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 Jthsé 1 BMqiur. JmíUbloUiUe
THE MATABOB.»
Ic?u¿m Jok*vMaoroM/J^Jame>ss •Sf - MÛ/yC'CJSTFT^
 THE

ANDALUSIAN ANNUAL,

FOR

MDCCCXXXVII.

EDITED BY MICHAEL BURKE HONAN, ESQ.,

AUTHOR OK

" T H E COUBT AND CAMP OF DON CARLOS.*'

LONDON:

JOHN MACRONE, ST. J A M E S ' S SQUAKE.

1836.
 LONDON :
PriiJted by W . CLÜWSS and Son»,
Stamford Stieet.

i.
 PREFACE.

ATTRACTIVE as the several works on Spain which have lately

appeared confessedly are, none of them, in the opinion of those
persons well acquainted with the country, possess that true spirit of
nationality which constitutes the great charm of similar publications,
and which a native artist can alone impart. It is with the hope of
supplying that deficiency, and presenting to the eye of taste some
specimens of Spanish talent, almost faultless in their kind, that 'The
Andalusian Annual ' has been undertaken.

The Portraits and Costumes have been painted at Sevile, by Jose

Becquer, a well-known resident artist, whose fame is already esta-
bhshed in every part of the Peninsula. One glance wiU convince
a2

m
 PREFACE.

the beholder of their infinite beauty, and that none but a man who

has lived among the people he represents, can convey that charm

of face, feature, and form, which these sketches present, and that

warmth of colouring which adds so powerfully to their effect.

The Music is intended to illustrate the Portraits, and it has, with

two exceptions, been written in Spain. It is made up of simple

native airs, and one of them, ' T h e Contrabandista,' wül be endeared

to the recoHections of the public by its having been so often selected

by the inspired Malibran, when entreated to give a specimen of the

melodies of her fatherland.

The Poetry, in like manner, has been founded on Spanish incidents.

Many of the songs are free translations of native words, and the

most lengthened stoiy, ' The last Sigh of the Moor,' refers to one

of the most toucliing incidents in the history of the country.

The Tales have been written in the same national spirit, and they

are all drawn from Andalusian sources. That which describes the

Courtship and Marriage of a young Peasant, is closely translated

m
 PREFACE. V

from a sketch made of the local habits and customs of that province
by a distinguished Spanish author.

With this brief explanation of his design in arranging the work,

the Editor has the pleasure to offer it to the elevated class of society
for whom such splendid publications are prepared, satisfied that, so
far at least as the artist is concerned, the magic efforts of his pencil
must command success.

London, Nov. 21, 1836.

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 CONTENTS.

lIXUSTßATIONS.
The Matador Frontis]) I ecc.
Doña Mariana Quintana to face page J
The Bandit . 13
The Bandit (No. II.) . 25
The Andalusian Peasant Girl . 63
The Andalusian Peasant 71
The Betrothed . 83
The Road to the Feria . 93
Jose Maria . 109
La Hermosa Rafaella 127
Matilda Diez . . . . . 139
La Rosa 101

TALES.
Doña Mariana Quintana. . . . , Pdje
The Bandit . . . . . . 13
The Garrote . . . . . . 25
The Moors in Spain. Legends of their Time—' El Ultimo Suspiro del
Moro ' . . . . , . 39
The Matador . . . . . . 53
The Andalusian Peasant Girl and her Novio 63
 CONTENTS.
vili
Page
71
The Andalusia!! Peasant
83
Thfì Betrothed
93
T h e Koad to iho Feria .
109
Jose Maria, Contrabandista and Robber
127
L a Hermosa Rafaella .
139
Matilda Diez
153
Death and Love

POETRY.

i
To Isabel
Letrilla 21
Young Love 33
42
E l Ultimo Suspire del Moro
65
' Say, is it Love ? ' .
72
The Serenade .
The Bandit's Song 132
' Let us drink ' 133
The Avenging Moor 151
The Maid of Andalusia . 161

MUSIC.

Tirana, por Don Jose Gomez 9

Bolero 23
34
Tirano, por Don Pablo del Moral
49
E l Lelé, Canción Andaluza
59
Si la Mar
78
E l Nuevo Sereni
89
Una Recien Casada, Seguidilla
98
Fandango
100
Seguidilla
102
Boleras
105
La Cachucha
120
E l Contrabandista
147
La Jota Aragonesa
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BOÄA MARIANA vnmTAHA.

ui.
 DONA MARIANA QUINTANA.

ONE of the most beautiful women of Andalusia was Doña Mariana

Quintana; her memory is still cherished in her native city of Grenada.
Indeed, her story is so melancholy, and so deep an interest has been
excited by it in every part of the province, that to mention her name
is to light up every man's eye in anger, and to fill every woman's lid
with tears. We have selected it not for its political character—
because our main object in this little work has been to avoid every
objectionable topic—but to give an example of the strength of mind,
the heroic devotion to the cause or question she espouses, of wliich a
Spanish, but more particularly an Andalusian, woman is capable.

Indeed, any person who looks upon the portrait which is prefixed
to this sketch, will see that it pourtrays a woman of deep feelings,
whose whole mind is bent on one single object; whether that be the
safety of her lover, or the success of the party to wliich she has
become attached. Her countenance is gay and open—her dark eye
laughs in full enjoyment, but there is within it an expression of sen-
B
2 DONA MARIANA QUINTANA.

timent, that convinces the beholder she is not always the child of
XDleasure, but that there are moments of profound reflection worthy
of one who meditates on noble subjects. She is attired in the costume
of Andalusia, so dear to her earliest associations: she rejected all
the foreign ornaments which so many of her rank have lately adopted
—her pride was to be a true Spaniard—her dress, her mind, her
actions, are intended to preserve the national character, and to do
honour to it.

Unfortunately for her family, and for her own happiness, the beau-
tiful Dofia Mariana became early in life a convert to the liberal
opinions which at one period prevailed so much in her native city
and the surrounding country. She scrupled not to avow them, and
her example and influence induced many, who were but lukewarm in
the cause, to take a more active part in propagating constitutional
doctrines, and an opposition to the despotism of Ferdinand, which
—whether necessary to the well-being of the country, we will not
inquire—then weighed with a heavy hand on the south of Spain. Her
lover was a marked man, and her own conduct was so unwise, that
several hints were given by the authorities, that she must be more
prudent in her conduct; but she disregarded the advice of her
immediate friends, as well as the suggestions of the Government;
and became so notorious, that every one trembled for the result.

One of the principal leaders in an expected revolt was doomed to

death by the law, and was placed in the Capilla preparatory to his
execution—that is to say, in the chapel of the prison, where all per-
sons condemned to die are allowed to see the ministers of religion.
 DONA MARIANA QUINTANA.

or their immediate friends, for three days, for the purpose of pre-
paring themselves for their dreadful fate, and the judgment of
another world. Mariana determined to save him, and contrived, by
permission of the Governor, to enter the Capilla to take a last fare-
well, and to introduce with her the dress of the order of friars who
had the charge of the prison. She compelled her friend to cover him-
self with the friar's gown and cowl, and to march boldly forward at
the hour in which it was usual for the visitors to take their leave for
the night.—He did so, and played liis part so fearlessly, that he
stood for some nunutes at the prison-door, complaining that the
attendants were remiss in not providing sufficient hght, and protest-
ing that he would lodge a complaint before the Governor.

H e r part in this escape was overlooked, and she became every day
more bold, believing that the Government would not venture to put
the severity of the law into execution against a person of her consider-
ation. At length the plot in which she was engaged was ready to
burst forth—the conspirators held their secret sittings at her residence
—she embroidered a beautiful flag, on which the words " Viva la Con-
siitucion'' were displayed in letters of gold. A day was fixed for the
proclamation of the Constitution, but the Government had timely
notice, and a visit was paid to her house, with the hope of seizing the
whole at the moment of their deliberations. Fortunately for them,
the usual hour of meeting had been adjourned that evening to a later,
and no one but the unfortunate and lovely Doiia Mariana was laid
hold of. Of her guilt there could be no doubt, as a plan of the
insurrection, in her own hand-writing, and the embroidered flag,
lay before her on the table.
B2
4. DOÑA MARIANA QmNTANA.

Slie was taken to prison, and underwent several examinations; but

while she openly avowed her design, and gloried in the object she
had at heart, she refused to compromise any of her companions.
In vain the judges tln-eatened her with death, or tried to bribe
her with promises; she declared herself insensible to fear and
indifferent to wealth or honour:—the liberty of her country was her
only aim—without accomplishing that, she did not care to live. They
even solicited but the name of one of her party, in order that an
example should be made, and ten-or struck into the hearts of those
who were engaged in similar conspiracies ; but she boldly declared
that she would bestow her life for the good cause, and die a thousand
deaths rather than disclose the secret of the humblest individual in
the association.

Wlien the news of her arrest and imprisonment became public, the
whole town of Grenada was in despaii', and a sensation was made
through the entire province which can never be forgotten. But we
are compelled to say that not a single person of those comi:)romised
with her, had the manliness to come forward and save the life of the
heroine by the sacrifice of his own. The excuse they have all given
since is, that they could not believe the Government would proceed
to the last extremity with a woman of her rank, and they imagined
that the declarations of its intention were made with the view of
frightening her into disclosures important to the state.

Tlie Government, at that time trembling in the midst of plots, and

fearful of its daily existence, determined on putting the last terror of
the law into execution, and the unfortunate Mariana was condemned
 DONA MARIANA QUINTANA. 5

ou the evidence of the papers in her own handwriting, and on her

own confession—for she never denied her guilt—to end her days on the
scaffold for high treason against the state. She heard the sentence
without shrinking—she rethed to the prison without uttering a single
complaint—she passed the dread interval in cheerful conversation
with her friends, and was removed into the Capilla without having
expressed a wish to live, or without maldng the slightest effort to
change her sentence into a lighter doom. She preserved her serenity
to the last, and rebuked the few who were permitted to see her, for
indulging in a useless grief, declaring that death was to her a
triumph, and that her pride and glory was to devote her life to the
s e m c e of her country.

Every interest was made to conciliate the Government, but the

moment was one of blood, and a victim was demanded by the exi-
gency of the time. She was frequently told, even on the day of the
execution, that if she disclosed but one name, her life would be
spared ; but she refused to betray her party, and she was led forth,
the loveliest victim that the sanguinary justice of a country ever
brought to the scaffold.

On the morning of her execution she demanded that, instead of

the usual garb of condemned persons, she should be allowed to wear
a black velvet dress, in which, she said, she was most admired. But
even that favour was denied her, and she was conducted to the place
of execution in the robe of sackclotli, allotted to the worst criminals—
placed on a donkey, and supported at each side by friars, who in vain
entreated of her to save her life and make the required confession.
f> DONA MARIANA QUINTANA.

She did not disdain the consolations of religion—and she gave her
best attention to its minister both in the Capilla and in the last
moments of her life; but she declared that the love of liberty was
not a crime in the eyes of heaven, and rejected every entreaty to save
her life at the expense of others.

The crowd that usually attends executions, on this occasion

abstained from the indulgence of its cuiiosity—every window was
closed—the shops were shut up—Grenada was a city of mourning
on that day. She was marched with an unmoved countenance from
the prison to the place of execution—even the first view of the scaffold
did not alter the serenity of her countenance. She mounted the
steps without assistance—she sat in the fatal chair in which the last
act of the Garotte is accomplished—she cried " Viva la Constitución!"
and closed her eyes in death.

Colonel Gomez, her lover, was in France when these events took
place; and the first notice he had of her melancholy situation was
the account of the execution, which he saw in the public prints. The
effect ]Droduced on him was tenible—^liis health and mind gave way;
but he lived, if not to revenge the death of Ms mistress, to surrender
his own life for the same cause which had conducted her to the
scaffold. H e was one of the unfortunate men who accompanied
Torijos, in 1830, to Malaga, and who was shot with Mr. Boyd, the
young Englishman, whose case excited so much sympathy at the time.
Gomez died repeating the name of Mariana, and the ball which
pierced his heart shattered her miniature, which he always wore
suspended from his neck.
 TO ISABEL.

FAR, far from thee, and all that heart holds dear,
Barren in hope, but wealthy in despair.
The weary load of life I still must b e a r -
Though undesired.
Far from the nymphs, and from the happy swains.
From those I love, and Andalusia's plains,
I linger on, the victim of the pains
Thou hast inspired.

Oh, Death! my slow, but still ray only friend,

Quicken thy pace—thy last sad comfort lend.
Let me at once into the grave descend.
My days to close.
Oh! come, sweet Death, and let my pangs be brief;
Dissolve my cares, and terminate my grief—
My bursting heart can find but this r e l i e f -
A last repose.

