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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. —

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Why does my pulse beat languid as I write this? And what made La Fleur, whose heart seemed only to be tuned to joy, to pass the back of his hand twice across his eyes, as the woman stood and told it? I beckoned to the postilion to turn back into the road.

When we had got within half a league of Moulines, at a little opening in the road leading to a thicket, I discovered poor Maria sitting under a poplar; - she was sitting with her elbow in her lap, and her head leaning on one side within her hand. A small brook ran at the foot of the tree.

I bid the postilion go on with the chaise to Moulines, and La Fleur to bespeak my supper; and that I would walk after him.

She was dressed 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 ribbon, 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 to 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, she saw 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 alone across the Apennines, had traveled 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 wash it in the stream. "And where will you dry it, Maria?" said I. "I'll dry it in my bosom," said she; "'t 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 followin 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; 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 forever.

TOBIAS GEORGE SMOLLETT

THE EXPEDITION OF HUMPHREY CLINKER

1771

[The epistolary form of Humphrey Clinker gave Smollett the opportunity to make it a medium of no little description and comment on contemporary life and interests, as well as a novel. It is only this incidental aspect which is represented by the following extracts, which present contrasting views of eighteenth century London, from the standpoints of different members of the same party of travelers. The cant piety of the style of the serving-woman is a reflection of the Wesleyan movement, at this period sufficiently conspicuous to become the object of satire.]

Squire Bramble to Dr. Lewis

LONDON, May 29.

DEAR DOCTOR: London is literally new to me; new in its streets, houses, and even in its situation. As the Irishman said, "London is now gone out of town." What I left open fields, producing hay and corn, I now find covered with streets and squares and palaces and churches. I am credibly informed that, in the space of seven years, eleven thousand new houses have been built in one quarter of Westminster, exclusive of what is daily added to other parts of this unwieldy metropolis. Pimlico and Knightsbridge are now almost joined to Chelsea and Kensington; and if this infatuation continues for half a century, I suppose the whole county of Middlesex will be covered with brick.

It must be allowed, indeed, for the credit of the present age, that London and Westminster are much better paved and lighted than they were formerly. The new streets are spacious, regular, and airy, and the houses generally convenient. The bridge at Blackfriars is a noble monument of taste and public spirit, I wonder how they stumbled on a work of such magnificence and utility. But, notwithstanding these improvements, the capital is become an overgrown monster, which, like a dropsical head, will in time leave the body and extremities without nourishment and support. The absurdity will appear

in its full force when we consider that one sixth part of the natives of this whole extensive kingdom is crowded within the bills of mortality. What wonder that our villages are depopulated, and our farms in want of day-laborers? The abolition of small farms is but one cause of the decrease of population. Indeed, the incredible increase of horses and black cattle, to answer the purposes of luxury, requires a prodigious quantity of hay and grass, which are raised and managed without much labor; but a number of hands will always be wanted for the different branches of agriculture, whether the farms be large or small. The tide of luxury has swept all the inhabitants from the open country. The poorest squire, as well as the richest peer, must have his house in town, and make a figure with an extraordinary number of domestics. The ploughboys, cowherds, and lower hinds are debauched and seduced by the appearance and discourse of those coxcombs in livery, when they make their summer excursions. They desert their dirt and drudgery, and swarm up to London in hopes of getting into service, where they can live luxuriously and wear fine clothes, without being obliged to work; for idleness is natural to man. Great numbers of these, being disappointed in their expectation, become thieves and sharpers; and London, being an immense wilderness, in which there is neither watch nor ward of any signification, nor any order of police, affords them lurking-places as well as prey.

There are many causes that contribute to the daily increase of this enormous mass, but they may be all resolved into the grand source of luxury and corruption. About five-and-twenty years ago, very few even of the most opulent citizens of London kept any equipage, or even any servants in livery. Their tables produced nothing but plain boiled and roasted, with a bottle of port and a tankard of beer. At present, every trader in any degree of credit, every broker and attorney, maintains a couple of footmen, a coachman, and postilion. He has his town house and his country house, his coach and his postchaise. His wife and daughters appear in the richest stuffs, bespangled with diamonds. They frequent the court, the opera, the theatre, and the masquerade. They hold assemblies at

1 A term applied to a district in London, consisting of 109 parishes, to which for a long time the weekly "bills" (reports) of mortality were confined.

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