youth, vanished as a "morning cloud, and as the early dew."

Henry. I am very sorry for that: I expected you would tell us that his usefulness in future life was the result of the right employment of his youthful hours. When did his serious impressions return?

Mamma. Not till many years had elapsed, and hardships and afflictions had taught him to seek that God, whose early invitation he had so ungratefully refused.

Louisa. You said that he had a kind and tender mother; and I should have thought it impossible for him to be unhappy while that was the case. I am sure that he would not have been unhappy, if he had had such a mamma as mine.

Mamma. Happiness, my dear Louisa, depends upon character, not upon circumstances; and perhaps you will scarcely credit me, when I tell you that young Buchanan had but just left his situation in Mr. Campbell's family, when he formed the design of making the tour of Europe

on foot, unknown to that affectionate mother.

Henry. Oh, what a scheme! What motive could possibly induce him to do so?

Mamma. The celebrated Dr. Goldsmith, author of your favourite poem, the "Deserted Village," had travelled through Europe on foot, and supported himself by playing on his flute; and I imagine that Buchanan wished to follow his example, probably with the view of seeing the world; and, as strange and romantie as was the project, he was fully bent upon putting it into practice.

Louisa. Pray let us hear how he managed, mamma. Did he leave Scotland without his mother's knowledge?

Mamma. He was aware that his parents would be much opposed to his scheme, had they had any idea of the manner in which he intended to accomplish it; so, in order to relieve their uneasiness, he invented a story, pretending that he had

been invited by an English gentleman to accompany his son upon a tour on the continent, and thus gained the permission of his friends to leave Scotland.

Louisa. What, then! he deceived his mother.

Mamma. Yes: but the hardships and trials he had to endure, soon convinced him that those who practise falsehood and deception subvert their own intentions; for, as we can only judge of the circumstances of the present moment, and cannot dive into futurity, it is very probable that our falsehood will produce consequences of which we had no previous idea. Thus it was with Claudius Buchanan.

Henry. Although I am very sorry that he practised such deception, I am anxious to know how far his plan succeeded. Had he a flute, like Dr. Goldsmith, mamma?

Mamma. He could play a little on the

violin, and upon this he relied for support during his long and various travels.

Henry. Now we shall have an entertaining account. Pray begin, mamma. Mamma. On a beautiful morning in August, young Buchanan, having put on plain clothes becoming his apparent situation, left Edinburgh on foot, with the intention of travelling to London, and thence to the continent, with his violin under his arm. After he had proceeded for some days on his journey, and had reached a part of the country where he thought he could not be known, he called at gentlemen's houses and farm-houses, where he generally met with a kind reception. He often played reels to them; and sometimes received five shillings, sometimes half-a-crown, and sometimes nothing but his dinner. Wherever he went, people seemed rather surprised at his appearance, particularly if they entered into conversation with him.

Henry. I do not wonder at that, be

cause he had received a much better education than is usual with travelling musicians. Was it never discovered who he was?

Mamma. No: he contrived to escape detection, though not without some little difficulty, as those who entertained him. were sometimes very inquisitive; and he not unfrequently used expressions in conversation, which excited their surprise. However, when he observed that he was at all suspected, he instantly decamped, and always took care not to stay long at any one place. Nearly a month had elapsed when he arrived on the borders of England, and in that time many singular occurrences befel him. Once or twice he met persons whom he had known, and narrowly escaped discovery; sometimes he had nothing to eat, and nowhere to rest at night. In short, so various were the hardships he had to endure, that before he reached England, he would gladly have returned home; but this step would