And bathe my tomb, in melancholy hours,

With tears, with sighs, and with the falling showers
Of rose-leaves faded, and of blighted flowers—
My dreary lot!
Shut out the sun—let not liis glorious light
Beam on my grave—let Death and dismal Night
Keep watch for ever—shade it from all sight.
And be forgot.
3
1

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mÈiÊmmÊmmÊmmm mm'm •'•wiJA'miw-
 TIRANA,

POR DON JOSE GOMEZ.

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THE BANDIT.
ZondoK': JohnMa/ronei SX/^MMS'S Sg. JfSCCGXZXV/.
 THE BANDIT.

FRANCISCO Lopez, Jose Carderò, and Juan La Cuadi'a, were three of

tlie most notorious robbers that ever infested the mountains of Anda-
lusia. Their ordinary rendezvous was in the vicinity of the town oí'
Esija, from whence they have been called the Niños, or cliildren of
Esija, according to the custom of the countiy, which ever aims at a
joke, even under the most serious circumstances. The Spanish
robber, as may be seen in the history of Jose Maria, the most
renowned hero of modern days, is, generally speaking, not addicted
to cruelty ; and it is a kind of principle with him not to shed blood
except in self-defence. But the gang we are now speaking of was an
exception to that rule, and the crimes which they committed were
oft-times of the most appalling nature. We do not, however, wish
to shock our fair readers with a detail of those enormities which
disgrace human nature ; and more particularly cast a stain on the
chivalric profession of arms, which the Andalusian smuggler, when
his ordinary business fails him, resorts to. We have selected one
remarkable incident which displays the sang froid and determination
14 THE BANDIT.

of their leader, and which brought to a disgraceful end the

personages whose portraits we now present, and whose execution
it was our lot to witness.

I t is not many years since the Spanish Government were in the

practice of landing at Lisbon a certain portion of the gold and
silver bullion which they received from their South American posses-
sions. What their reason was for so doing we will not stop to inquire,
but the fact was as we state it. A mihtary escort conveyed it as far
as Elvas, on the Portuguese side of the frontier, and from thence a
Spanish officer and a strong party undertook to convey it to the
treasury at Madiid. Francisco Lopez, the captain of the Nitios de
Esija, conceived the bold plan of seizing on the treasure, and abso-
lutely succeeded in carrying his intention into effect. The manner
in which he proceeded is remarkable for its simplicity as well as
determination. On the second day's march fromBadajoz, the convoy
was usually halted at an inn, which stands apart from the village.
Francisco took possession of that inn, and gagged and tied all
the inmates, stowing them away in an out-house, under the guar-
dianship of three of his comrades, with orders to shoot the first that
attempted to make the slightest disturbance. H e then dressed
hhnself in the costume of the landlord, and posted his men
within a corridor, which ran, according to the fashion of Spanish
inns, along the whole of the first floor, and led to the different eating
and sleeping apartments—the ground-floor being always used as
stables. H e also equipped some of the gang as mozos of a posada,
and placed them lounging about the main entrance, in the manner
that the sei-vants of an inn are usually seen at night when travellers
 THE BANDIT. 15

are expected. H a v i n g made all his dispositions, Francisco then took

his stand, with cigar in mouth, at the door-way of the inn, and
quietly awaited the result. I n a short time he saw the bayonets
of the escort glistening in the distance, and liis heart leaped on find-
ing the lich deposit safe in the Tartana, and the soldiers approaching
their usual place of rest, singing and shouting at the prospect of a
good supper and good wine.

The party at last drew up before the inn-door, and the officer
called the muster, ordered the Tartana, as usual, to enter the house
—made his arrangements of the sentinels of the night, and dis-
missed his men for an hour, according to the relaxed system of
Spanish discipline. H e then advanced to the pretended landlord,
who of course did not neglect to play liis part, and was informed that
a good supper was prepared up stairs, and excellent quarters, not
only for himself, but for all his men. Francisco showed them the
way, and as each of them passed the conidor, he was seized by two
of the gang, a cloak thrown over his head, a gag put in his mouth,
and stowed away under the care of the other robbers in the several
apartments. N o t one escaped to give the alarm—the whole were
secured in the course of a few minutes, and the muleteers were
quickly overpowered by the pretended mozos below, or quietly sub-
mitted to their fate, certain of being well rewarded.

I t may be supposed that Francisco and his gang were not idle;
the whole of the treasure was removed the same night and buried in
several parts of the mountains. The officer and his men were
released the next day by travellers who approached the house, and
16 THE BANDIT.

gave the alarm at the village—but it was too late—the robbers had
left no trace behind them.

So daring a robbeiy made a great sensation in every part of Spain ;

and the Government endeavoured in eveiy possible way to discover
the perpetrators, but in vain. Immense rewards were offered—the
Captain-General scoured every part of the province—an amnesty
was proclaimed to all but the captain of the gang—but no discovery
was made, either of the treasure itself, or, for several years after, of
any of its daring plunderers. I t is supposed that several left the
country when the division of the spoil was made, glad to exchange,
for wealth and security, the life of danger which they had hitherto led.

Two years before this event occurred, a gentleman from Cordoba

was going to Seville, with a considerable quantity of money, which
he held in trust for certain individuals then engaged in some
of the eternal political conspii'acies which disgrace Spain. The
deposit was one of honour, and if it were lost his reputation was
destroyed. Wliat, then, was his dismay, when on the turning of the
road, leading from an olive-grove, a robber, armed at all points,
started forward and demanded his money or his life; adding, that he
was well acquainted with the fact that a large sum had lately been
paid into the merchant's hands! It was in vain to deny it, or that it
was that very treasure he was now conveying to Seville: but the
gentleman took another mode of dealing with Francisco, told him all
the circumstances of the case, and appealed to him as a Caballero,
not to destroy his reputation by depriving him of the sacred trust
which had been deposited in his hand. H e promised liim most
 THE BANDIT.

solemnly that if he allowed liim to pass he would send a liberal

reward to any place fixed upon by the robber, and that if he ever
had the power he would render liim any service that he might
require.

Francisco, with that romantic gallantry which he exercised when,

as in the present case, he was not accompanied by others of the gang,
took the merchant's hand, told hhn he would accept liis word ; and
further gave him a pass in case he should fall in with any of the
party. The gentleman of course sent the reward to the place that
was pointed out, and thought no more of his adventure.

In the mean time the same merchant was emi^loyed by the Govern-
ment to discover, if he possibly could, the plunderer of the South
American treasure ; and he went to Lisbon for the purpose of inves-
tigating the transaction from the commencement, believing, as every
one did, that the robbery was a planned affair, which had its origin
even from the moment the bullion arrived in the Tagus. Orders
were issued at the same time that no communication should be per-
mitted, after night-fall, between the shore and the sliipping, as it
was supposed that an attempt might be made in that way to remove
the property beyond the seas. The only person allowed a boat and
boat's crew, at all hours, was the gentleman in question, and he
often spent the night on the water, boarding every suspicious vessel
and fishing-boat, with the hope of a discovery.

One evening, as he passed along the Caes Sodre, where all the
people of business assemble to enjoy the cool night-air after the sultry
heat of the day, the merchant was accosted by a man, wrapt up in
D
 THE BANDIT.
18

his capa, or cloak, who said, " Follow me ; I will assist you in your
search." H e did so; and as soon as they were sheltered under the
shadow of the church of Corpo Christo, the man removed his cloak
and disclosed the face of our friend Francisco, exclaiming, " Do you
know me

The merchant was thunder-struck, for the idea flashed across liim
at the instant, that Francisco was the person who executed the very
robbery which he was then trying to investigate.

" D o you remember your promise ? " said Francisco.

" I do," replied the merchant.
" Are you prepared to execute it? "
" I am, at all hazards."
" Y o u alone have the right to go on the river at night and visit
the shipping."
" I have."
" Meet me in an hour, and have your boat and crew at the stairs of
the Praca de Commercio."
" I will. But, stay, Francisco; you are suspected of having
robbed the convoy from Madrid, and I am employed to discover the
perpetrators of the audacious undertaking."
" I know all that—but you are a Caballero de honor—meet me at
the hour."
" But, Francisco "
" Meet me, I say: your word is pledged—I do not doubt it."

The merchant did meet him at the same stau's—^his boat, with a full
cvew, was in attendance. N o t a word was exchanged until they were
 THE BANDIT. 19

seated in the stern. Francisco grasped his hand—the merchant's

heart beat violently—but he returned the pressure of the robber's
fingers. " Where to ? " he at last whispered.
" To yonder vessel," was the reply.

They rowed in silence—the vessel was hailed—Francisco handed

up his heavy saddle-bags, put his mouth to the merchant's ear, and
said, " I did it ! There is my share of the b o o t y — I go to A m e r i c a —
tliis sliip has been chartered by me !—Adios para siempre—adiós
Caballero—^hombre de honor !"—(Farewell for ever—farewell, Cava-
lier—man of honour !)

The anchor was weighed ; Francisco left the Tagus, and is now
a man of wealth and reputation in a distant colony.

D 2
 BUB HOB

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 LETRILLA.

ON the margin of a river,

Flomng smft in dulcet measure.
Love laid do\vn his silver quiver,
Fell asleep in dreamy pleasure.

Lydia came from yonder mountain.

With bounding step—a wood-nymph wild.
Saw reflected in the fountain
T h e image of the beauteous child.

She stole his quiver—bow—and darts,

And would have pluclc'd his rosy wing,
But pain disturb'd him with its smart—
H e started up with youthful spring.

H e saw her lovely as the morn,

Her eyes inspir'd with his own fires.
Shooting sparks of flame new-born.
Of youthful hope—of young desires.

Thoughtless maiden ! do not borrow

• From me that bow which gives such pain ;
Eyes wound deeper than the arrow.
Return me, then, those reeds again.

Why shouldst thou, maiden, seek those arms.

To wound or captivate each heart.
When Nature gives to thee such charms—
And every beauty bears its dart i
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THE ©AN'BIT.

L
 THE GARROTE.

JOSE CARDERÒ, whose portrait is prefixed to this sketch, was one of the
most cruel of the Nifios de Esija. It was our lot to see him and his
companion, Juan Cuadra, executed at Madrid for a daring robbery,
accompanied with acts of violence, they committed in the neighbour-
hood of the royal residence of Ai-anguez, to which district they had
for a short time, while the court was at the Sitio, extended their
depredations from their more legitimate quarter of the Sierra
Morena.

They were convicted on the clearest evidence, and condemned to be

publicly garroted. For three days before their execution, they were
removed from the cell where they had been confined, to the Capilla,
or chapel of the prison, to receive the consolations of religion, if so
inclined,— or the luxuries which the Society of Mkerkordia, in mis-
taken charity, distributes to malefactors in that awful interval between
the sentence and the grave. Carderò was penitent, and listened with
an humble spirit to the words of the friar, who exhorted him to make
E
 THE GARROTE.

his peace with God, as there was no hope for liim at this side of the
grave. La Cuadra, a bold-faced villain, rejected everytliing like
spiritual consolation, and incessantly called for fruit, for wine, for all
the delicacies which the Misericordia could supply him with.

The place of execution at Madrid is the public market of the Plaza

de Cebada. A platform of twenty feet square is erected in the centre
of i t ; two strong bars cross the stage, to wliich an upright bar is
attached—two chairs are placed against that bar. That is the
whole preparation. Unless it were previously explained, no one
could imagine that the di'ead punishment of the law could be admi-
nistered in so simple a manner.

Military, both horse and foot, form a square on each side of the
platform; the crowd, among which a nmnber of women are to be
seen, extend in a deep mass far behind the troops. The front rank
is composed of the worst part of the population of Madrid, many of
whom are robbers by profession, who come to watch the last moments
of the malefactor, and determine whether he meets death in a manner
consistent with his previous reputation. The balconies and windows
of the Plaza are liired out on this occasion, and filled often by per-
sons of a respectable rank in society, whose better feelings are stifled
by curiosity—a curiosity which, even in more refined countries, cannot
be resisted.

It was prompted by the same motive that, during our residence at

Madrid, we were induced to attend the execution of the two malefac-
tors we have named.
 THE GARROTE.
27

At twelve o'clock the tinkling of a small bell announced that the

procession had left the prison, and in a short time the sensation pro-
duced among the crowd indicated its near approach. It was pre-
ceded by a party of dragoons, who cleared the way among the
unresisting mob,—and headed by tliree Alguazils, whose slouched
hats, long black cloaks, and dismal appearance, forcibly brought to
mind the days of the Inquisition, and the terrors of the old Spanish
law.

Next came some members of the Society of Misericordia, whose

business it was to purchase the body of the criminal from the execu-
tioner, in order that it might receive Christian burial ; then the
chaplain of the prison, and lastly one of the unfortunate men, who
was so soon to pay the forfeit of his crimes. H e was dressed in a long
wliite robe, seated on an ass, and supported on each side by fiiars of
the Carmehte order, who poured spiritual consolation into his ears,
tried to occupy his attention, and distract it from the spectacle of
horrors wlaich lay before him.

