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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 re. turned 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 toge ther. Maria put her arm within mine, and lengthening the string, to let the dog follow-in that order we entered Moulines.



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 woman, that could the traces be ever worn out of her brain, and those of Eliza's out of mine, she should not enly 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.


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 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 feeling! 'tis here I trace thee-and this is thy divinity 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 Sensorium of the world! which vibrates, if a hair of our heads but falls upon the ground, in the remotest desert of thy creation.Touched 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 lean: ing with his head against his crook, with piteous inclination looking down upon it-Oh! had I come one moment sooner;-it bleeds to deathhis 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.



A SHOE Coming loose from the fore-foot of the thill-horse, at the beginning of the ascent of Mount Taurira, the postillion dismounted, twist ed the shoe off, and but it in his pocket ;-as the ascent was of five or six miles, and that horse our main dependance, I made a point of having the shoe fastened on again, as well as we could; but the postillion had thrown away the nails, and the hammer in the chaise-box being of no great use without them, I submitted to go on.

He had not mounted half a mile higher, when coming to a flinty piece of road, the poor devil lost a second shoe, and from off his other forefoot; I then got out of the chaise in good earnest; and seeing a house about a quarter of a mile to the left hand, with a great deal to do, I prevailed upon the postillion to turn up to it. The look of the house, and of every thing about it, as we drew nearer, soon reconciled me to the diaster. It was a little farm house, surrounded with about twenty acres of vineyard, about as much cornand close to the house on one side, was a potagerie, of an acre and a half, full of every thing which could make plenty in a French peasant's houseand on the other side was a little wood, which fur



nished wherewithal to dress it. It was about eight in the evening when I got to the house-so I left the postillion to manage his point as he couldand for mine, I walked directly into the house.

The family consisted of an old grey-headed man, and his wife, with five or six sons and sons-in-law, and their several wives, and a joyous genealogy out of them.

They were all sitting down together to their lentil soup; a large wheaten loaf was in the middle of the table; and a flagon of wine at each end of it, promised joy through the stages of the repast→ 'tw a feast of love.

The old man rose up to meet me, and, with a respectful cordiality, would have me sit down at the table-my heart was sat down the moment I entered the room; so I sat down at once like a son of the family; and to invest myself in the character as speedily as I could, I instantly borrowed the old man's knife,and, taking up the loaf, cut myself a hearty luncheon; and, as I did it, I saw a testimony in every eye, not only of an honest welcome, but of a welcome mixed with thanks, that I had not seemed to doubt it.

Was it this; or tell me, Nature, what else it was which made this morsel so sweet-and to what magic I owe it, that the draught I took of their flagon was so delicious with it, that they remain upon my palate to this hour?

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