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. Nature melted within me as I uttered 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 will dry it in my bosom, said she--it will 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 any thing, took her pipe, and played her service to the Virgin. The string I had touched, 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 Moulins. 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 entered Moulins. Though I hate salutations and greetings in the market-place, yet when we got into the middle of this, I stopped to take my last look and last farewell of Maria. Maria, though not tall, was nevertheless of the first order of fine forms--affliction had touched 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 looks for in a woman, that could the traces be ever worn out of her brain, and those of Eliza's out of mine, she should not only 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 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 up for ever. STERNE. FT it has been my lot to mark So begs you'd pay a due submission And acquiesce in his decision. , Two travellers of such a cast, A stranger animal, >> cries one, « Sure never liv'd beneath the sun: A lizard's body, lean and long, ככ A fish's head, a serpent's tongue, » Its tooth with triple claw disjoin'd; >> And what a length of tail behind! כל How slow its pace! and then its hue ! « Hold there, the other quick replies, >> As late with open mouth it lay, מ « I've seen it, Sir, as well as you, And must again affirm it blue; >> At leisure I the beast survey'd » Extended in the cooling shade. >>> << 'Tis green, 'tis green; Sir, I assure ye >>>> Green, » cries the other in a fury>> Why, Sir-d'ye think I've lost my eyes? >> << 'Twere no great loss, the friend replies; >>> For, if they always serve you thus, So high at last the contest rose, << Sirs, >> cries the umpire, « cease your pother, >>> The creature's neither one nor t'other. >> I caught the animal last night, >> And view'd it o'er by candle-light: > I mark'd it well-'twas black as jet >> You stare-but Sirs, I've got it yet, << And I'll be sworn that when you've seen Replies the man, « I'll turn him out: >> And when before your eyes I've set him, >> If you don't find him black, I'll eat him. >> He said; then full before their sight Produc'd the beast, and lo!-'twas white. Both star'd, the man look'd wond'rous wise« My children,>> the Cameleon cries, (Then first the creature found a tongue) >> You all are right, and all are wrong: >> When next you talk of what you view, >> Think others see as well as you: >> No wonder, if you find that none >> Prefers your eye-sight to his own. >> CHAP. XIII. MERRICK. The Youth and the Philosopher. A Grecian Youth, of talents rare The trembling grove confess'd its fright, The Muses drop the learned lyre, Howe'er the Youth with forward air, Triumphant to the goal return'd, Amazement seiz'd the circling crowd; Such skill and judgment thrown away. W WHITEHEAD. CHAP. XIV. Sir Balaam. HERE London's column, pointing at the skies, Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies: |