The wi-etched man appeared to listen to what they said, and held
up a crucifix between him and the scaffold, as if to hide from his
sight the dread preparations of the law ; but as the low murmur of
the crowd intimated to him that he approached it, we saw him
glance for a moment above the crucifix, and then withdraw his eye,
with a distinct shudder of the whole frame.

H e was penitent, and supported with a certain degree of firmness

the horror of his situation—giving his whole thouglits to the words
E 2
28 T H E GARROTE.

of hope, wliich the subhme Author of the Christian religion has left
as a legacy for the repentant sinner. H e moved through the crowd,
unconscious of the sensation which he produced, and alighted at the
foot of the scaifold without assistance, amid a silence the most pro-
found, and well suited to the work of death.

H e then knelt down, the chaplain hearing his last confession. H e

took his leave of the world and all that it contained, and then, sup-
ported at each side, and preceded hy the executioner, walked slowly
up the steps of the platform, and was placed sitting in one of the
chairs, which we have before described as attached to the centre bar
of the stage.

The executioner unfolded his shirt-collar ; exhibited a little iron

ring, in wliich his neck was inclosed, and then, connecting it with
the screw which passed through the centre bar, gave two turns to the
rivet that acted on it, and, with the quickness of thought, the man
was dead.

Not a movement took place in any member of his frame, not a

struggle was visible ; the discolouration of the face, which instantly
took place by the stagnation of the blood, could not be seen, as the
hood of the white garment had previously been thrown over i t ;
and there the corpse continued to sit in the attitude of life, motion-
less, and infinitely more appalling than if death had been accom-
panied with its usual agony.

Happily, not having witnessed any such dreadful spectacle pre-

 THE GARROTE. 29

vious to that occasion, we were unconscious that the last act of tlie
tragedy had been completed ; and it was not till we inquired I'rom
our guide when the execution would begin, that we were informed
that the unfortunate man was no more.

In the mean time a similar procession with the other malefactor,

Juan La Cuadra, arrived at the square, and the crowd received it in
the same deep and awful silence. But what a contrast there was
between his manner, and that of his unfortunate companion who
preceded liim ! H e had kept up a bold and desperate bearing to
the moment when he was summoned by the executioner to liis last
account. Then, it appears, his courage totally gave way, and he
sunk into the most abject state of cowardice.

H e was borne from the prison more dead than alive, and was sup-
ported at each side, as he sat unconsciously on the ass, by the chari-
table friars, who in vain tried to excite his sensations, and prepare
him for his dread destiny. His cheeks were colourless ; his eyes
gazed on vacancy ; liis lips were bloodless ; no doubt the pulsation
of his heart could not be felt. H e was dead to the world, and was
carried unconsciously to the scaffold, to have the last spark of vitality
extinguished in a frame from wliich the active principle of life
seemed already to have departed.

He was lifted by the executioner from the ass, and placed on his
knees at the feet of the chaplain, who should have received his con-
fession if he had been able to make it—but his lips moved not ; he
would have fallen, had not the friars held him fast to receive the last
30 THE GARROTE.

rites of the church : and as the priest laid his hand on his forehead
to pass him into eternity, a shudder passed through the crowd, more
awful than if the doomed man had excited their feelings by the
exhibition of strong physical agony.

H e was then taken by the ministers of the law, assisted by the

iriars, and placed in the vacant chair ; his head was covered with the
cowl of his funeral robe, and, with a turn of the screw, the flickering
flame of life was extinguished.

The chaplain of the jail then advanced to the front of the platform,
and made a short addi-ess to the assembled crowd, explaining the
justice of the sentence under which these miserable men had died—
pointing out the evil course of their lives, wliich had led to the com-
mission of crimes meriting such a punishment, and imploring every
one who witnessed the execution, to let the lesson sink deeply into
their hearts, and to believe that the vengeance of Heaven was ful-
filled against the mm'derer and the robber in this world, as in the
next.

The crowd heard this exhortation in silence ; and, from the com-
mencement of the di-ead ceremony to the last word uttered by the
clergyman, a mournful decorum was observed. Wliether the fate of
the two malefactors produced its due effect, and the pious words of the
preacher sunk into the souls of any of the crowd, we will not pretend
to determine. We can only speak of the outward show of propriety
which pervaded the mass of the assembled people, and of the awful-
ness of the silence they maintained.
 THE GARROTE.

A guard was now stationed near the scaiFold, and the most horrible
part of the spectacle was accomplished. The two cowls which
covered the heads of the criminals were withdrawn, and their iaces,
black as the death which had fallen on them, were exposed to the
gaze of the awe-struck assembly.

The impression of that sight can never be removed from any

person who beheld i t ; — a n d even now, these two bodies, sitting
upright in the rigidity of death, but in the form of life, covered in
white, except where the blackened countenances were displayed, float
before us as we write. We hasted to exclude the associations which
recall so disagreeable a visitation; and our readers will thank us that
we no further dwell on a picture which can but give pain.
 YOUNG LOVE.

YOUNG Love he lives in bowers

Of roses and sweet flowers,
Refresli'd by gentle showers—
The incense of the dew:
Each nymph his couch disposes
With lilies and sweet posies,
Or heaps of blushing roses
Of bright and glowing hue.

No care his sleep encumbers.

But sounds of lulling numbers
Allui-e him to fresh slumbers.
And visions of delight.
His life's a life of leisure.
His only labour pleasure—
Of joy, full draught and measure
H e takes from morn till night.

Yes—Love he lives in bowers

Of roses and sweet flowers.
Refreshed by gentle showers—
The incense of the dew.
 TIRANxV.
POR DON PABLO D E L MORAL.

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 TIRANA. 35

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 TIRANA.
36

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 TIRANA. 37

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 T H E MOORS I N S P A I N .

LEGENDS OF THEIR T I M E — " E L ULTIMO SUSPIRO DEL MORO;

WHILST other nations are daily brought more and more to a uniform
standard of society, the Spanish of our time presents characteristics
as deeply marked as in the age of Cervantes ; the ruling passions
and master traits of the people giving a " couleur locale" even to
those ideas and habits it borrows from other countries: what was
borrowed but yesterday becoming scarce recognisable to-day in its
new garb. This peculiarity of mind and of habits, of thinking and
acting, is due to the influence of the Moors, once so predominant :
their blood was mixed at the fountain-head with that of the Spaniards.
They have left behind their deep gutturals in the language—their
pride and gravity—their love of sedentary habits—their dark spirit
of jealousy, and of vengeance only to be quenched by retribution.
The dark flasliing glance, the swarthy complexion of the men; the
liquid voluptuous Asiatic eyes, the small feet and ankles showing
Arab blood, and jet-black tresses of the Anda'usian women—no less
remind the traveller at every step of the features of the Moor.
40 THE MOORS IN SPAIN.

A castle, perched upon a liill, commanding a gorge or pass, is

ever and anon pointed out to the traveller through the Sierras, as the
stronghold of some Moorish knight or chieftain; spots where they
long withstood the attacks of Christian chivalry, and from which
they descended to impose the yoke upon the followers of the Cross.
But this Arabian nation, once so renowned for its polished chivalry,
and its love of letters—the pursuit of astronomy and chemistry, and
their mysterious children, astrology and alchemy—for that devotion
to the beautiful art of architecture, from which we derive the type
of our venerable Gothic fanes :—this exiled nation has left also in
the plains of Spain, monuments of surpassing beauty, to attest their
former power and magnificence. It is in Grenada that these trophies
of a past age, a past civilization, and a past nation, are most nume-
rous and resplendent. These are too well known to require descrip-
tion at our hands. Many an author, from Florian to Chateaubriand
and Wasliington Irving, has shed flowers on this grave of a departed
race.

Little attention, however, has been given to the interesting and

melancholy legends belonging to the hills and valleys that sui-round
Grenada and Cordova. We here give a specimen of these legends,
such as they are in the mouth of every goatherd or cultivator of a
soil, barren of all, but some of the " greenest spots in memory's waste."
The following verses were di-opped in a moment of leisure from the
graceful pen of a gentleman, whose literary talents are devoted to
graver subjects. They contain a reminiscence of his residence in
Spain, and enshrine a legend of Boabdil, last king of Grenada.

Boabdil had passed his youth in carrying on dark intrigues,

 THE MOORS IN SPAIN.

domestic broils, and intestine war. Byliis treason to liis country, his
rebellions against liis father—by his conspiracy with the fierce Zegris,
to destroy the chivalric Abencerrages, who figure so brightly on the
page of history,—Boabdil had prepared the conquests of the Chris-
tians, and the banishment of liis countrymen from the fairest bowers
of Spain. The hour of retribution soon arrived ; the Christian
host, headed by Ferdinand and Isabella, and commanded by Gon-
salvo of Cordova, surnamed the " Great Captain," after driving tlie
Moorish armies from the open country, besieged them in Grenada,
their last home.

Vainly, then, did Boabdil exert his military talents and prowess
to defend the nation, on whose energies his passions had preyed.
Driven from intrenchment to intrenchment, the last hour of evenino-
one day showed the banner of Arragon and Castile floating trium-
phant on every minaret; and Boabdil, escaping from the city,
accompanied by the few brave followers who had survived the battle,
surrounding the Queen, his lion-hearted mother, and his beautii'ul
trembling wives. On the last height in the neighbourhood of
Grenada, the goatherds show the spot where the fugitive warrior
turned his looks towards the fair city—the last home in Spain of his
race—^the last spot that was left of the laud they had conquered. It
was there that, amidst an agony of contrition, rage, and regret, he
gave forth from his throbbing breast " El ultimo Suspiro del Moro! "
and rushing down the opposite declivity, was never heard of more.

G
 42 THE MOORS IN SPAIN.

" E L ULTIMO SUSPIRO D E L MORO."

I " T H R O W wide Alhambra's gates to every son

Of brave Castile—the Infidel is gone!
Enter! and quaif its pleasures without fear.
' I•I.
The Moor no longer reigns or revels here."
So spalce Fernando when he sheath'd the sword
Which gave Grenada to its rightful lord.
O'er vale and sierra of romantic Spain,
Freed from the remnant of her Moorish chain.
With drums and cymbals, joyous shouts and bells,—
Hark! how the mingled voice of triumph swells !
For all the sports that flock in Pleasure's train
Have burst their bonds in rapture o'er the plain.
Here, jousting knights, and steeds encount'ring steeds-
There, the fierce bull in festive combat bleeds—
The dark Castilian beauty bending here.
Crowns, with a blush, the kneeling cavalier.
And lo ! the Church, exulting in the day.
Pours forth the peaceful pomp of her array ;
Around the symbol of redeeming love
She rears the trophies of her saints above.
And seems to hear, in echoes from the sky,
Responsive peeans for her victory.

I In brief, Iberia has one only care.

Triumph! which all of Spanish race must share.
Nor trace of sadness more remain behind,
With Moslem griefs, all scatter'd with the wind.

What band is this advancing from the west,

With turban'd helm, and beard, and flomng vest ?

l-i t
 EL ULTIMO SUSPIRO DEL MORO.
43

No heralds of the general joy are these;

Their clouded looks show hearts but ill at case.
And who are they, whose features, never fair,
A darker shade have borrow'd fi'om despair ?
An empire's wreck!—the sole surviving brave!
Now left to moiirn what valour could not Save;
\Miom, even now, the past may render proud,
Not always under fickle Fortune's cloud ;
And, as the light of memory breaks the while
Athwart the gloom—the Moor may sternly smile—
Smile ! as the clamours of the Christian crew
His parting steps from these proud scenes pursue.
And he, their lord, (in whose majestic mien.
Shorn of his state, the monarch still is seen)—
Boabdil! dearly has he made them pay
The wresting of those lineal rights away.
And long he battled with the hostile star,*
Whose scope foredoom'd his empire from afar;
Nor hope, nor aim, unthwarted by that doom—
Chill'd in the bud, or blasted in the bloom.
In every chance, its mthering spell reveal'd ;
Through broils at home—disasters in the field,—
Did " E l Zogoybi," heritor of woe.
Confirm the presage that had nam'd him so.
And now his course of destin'd sorrow sped—
His sway departed—its defenders dead—
(Save those who've clung through every storm till now,
These few last leaves upon his wintry bough,)
H e seeks the asylum, purchased by his sword.
Which Spain's respect—perhaps her fears aftbrd.

* T h e astrologers, who were appointed to take his horoscope, predicted the calamities of his reign, whence ho
was styled " El Zogoybi," or the Unlucky.

G 2
 44 THE MOORS IN SPAIN.

