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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 I looked at her dog, she drew him towards her with the string. 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 handkerchief. I then steeped it in my own, and then in hers, and then in mine; and then I wiped hers 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 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-and so much was there about her of all

alone across the Apennines-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 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 and 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 anything, 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 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 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

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 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.-Sentimental Journey.


IN a few hours Harley reached the inn where he proposed breakfasting; but the fulness of his heart would not suffer him to eat a morsel. He walked out on the road, and gaining a little height, stood gazing on the quarter he had left. He looked for his wonted prospect, his fields, his woods, and his hills; they were lost in the distant clouds ! He pencilled them on the clouds, and bade them farewell with a sigh!

He sat down on a large stone to take out a little pebble from his shoe, when he saw, at some distance, a beggar approaching him. He had on a loose sort of coat, mended with different-coloured rags, amongst which the blue and the russet were the predominant. He had a short knotty stick in his hand, and on the top of it was stuck a ram's horn; his knees -though he was no pilgrim-had worn the stuff off his breeches; he wore no shoes, and his stockings had entirely lost that part of them which should have covered his feet and ankles. In his face, however, was the plump appearance of good-humour; he walked a good round pace, and a crooked-legged dog trotted at his heels.

“Our delicacies,” said Harley to himself, "are fantastic: they are not in nature! that beggar walks over the sharpest of these stones barefooted, while I have lost the most delightful dream in the world

from the smallest of them happening to get into my shoe." The beggar had by. this time come up, and, pulling off a piece of hat, asked charity of Harley; the dog began to beg too. It was impossible to resist both; and, in truth the want of shoes and stockings had made both unnecessary, for Harley had destined sixpence for him before. The beggar, on receiving it, poured forth blessings without number; and, with a sort of smile on his countenance, said to Harley, "that if he wanted his fortune told "- Harley turned his eye briskly on the beggar: it was an unpromising look for the subject of a prediction, and silenced the prophet immediately. "I would much rather learn," said Harley, what it is in your power to tell me your trade must be an entertaining one: sit down on this stone, and let me know something of your profession; I have often thought of turning fortune-teller for a week or two myself."



"Master," replied the beggar, I like your frankness much; God knows I had the humour of plain-dealing in me from a child; but there is no doing with it in this world; we must live as we can, and lying is, as you call it, my profession : but I was in some sort forced to the trade, for I dealt once in telling truth. I was a labourer, sir, and gained as much as to make me live: I never laid by indeed; for I was reckoned a piece of a wag, and your wags, I take it, are seldom rich, Mr. Harley." "So," said Harley, "you seem to know me. 'Ay, there are few folks in the country that I don't know something of; how should I tell fortunes else?" True; but to go on with your story: you were a labourer, you say, and a wag; your industry, I suppose, you left with your old trade; but your humour you preserve to be of use to you in your new.'

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"What signifies sadness, sir? a man grows lean on't: but I was brought to my idleness by degrees; first I could not work, and it went against my stomach to work ever after. I was seized with a jailfever at the time of the assizes being in the county where I lived; for I was always curious to get acquainted with the


felons, because they are commonly fellows of much mirth and little thought, qualities I had ever an esteem for. In the height of this fever, Mr. Harley, the house where I lay took fire, and burnt to the ground; I was carried out in that condition, and lay all the rest of my illness in a barn. I got the better of my disease, however, but I was so weak that I spat blood whenever I attempted to work. I had no relation living that I knew of, and I never kept a friend above a week when I was able to joke; I seldom remained above six months in a parish, so that I might have died before I had found a settlement in any: thus I was forced to beg my bread, and a sorry trade I found it, Mr. Harley. I told all my misfortunes truly, but they were seldom believed; and the few who gave me a half-penny as they passed, did it with a shake of the head, and an injunction not to trouble them with a long story. In short, I found that people do not care to give alms without some security for their money; a wooden leg or a withered arm is a sort of draught upon Heaven for those who choose to have their money placed to account there; so I changed my plan, and, instead of telling my own misfortunes, began to prophesy happiness to others. This I found by much the better way folks will always listen when the tale is their own; and of many who say they do not believe in fortune-telling, I have known few on whom it had not a very sensible effect. I pick up the names of their acquaintance; amours and little squabbles are easily gleaned among servants and neighbours; and indeed people themselves are the best intelligencers in the world for our purpose; they dare not puzzle us for their own sakes, for every one is anxious to hear what they wish to believe; and they who repeat it, to laugh at it when they have done, are generally more serious than their hearers are apt to imagine. With a tolerable good memory and some share of cunning, with the help of walking a-nights over heaths and churchyards, with this, and showing the tricks of that there dog, whom stole from the sergeant of a marching regiment-and,

by the way, he can steal too upon occasion

I make shift to pick up a livelihood. My trade, indeed, is none of the honestest; yet people are not much cheated neither, who give a few half-pence for a prospect of happiness, which I have heard some persons say is all a man can arrive at in this world. But I must bid you goodday, sir; for I have three miles to walk before noon, to inform some boardingschool young ladies whether their husbands are to be peers of the realm or captains in the army; a question which I promised to answer them by that time."

Harley had drawn a shilling from his pocket; but Virtue bade him consider on whom he was going to bestow it. Virtue held back his arm; but a milder form, a younger sister of Virtue's, not so severe as Virtue, nor so serious as Pity, smiled upon him; his fingers lost their compression; nor did Virtue offer to catch the money as it fell. It had no sooner reached the ground, than the watchful cur-a trick he had been taught-snapped it up; and contrary to the most approved method of stewardship, delivered it immediately into the hands of his master.— The Man of Feeling.

[DR. JOHN MOORE. 1729-1802.]


