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 monient 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 looks for in a woman, eye 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. OFF CHA P. XI I. The Cameleon. FT it has been my lot to mark Two travellers of such a cast ' As o'er Arabia's wilds they past, And on their way in friendly chat Now talk'd of this, and then of that, Discours'd awhile 'mongst other matter, Of the Cameleon's form and nature. » A stranger animal, » cries one, << Sure never liv'd beneath the sun: » A lizard's body, lean and long, "A fish's head, a serpent's tongue, "Its tooth with triple claw disjoin'd; And what a length of tail behind! » How slow its pace! and then its hue! Who ever saw so fine a blue? » כל «Hold there, n the other quick replies, » 'Tis green-I saw it with these eyes, » As late with open mouth it lay, » And warm'd it in the sunny ray; » Stretch'd at its ease the beast I view'd, » And saw it eat the air for food. » <<< 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 furyWhy, Sir-d'ye think I've lost my eyes ? « "Twere no great loss, the friend replies; » For, if they always serve you thus, ૪ ૬ כ כל » You'll find 'em but of little use. >> כג Sirs, cries the umpire, «< cease your pother, >> The creature's neither one nor t'other. >> I caught the animal last night, » You stare-but Sirs, I've got it yet, » Well then, at once to ease the doubt,» you you CHA P. XIII. : MERRICK. The Youth and the Philosopher. A Grecian Youth, of talents rare, Whom Plato's philosophic care Would often boast his matchles skill, Was praise and transport to his breast. To Academus' sacred shade. The trembling grove confess'd its fright, The wood-nymphs started at the sight; The Muses drop the learned lyre, Howe'er the Youth with forward air, Amazement seiz'd the circling crowd; Expect no praise from me, (and sigh'd) Such skill and judgment thrown away. WHITEHEAD. CHA P. XIV. Sir Balaam. HERE London's column, pointing at the skies, Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies: There dwelt a Citizen of sober fame " |