' T w a s sunset—as they reacli'd the Sierra's crown,

Whence oft the goatherd linger'd to look d o w n —
Where, far in pomp of Arabesques displayed,
Gleara'd the Alhambra, midst embow'ring shade.
T h e r e he, tho' harbour'd, with the mountain hind.
M a y turn and gaze on all he leaves behind.
T h e ancestral halls, that still from age to age

¡1 Rose with the pride of the A b e n c e r r a g e —

Whence, of their warriors and their kings, the last,
H e with the glory of his house hath pass'd.
See where they rise ! and peerless as before^
( T h o u g h Muezzin chant and Crescent beam no more)
In Eastern grandeur cro\vn the V e g a ' s plain.
W i t h dome and minaret, spire and gilded f a n e !
A n d who with secret transport would not glow.
T o see the banquet Nature spreads below;
W h e r e her best gifts luxuriously combine,
Olive and orange, pomegranate and vine ?
W h a t living thing would tempt its fate to roam
From this, in hope to find as blest a home ?
E v ' n senseless things seem happy with their lot.
Cast in the splendour of tliis heavenly spot.
W h e n , in the morning of their faith and zeal,
W i t h hands that grasp'd the K o r a n and the s t e e l —
T h e desert sent its fiery children forth
T o win a Paradise in heaven or earth;
T h e y here beheld the seat for which they sighM,
A n d fix'd their tents along the XeniVs tide :
Here, when the turban'd conqueror sought repose
A m o n g its groves, the mosque and harem rose.
A n d now, (the dream of blissful centuries o'er,)
T h e y quit the garden for the wild once more.
A n d still, the X e n i l ' s crystal windings lave
T h e trees that fan them—warbling as they wave ; —
 EL ULTIMO SUSPIRO DEL MORO. 45

And still, the sun seems eager to invest

Each thing wth glory, pausing in the west;
And lingers o'er the scene his beams adorn.
For he shall view no spot like this—till morn !

And can the Moor for ever say farewell,

With soul unsoftened, as he breaks the spell
That binds all tilings that live, or breathe, or move,
In the enchantment of its zone of love ?
Ah ! more than stranger's passing sympathy
With scenes like these arrest his gleaming eye.
And long-remember'd haunts assert their claim
On lips that murmur each familiar name.
As, one by one, he turns to hall and grot.
Terrace, and fount, and every charmed spot,
Mark'd by the boy's caprice—the lover's bliss,
Sharing the secret of his earliest kiss ;
Or where his manhood, at the trumpet's sound,
Bui'st from the barriers o'er the listed ground ;
Or haply where (Oh, fate of earthly things !)
Wave the last trophies of a hne of kings !
Can he behold the objects which create
Visions like these, and not feel desolate?
His looks, liis limbs all lock'd in marble, seem
Absorb'd in memory's protracted dream j
A thousand thoughts inflict a thousand stings.
His cheeks are delug'dfroma thousand springs—
Voice he has none—but to articulate, J
In falt'ring accents, " God ! Oh, God is great !"
Ye who have quail'd to him. Christian cavaliers !
Come hither, and avenge your former fears !
All ye, whose shatter'd shield and cloven crest.
The fame which cro\vns yon Paynim chief attest ;
4(i THE MOORS IN SPAIN.

Behold him now in his own sorrows drown d.

Beneath whose lance your boldest bit the ground !
See there ! what passions with conflicting sway
R e n d his proud heart—then turn in ruth a w a y !
Aw'd by the wild siipremacy of grief,
T h a t scorns ahke concealment or relief,
His followers gather'd silent, and aloof.
Y e t few against the bitter moment proof,
W h e n there, upon the barren mountain's stance.
T h e i r eyes encounter'd in their low'ring glance
T h e smiling features of their native land.
B y G o d deliver d to the stranger's hand !
W h i l e every eye, upon its beauty cast.
F o r g o t its fierceness, as it gazed its last.

Y e t one there was, whom that i n d i g n i t y —

A k i n g in tears ! it fill'd with scorn to see,
A y x a , his mother, of unconquer'd soul:
From her dark eye no tear of softness stole,
T ' upbraid the fate, by wliich a queen was driven,
A n exil'd wand'rer 'neath the cope of Heaven ;
T h r o u g h all the pangs that search the heart or brain.
Feel as she m i g h t — s h e only look'cl disdain.
She stood amidst the harem's shrinking flowers—
T h e unveil'd mysteries ot its broken b o w e r s —
Boabdil's brides, who shar'd his fortune's beam.
Now with its >vreck abandon'd to the stream.
T h e y gaze and tremble, as a troop of sheep
Gaze on the track tliro' which they are to sweep.
Y e t midst that troop, with gi'ief and terror wild.
Serenely stood stern A l i - A t a r ' s child j
Or, if the matron s brow betray'd a care,
'Twas but for him who sham'd liis manhood there.
 EL ULTIMO SUSPIRO DEL MORO. 47

And now she di-aws the afflicted monarch near,

Her scornful lip inclining to his ear;
And steep'd in gall, the words her whispers speak.
The med'cine of strong minds iinto the weak.
" Oh, well! " she said, " by woman's tears deplor'd
A realm, the soldier kept not mth his sword !"
He heard—yet shook not off his sorrow's l o a d -
Sunk 'neath their weight—he heeded not the goad-
Amidst a flood of unregarded brine,
He only sigh'd—"Wliat woes e'er equall'd mine T

Perchance he never had surviv'd that hour

Wliich left him naked of demesne and power—
Alive, perchance, he never would have cross'd
What seem'd Ihe tlireshold of the land he'd lost ;—
But at that instant kindling flashes broke
From high Alhambra's towers, and wreaths of smoke,
With the light ord'nance rolling in their cloud,
A moment wrapt them in their dusky shroud :
And when that veil had drifted with the wind,
St. Jago's banner proudly waved behind.
He saw it, and his spirit at the sight
Had spread its wing for its eternal flight;
But all the feehngs of the warrior then
Ebb'd fiercely in their wonted course again ;
And that, which rous'd to frenzy, also came
In timely rescue of his sinking frame.
His swarthy visage burnt with shame and ire—
From his sunk eye-balls shook indignant fire;
And then, as if, in flying from the place.
He sought oblivion of that hour's disgrace,
He dash'd the rowels in his courser's flank—
Wheel'd fiercely to each quickly-mustering rank—
48 THE MOORS IN SPAIN.

Rose on his stirrups—waved his mailed hand—

Where are they now ?—Boabdil and his band !
Years upon years have gather'd since they then
Swept like an eddy into yonder glen;
Yet the devourer—'neath whose deep indent
Is half consum'd yon gorgeous monument
Of Moorish state—now mould'ring all away—
Cloth'd in the verdant livery of decay—
Time spares the legend of this lonely spot,
By none the meanest of Spain's sons forgot.
The peasant's finger still will mark you where
Boabdil breath'd i h e sigh of his despair—
His quick eyes sparkling with his country's pride.
He'll tell you, it was here the Moor last sigh'd.

A. J. L.
 EL LELE,

CANCION ANDALUZA.

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 EL LELE.
50

g — r

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dra á que - brar.

-tt—d—•— g —
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mas SIi US - ted no tiene em -
lé si al fin - ha de ser

í = = t
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 EL LELE.
.51

é d ^ K
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ly

! E
3 3

2° Estrib^ 3°. Estriba

N o me seas retrechera, E n contiendas amorosas

Pues te habré de comparar
Con el relox de Pamplona,
Que apunta pero no da.
Ay Lelé, &c.
Aconseja cierto autor;
Herrar, 6 quitar el banco,
Y yo sigo esta opinion.
Ay Lele, &c.
H2
•-í

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riw» -J..-, . • • W l n • iW. 1 1
 THE MATADOR.

THIS sketch is perfection*. It is impossible to give a more powerful

representation of the most interesting moment of the hull-fight. The
bull is supposed to be rushing on the apparently devoted Matador—
his eyes glowing like living coals—his nostrils breathing fire, and
the loud bellow which he gives in his fury harrowing up the feelings
of the excited spectators.

Tlie Matador stands cool and collected, his eye fixed on the bull,
straining to anticipate his movement—the left leg advanced so
as to place the body on the centre of gravity—the right is thrown
back to give force to the meditated blow—the left arm has just
dropped the red flag which excites the wild monster's rage—the
right arm is poised with unerring certitude, so that the advancing
sword shall touch the neck, and enter between the cartilages at the
moment that the bull exerts his tremendous force to fling into the air
whatever object resists him.

Sec Frontispiece.
54 THE MATADOR.

If the blow be sti'uck home, the devoted animal falls at the Mata-
dor's feet—if it should fail, the chulos, or cheats, throw their painted
scarfs before his eyes, and call away his attention while their com-
rade prepares another movement. The bull must die; but he often
sacrifices several horses, and occasionally some of the men, before
the sentence of death can be carried into execution.

Pepe Gonzales, whose portrait we prefix, as it was taken in liis

last mortal fight, was the most renowned Torero in Andalusia. His
triumphs were numerous, and no bull was too fierce, or too savage,
to inspire him with dread. H e was a very handsome young man,
and the scandalous chronicles of Seville said, that a lady of high
distinction forgot her birth and station in her admiration of him.
Unlike the Toreros in general, he was an honourable youth, and
many forgave the noble lady when they saw him dressed out in yellow
and gold, his hair tied up with ribands in the Mona, and exliibiting
proofs of the courage so dear to a female heart.

H i s master had been Ms own father, the renowned Antonio Gon-

zales, whose fame still resounds in Andalusia ; and it was the practice
of the old man to attend the great court ceremonies, or functions, as
they are called, and to watch, with a father's and a master's pride, the
heroic conduct of his child and pupil.

On the melancholy occasion to wliich we have now to refer, the

Plaza de Toros of Grenada was crowded to excess. The galleries
and boxes were filled with nobility and gentry, and the stone seats,
rising above each other, like those of the Roman Ampliitheatre, were
occupied by an anxious but orderly crowd of the lower classes, all
 THE MATADOR.
55

waiting with breathless impatience for the commencement of the

sports. Some bulls from Salamacan, the largest and fiercest breed
in Spain, had arrived ; and our hero, the most renowned Matador,
was to exhibit—two causes sufficient to awake the eager curiosity of
a people who are so passionately fond of that which other nations
call a most cruel exliibition.

Our hero—for poor Pepe in his way was a hero—felt all the enthu-
siasm of his art, and aware of the raised expectations of the people,
and flattered by their notice, determined to acquit himself in a
manner worthy of his own and his father's name. With what pride,
therefore, did he hear the acclamations of the crowd, when the first
bull that he engaged fell lifeless at his feet!—with what delight did
he receive the congratulations of his veterali father, who, seated on
the lowest and nearest bench, with a throbbing heart watched every
motion of his child, and every rush of the ferocious animal opposed
to him I—with what ecstasy did he observe the waving of the Coun-
tess's handkerchief, and the glance of approbation which she bestowed
on him for liis success !

At length the bull, the fiercest of the conida, which Pepe was to
kill in honour of the same noble lady, rushed into the arena, and
went thi-ough the previous part of the ceremonies in a manner which
excited the furious joy of the maddened crowd—overthrowing the
Picadores and their horses, like chaif before the wind—killing every
horse that was opposed to him, and rendering the service of the
bandilleros so precarious, that it requhed all the care of the atten-
dant chulos to save them from the monster's rage.
 THE MATADOR.
56

The warning drum at last sounded—Pepe stepped into the arena,

took his bright sword and examined it well from hilt to p o i n t —
gathered the red flag into its proper fold—and bending his knee
before the box of the Corregidor, asked the usual permission to slay
the bull in honour of the noble lady to whom we have alluded. The
Condma heard the vow of the brave youth, and as she blushed with
pride or shame, she became the envy, it must be confessed, of all the
surrounding donnas.

Pepe then, attended by his chulo, advanced against the bull, and
displayed the flag which brings such terror to the animal. A bellow
which shook the Plaza, a rush which made the ground tremble, was
the immediate consequence ; but Pepe cunningly yielded the flag to
the bull's horns, and then turning short round, made the animal turn
with liim, so as to give his right arm full play. Tliiice he performed
this beautiful evolution, amid the cheers and plaudits of the mob,
until, finding his enemy a little heated, he prepared to kill, and raised
the point of his sword to the proper attitude.

The spectators, aware of what he was about, rose up with breathless

anxiety—the silence was instantaneous and profound—not a word
was spoken among ten thousand people.

The bull paused for a moment. Pepe shook the flag, to excite him
—nor did he requhe to do so again—for at the very first flutter, the
maddened animal dashed in fury at his foe, and received the thrust,
not exactly on the given point, but a little to the right, on the bone.
The sword flew out of the devoted Matador's hand, while the horn
 THE MATADOR. 57

caught the sleeve of liis j a c k e t as he passed, and the bull instantly

taking advantage of the check given to his victim's flight, buried his
horns in his body and flung him into the air.

