'twould oft be no discredit to us, to suppose it was so: I'm sure, at least for myself, that in many a case I should be more highly satisfied to have it said by the world, "I had had an affair with the 66 moon, in which there was neither sin nor shame,' than have it pass altogether as my own act and deed, wherein there was so much of both.

-But be this as it may: the moment I cast my eyes upon him, I was predetermined not to give him a single sous, and accordingly I put my purse into my pocket-button'd it up-set myself a little more upon my centre, and advanced up gravely to him; there was something, I fear, forbidding in my look: I have his figure this moment before my eyes, and think there was that in it which deserved better.

The Monk, as I judged from the break in his tonsure, a few scattered white hairs upon his témples being all that remained of it, might be about seventy--but from his eyes, and that sort of fire that was in them, which seemed more tempered by courtesy than years, could be no more than sixty. -Truth might lie between- -He was certainly sixty-five; and the general air of his countenance, notwithstanding something seemed to have been planting wrinkles in it before their time, agreed to the account.

It was one of those heads which Guido has often painted-mild, pale-penetrating,-free from all common-place ideas of fat contented ignorance looking downwards upon the earth-it look'd forwards; but look'd, as if it look'd at something beyond this world. How one of his order came by it, Heaven above, who let it fall upon a Monk's

shoulders, best knows: but it would have suited a Bramin, and had I met it upon the plains of Indostan, I had reverenced it.

The rest of his outline may be given in a few strokes; one might put it into the hands of any one to design, for 'twas neither elegant, or otherwise, but as character and expression made it so : it was a thin, spare form, something above the common size, if it lost not the distinction by a bend forward in the figure-but it was the attitude of intreaty; and as it now stands present to my imagination, it gain'd more than it lost by it.

When he had entered the room three paces, he stood still; and laying his left hand upon his breast (a slender white staff with which he journey'd being in his right)-when I had got close up to him, he introduced himself with the little story of the wants of his convent, and the poverty of his order and did it with so simple a grace -and such an air of deprecation was there in the whole cast of his look and figure-I was bewitched not to have been struck with it.

A better reason was, I had predetermined not to give him a single sous.

Tis very true, said I, replying to a cast upwards with his eyes, with which he had concluded his address-'tis very true-and Heaven be their source who have no other but the charity of the world, the stock of which, I fear, is no way sufficient for the many great claims which are hourly made upon it.

As I pronounced the words great claims, he gave a slight glance with his eye downwards upon the

sleeve of his tunic-I felt the full force of the appeal—I acknowledge it, said I,—a coarse habit, and that but once in three years, with meagre diet-are no great matters; and the true point of pity is, as they can be earn'd in the world with so little industry, that your order should wish to procure them by pressing upon a fund which is the property of the lame, the blind, the aged, and the infirm the captive who lies down counting over and over again the days of his afflictions, languishes also for his share of it; and had you been of the order of mercy, instead of the order of St. Francis, poor as I am, continued I, pointing at my portmanteau, full cheerfully should it have been opened to you, for the ransom of the unfortunate. -The Monk made me a bow-but of all others, resumed I, the unfortunate of our own country, surely, have the first rights; and I have left thousands in distress upon our own shore.-The Monk gave a cordial wave with his head-as much as to say, Νο doubt, there is misery enough in every corner of the world, as well as within our convent-But we distinguish, said I, laying my hand upon the sleeve of his tunic, in return for his appeal- -we distinguish, my good father, betwixt those who wish only to eat the bread of their own labour—and' those who eat the bread of other people's, and have no other plan in life, but to get through it in sloth and ignorance, for the love of God.

The poor Franciscan made no reply: a hectic of a moment pass'd across his cheek, but could not tarry-Nature seemed to have done with her resentments in him; he shewed noue-but

letting his staff fall within his arm, he press'd both his hands with resignation upon his breast, and retired.

My heart smote me the moment he shut the door-Psha! said I, with an air of carelessness, three several times-but it would not do: every ungracious syllable I had uttered, crowded back into my imagination; I reflected I had no right over the poor Franciscan, but to deny him: and that the punishment of that was enough to the disappointed, without the addition of unkind language-I considered his grey hairs his courteous figure seem'd to re-enter and gently ask me, what injury he had done me?-and why I could use him thus?-I would have given twenty livres for an advocate-I have behaved very ill, said I within myself; but I have only just set out upon my travels; and shall learn better manners as I get along.

*

JOURNEY.

THE good old Monk was within six paces of us, as the idea of him cross'd my mind; and was advancing towards us a little out of the line, as if uncertain whether he should break in upon us or no. -He stopp'd, however, as soon as he came up to us, with a world of frankness; and having a horn snuff-box in his hand, he presented it open to me -You shall taste mine-said I, pulling out my box (which was a small tortoise one)-putting it into his hand-Tis most excellent, said the Monk. Then do me the favour, I replied, to accept of the box and all, and when you take a pinch out of it, sometimes recollect it was the peace-offering of a

man who once used you unkindly, but not from his heart.

The poor Monk blush'd as red as scarlet. Mon Dieu! said he, pressing his hands together-you never used me unkindly.- -I should think, said the lady, he is not likely. I blush'd in my turn; but from what movements, I leave to the few who feel to analyse.-Excuse me, madam, replied I,— I treated him most unkindly; and from no provocation. Tis impossible, said the lady.-My God! cried the Monk with a warmth of asseveration which seem'd not to belong to him-the fault was in me, and in the indiscretion of my zeal-the lady opposed it, and I joined with her in maintaining, it was impossible that a spirit so regulated as his could give offence to any.

I knew not that contention could be rendered so sweet and pleasurable a thing to the nerves as I then felt it. We remained silent, without any sensation of that foolish pain which takes place, when in such a circle you look for ten minutes in one another's faces without saying a word. Whilst this lasted, the Monk rubbed his horn-box upon the sleeve of his tunic; and as soon as it had acquired a little air of brightness by the friction— he made a low bow, and said 'twas too late to say whether it was the weakness or goodness of our tempers which had involved us in this contestbut be it as it would-be begg'd we might exchange boxes-in saying this he presented his to me with one hand, as he took mine from me with the other; and having kiss'd it—with a stream of good-nature in his eyes, he put it into his bosom→ and took his leave.