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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 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 touch'd 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 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
enter'd Moulines.


MARIA. MOULINES.


Though I hate salutations and greetings in the market-place, yet,
when we got into the middle of this, I stopp'd 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
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 BOURBONNNOIS.


There was nothing from which I had painted out for my self 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

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