One shriek of horror broke from the whole circle—the brave, the
beautiful Pepe was at the mercy of the beast. The Condessa fainted,
and was removed by her attendants; the chulos ran to interpose
then- flags, and take off the animal's attention. I t was all in vain ;
the bull received the body as it fell on his horns, and tossed it again
— a g a i n caught it as it descended, and sent it up once more. A
third time the horns received the now lifeless frame of the unfortunate
youth, and then the bull absolutely carried it into the middle of the
P l a z a , and there dropping it on the ground, gored it, stamped upon
it, and gratified his savage rage to the utmost.

The agitation of the cii'cle knew no bounds—their favourite was

killed—Pepe Gonzales was no m o r e . — " R e v e n g e ! " "Revenge!"
was the universal c r y — a n d all eyes then turned on the old father,
who sat like stone, not a tear dropping from his burning lids, his "eye
fixed on the mangled corpse of his beloved child—the current of life
seemed stopped within Imn—and the persons immediately near
apprehended that the spirit had deserted Ins body, so rigid did it sit
— n o t a sigh being heard—not a movement of life being perceived.
" R e v e n g e ! " « R e v e n g e I " — a g a i n rose the appalling c r y — " Another
Matador ! " Several stepped forth, claiming the dangerous h o n o u r -
but the old man rose from his seat, waved his hand for all to retire,
and supported by a friend before the box of the Corregidor, demanded
the royal permission to slay the sacrificer of his child I
58 THE MATADOR.

I n vain the people rose up to protest against the old man thus peiil-
ling his life: he quietly, but without speaking a word, made liis pre-
parations, and feeling that his old frame could not support the active
exertion, ordered a chair to be lowered into the arena, and there he
sat himself down, a willing victim, determined not to outlive his cliild.
H e poised the flag on liis left arm—^raised the sword to its fatal
bearing—and then one of the chulos attracting with his scarf the bull's
attention from the dead body on which his rage was now exhausted,
drew him towards the spot where the old man was prepared to receive
him. A bellow, like the north wind in a cavern on the sea-shore,
announced the monster's rage, on again seeing the crimson flag—a
rush, like that of a mountain wave over the devoted bark, evinced the
desperation of his fury. H e came on; the old man's eye Hghted
up with the fire of youth—^his arm felt strong once more with the
nerve of iive-and-twenty—calmly he awaited his foe—and meeting,
with scientific precision, the exact point of the bull's neck as it
stopped to gore, the sword entered to the quick, and the animal
dropped dead at his feet, as if struck by a flash of lightning!

One shout resounded to the heavens from every part of the assem-
bly. The old man's heart gave way—" My child!—My brave boy ! "
he cried—but the rising emotion choked him as he spoke, and he
too closed his eyes in death!
 SI LA MAR.

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Si la mar fue - ra de tìn - ta Y los eie - los de pa -

ALLEGRETTO.
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 SI LA MAR. (U

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 THE

ANDALUSIAN PEASANT GIRL AND H E R NOVIO.

BEHOLD her—the true Andakisiaii peasaiit-gh'L—not as described in

the page of romance, but as she now exists in her native village.
Young and ardent—full of life and love—her cheeks tinged by the
warm sun which gives lustre to her beauty—her dark eyes, glowing
with the fire of her Moorish blood, are cast down in tender melan-
choly—her heart for the first time beating with indistinct emotions—
her head full of the youth who has struck her opening fancy.

She is Dolores, the daughter of a comfortable farmer in the pretty

village of Alcala de Gnadira, a few leagues from Seville. Who has
not been struck with the romantic position of that village, on the road
from Seville to Carmona, nestled at the bottom of one hill, and over-
looking the deep valley which separates it from the grander eleva-
tion, where the ruins of old Moorish castles and extensive fortifications
give poetical interest to the scene? Who has not remarked the
pretty wlñte cottage, standing apart, but still belonging to the village,
surrounded with olive-trees, and with all the indications of rural
wealth?
64 THE ANDALUSIAN PEASANT GIRL AND HER NOVIO.

Old Pablo Perez is one of the wealthiest proprietors of the hamlet :

he prides himself on his olive-grounds, his vineyards, and his cattle ;
but the treasure of liis heart is liis only child—Dolores—the pride
of his age, the reflection of his beloved Magdalena.

But he little knows that that treasure is about to be taken from

him. Paco, the handsome gallant of a neighbouring town, has
taught her that the joys and sorrows of love are the inheritance of
her sex. She trembles at her father's voice—she falters at his glance
—she fears that her secret has been discovered. Poor Dolores ! her
guitar is her only consolation ; touching its light strings, she runs on
in a wild cadence—her anticipations of hope, or her forebodings of
despair. H e r eyes are filled with tears—her head is bent with
thoughtful melancholy. She has just heard that the Quinta, or
annual conscription for the army, has been ordered in the district.
H e r lover may be di-awn—separated from his family—torn from her
—marched off to NavaiTe—killed in the civil war.—Poor gentle
Dolores !

She dare not inquire what has been his fate. The crowd are
coming from the house of the Ayuntamiento, She hears the names
of those who have been drawn pronounced by their friends : her soul
trembles—dark thoughts are struggling in her breast—she is giving
way to despair-—when she hears a cry of joy. Again she listens : the
beatings of her heart against her boddice can be distinctly counted.
I t is the rejoicing of those who have escaped the lottery. Hope
returns to her bosom—fortune cannot be so cruel. H e r deep distress
gives way to a more tranquil feeling—her taper fingers stray involun-
 THE ANDALUSIAN PEASANT GIRL AND HER NOVIO. 65

tarily over the strings of her guitar—the touch revives her—the

sound brings consolation to her mind—still she is very sad. Again
and again she dwells on the same strain. It is a song of sorrow—a
tale of unfortunate love.

Such is the moment we have chosen for our village portrait. How
beautiful she is—hark to her wild notes—hark to the song of lier
country—a pure Andalusian melody !

SAY, is it Jove which thus beyond control.

With constant tremor, agitates my breast—
Say, is it love which thus invades my soul,
And haunts with fancies vague my hours of rest ?

This trembling hand, this pulse, this sudden flush

O f conscious passion, which unhid will steal
Into my crimson'd cheek—this guilty blush.
Betray the secret I would fain conceal.

Ah, yes, 'tis love ! this wild, uncertain hope—

This undefined—this strange and restless fear—
These waking dreams—which, in soft visions, ope
Before my eyes, and check the starting tear.

Alas ! am I then lost ? Oh, Heav'n, be kind !

And save me from myself—But why complain ?
I f life be love—'tis sweet to live and find
Delight in sorrow—happiness in pain !

It is not many months since Paco, the bold, sprightly Paco,

first avowed his love, and she has not yet ventured to confess to him
K
66 THE ANDALUSIAN PEASANT GIRL A N D HER NOVIO.

the full streiigtli of ber aiFection. Night after night he has stood
beneath her window, hoping that her coldness would give way, and
that she would grant liim a few moments of endearing conversation.
In vain the little pebble, dashed lightly against the glass, announced
that her lover was at his usual post. The dread of her father's
anger—the modesty of her religious mind—the fear of compromising
her own or her family's reputation, withheld her.

If she has opened her casement and allowed a few moments of

stolen intercourse, it has been only to persuade her admii'er to wait
for better days—until their years are more advanced—jintil his
fortunes are more prosperous. In vain he has poured out his love—
in vain he has entreated her to give the shghtest acknowledgment
that his passion is returned—the young creature will not give
utterance to her own sense of happiness; and her lover is suffered
to depart, but only to renew on the following night the same course
of quiet attentions.

Alas, poor Dolores! she will soon learn that she is the only maiden
in the village who refuses, while all the family are buried in sleep,
to hear the ardent vows of love breathed from beneath the window—
and that when a cruel parent interferes, and prevents the heart-sick
girl from occupying a chamber which communicates with the street,
her Novio will be found stretched on the cold ground, endeavouring
to exchange under the doorway a few words of hope with the dear
maid, who lies down in the same position witliin, alternately applying
to the narrow crevice, between the door and the door-sill, her mouth
to speak, and her ear to receive the whisperings of her lover.
 THE A N D A L U S I A N P E A S A N T GIRL A N D HER NOVIO. 67

It was at the Feria of Mairena that she saw for the first time the
young peasant who won her heart's first hope. H e was tlie pride oi'
a not far-distant village—the best guitar player in the district, and
eminent in all rural sports. Her charms had a short time before fixed
liis attention, when she came with her family to witness the celebrated
procession of Holy Thursday at the Cathedral of Seville ; but he
had in vain sought the opportunity of attracting her notice to him.
How his heart beat when he saw her enter the fair—how it thrilled
when he saw hev selected for the first Bolero by the most celebrated
dancer—with what eagerness he darted up to displace her partner,
according to the established privilege of the country, and with what
burning mortification he retired to his scat when some other peasant,
equally struck by the charms of lois blushing beauty, deprived him
of his short-lived triumph !

Bewildered Paco! he knows not what to do. H e flies for advice

and consolation to the old Escribano of the village. H e tells him
the story of his love, and demands assistance and advice. The Escri-
.11

bano, ensconced in a portal behind a screen, which shuts him and

i
the party coming to consult him from the common gaze, recommends
that a letter should be conveyed to the young maiden. It is the most
respectful manner of commencing his addresses—it is the legitimate
mode of wooing in the province. Paco, all fire, pours out a torrent
of hopes and wishes ; the Escribano quietly nibs his pen—folds and
unfolds his paper—Paco curses him in his heart, but dreads to
offend him. A t length the old man's preparations are made, his
trembling hand guides the unsteady pen, while Paco, balancing
between the ardour of his love and the reserve necessary for the first
K 2
 68 THE ANDALUSIAN PEASANT GIRL A N D HER NOVIO.

letter, delivers liis thouglits to the old writer, who, heeding not one
word that the young peasant says, writes out a copy of the old formula
which has served him for so many occasions, and will for so many
more:—

" M u v Señorita M i a —

" From the day my eyes first beheld you, I have had no peace. I
die with despair unless you have pity on this martyi-ized heart. I
have no repose for a moment—my soul is on fire—only grant me one
favour, or I will die at your door in grief and despair. Come to the
window to-night, about midnight; I wiU then teU you how much I
love.
" I kiss your feet,
"Paco."

Paco throws down the peseta to the Escribano, and snatches up

the letter, rushes with it to the fair, again dances with the smihng
maiden, attracts her notice by the ardour of his glances, awakens
some shght interest in her bosom, and watches the opportunity by a
sign, which even is famihar to children, that he has a communication
to make to her. Dolores blushes—retires to her place—di'ops her fan
in soft confusion—the lover rushes to pick it up, and contrives, with
the quickness of thought, to place the letter between the folds of the
large fan, and convey it to the panting maiden, who thus receives the
first declaration from the first young man who has pleased her open-
i
ing fancy.

The dancing still continues, the castanets flash in the ah, the
 THE A N D A L U S I A N PEASANT GIRL A N D HER NOVIO, 6i)

guitar, accompanied by the voice of the player, and joined occa-

sionally by the voices of some of his friends, awakes the full flow of
merriment. The Bolero, the Seguidilla, the Jota Aragonesa, in turn
succeed each other. Dolores has danced till nature can support it
no longer; her lover drank liis fill of delight, and he too has exhi-
bited to advantage before her. It is beautiful to see them, their
arms extended or alternately sweeping to the ground, wlule the body
is gradually inchned in corresponding movement. They approach—
their fingers touch each other—they retu-e with sharp rapidity—they
cross;; from side to side—they meet and fly to opposite extremities.
The lookers-on are in an ecstasy. " Oh, que Majo !" cries o n e —
" Hermosisima!" exclauns another—" Cuerpo bueno—alma b e l l a —
Zandunguera!" are heard at every side. Showers of sweetmeats
are thrown into the tent by the young men of the villages who have
Novias among the dancers.
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 T H E A N D A L U S I A N PEASANT.

HERE is our gay Novio, as he stands expecting that the window

of his mistress will be opened, and that she will deign to hsten to his
ardent vows ! The ardour of his nature is repressed. The patient,
watchful attention which characterizes a Spaniard more than the
native of any other country, and wliich appears to be so foreign to
their passionate blood, is deeply impressed on his countenance ;—there
he stands, partly hidden by the column of the house, ready to start
forth if the slight mark of encouragement be given, or prepared to
throw liis cloak over his head, and escape the observation of any
inquisitive passenger, or the Patrulla, should he a]3pear. Occasionally
he stoops, and throws a little sand or a small pebble against tlie
window, to intimate that he is at liis post—but liis artifices are in vain,
the maiden is still repressed by fear or shame, she dares not venture
to the window.

