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LV. THE FORTUNE TELLER.

Henry Mackenzie, 1745-1831, was born in Edinburgh, educated at the university there, and died in the same city. He was an attorney by profession, and was the associate of many famous literary men residing at that time in Edinburgh. His fame as a writer rests chiefly on two novels, "The Man of Feeling" and "The Man of the World; " both were published before the author was forty years old.

HARLEY sat down on a large stone by the wayside, to take a pebble from his shoe, when he saw, at some distance, a beggar approaching him. He had on a loose sort of coat, mended with different-colored rags, among which the blue and russet were predominant. He had a short, knotty stick in his hand, and on the top of it was stuck a ram's horn; he wore no shoes, and his stockings had entirely lost that part of them which would have covered his feet and ankles; in his face, however, was the plump appearance of good humor; he walked a good, round pace, and a crook-legged dog trotted at his heels.

"Our delicacies," said Harley to himself, "are fantastic; they are not in nature! That beggar walks over the sharpest of these stones barefooted, whilst I have lost the most delightful dream in the world from the smallest of them happening to get into my shoe." The beggar had by this time come up, and, pulling off a piece of a hat, asked charity of Harley. The dog began to beg, too. It was impossible to resist both; and, in truth, the want of shoes and stockings had made both unnecessary, for Harley had destined sixpence for him before.

The beggar, on receiving it, poured forth blessings without number; and, with a sort of smile on his countenance, said to Harley that if he wanted to have his fortune told Harley turned his eye briskly upon the beggar; it was an unpromising look for the subject of a prediction, and silenced the prophet immediately. "I would much rather learn," said Harley, "what it is in your power to

tell me.

Your trade must be an entertaining one; sit down on this stone, and let me know something of your profession; I have often thought of turning fortune teller for a week or two, myself."

"Master," replied the beggar, "I like your frankness much, for I had the humor of plain dealing in me from a child; but there is no doing with it in this world,-we must do as we can; and lying is, as you call it, my profession. But I was in some sort forced to the trade, for I once dealt in telling the truth. I was a laborer, sir, and gained as much as to make me live. I never laid by, indeed, for I was reckoned a piece of a wag, and your wags, I take it, are seldom rich, Mr. Harley." "So," said Harley, "you seem to know me." "Ay, there are few folks in the country that I don't know something of. How should I tell fortunes else?" "True, but go on with your story; you were a laborer, you say, and a wag; your industry, I suppose, you left with your old trade; but your humor you preserved to be of use to you in your new."

"What signifies sadness, sir? A man grows lean on't. But I was brought to my idleness by degrees; sickness first disabled me, and it went against my stomach to work, ever after. But, in truth, I was for a long time so weak that I spit blood whenever I attempted to work. I had no relation living, and I never kept a friend above a week when I was able to joke. Thus I was forced to beg my bread, and a sorry trade I have found it, Mr. Harley. I told all my misfortunes truly, but they were seldom believed; and the few who gave me a half-penny as they passed, did it with a shake of the head, and an injunction not to trouble them with a long story. In short, I found that people don't care to give alms without some security for their money, such as a wooden leg, or a withered arm, for example. So I changed my plan, and instead of telling my own misfortunes, began to prophesy happiness to others.

"This I found by much the better way. Folks will always listen when the tale is their own, and of many who say they do not believe in fortune telling, I have known few on whom it had not a very sensible effect. I pick up the names of their acquaintance; amours and little squabbles are easily gleaned from among servants and neighbors; and, indeed, people themselves are the best intelligencers in the world for our purpose. They dare not puzzle us for their own sakes, for everyone is anxious to hear what he wishes to believe; and they who repeat it, to laugh at it when they have done, are generally more serious than their hearers are apt to imagine. With a tolerably good memory, and some share of cunning, I succeed reasonably well as a fortune teller. With this, and showing the tricks of that dog, I make shift to pick up a livelihood.

"My trade is none of the most honest, yet people are not much cheated after all, who give a few half-pence for a prospect of happiness, which I have heard some persons say, is all a man can arrive at in this world. But I must bid you good day, sir; for I have three miles to walk before noon, to inform some boarding-school young ladies whether their husbands are to be peers of the realm or captains in the army; a question which I promised to answer them by that time."

Harley had drawn a shilling from his pocket; but Virtue bade him to consider on whom he was going to bestow it. Virtue held back his arm; but a milder form, a younger sister of Virtue's, not so severe as Virtue, nor so serious as Pity, smiled upon him; his fingers lost their compression; nor did Virtue appear to catch the money as it fell. It had no sooner reached the ground than the watchful cur (a trick he had been taught) snapped it up; and, contrary to the most approved method of stewardship, delivered it immediately into the hands of his master.

LVI. RIENZI'S ADDRESS TO THE ROMANS.

Mary Russell Mitford, 1786-1855. She was the daughter of a physician, and was born in Hampshire, England. At twenty years of age, she published three volumes of poems; and soon after entered upon literature as a lifelong occupation. She wrote tales, sketches, poems, and dramas. "Our Village" is the best known of her prose works; the book describes the daily life of a rural people, is simple but finished in style, and is marked by mingled humor and pathos. Her most noted drama is "Rienzi." Miss Mitford passed the last forty years of her life in a little cottage in Berkshire, among a simple, country people, to whom she was greatly endeared by her kindness and social virtues.

We are slaves!

I COME not here to talk. You know too well
The story of our thraldom.
The bright sun rises to his course, and lights
A race of slaves! He sets, and his last beams
Fall on a slave; not such as, swept along
By the full tide of power, the conqueror led
To crimson glory and undying fame;

But base, ignoble slaves; slaves to a horde
Of petty tyrants, feudal despots, lords,
Rich in some dozen paltry villages;

Strong in some hundred spearmen; only great
In that strange spell,―a name.

Each hour, dark fraud,

Or open rapine, or protected murder,

Cries out against them. But this very day,
An honest man, my neighbor, there he stands,-
Was struck-struck like a dog, by one who wore
The badge of Ursini; because, forsooth,
He tossed not high his ready cap in air,
Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts,
At sight of that great ruffian! Be we men,
And suffer such dishonor? men, and wash not

The stain away in blood? Such shames are common.
I have known deeper wrongs; I that speak to ye,

I had a brother once- a gracious boy,
Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope,
Of sweet and quiet joy,- there was the look
Of heaven upon his face, which limners give
To the beloved disciple.

How I loved

That gracious boy! Younger by fifteen years,
Brother at once, and son! He left my side,
A summer bloom on his fair cheek; a smile
Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour,
That pretty, harmless boy was slain! I saw
The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried
For vengeance! Rouse, ye Romans! rouse, ye slaves!
Have ye brave sons? Look in the next fierce brawl
To see them die. Have ye fair daughters? Look
To see them live, torn from your arms, distained,
Dishonored; and if ye dare call for justice,
Be answered by the lash.

Yet this is Rome,

That sat on her seven hills, and from her throne
Of beauty ruled the world! and we are Romans.
Why, in that elder day, to be a Roman

Was greater than a king!

And once again,—

Hear me, ye walls that echoed to the tread
Of either Brutus! Once again, I swear,
The eternal city shall be free.

NOTES.-Rienzi (b. about 1312, d. 1354) was the last of the Roman tribunes. In 1347 he led a successful revolt against the nobles, who by their contentions kept Rome in constant turmoil. He then assumed the title of tribune, but, after indulging in a life of reckless extravagance and pomp for a few

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