poor Mari'a/ sitting under a pop'lar-she was sitting with her elbow in her lap', and her he'ad (leaning on one side') within her hand'-a small brook'/ ran at the foot of the tree. I bade the postillion go on with the chaise to Moulines'and La Fleur to bespeak my sup'per—and that I should walk after him. She was dressed in white', a'nd/ mu'ch as my friend des'cribed her, except that her hair hung loose', which before was twis'ted/ within a silken ne't. She had superadded likewise to her jacket a pale-green rib'band, which fell across her shoulder/ to the waist; at the end of which/ hung her pipe'. Her go'at/ had been as faith less as her lover'; and she had got a little dôg/ in lieu of him, which she kept tied by a string/ to her gir'dle; as I looked at her dog', she drew him towards her with the string-" Thou shalt not leave me, S'ylvio," said she'. I looked in Maria's eyes', and saw she was thinking more of her father than of her lov^er/ or/ her little goat; for, as she uttered the words', the te'ars/ trickled down her chee'ks. I sat down close by her; and Maria let me wipe them awa'y 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—an'd, a's I did' it, I felt such undescribable emo'tions within' me, as I am sure could not be accounted for/ from any combinations of mat`ter and m'otion. I am positive I have a soul'; no`r/ can all the books' (with which materialists have pestered the world') e`ver 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 go'at/ about two years before? She said, she was unsettled much at that time', but remembered it upon two accounts-th'at, ill as she was', she saw the person pitied her; and next', that her goat had stolen his hand'kerchief, and she had bea'ten him/ for the the'ft—she had wa'shed it (she sa'id) in the brook', and kept it ever since in her pocket, to restore'-it-to-him/ (in case she should ever see him again), wh'ich (she added) he had half pro'mised her. As she told me thi's, she took the handkerchief out of her pocket to let me see it: she had folded it up neat`ly/ in a couple of vine leaves', tied round with a ten'dril-on o'pening it, I saw an S/ marked in one of the cor'ners. 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 Apennines-had travelled over all Lombardy/ without money and through the flinty roads of Savoy/ without shoes': how she had bo`rne it, and how she had got support'ed, she could not t'ell-but/ Go'd/ tempers the wind' (said Mari'a) to the shorn' lamb'. Shorn' indeed'! and to the quick, said I; and, wast thou in my own land', where I have a cot'tage, I would take thee to it, and she'lter thee; thou shouldst eat of my own bread', and drink' of my own cup'-I would be kind to thy Syl'vio-in all thy we'aknesses and wan'derings I would s'eek after thee, and bring thee back-when the sun went down'/ I would say my prayers', and, when I had done', thou shouldst play the evening so'ng/ upon thy pipe'; nor would the incense' of my sacrifice be worse a'ccepted, 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 u'se, 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, Mari'a ? said I'. I touched upon the string' on which hung all her sor`rows— she looked/ (with wistful disorder)* for some time in my face'; and then' (without saying an'y-thing) took her pipe and played her service' to the Virgin'-The string I had touch'ed/ ceased to vibrate-in a mo'ment 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', an'd, le'ngthening the string to let the dog follow -in that o'rder, 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 last lo'ok/ and last farewell' of Mari'a. my Mari'a, though not tall', was neverthele'ss/ of the first order of fine forms-affliction/ had touched her looks' with some thing/ that was scarce earth'ly-st`ill she was feminine : * Every illustrative or explanatory adverbial phrase will be improved, if read parenthetically. and/ so much was there about her of all that the heart/ wishes/ or the eye looks for in wo'man, th'at, 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, Ma'ria should lie' in my bosom', and b'e unto me, as a daughter. Adieu', poor', luck'less, ma`iden !—imbibe the o'il and win`e/ which the compas'sion of a str'anger (as he journeyeth on his way') now pours into thy wounds the Be'ing, who has twice` bruised' thee, can on`ly/ bind them up for ever'. LIBERTY AND SLAVERY. DISGUISE thyself as thou wilt, still, Slavery! still thou art a bitter draught; and, though thousands in all ages/ have been made to drink of thee, thou art no less bitter on that account. It is th'ou LI'BERTY! thrice sweet and gracious goddess (whom all in public or in private wor'ship), whose ta ste is grateful, and ever wi'll be so, till Nature her'self shall cha'nge- no tint of words can spot thy snowy ma'ntle, nor chymic power turn thy sceptre into iron—with thee to smi'le upon him (as he eats his cr'ust), the swain is ha'ppier than his monarch, from whose co'urt/* thou art exil'ed Gracious Heaven! grant me but health (thou great Best'owerof-it), and give me but this fair go'ddess/ as my companion; and