Thus for nights and nights poor Paco patiently awaits the effect
which his letter and the constancy of his attention will produce. He
H,
72 THE ANDALUSIAN PEASANT.

dare not hope, but he does not despair. H e knows how timid is the
heart of the Andalusian maiden, but he knows how passionate will be
Jier love, when once she has avowed that her heart is intended for him.
Sometimes he will bring his guitar, and pour out the breathings of
his soul—but at some distance from her house, in order that her
father s suspicion may not be excited. Sometimes he will collect
the musical friends of the village, and give a serenade which she well
knows is in her honour, though the other lasses fancy it is in
theirs.

THE SERENADE.

BENEATH tlie wndow of my village maid.

In the deep silence of the conscious night.
Thy Paco sings, " Oh, sweet, be not afraid!
Vision of beauty! bless me with thy light."
The timid breeze, that o'er the violet blows.
The babbling broolc, that runs a limpid stream.
The od'rous breath that comes from yonder rose.
With my voice mingle; while I thus proclaim—
That I adore thee.

Oh, sleep not so!—Oh, beauteous maid, awake I

Or, if soft dreams still hold thee to repose.
Attendant Sylphs will whisper for my sake,
" It is thy love who to thy casement goes."
Sleep on—sleep on—Oh ! Natxire is not hush'd—
The gentle hiim of zephyrs will combine.
With aromatic breath of rose-leaves crush'd.
To fill the air, with love as pure as mine—
For I adore thee!
 THE ANDALUSIAN PEASANT. 73

And from my soul a deep and tender sigh,

With love's soft accents in it, will expire
Upon thy balmy lips—there let it die,
And as it dies—communicate tlie fire
Which now within me burns. Be not afraid.
Lovely as morn—awake, and let me hear
Thy answer whisp'ring love—my beauteous maid.
It is thy Paco, who is ling'ring near—
Thus to adore thee.

Awake, awake !—Bright morn of beauty break,

A.nd g^ve me day. Oh, trembling heart, be still!
Mark yonder ray!—it is the dawn's first streak.
Like Phcebus bright'ning o'er the distant h i l l -
Awake, my love!—Oh, let thy casement ope.
And bless me with the magic of thy sight!
My arms enfold thee—soft, delusive hope !
Shadow of bliss !—Oh, phantom of delight—
How I adore thee!

He has worked at his farm all day—nature demands repose—but

he thinks only of his mistress. The moment the night sets in he
starts away on foot or on horseback, patiently awaiting the moment
when her feelings may induce her to relent, and well aware, from all
that he has been told by his acquaintance, that he will in the end
be requited for his long endurance.

At length, when all is still, and when his constancy is about to

waver, a slight noise at the window of his beloved is heard—he pants
with expectation—he dares not trust himself to unbounded hope.
The casement slowly opens, a low voice is h e a r d — P a c o — P a c o ! "
L
74 THE ANDALUSIAN PEASANT.

Yes, it is the beautiful Dolores—nature lias prevailed—she comes

to tell him that he must not despair. Oh, what joy is his!—he pours
out the full transport of his love—^but the window is suddenly closed,
and poor Paco has still to tire out the weary hours—for that night
his mistress will not again appear.

The succeeding night the young peasant is again at liis post-

hope now is strong witliin him—^his eyes arefixedintently on the
window where his mistress appeared—hour after hour he patiently
awaits her coming. At length the curtain is withdrawn, the maiden
takes courage—she hears all that he has to say, she bids him hope
—she promises to love him, and him alone—^but raises a thousand
objections to an early declaration to her parents. Again the same
scene takes place—for months, for perhaps years, the lover comes
beneath that wni dow—^he has not even touched his mistress's hand
—he has no opportunity of seeing her at another time, or at any other
place.

In the mean time his relations and friends have watched his
repeated absence, and liis father demands an explanation. He con-
fesses his love, and liis choice is approved of by liis parents. It is
agreed that they are to go in form, and demand of old Pablo Perez
the hand of his daughter for their son. Due notice is given of this
important mission, and Pablo is prepared to receive them in his best
room, and in his best dress. A thousand bows and civilities take
place between them: he seats them, at the head of the room, on the
lumbering old sofa, wliile he respectfully takes a chair at their side—
they open the important affair—he listens with the gravity of an
 THE ANDALUSIAN PEASANT. 75

Alcalde. There can be no objection to the match—his neighbour

is well to do in the world, the young man has a good character—
Amigo, this house is yours."

Dolores, trembling in her own room, awaits the decision of her father
-hope and despair alternately fill her affectionate heart. At length
old Pablo opens the door, and silently taking her hand, leads her to
the apartment where her fate has been just decided, and presents her
to the parents of her Novio. Her father makes her a fine speech—
the other father makes a finer, the mother presses her hand, and bids
her to take courage—she blushes—then turns pale—feels a faint
sensation, but is revived by the tenderness of the old woman. At
length she gives a glad, though seemingly reluctant, consent. The
old people retire. The next day Paco is to be introduced to her—
she rushes to her room, finds relief in a flood of tears, and sits down
to finish the embroidered paiiuelo which she is to give her lover, and
which the sly rogue has been engaged on for some time, in expecta-
tion of a happy termination to her affair.

The long-wished-for morn at length arrives—the whole house is

busied in preparation. Dolores, from the break of day, is occupied
with her toilet—a high comb is fixed in her hair—a single rose is
placed at the left side—a few curls hang at each side of the forehead
—her dark tresses are gathered together in a large knot behind—her
bosom is concealed with a pañoleta of silk net, her gi-aceful shape is
attired in a dress of showy colours, the skirt and the body often not
of the same pattern—her little feet are dressed to perfection—white
silk stockings, with complicated open gores, display her sparkling
L2
76 THE ANDALUSIAN PEASANT.

ankle—she looks bewitchingly. Finer women may be seen in other

countries, but nowhere can a more graclosa person be beheld.
Wliat peasant girl can compare to an Andalusian M a j a ?

At length the expected sounds are heard, and notice is given that
the Novio and his friends are entering the village. The windows are
all thrown up, and all the damsels admire the manly beauty of the
youth and the gallantry of his appearance. H e wears his gacho
jauntingly on one side—a many-coloured kerchief is bound round liis
head to give the hat support—he has on a splendid vestido de majo
—hombreras on the shoulders, and golpes at the wrist—a faga of red
silk is bound round his waist, a slight neck-band of the same colour
relieves his open shirt-collar, wliich shows his brown and manly throat
to advantage—two white handkerchiefs are in the pockets of liis
jacket, the ends hanging out, being essential to the costume—^liis
calzones are bound with velvet, and trimmed with two rows, at each
side, of gold and silver buttons—liis bottons are finely worked in
coloured silk, and open at the calf of the leg. Caramba que M a j o
es nuestro Paco.

H i s horse is a fine Andalusian, bred in the celebrated pastures of

Xeres, or C a r t u j a ; he is called Aldeano—^lie bends liis knee, and
steps proudly along—holds his head in lofty disdain, and paces with
liigh and measured step, in a manner peculiar to the country, wliich
is called the Paso Castellano, and to which he has been broken with
great care, Paco sits liim like a field-marshal—he retains a dig-
nified reserve, and is not tempted to look at the pretty maidens who
line his road, and perhaps envy the good fortune of their neighbour.
 THE ANDALUSIAN PEASANT. 77

He and liis friends are received with due honour by old Pablo;
they are conducted to the head of the room—he is introduced to his
Novia—the match is arranged—he presents her with the wedding
presents, a ring and a pair of ear-rings, and she offers the embroi-
dered handkerchief which she has been occupied with since the day
he first avowed his love. They then take the Dichos, or are asked
in church, after which he is a received lover.

Yes, but after what fashion ?—he is not allowed to speak to her
except in the presence of her friends. They are not only strictly
proliibited from being alone together, but care is taken to prevent it.
H e is the whole day at home, whispering to her in a corner, but
always before company—and if he is seen speaking to another girl,
her jealousy is excited—^if repeated, it is an unpardonable offence.
The humblest cottage girl will not permit such a slight.

It is during the interval of tliis acceptance and the boda, that

Dolores avails herself of a woman's privilege, throughout the world,
of tormenting her future husband—she laughs at his protestations of
eternal fidelity, accuses him of inconstancy, and sings a thousand
ballads in ridicule of a lover's vows.
 EL NUEVO SERENI,

SUNG BY MADLLE. MANZOCHI, AT E t TEATRO DEL PRINCIPE, MADRID.

GUITARRA

PIANO-
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 EL NUEVO SERENI. 79

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80 EL N U E V O SERENI.

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 EL NUEVO SERENI. 81

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Conforme va echando el pié T o d o lo reúne en si
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 THE BETROTHED.

OUR fair Betrothed is now seen to great advantage; she has

just been laughing at her lover, and her eyes still retain a part of
that wicked expression which she assumed to torment him more
severely. In one hand is grasped the guitar, to which she has sung
one of her most piquant ballads ; her arm is thrown negligently over
the rails of the chair—she seems waiting for an answer from the
discomfited Paco; if he does not reply quickly, she will repeat the
song which has so much ofPended him. It is a favourite with the
Andalusian girls when they affect to mock at that passion which
constitutes their sole happiness.

Paco is in despair ; but he soon recovers his gaiety, and often

snatcliing the guitar from her hands, retorts some ballad written by a
disappointed lover, accusing the sex of frivolity or inconstancy ; but
more frequently gives way to one of those passionate songs so
familiar to the Andalusian, which call up the life-blood into the
maiden's cheek, or send her blushing to her own apartment.
M 2
 '-THE BETROTHED.

Paco spends the day in the society of liis beloved; but ere night
sets in, he goes round to all his friends, and entreats the most musical
of them to join liim in a serenade. Every young man arms himself
with a guitar, and, headed by the Novio, soon surround the house of
his fair enemy, and sing till the day-light cautions them to retire.
The music consists of the common ballads of the country ; but more
frequently the lover himself, finding an inspiration in his passion,
composes extempore verses, while all the others speedily catch the
air and the measure, and join liim at the end of each verse in a
chorus, which he has also given out on the instant. Tlie Spanish
language is rich and flowing, more sonorous, though perhaps not so
tender as the Italian. It has an abundant recurrence of correspond-
ing final sounds, and a quick wit and a true ear may extemporize for
hours together. The sentiment is love, and it consecrates the poetry;
but the language will not bear to be criticised. It is made up of con-
ventional nonsense, of " love " and " dove," of " h e a r t " and " smart,"
and all such phrases, which have long been current in all languages,
and serve well enough to bewilder the imagination of an Andalusian
maid. Some of these serenades are eminently beautiful, and we have
selected one which has the true soul of poetry within it.

At length the old people have determined on the terms of the

contract, and the time of the Boda is fixed. The day previous to
that on which it is to take place, the Escribano and the young man's
parents come to the house of our old friend Pablo, to pay in the
dote, and make the last arrangement for their children's happiness.

Dolores, according to custom, has provided for her, by her family.

 THE BETROTHED.

all the furniture of the bed-room, which is her property independent

of the husband's will. To that is added whatever sum the circum-
stances of Paco will admit of, which is equally settled on her, and
to which the law gives her a claim before all other creditors, or even
before her own children, in case of the Marido's death. She has
also prepared for liim a camisa of fine linen, beautifully worked by
her own hand—she blushingly disposes it on the table, where the
other bridal presents are to be placed.

Paco then produces the gifts which he has come provided with
in honour of his dear bride. He begins with two complete suits of
Basquina Mantilla, fan, and stockings, and one of muslin or cotton
for every-day use. The Basquina, made of black silk, and looped up
with many rows of black bugles, with bands of bugles round the
wrist, the waist, and arms, is fitted to her tight shape in perfect
symmetry. It is not an every-day costume—it is to be reserved for
festivals and great occasions. The Mantilla is composed of lace or
silk, or velvet trimmed with lace: it combines a veil, a head-dress,
and a large falling tippet. It has a magical effect under the
management of an Andalusian coquette. Who can resist the glances
of the dark eye shot from beneath the folds of the veil ? Who can
resist the witchery with which it is drawn across the bosom, or left
hanging at each side, confined however in its place by the artful dis-
position of the left arm ?

Paco has also brought the wedding-ring, and some trifling but
pretty ornaments set in emeralds. Every person who is invited comes
86 THE BETROTHED.

provided with a present. The Padrino has to pay all the fees of the
church, and to make a handsome regala to the bride.

A t length the happy morning arrives, and Dolores has made her
prep3,rations to meet her lover at the village church. She is dressed
in the handsome Basquina that Paco has presented—she goes to
the altar accompanied by all liis friends—she there meets her Novio,
waiting with fond impatience for her arrival. Their mutual vows
are given and received—the blessing of the Church is bestowed on
their union. Dolores supports her part with dignity—Paco is aU
animation, and every moment forgets the lesson which his father has
previously given liim, on the necessity of maintaining a grave deport-
ment in the serious transactions of life.

