Now, was I a king of France, cried I—what a moment for an orphan to have begged his father's portmanteau of nie! THE MONK. CALAIS. I HAD scarce uttered the words when a poor monk, of the order of St. Francis, came into the room, to beg something for his convent. No man cares to have his virtues the sport of contingencies— or one man may be generous, as another man is puissant―sed non, quo ad hanc—or be it as it may— for there is no regular reasoning upon the ebbs and flows of our humours; they may depend upon the same causes, for aught I know, which influence the tides themselves twould oft be no discredit to us to suppose it was so I'm sure, at least for myself, that in many a case I should be more highly satisfied to have it said by the world, "I had had an affair with the moon, in which there was neither sin nor shame," than have it pass altogether as my own act and deed, wherein there was so much of both. -But be this as it may. The moment I cast my eyes upon him I was predetermined not to give him a single sous, and accordingly I put my purse into my pocket, buttoned it up, set myself a little more upon my centre, and advanced up gravely to him. There was something, I fear, forbidding in my look-I have his figure this moment before my eyes, and think there was that in it which deserved better. The monk, as I judged from the break in his tonsure, (a few scattered white hairs upon his temples being all that remained of it) might be about seventy; but from his eyes, and that sort of fire which was in them, which seemed more tempered by courtesy than years, could be no more than sixty-truth might lie between-he was certainly sixty-five; and the general air of his countenance, notwithstanding something seemed to have been planting wrinkles in it before their time, agreed to the account. It was one of those heads which Guido has often painted-mild, pale, penetrating; free from all common-place ideas of fat contented ignorance looking downwards upon the earth-it looked forwards; but looked as if it looked at something beyond this world. How one of his order came by it, heaven above, who let it fall upon a monk's shoulders, best knows; but it would have suited a Bramin, and, had I met it upon the plains of Indostan, I had reverenced it. The rest of his outline may be given in a few strokes; one might put it into the hands of any one -to design, for 'twas neither elegant nor otherwise, but as character and expression made it so: it was a thin, spare form, something above the common size, if it lost not the distinction by a bend forwards in the figure-but it was the attitude of Intreaty; and as it now stands presented to my imagination, it gained more than it lost by it. When he had entered the room three paces he stood still; and laying his left hand upon his breast, (a slender white staff with which he journied being in his right) when I had got close up to him, he introduced himself with the little story of the wants of his convent, and the poverty of his order-and did it with so simple a grace-and such an air of deprecation was there in the whole cast of his look and figure-I was bewitched not to have been struck with it. -A better reason was, I had predetermined not to give him a single sous. THE MONK. CALAIS. "Tis very true, said I, replying to a cast upwards with his eyes, with which he had concluded his address 'tis very true-and heaven be their resource who have no other but the charity of the world, the stock of which, I fear, is no way suffi cient for the many great claims which are hourly made upon it. As I pronounced the words great claims, he gave a slight glance with his eye downwards upon the sleeve of his tunic-I felt the full force of the appeal—I acknowledge it, said I—a coarse habit, (and that but once in three years) with meagre diet, are no great matters; and the true point of pity is, as they can be earned in the world with so little industry, that your order should wish to procure them by pressing upon a fund which is the property of the lame, the blind, the aged, and the infirm the captive who lies down counting over and over again the days of his afflictions, languishes also for his share of it; and had you been of the order of mercy, instead of the order of St. Francis, poor as I am, continued I, pointing at my portmanteau, full cheerfully should it have been opened to you for the ransom of the unfortunate The monk made me a bow-But of all others, resumed I, the unfortunate of our own country, surely, have the first rights; and I have left thousands in distress upon our own shore-The monk gave a cordial wave with his head-as much as to say, no doubt, there is misery enough in every corner of the world, as well as within our conventBut we distinguish, said I, laying my hand upon the sleeve of his tunic, in return for his appeal-we distinguish, my good father! betwixt those who wish only to eat the bread of their own labour— { and those who eat the bread of other people's, and have no other plan in life but to get through it in sloth and ignorance, for the love of God. The poor Franciscan made no reply-a hectic of a moment passed across his cheek, but could not tarry-Nature seemed to have had done with her resentments in him; he showed none-but letting his staff fall within his arm, he pressed both his hands with resignation upon his breast, and retired. THE MONK. CALAIS. My heart smote me the moment he shut ne door-Psha! said I, with an air of carelessness, three several times-but it would not do: every ungracious syllable I had uttered crowded back into my imagination: I reflected I had no right over the poor Franciscan but to deny him; and that the punishment of that was enough to the disappointed without the addition of unkind language -I considered his grey hairs- -his courteous figure seemed to re-enter, and gently ask me what injury he had done me?—and why I could use him thus?—I would have given twenty livres for an advocate-I have behaved very ill, said I within myself; but I have only just set out upon my |