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which fell across her shoulder to the waist; at the ind of which hung her pipe.—Her goat had been as aithless as her lover : and she had got a little dog in ieu of him, which she had kept tied by a string to her zirdle: as I look'd at her dog, she drew him towards her with the string." Thou shalt not leave me, Sylvio,” said she. I look'd in Maria's eyes, and saw she was thinking more of her father than of her lover or her little goat; for as she utter'd them, the tears trickled down her cheeks.

I sat down close by her; and Maria let me wipe them away as they fell, with my handkerchief.--I then steep'd it in my own—and then in her's—and then in mine-and then I wip'd her's again—and as I did it, I felt such undescribable emotions within me, as I am sure could not be accounted for from any combinations of matter and motion.

I am positive I have a soul; nor can all the books with which materialists have pestered the world ever convince me to the contrary.

MARIA.

WHE

HEN Maria had come a little to herself, I

ask'd her if she remembered a pale thin person

of

a man, who had sat down betwixt her and her goat about two years before? She said, she was unsettled much at that time, but remember'd it upon two accounts—that ill as she was, she saw the person pitied her; and next, that her goat had stolen his handkerchief, and she had beat him for the theft—she had wash'd it, she said, in the brook, and kept it ever since in her pocket to restore it to him in

case she should ever see him again, which, she added, he had half promised her. As she told me this, she took the handkerchief out of her pocket to let me see it; she had folded it up neatly in a couple of vineleaves, tied round with a tendril—on opening it, I saw an S. marked in one of the corners.

She had since that, she told me, strayed as far as Rome, and walk'd round St Peter's once- Land return'd back- that she found her way alone across the Apennines—had travell’d over all Lombardy without money—and through the 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 backwhen 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 utter'd this; and Maria observing, as I took out my handkerchief, that it was steep'd 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 look”d with wistful disorder for some time in my face; and then, without saying any thing, took her pipe, and play'd her service to the Virgin

-The string I had touch'd 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 Moulines-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 enter'd Moulines.

MARIA.

MOULINES.

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"HO'I hate salutations and greetings in the market

I stopp'd to take my last look and last farewel of Maria.

Maria, though not tall, was nevertheless of the first order of fine forms- -affliction had touch'd 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 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.

THE BOURBONNOIS.

TH

-not

*HERE 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 background of the piece, sitting pensive under her poplar ; and I 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 lift'st him up to HEAVEN–Eternal fountain of our feelings !—’tis here I trace thee—and this is thy divinity which stirs within me" 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- 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

-Touch'd 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 leaning with his head against his crook, with piteous inclination looking down upon it!-Oh! had I come one moment sooner !--it bleeds to death -his gentle heart bleeds with it

Peace to thee, generous swain !—I see thou walkest off with anguish but thy joys shall balance itfor happy is thy cottage—and happy is the sharer of it and happy are the lambs which

sport
about

you.

THE SUPPER.

A.

SHOE coming loose from the fore-foot of the

thill-horse, at the beginning of the ascent of

mount Taurira, the postillion dismounted, twisted the shoe off, and put it in his pocket; as the ascent was of five or six miles, and that horse our main dependence, I made a point of having the shoe fasten'd on again, as well as we could; but the postillion had thrown away the nails, and the ha ner in the chaisebox 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 fore-foot. 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 disaster. -It was a little farm-house, surrounded with about twenty acres of vineyard, about as much corn--and 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 house -and on the other side was a little wood, which furnished wherewithal to dress it. It was about eight

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