The happy pair return to the house of the bride, where an enter-
tainment is laid out for all their mutual friends. The day is spent in
joy and festivity; but it is when night closes in that the gaiety of
the cottage becomes unbounded. The doors are thrown wide open,
every person who passes has a right to enter, and is made welcome.
The families of rank in the neighbourhood make a point of paying
their compliments to the virtuous and happy couple ; they are for-
mally received by old Pablo, and conducted to the head of the room,
where the Novia sits blushing at the side of her Padrino.

The fii'St Bolero is danced by the bride and bridegroom ; but

according to the custom of the province, as we have before men-
tionetl, he is soon displaced with " Hagame usted el favor ! "
 THE BETROTHED. 87

Another and another partner succeed the first intruder; the Novia
pants for breath, and is forced, unwiHingly, to sit down. Other
maidens supply her place: the voices of the singers unite with the
sound of the guitar—the light touch of the dancer's foot is an echo
to the music. Their eyes flash fire—their frames are convulsed—
exclamations of delight are heard at every side.—" Oh, que hcrmosa
—que salero!"

At midnight the Madrina steals away the bride. The Novio is

escorted soon after by his Padrino. The company one by one depart,
but it is only to carry on the revel in another form. They return in
bands, all armed with guitars ; the most melodious voice is selected
to lead the concert. The chorus is sustained by the whole party.
The song is in honour of the young couple—it invokes happiness on
their future years—it is improvvised at the moment. The gallantry oi'
Paco at the bull-fight is recorded—the beauty of Dolores is eulo-
gized. Till day-break the sound of merriment does not cease.

For three days open house is kept by old Pablo Perez. Every night
the dance is resumed with the same ardour. The old man's heart
is as open as liis door-way; unbounded hospitality is a point of
honour on those occasions, which no true Andalusian will refuse to
exercise.
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 T H E ROAD TO T H E F E R I A .

WE knew that the fair of Mairena was at hand, and that Paco and
Dolores would be burnmg to attend it. We have caught them just
as they are starting from the house of old Pablo. See how proudly
he sits his Andalusian horse, his sombrero thrown jauntily on one
side the head, his right hand pressed on his manly thigh. H e is a
perfect majo, from the tip of the rosettes of his hat, to the last
button of his botines. She has left her fine basquina and mantilla
at home, and has put on the simple dress, in which she can more at
ease enjoy the festivities of the feria. She too has laid by the
natural timidity of her manner—she is called on to play a part—she
has to support the honour of the country as a true maja. Her lei't
hand is round the waist of her Novio—her right holds fast the
aparejo, which is covered with a fine cloth, and makes a comfortable
pillion. The embroidered handkerchief, one of the love-gifts of her
Paco, is not forgotten—she holds it cunningly in the right hand,
so that it may be fully admired as it floats in the passing breeze.
What a charming couple I—Heaven speed their way—the road of
JM THE ROAD TO THE FERIA.

happiness is open before them—their path is strewed with flowers !

Their hearts are filled with content—love has made a palace of their
humble cottage—Andalusia cannot boast a couple mas hermoso or
mas felix!

The road to the feria is thronged by a happy crowd, calesas come

rattling along—horsemen rush through the alarmed multitude—
groups, headed by the best guitar-players, begin an harmonious
career, even from their own village. The mozos and the mozas are
swarming like bees in summer—the air resounds with the melody of
their voice.—Delightful Andalusia! who, that knows thee well, would
exchange thy glowing climate, thy rural dehghts, thy simple plea-
sures, for all the luxuries of other lands!

Paco and liis Novio steadily pursue their way; she is coquetish,
and smiles and replies to the compliments of each friend or stranger.
Paco has a more dignified aspect to maintain—a proud and haughty
air Veils the genuine hilarity of his soul, which cannot be wholly
restrained by the mask of affectation. Yet, a little before the day is
passed, warmed with the dance, and one or two glasses of his light
Montillado, he will be the gayest of the gay—laughter will burst
i'rom his lips, fire will flash from his eyes—his generous nature will
beam forth in all its native lustre.

They arrive at the fair, and his good horse is carefully disposed of
at the Posada. H e buys a long pole, with a bunch of ribands at
the end—he takes his Dolores under liis arm, and parades with her
through the different avenues of the feria. They receive anew the
 THE F E R U . g^rj

comi^Iiments of all their acquaintance—congratulations flow in on

every side—Paco answers them with dignity—Dolores heeds not what
is said, her eyes are devouring the trinkets and fine clothes which are
h u n g at each booth to dazzle the eyes of village maidens. Paco
hastens to make a selection of some trifle for his belle—she blushes
as she receives it—it is the first fairing from her wedded love. To
the last hour of her life it will be worn next her heart.

The business of the feria proceeds—all the great horse-dealers of

the kingdom have come to make their purchases. The celebrated
breed which belonged to the convent of the Cartuja, near Xeres, are
in great demand—there are not a sufficient number for the buyers.
The Infante Don Francisco has taken ofp the last l o t ; his Adminis-
trador has orders to secure all the best-looking colts. The farmers
are content—no accident has impaii-ed their good humour. The
feria is at an end towards the close of the day—mirth is now the
patron saint to whom all their devotions are to be addressed.

A large tent covered with mats attracts the general attention—

it is the best shop for buñuelos. The fritters are cooked with the
best oil; the dish is adroitly inchned, so that the grossest part has
passed away. The little table is laid, just large enough to serve
each separate p a r t y : it is covered with a white napkin, which fits
the centre of the table and no more, no part of it hangs down at the
side—on that the dish of buñuelos is laid. The Novio, the Novia,
and their friends sit round, and pick out with their fingers the ricli
morsels of rural pastry—a glass of sweet wine, of the delicious
pajarete, or a copa of liqueur, gives zest to the buñuelos.
QQ THE FERIA.

The owner of the tent is a Gitana—her wild, dark eyes, her

straight, black, uncombed hair, her dingy skin, proclaim her Gipsy
blood. She waits for the moment when her guests are excited by the
wine—she advances to pay her obsequios—she whispers to Dolores—
a deep blush overspreads the bride's cheek and neck. She makes
the same communication to Paco, who answers it with a loud laugh
—a glance at his bewitching bride, and an exclamation of " por
cierto sin duda—muger !"

The Gipsy selects an unmarried person of the party ; she looks at

her open palm, she traces the lines of her fate—wealth flows along
this deep furrow, from the wrist to the first finger—a husband fol-
lows the inflection from the centre of the palm to the finger devoted
to the wedding-ring. A numerous offspring are seen in the connect-
ing traces. H e is a rubio, from the white mark in the middle of the
hand—he is a moreno, from the discoloration of a part of the little
finger. The name is whispered into the maiden's ear—she starts
with astonishment—the secret of her heart is revealed. The Gitana
is well rewarded to be discreet.

The night is now set in, and the lamp called Candii is mounted
at the end of a long pole. The tuning of guitars is heard, the hum-
ming of favourite aii-s announces the coming festivity. AH the young
people start up—as many dancers as the tent will hold are flashing
their fingers, touching their castanets, and flying through the mazes
of the Bolero or Seguidilla together. " Ay, ay, ay—Anda Muchacha
—Salva usted—gamos chica—Alerta, alerta ! "—are heard at every
side—the eye gets dizzy at looking on.
 THE FERIA. 97

The door of the tent is stopped by those who cannot get admit-
tance ; beyond them is a throng equally clamorous, and anxious to
come in. Good humour pervades them all; not a rude word is
heard, not an uncivil action is committed. A general courtesy pre-
vails—the Mozo would be disgraced who uttered a rude phrase.

A shower of sweetmeats falls on the heads of the dancers—the

Majos scramble to secure them, and present them to their partners.
They are thrown by their friends who cannot find admission to the
tent, and take that dehcate way of proving their admiration. The
dancing, which was suspended by the scramble, is again resumed—
a fresh shower of sweets gives it another interruption. Some of the
Muchachos rush out to see their friends, others take advantage of the
moment to occupy their place. The guitar continues its accompani-
ment—the voices of the singers are again exerted—the Fandango is
in request, the Cachucha is not neglected; the Iota Aragonesa,
though not legitimate in Andalusia, cannot be dispensed with.

The happy Paco and his Novia take their leave, by presenting the
kind reader with the music of a geniune Fandango, Seguidilla,
Boleras, and Cachucha.

O
 THE FANDANGO.

ANDANTINO.

sJ
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 THE FANDANGO.
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£ u un calabozo oscuro Falsa te vuelvo á decir N i lo que solia s e r ' . . .
Y q« pase por mi mano E l día que me vendiste Soy un cuadro de tristeza
Todo el alimento tuyo. Cuanto te dieron por mi? Arrimado %una pared.
 THE SEGUIDILLA.

PIANO.

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Que haga lo mismo.
 THE BOLERAS.

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 THE BOLERAS. 103

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104 THE BOLERAS

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A la desconfíaza Mírame cariñosa

En los amantes Dulce enemiga
La que mas manifiesta No maltrates aun alma
Sus voluntades A quien das vida
y asi se observa Que mi coraron
Que cuanto mas se aman Si con pasión pretende
Menos se esperan Quiere compasion.
 LA CACHUCHA.

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 L A CACHUCHA. 107

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•Ml GcuMt-ù/iÂi<y -Me- / /ItcquAo; finio. ñriiiiAf (y C Jfa¿im-cjnit¿.

THE CONT-RABAHÌllìllfVir o
ZondcfV, Jokiì/
 JOSE MARIA, CONTRABANDISTA AND ROBBER.

JOSE M A R I A was the most distinguislied of Andaliisian robbers. It is

but the other day that his career was finished, and abeady fame has
distributed his glory through every part of the Peninsula. H e had
all the qualities of a great man, except that of common honesty: he
could never understand the distinctions of property, Unhapijily for
Spain, there are too many of a liigher station who resemble our hero
in this respect.

However, he was gallant, gay, and generous; never robbed a poor

man, nor iU-treated the person who surrendered his purse at the first
demand—never was uncivil to a lady—and to crown all his good
qualities, he has frequently handed the booty, which he had just
acquu'ed at the risk of his life, to some object worthy of his compas-
sion, on whom he might chance to light in his mountain rambles.

A t the time our portrait was taken, Jose Maria was in the zenith
of his glory; and whether from the audacity of his character, the
] 10 JOSE MARIA, CONTRABANDISTA AND ROBBER.

terror inspired by his name, or the safety purchased by bribing the

Alcaldes, he frequently visited all the large towns, and more than
once called on our artist, at Sevile, who failed not to secure the
characteristic likeness wliich we now present. The slouched hat—
the capa thrown across the chest, ready with the action of the hand
to be lifted up so as to conceal the face, gives an air of mystery to
thefigure,which, in a few hours after, might be seen displayed in a
iiiagnificentriding-di-ess,armed up to the teeth, and guiding his
horse with all the pride of an Andalusian Mojo.

Our hero began his career as a smuggler, in the nursery of all

vice, the mountain schools of crime, between Cadiz and Gibraltar.
While yet a boy, he received his charge of cigars, which were passed
ibr consumption into the interior of the country, and had to be tied
on a horse which his weak arms could not control. He was, in
consequence of liis hopeful beginning, called Temperanillo, or the
early blossom, and by that appellation he was better known in the
vilages he frequented, to the day of his death, than by his legitimate
appellation.

He was scarcely twenty years of age, when Fate, who made a

Lieutenant of Artilleiy an Emperor of France, determined that the
contrabandista should become a noted robber. The transition was
not difficult, and there are many honest men in tlie present day who
combine both characters.

It happened, that while'engaged in one of liis systematic enter-

prises, in the vicinity of Cordoba, which has furnished so many
 JOSE MARIA, CONTRABANDISTA AND ROBBER. i]{

materials for our sketches, tliat the alarm was given, and that he,
with three of his companions, were obliged to take refuge, with tlieir
contraband cargo, in a garden, which was separated from the road
by a small fence. There he kept his pursuers at bay, and would
probably have escaped without any further incident of importance,
but that, by a perverse accident, a young officer coming from Macbid
to Sevile to be married, passed by the very road, and was induced
by the appeals of the Alcalde, and a strict sense of duty, to put
himself at the head of the attacking party.

The brave young man advanced with resolution, calling on Jose

María to surrender; but the Contrabandista told him in the most
decided manner to beware, as he and his companions were deter-
mined not to yield, but to defend their lives and booty to the last.

" Do not, mi Capitan, advance," cried Jose Maria.

" A Ellos! A Ellos ! " exclaimed the Captain, in reply.
" Por Famor de Dios—for the love of Heaven, stand back—go thy
way in peace !" again cried the smuggler.
^^ Adelante, chicos—foi-ward, my lads," was the young man's answer.
" Cuidado, hombre—take care, good man," said Jose Maria, his
blood being now up.

Tlie Captain set spurs to his horse, cleared the hedge which con-
cealed his prey, and drew a pistol from the holster.

