I cannot describe to you the enthusiastic bursts of feeling and admiration which followed every sublime passage I selected; and his tears flowed to the pathetic touches of the poet. “I will read no more to you,” said I, with good humour and closing the book: “Ossian is, to a mind like yours, a bad writer.” “There is a joy in grief, when peace dwells in the breast of the mourner,” answered he in a plaintive tone. “It may be so,” replied I, “but the mourner ought to remember, ‘that sorrow wastes him.’” “I do not attribute my faintness to grief,” observed Mrs. Allen laughing, “but to downright hunger; and I must beg to stop at the next stage for something more substantial than Ossian.” Sir Murdock instantly began his apology for his omission at the last inn. “I forgot,” said he, “that every one could not like myself fast twenty-four hours without inconvenience. Early habit has made abstemiousness of no account with me,” added he, “I have fasted six-and-thirty hours formerly, without experiencing any considerable diminution of strength.” “Have you never thought such a disregard to the wants of nature pernicious?” asked I, surveying with compassion his lank figure. “I had then other cares,” answered he; “my soul, like that of Oithana, was not as careless as the sea which lifts its blue waves to every wind, and rolls beneath the storm.” He fixed his eyes on my face, and spoke no more till we reached our destined post-house. Here Mrs. Allen’s orders were quickly obeyed, and we pressed him to take some refreshment with us; and to judge by the voraciousness of his appetite, he must have exceeded his usual time of fasting. We were, however, too well pleased with the effects of ham and cold chicken on him, as well as on ourselves, to trust to his memory for a repetition of the cordial; and Mrs. Allen undertook the management of us for the remainder of the journey. The replenished baronet became more and more conversible as we proceeded. He had even transient gleams of cheerfulness, and finding that I persisted in keeping back the “tales of the times of old,” till he, like other poor mortals, eat three meals a day, he contented himself, and amused us by describing in glowing colours the grand and picturesque scenery he remembered in the western isles of his beloved Scotland; and with evident delight he traced a similarity of manners and customs between his country and ancient Greece, marking with precision the common features of resemblance that had struck him between the heroes of Ossian and Homer. From this learned dissertation he condescended to talk of France, in which country he had passed his youth. He praised my accent, and seemed pleased that I knew the language, speaking with rapture some passages from Racine. “Do you also understand Italian?” asked he. I replied, “As _a school-girl_.” He smiled most graciously—I wish you could see him smile, Lucy! and with a suppressed sigh he said, “It may serve to fill up your time, my dear