69 



THE MONK. 



During my residence at Oporto, one summer's evening I felt more 

 than usually disposed for a stroll on the delightful banks of the Douro. 

 The sky was clear, scarcely a breeze was felt ; the horizon was 

 beautifully tinged with the setting sun, which was brilliantly reflected 

 on the watttM^ giving them the appearance of refined gold, and 

 foiming a strong yet lovely contrast with nature's variegated carpet. 

 I insensibly fell into a reverie, and was contemplating the varied 

 beauties by which I was surrounded ; on stooping to pluck that 

 simple flower (oft passed by unheeded), namely, the " Forget-me- 

 not," my attention was suddenly aroused by a inistling noise amid 

 the foliage of a shrubbery close by. I had proceeded only a few 

 paces towards the spot from whence the noise issued, when I ob- 

 served a person in the habit of a monk. He appeared to be about 

 the age of forty, and in his features there were evident traces of what 

 might have been termed handsome : his aspect was mild and in- 

 genuous, but a soft shade of melancholy seemed to veil the whole, 

 and to my mind excited a prepossession in his favour. Near him sat 

 a young female, who seemed scaicely to have numbered sixteen 

 summers. She held in her hand a book, and from her manner ap- 

 peared to be receiving instructions from her spiritual preceptor. Her 

 delicate figure, moulded in sylph-like form — her beauteous eye, 

 sparkling with a diamond's ray — her luxuriant auburn tresses — all 

 seemed to proclaim in silent eloquence — 



" She was passing fair : 

 And boonteous nature o'er that maiden threw 

 All charms man loves, and all he honours too." 



On my approaching nearer, the monk saluted me, and inquired if I 

 was journeying to the neighbouring town. I answered in the 

 affirmative. " Then, sir," said he, " as you appear to be a stranger, 

 and as there is no beaten track between this and the town, you 

 may be some time ere you reach it alone ; in a few moments I 



