The Monk.

A POOR Monk of the order of St. Francis, came into the room to beg something for his convent. The moment I cast my eyes upon him, I was determined not to give him a single sous; and accordingly I put my purse into my pocket-buttoned it up-set myself a little more upon my · centre, and advanced up gravely to him. There was some thing, 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 temples being all that remained of it might be about seventy; but from his eyes, and that sort of fire which 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 looked forwards; but looked-as if it looked 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 it was neither elegant nor 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 forwards in the figure-but it was the attitude of entreaty; and, as it now stands present in my imagination, it gained 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 journeyed being in his rightwhen 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 resource who have no other than 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 eyes 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: but the true point of pity is, as they can be earned 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 affliction, 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, resumed I, the unfortunate of our own country surely have the first right; and I have left thousands in distress upon the English shore. The monk gave a cordial wave with his head-as much as to say, No 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 passed across his cheek, but could not tarry. Nature seemed to have done with her resentments in him: he showed none but letting his staff fall within his arms, he pressed both his hands with resignation upon his breast -and retired.

My heart smote me the moment he shut the door"Pshaw!" 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 gray hairs—his courteous figure seemed 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 on my travels, and shall learn better manners as I get along." Sterne.

On Military Glory.

"You will grant me, however," interposed Tiberius, "that there are refined and sensible delights, in their nature proper for the gratification of a monarch, which are always sure to give rational enjoyment, without the danger of disgusting by repetition ?""As for instance?" says Belisarius. "The love of glory, for instance," replied the young man." But what sort of glory?"-" Why, of all the various classes of glory, renown in arms must hold the foremost place." Very well; that is your position: and do you think the pleasure that springs from conquest has a sincere and lasting charm in it? Alas! when millions are stretched in mangled heaps upon the field of battle, can the mind in that situation taste of joy? I can make no allowance for those who have met danger in all its shapes: They may be permitted to congratulate themselves, that they have escaped with their lives; but, in the case of a king born with sensibility of heart, the day that spills a deluge of human blood, and bids the tears of natural affection flow in rivers round the land; that cannot be a day of true enjoyment. I have more than once traversed over a field of battle; I would have been glad to have seen a Nero in my place: the tears of humanity must have burst from him. I know there are princes who take the pleasure of a campaign, as they do that of hunting; and who send forth their people to the fray, as they let slip their dogs: but the rage of conquest is like the unrelenting temper of

avarice, which torments itself, and is to the last insatiable. A province has been invaded, it has been subdued it lies contiguous to another not yet attempted. Desire begins to kindle, invasion happens after invasion, ambition irritates itself to new projects; till at length comes a reverse of fortune, which exceeds, in the mortification it brings, all the pride and joy of former victories. But, to give things every flattering appearance, let us suppose a train of un. interrupted success: yet, even in that case, the conqueror pushes forward, like another Alexander, to the limits of the world, and then, like him, re-measures back his course; fatigued with triumphs, a burden to himself and mankind, at a loss what to do with the immense tracts which he has depopulated, and melancholy with the reflection, that an acre of his conquests would suffice to maintain him, and a little pit-hole to hide his remains from the world. In my youth I saw the sepulchre of Cyrus; a stone bore this inscription: I am Cyrus, he who subdued the Persian empire. Friend, whoever thou art, or wherever thy native country, envy me not the scanty space that covers my clay-cold ashes.' Alas!" said I, turning aside from the mournful epitaph, 'is it worth while to be a conqueror!"

Tiberius interrupted him with astonishment: "Can these be the sentiments of Belisarius!"-" Yes, young man, thus thinks Belisarius: he is able to decide upon the subject. Of all the plagues which the pride of man has engendered, the rage of conquest is the most destructive."

Liberty and Slavery.

Marmontel.

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 thou, Liberty! thrice sweet and gracious goddess! whom all, in public or in private, worship; whose taste is grateful, and ever will be so, till Nature herself shall change. No tint of words can spot thy snowy mantle, or chemic power turn thy sceptre into iron. With thee to smile upon him as he eats his crust, the swain is happier than his monarch; from whose court thou art exiled. Gracious Heaven! grant me but health, thou great bestower of it! and give me but this fair goddess as my companion! and shower down thy mitres, if it seem good

unto thy divine Providence, upon those heads which are aching for them!

Pursuing these ideas, I sat down close by my table; and, leaning my head upon my hand, I began to figure to myself the miseries of confinement. I was in a right frame for it, and so I gave full scope to my imagination.

I was going to begin with the millions of my fellowcreatures, born to no inheritance but slavery; but finding, 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; and having first shut him up in his dungeon, I then looked through the twilight of his grated door to take his picture.

I beheld his body half wasted away with long expectation and confinement; and felt what kind of sickness of the heart it is which arises from hop deferred. Upon looking nearer, I saw him pale and feverish. In thirty years, the western breeze had not once fanned his blood-he had seen no sun, no moon, in all that time—nor had the voice of friend or kinsman breathed through his lattice. His children-but here my heart began to bleed—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 was alternately his chair and bed. A little kalendar of small sticks was laid at the head, notched all over with the dismal days and nights he had passed there. He had one of these little sticks in his hand; and, with a rusty nail, he was etching another day of misery, to add to the heap. As I darkened the little light he had, he lifted up a hopeless eye towards the door-then cast it down-shook his head -and went on with his work of affliction. I heard his chains upon his legs, as he turned his body to lay his little stick upon the bundle-He gave a deep sigh-I saw the iron enter into his soul.-I burst into tears.-I could not sustain the picture of confinement which my fancy had drawn. Sterne.

Reyno and Alpin.

Reyno. THE wind and rain are over; calm is the noon of day. The clouds are divided in heaven; over the green hill, flies the inconstant sun; red, through the stony vale, comes down the stream of the hill.-Sweet are thy mur