BUCHANAN filled a bumper, and gave for the toast, "The Land of Cakes!


This immediately dispersed the cloud which began to gather on the other's brow.


Targe drank the toast with enthusiasm, saying, May the Almighty pour his blessings on every hill and valley in it! that is the worst wish, Mr. Buchanan, that I shall ever wish to that land."

"It would delight your heart to behold the flourishing condition it is now in," replied Buchanan; "it was fast improving when I left it, and I have been credibly informed since that it is now a perfect garden."

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"I am not quite clear on that point, Mr. Targe," said Buchanan.

"Depend upon it," replied Targe, "the Union was the worst treaty that Scotland ever made."

"I shall admit," said Buchanan, "that she might have made a better; but, bad as it is, our country reaps some advantage from it."

"All the advantages are on the side of England."

"What do you think, Mr. Targe," said Buchanan, "of the increase of trade since the Union, and the riches which have flowed into the Lowlands of Scotland from that quarter?"

"Think," cried Targe; "why, I think they have done a great deal of mischief to the Lowlands of Scotland."

"How so, my good friend?" said Buchanan.

"By spreading luxury among the inhabitants, the never-failing forerunner of effeminacy of manners. Why, I was assured," continued Targe, "by Sergeant Lewis Macneil, a Highland gentleman in the Prussian service, that the Lowlanders, in some parts of Scotland, are now very little better than so many English."

"O fie!" cried Buchanan; "things are not come to that pass as yet, Mr. Targe your friend, the sergeant, assuredly exaggerates.'

"I hope he does," replied Targe; "but you must acknowledge," continued he, that by the Union, Scotland has lost her existence as an independent state; her name is swallowed up in that of England. Only read the English newspapers; they mention England, as if it were the name of the whole island. They talk of the English army, the English fleet, the English everything. They never mention Scotland, except when one of our countrymen happens to

get an office under government; we are then told, with some stale gibe, that the person is a Scotchman: or, which happens still more rarely, when any of them are condemned to die at Tyburn, particular care is taken to inform the public that the criminal is originally from Scotland! But if fifty Englishmen get places, or are hanged, in one year, no remarks are made."

"No," said Buchanan; "in that case it is passed over as a thing of course."

The conversation then taking another turn, Targe, who was a great genealogist, descanted on the antiquity of certain gentlemen's families in the Highlands; which, he asserted, were far more honourable than most of the noble families either in Scotland or England. "Is it not shameful," added he, "that a parcel of mushroom lords, mere sprouts from the dunghills of law or commerce, the grandsons of grocers and attorneys, should take the pass of gentlemen of the oldest families in Europe?"

"Why, as for that matter," replied Buchanan, "provided the grandsons of grocers or attorneys are deserving citizens, I do not perceive why they should be excluded from the king's favour more than other men.

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"But some of them never drew a sword in defence of either their king or country," rejoined Targe.

"Assuredly," said Buchanan, "men may deserve honour and pre-eminence by other means than by drawing their swords.

[The conversation next turned on the personal character and honesty of George Buchanan, the historian.]

"In what did he ever show any want of honesty?" said Buchanan.

"In calumniating and endeavouring to blacken the reputation of his rightful sovereign, Mary Queen of Scots," replied Targe, "the most beautiful and accomplished princess that ever sat on a throne."

"I have nothing to say either against her beauty or her accomplishments," re sumed Buchanan; "but surely, Mr. Targe,

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"Well, sir," cried Targe, "what then? She was, like other people, of the religion in which she was bred."

"I fear you are too nearly related to the false slanderer whose name you bear!" said Targe.

The groom interposed, and endea"I do not know where you may have voured to reconcile the two enraged Scots, been bred, Mr. Targe," said Buchanan; but without success. Buchanan soon ar"for aught I know, you may be an ad-rived with his sword, and they retired to herent to the worship of the scarlet lady a private spot in the garden. The groom yourself. Unless that is the case, you next tried to persuade them to decide ought not to interest yourself in the repu- their difference by fair boxing. This was tation of Mary Queen of Scots." rejected by both the champions as a mode of fighting unbecoming gentlemen. The groom asserted that the best gentlemen in England sometimes fought in that manner, and gave, as an instance, a boxing-match, of which he himself had been a witness, between Lord G.'s gentleman and a gentleman farmer at York races about the price of a mare.


"But our quarrel," said Targe, "is about the reputation of a queen.' "That, for certain," replied the groom, "makes a difference."

"I glory in the name; and should think myself greatly obliged to any man who could prove my relation to the great George Buchanan !" cried the other.

"He was nothing but a disloyal calumniator," cried Targe; "who attempted to support falsehoods by forgeries, which, I thank Heaven, are now fully detected!"

"You are thankful for a very small mercy," resumed Buchanan; "but since you provoke me to it, I will tell you, in plain English, that your bonny Queen Mary was the murderer of her husband!"

tion, or retracting what you have said against the beautiful Queen of Scotland!" cried Targe.

No sooner had he uttered the last sentence, than Targe flew at him like a tiger, and they were separated with difficulty by Mr. N -'s groom, who was in the adjoining chamber, and had heard the altercation. "I insist on your giving me satisfac

"As for retracting what I have said,” replied Buchanan, "that is no habit of mine; but with regard to giving you satisfaction, I am ready for that to the best of my ability; for let me tell you, sir, though I am not a Highlandman, Í am & Scotchman as well as yourself, and not entirely ignorant of the use of the claymore; so name your hour, and I will meet you to-morrow morning.



'Why not directly?" cried Targe; "there is nobody in the garden to interrupt us.


"I should have chosen to have settled some things first; but since you are in such a hurry, I will not balk you. I will step home for my sword and be with you directly," said Buchanan.

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