shower down thy mi'tres (if it seem goo'd unto thy divine pr'ovidence) upon those he'ads/ which are aching for them. Pursuing these ideas, I sat down close by my ta`ble, a'nd, leaning my head upon my ha'nd, I began to figure to my'self the mi'series of confinement. I was in a right frame for it, and so I gave full sc'ope/ to my imagina'tion. I was going to begin with the millions of my fellow-c'reatures, bo'rn to no inheritance but† slavery; but finding * Our general duty before a personal pronoun, as well as before proper nouns, is to take a breath and keep the voice up. † As a general rule, when " but" means except, and immediately precedes a noun or pronoun, it virtually becomes a preposition-governing the noun or pronoun in the objective case, and always requiring to be pronounced with accentual, almost with emphatic, force. (however affecting the picture was) that I could not bring it near' me, and that the multitude of sad groups in it, did but distract me I took a single captive, an'd/ having first shut him up in his du'ngeon, I then looked through the twilight of his grated d'oor/ to take his picture. I beheld his body-half was'ted away with long expectation and confi'nement, and felt what kind of sickness of the he'art it is/ which arises from h'ope defer'red. Upon looking ne'arer, I saw him p'ale and fev'erish: in thirty years/ the western breeze/ had not once fan'ned his blo'od-he had seen no s'un, no moon, in all that time-no`r/ had the voice of friend or kinsman/ breathed through his lattice. His children But here my heart began to ble'ed-and I was forced to go on with another part of the portrait. He was sitting upon the ground/ upon a little straw, in the farthest corner of his dungeon, which wa's/ alternately/* his chair and be'd: a little calendar of small sticks/ was laid at the head, notched all over/ with the dismal day's and nights/ he had pass`ed there he had one of these little sticks in his h'and, and, with a rusty n'ail, he was etching another day of mi'sery to add to the he'ap. As I darkened the little light/ he had, he lifted up a hopeless eye towards the doo'r, the'n, cast it down-shook his head, and went on with his work of affliction. I heard his chains upon his leg's/ as he turned his bo'dy/ to lay his little sti'ck upon the bundle-He gave a deep sig'h-I saw the iron enter into his so^ul-I burst into tears(I could not sustain the picture of confinement, which my fancy had drawn.) ON SATIRICAL WIT. ADDISON. TRUST m'e, this unwary pleasantry of thine w'ill (soo'ner or la'ter) bring thee into scr'apes and di'fficulties, wh'ich/ no a'fterwit/ can extricate thee out-of. In these s'allies, too o'ft, I see, * Every significant adverb, as well as every adverbial phrase, requires a pause both before and after it. it happens, that the person la'ughed-at/ considers himself in the light of a person in'jured, with all the rights of such a situation belonging-to-him; an'd/ when thou viewest him in that light to'o, and reckonest upon his friends, his fa`mily, his kind'red and all'ies, and musterest up with them the many recrui'ts/ which will list under him from a sense of common da'nger; 'tis no extravagant a'rithmetic to say, th'at/ for every ten jo`kes, thou hast got a hundred e'nemies; and, till thou hast gone o'n, and raised a swarm of wasps about thine e'ars, and art half stung to dea'th b'y them, thou wilt never be convinced it i's so. I cannot suspect it in the m'an/ whom I este'em, that there is the least spu'r from spleen' or malevolence of inten't in these sal'lies. I believe and kno'w-them/ to be truly honest and sp'ortive; but, con'sider, that foôls cannot distinguish thi's, and that knaves/ will not; and thou knowest not what it i's, either to provo`ke the o'ne, or/ make me'rry with the ôther; whenever they associate for mutual defence, depen'd-upon-it/ they will carry on the wa'r/ in such a man'ner/ aga'inst thee, my dear friend, as to make thee heartily sick of i't and of thy life too. up Revenge (from some baneful co'rner) shall level a tale of dishon`our a't thee, whi'ch/ no i̇'nnocence of heart or integrity of con'duct/ shall set right. The fortunes of thy house/ shall tot'ter,thy character (which led the wa'y to them) shall bleed on every si'de-of-it-thy fa'ith/ ques'tioned-thy works/ belie'd -thy wit/ forgotten-thy lea'rning/ trampled on. To wind the last scene of thy tragedy, Cruelty and Co'wardice (twin ru'ffians, hi'red and set o'n/ by ma'lice in the d'ark) shall strike to'gether/ at all thy infi'rmities and mistakes ;-the best of u's (my friend) lie o'pen ther'e; and, tru'st me, whe'n (to gratify a private appetite) it is once resolved upo'n, that an in'nocent and help'less-creature shall be sa'crificed, it is an easy ma`tter/ to pick up sticks/ enough/ from any thicket where it has str'ayed, to make a fi're/ to offer it u'p-with. ON CHEERFULNESS. ADDISON. I HAVE always preferred cheerfulness to mi'rth.* The * "Cheerfulness," being the positive emphasis, requires the falling slide; "mirth," the negative, has the rising inflection. |