this scene; but the main cause of that failure appears to me not
doubtful at all. The artist has no business within the frame of the
picture, and his intrusion into it has spoilt it. The method adopted
from the commencement is ostentatiously objective: we are taken
straight into Maria's presence, and bidden to look at and to pity the
unhappy maiden as _described_ by the Traveller who met her. No attempt
is made to place us at the outset in sympathy with _him_; he, until he
thrusts himself before us, with his streaming eyes, and his drenched
pocket-handkerchief, is a mere reporter of the scene before him, and
he and his tears are as much out of place as if he were the compositor
who set up the type. It is not merely that we don't want to know how
the scene affected him, and that we resent as an impertinence the
elaborate account of his tender emotions; we don't wish to be reminded
of his presence at all. For, as we can know nothing (effectively)
of Maria's sorrows except as given in her appearance--the historical
recital of them and their cause being too curt and bald to be able to
move us--the best chance for moving our compassion for her is to
make the illusion of her presence as dramatically real