MARIA.

-They were the sweetest notes I ever heard; and 1 instantly let down the foreglass to hear them more distinctly'Tis Maria, said the postilion, observing I was listening- -Poor Maria, continued he, (leaning his body on one side to let me see her, for he was in a line betwixt us,) is sitting upon a bank, playing her vespers upon her pipe, with her little goat beside her.

The young fellow uttered this with an accent and a look so perfectly in tune to a feeling heart, that I instantly made a vow, I would give him a four-and-twenty sous piece, when I got to Moulines.

And who is poor Maria? said I.

The love and pity of all the villages around us, said the postilion-it is but three years ago, that the sun did not shine upon so fair, so quick-witted and amiable a maid; and better fate did Maria deserve, than to have her bans forbid by the intrigues of the curate of the parish, who published them

He was going on, when Maria, who hac made a short pause, put the pipe to he mouth, and began the air again-they wer: the same notes; yet were ten times sweet

er. It is the evening service to the Virgin, said the young man-but who has taught her to play itor how she came by her pipe, no one knows; we think that Heaven has assisted her in both; for ever since she has been unsettled in her mind, it seems her only consolation—she has never once had the pipe out of her hand, but plays that service upon it almost night and day.

The postilion delivered this with so much discretion and natural eloquence, that I could not help deciphering something in his face above his condition, and should have sifted out his history, had not poor Maria's taken such full possession of me.

We had got up by this time almost to the bank where Maria was sitting; she was in a thin white jacket, with her hair, all but two tresses, drawn up into a silk net, with a few olive-leaves twisted a little fantastically on one side-she was beautiful; and if ever I felt the full force of an honest heart-ache, it was the moment I saw her.

-God help her! poor damsel. above a hundred masses, said the postilion, have been said in the several parish churches and convents around for her;but without effect; we have still hopes, as she is sensible for short intervals, that the

Virgin will at last restore her to herself; but her parents, who know her best, are hopeless upon that score, and think her senses are lost for ever.

As the postilion spoke this, Maria made a cadence so melancholy, so tender and querulous, that I sprang out of the chaise to help her, and found myself sitting betwixt her and her goat before I relapsed from my enthusiasm.

Maria looked wistfully for some time at me, and then at her goat-and then at me -and then at her goat again, and so on, alternately

-Well, Maria, said I, softly-what resemblance do you find?

I do entreat the candid reader to believe me, 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 fallen an unseasonable pleasantry in the venerable presence of Misery, to be entitled to all the wit that ever Rabelais scattered-and yet I own my heart smote me, and that I so smarted at the very idea of it, that I swore I would set up for Wisdom, and utter grave sentences the rest of my days and never-never attempt again to commit mirth with man, woman, or child, the longest day I had to live.

As for writing nonsense to them-I believe there was a reserve-but that I leave to the world.

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 wo with it, that I rose up, and, with broken and irregular steps, walked softly to my chaise. Tristram Shandy, vol. 4.

I never felt what the distress of plenty was in any one shape till now-to travel it through the Bourbonnois, the sweetest part of France- -in the heyday of the vintage, when nature is pouring her abundance into every one's lap, and every eye is lifted up-a journey, through each step of which Music beats time to Labour, and all her children are rejoicing as they carry in their clusters- -to pass through this with my affections flying out, and kindling at every group before me

and every one of them was pregnant with adventures.

Just Heaven!

ty volumes

-it will fill up twen-and alas! I have but a

few small pages of this to crowd it into

-and half these must be taken up with the poor Maria my friend Mr. Shandy met with near Moulines.

The story he had told of that disordered maid affected me not a little in the reading; but when I got within the neighbourhood where she lived, it returned so strong into my mind, that I could not resist an impulse which prompted me to go half a league out of the road, to the village where her parents dwelt, to inquire after her.

'Tis going, I own, like the knight of the woful countenance, in quest of melancholy adventures--but I know not how it is, but I am never so perfectly conscious of the existence of a soul within me, as when I am entangled in them.

The old mother came to the door; her looks told me the story before she opened her mouth-She had lost her husband; he had died, she said, of anguish for the loss of Maria's senses, about a month beforeShe had feared at first, she added, that it would have plundered her poor girl of what little understanding was left-but, on the contrary, it had brought her more to herself-still she could not rest-her poor daughter, she said, crying, was wandering somewhere about the road