Book ij. that it was from the humblest conviction of what a beast man is--that I asked the question; and that I would not have let fall an unseasonable pleasantry in the venerable presence of Misery, to be entitled to all the wit that ever Rabelais scattered.

:

Adieu, Maria! adieu, poor hapless damsel!-some time, but not now, I may hear thy sorrows from thy own lips--but I was deceived for that moment she took her pipe, and told me such a tale of woe with it, that I rose up, and, with broken and irregular steps, walked softly to my chaise.

Second Part.

WHEN we had got within half a league of

Moulins, at a little opening in the road leading to a thicket, I discovered poor Maria sitting under a poplar--she was sitting with her elbow in her lap, and her head leaning on one side within her hand--a small brook run at the foot of the tree.

I bade the postillion go on with the chaise to Moulins--and la Fleur to bespeak my supper --and that I would walk after him.

She was dressed in white, and much as my friend described her, except that her hair hung loose, which before was twisted within a silk net. She had superadded likewise to her jacket a pale green ribband, which fell across her shoulder to the waist; at the end of which hung her pipe. Her goat had been as faithless as her lover; and she had got a little dog in lieu of him, which she had kept tied by a string to her girdle. As L looked at her dog, she drew him towards her with the string-- a Thou shalt not leave me,

» Sylvio!" said she. I looked in Maria's eyes, and saw she was thinking more of her father than of her lover or her little goat; for as she uttered 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 hankerchief. I then steeped it in my own--and then in her's-and then in mine--and then I wiped 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 of the contrary.

When Maria had come a little to herself, I asked 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 remembered 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 washed 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 vine leaves, 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 walked round St. Peter's once --and returned back--that she found her way alone across the Appenines--had travelled 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 back-when the sun went down I would say my prayand 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.

ers,

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, Marja? 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.

The Cameleon.

Off it has been my lot to mark

FT

A proud, conceited, talking spark,
With eyes, that hardly serv'd at most
To guard their master 'gainst a post:
Yet round the world the blade has been
To see whatever could be seen.
Returning from his finish'd tour,
Grown ten times perter than before';
Whatever word you chance to drop,
The travell'd fool your mouth will stop;
«Sir, if my judgment you'll allow-
» I've seen and sure I ought to know »
So begs you'd pay a due submission,
And acquiesce in his decision.

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? »

כג

כל

כל

Hold there, the other quick replies,
I saw it with these eyes,

'Tis

green

» As late with open mouth it lay,

כג

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. »

כל

»

«<< 'Tis green, 'tis green; Sir, I assure ye »— » Green,» cries the other in a fury

?

כב

» Why, Sir-d'ye think I've lost my eyes
« 'Twere no great loss, » the friend replies;

» For, if they always serve you thus,
» You'll find 'em but of little use, »
So high at last the contest rose "
From words they almost came to blows:
When luckily came by a third;
To him the question they referr'd;
And begg'd he'd tell 'em, if he knew,
Whether the thing was green or blue.

«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→→→