" Once more, stand oQ

j P," said the smuggler, with his gun pre-
112 JOSE MARIA, CONTRABANDISTA A N D ROBBER.

sented to the intruder. " By the love you bear your mother, stand
back."

" Surrender !" was the last word uttered by the young man as he
dashed the spurs into liis horse; for at that instant the unerring aim
of Jose Maria sent a bullet to his brain, and he dropped a corpse at
the smuggler's feet. The Alcalde and his cowardly party fled, and
Jose Maria and his companions were left sole masters of the field.

From that day the fate of Temperanillo was decided. The young
officer belonged to one of the great families in Spain, who vowed
revenge against his murderer; and inflamed already by his profes-
sion of smuggling, there was but one step from the contrabandista
to the robber, and that step Jose María did not hesitate in taking.

Jose never ceased to regret the fate of the brave young man, whom
he always asserted he shot only in self-defence; and if ever, in his
subsequent career, he indulged in a seríous reflection, it was when the
recollection of the gallant youth, staggering from his horse by the
death-wound liis hand had made, flashed across his mind. The idea
liaunted him to the last hour of his existence, and he spoke of the
event as that which he most deplored in the long course of his
eventful career.

His first care was to organize a sufficiently numerous band, and

that was not a difficult matter, considering the quality of the asso-
ciates with whom he had hitherto spent liis time. Several of the
 JOSE MARIA, CONTRABANDISTA AND ROBBER. 113

boldest smugglers flocked to his standard, and a body of at least

one hundred was at length established^ who were distributed on all
the leading roads of the province, under the command of several
Lieutenants, of whom Caballero, one of the handsomest young men
of the day, was the most remarkable.

H e next undertook the task of securing the confidence, or good-

will, of all the village authorities; and it is said that in the height of
his prosperity he had every Alcalde in Andalusia in his pay, as well
as several of the clerks in the different public departments of the
province. In no other way can the correctness of the information
which he possessed, of the marching of troops, and of the orders
given to parties sent in pursuit of him, be accounted for. H e was,
as it were by enchantment, put in possession of the plans of every
Captain-General; and he once had the insolence to send to General
Quesada—whose murder at Madiid has so lately occurred—a copy of
the order which that personage, then commanding in Andalusia,
drew up against him. Quesada was so intent on secrecy being
observed, that he showed the original but to one secretary; but even
with that precaution it was in Jose Maria's possession the same night.

The Venta of Cardenas, on the Madrid road, near Cordoba, was

one of his favourite robbing stands. It is situated on a liill wliich
commands the whole country for leagues, and no surprise could, with
any chance of success, be attempted against it.

When aware that a carriage worthy of his notice was to pass that
way, or when he determined to rob the diligence, a favourite pastime
Q
J ¡4 JOSE MARIA, CONTRABANDISTA AND ROBBER.

with him to keep liis hand in, he used to sweep the whole country,
within a certain circuit, men, women, and children, and shut them
up in the Venta, in order that no hint, whether by accident or other-
wise, should go forth of his intentions. H e then drew up his men
under cover of the house, and placing himself at their head, quietly
awaited, like a spider in his net, the coming of the poor flies he was
about to pounce upon.

When his victims came ahead of the Venta, half his squadron
galloped in their rear, and drew up across the road, while the others
dashed in advance, and took up a similar position. Jose Maria
himself, mounted on a superb charger, and attended by a single
aide-de-camp, with quite the aii* of a field-marshal, advanced to the
carnage, and first requesting that all fire-arms might be delivered up to
his attendant, presented his compliments to his patients, as he called
them, and begged the favour of their watches, trinkets, and cash.

This demand was invariably complied with, as custom had reduced

the road to a very proper standard of reciprocity. The robbed quietly
yielded their cash, and the robbers gave them neither ill-words nor
ill-treatment; Indeed, the formidable display of some twenty well-
mounted banditti with their blunderbusses at the present, would cool
the com'age of men even more valiant than Spanish travellers gene-
rally are; and Jose Maria was scrupidously well-bred, and encou-
raged a quick delivery of their valuables by the subsequent polite
attention which he exhibited to his friends.

H e seldom molested a carriage, or was at the trouble to open

 JOSE MARIA, CONTRABANDISTA AND ROBBER. 115
trunks and portmanteaus; but a trick which some of the Madrid
passengers introduced of hiding their valuable watches, while they
wore cheap articles, got up for the occasion, compelled him most
reluctantly to take the trouble of occasionally searching for them,
in order that so irregular a practice should have some check.

His coolness at those periods was remarkable, as it sometimes

happened that the fair sex would complain that their dresses were dis-
turbed by the handling of his assistants. In one instance, a young
lady burst into tears, and bitterly reproached liim with damaging her
ball costume. " Señorita," said Jose Maria, " you are ungrateful
and unreasonable. My life, and that of every one of my men, are
already forfeited to the law; if any one of us be caught to-morrow,
the garrote would be our fate within a week. Therefore no new crime
can place us in a worse position than we are. Be grateful, then, that
we treat you with respect, for you are within our power, and you are
only spared by the humanity of our nature."

The young lady drew back abashed, and the speech of the bandit
was highly applauded by the other passengers.

Indeed, his gallantry was proverbial. On another occasion, a

woman of fashion going up to Madrid had her trunksfilledwith fine
dresses, valuable jewellery, lace, and everytliing suited to a person of
her rank, all of which the heavy hands of his searchers made their
booty. The lady being an Andalusian, and full of the wit and self-
possession of her province, stepped gaily up to Temperanilo, and
exclaimed—
Q2
j ] 10 JOSE MARIA, CONTRABANDISTA AND ROBBER.

" Amigo! well, I must return to Cadiz.—Pray will you assist me

on the road ? "
" Why so, your ladyship ? " exclaimed the robber.
" Wliy, how can a woman of my rank go to Madrid without the
dresses and ornaments fit to appear at Court in ? " rephed Doña Julia.

" Restore all this lady's property," was the answer given by Jose
Maria; and the gang, ever obedient to his orders, immediately
returned to her her gold watch, chains, rings, &c. ; and their captain,
making a low bow, begged the honour of her accepting them at his
hands.

" Caballero and Amigo !—I never can forget your kindness," con-
tinued the lady, giving one of her sweet smiles ; " but the fact is, I
must still be a claimant on your bounty. I cannot go to Court without
money in my pocket."

" How stupid to forget t h a t ! " exclaimed our friend; and in an

instant her money was in her hands, with an offer of as much more
from the treasmy of the banditti.

The lady went on to Madrid; and when the pardon, that was sub-
sequently granted to Jose Maria, was in dehberation, her influence
was of great value in carrying it through.

Indeed, his devotion to the gentler portion of the creation was

something romantic. And we have known a family, who remained
for two months at a mineral spring within the limits of liis kingdom,
 JOSE M A R U , CONTRABANDISTA AND ROBBER. 117

who were not once disturbed, though they were rich, and the younger
personages very handsome. H e even gave orders to liis gang not to
pass near the house which the family inhabited; and though the
young people were constantly on the watch, to gratify their curiosity,
they seldom had the opportunity of seeing any of the banditti, so
strict were the latter in fulfilling the wishes of their liege lord.

Scrupulous as Jose Maria generally was in sparing life, occasions

did occur where persons, whom he would willingly have saved, came
to an untimely end. H e deeply regretted these unfortunate cases,
and the following was another he never ceased to deplore.

A merchant at Cadiz was laid hold of by some of the gang, and

conducted to their cliief, who, after a great deal of remonstrance,
agreed to let him go to his family, on the solemn pledge that he would
send by a certain day, and to a certain place, the sum fixed on for a
ransom. Two thousand dollars was the price of his release, as his
wealth was well known, and nothing less would satisfy the band.

The merchant did prepare the ransom ; but as it was necessary at

that period to procure a pass from the public offices for money sent
out of the town, notice was taken of so large a sum being directed to
a solitary village in the mountains, and orders were sent to watch the
bearer, and follow him to the place, as it undoubtedly would lead to
the discovery of a nest of thieves.

The servant set out, and after passing the Isla St. Leon, turned
ofi* the road to the quarter to which he had been commissioned; but
 318 JOSE MARIA, CONTRABANDISTA AND ROBBER.

as soon as he came to a certain point he was arrested by the police,

informed that his errand was known, and compelled to act as guide
to a party of military, who at once appeared. The servant held out
as long as he could, well aware that his master's life would be the
forfeit, as the robbers would certainly shoot him, supposing that he
dealt unfairly by them—but he was obliged in self-defence to lead
the way—and did so, but with evident reluctance, which called forth
the frequent reprimand of the officer of the party.

At length, in the middle of a dark night, the party approached the

spot, where the rendezvous was given, and soon they perceived the
horses of the robbers picketed, and supposed that the gang was close
at hand. But Jose Maria was a man to take precautions, and the
horses were at some little distance from the main body, for the very
purpose of guarding against surprise.

With the eager haste which characterizes Spanish military opera-

tions, the officer commanding the party poured in a volley to the
place where he saw the horses, calculating that half of the robbers
would be destroyed, and then rushed foi-ward with the bayonet
to finish what remained. But he was deceived: the robbers, alarmed
by the firing, and judging what the nature of it was, hastened
from the spot, carrying their unfortunate prisoner with them, and
dived into the recesses of the wood, where it was in vain to follow
them.

The military rested on the ground for the remainder of the night,
and next morning searched through the wood with the hope of
 JOSE MARIA, CONTRABANDISTA AND ROBBER. 119

coming on Jose Maria's traces. They continued the investigation

for three days, but with the same ill-success, till at last, in the very
centre of a deep glen, they found the poor merchant tied to a tree,
where the gang had left him, to avoid being emban-assed in their
flight. H e was dead from exliaustion.

Jose Maria always deplored the tragical fate of tliis gentleman,

and took many opportunities of declaring that he had sustained no
ill-treatment at his hands; and that his death was altogether owing
to the treachery of the authorities of Cadiz.

These circumstances are well known in the vicinity of that city,

and the tragical fate of the wealthy and respectable individual is to
this hour a subject of lament.
 EL CONTRABANDISTA.

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Yo - ^ u e soy con - tra - ban - dis - ta cam - po

ai

por mis res - pe - tos. A to - dos los de - sa

a?
 EL CONTRABANDISTA. 321

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122 EL CONTRABANDISTA.

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 CONTRABANDISTA. 123

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124 EL CONTRABANDISTA.*

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 EL CONTRABANDISTA. 125

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J^í. HERMOSA I^AFAELIuAo

sm i,
 LA H E R M O S A RAFAELLA.

LA Hermosa Rafaella, or the beautiful Rachel, was the mistress of

Jose Maria, and left her friends and family at Seville to follow him.
She generally accompanied him on horseback, even in the most dan-
gerous excursions, and could with difficulty be restrained from taking
an active part in the enterprise.

Jose Maria was fondly attached to her, and it is imagined that his
delicate conduct to women who fell into his hands, and the strict dis-
cipline which he enforced among his companions in that respect,
were owing to her advice and influence.

She was exceedingly handsome, with dark-speaking eyes, a com-

plexion glowing with the freshness of youth, and tinged by the Anda-
lusian sun. The portrait we present may be found fault with, as
indicating a certain levity of manner; but it is true to nature, and a
faithful sketch of the piquant air assumed by all women of the lower
classes in the province, and often found among the best-conducted
and most virtuous young persons.
 128 LA HERMOSA RAFAELLA.

La Hermosa Rafaella was of great service to her lover, in keeping

up his indispensable communication with the authorities of the
towns, and in securing the system of espionage which he had so
extensively established. She was well known in every principal city,
but seldom molested; as one severe trial that her fortitude was put
to, created a great interest in her behalf, as well as proved the per-
fect inutility of seeking to obtain disclosures from her.

It is difficult to believe that the acts of cruelty which we are told

so often occur in Spain are in reality committed; or that human
nature is so vile as to become familiar with such enormities; and we
would gladly believe that the repeated iU treatment of this poor young
woman by an ex-governor of Carmona is exaggerated, if we had not
undoubted authority for the fact. The story is current in the pro-
vince, that the governor to whom we allude seized Rachel, and on
her refusal to disclose where Jose Maria was, confined her for four-
teen days in a cell so short and so low that she could not stand or
he down; and she had to remain there in that agonizing position
until the heart of the bad man relented, or until he became afraid of
the consequences of her lover's vengeance.

The fury of Jose Maria knew no bounds when he discovered the

cu'cumstance; he vowed to have a desperate revenge, and it was
only by the governor leaving the country that he escaped the retri-
butive justice which the robber meant to inflict upon him.

It was by Rachel's activity that Jose Maria was saved from.the

treacherous plot to deliver him to the police, entered into by his cwm-

—
 LA HERMOSA RAFAELLA. I2Í)

¡mdre, or fosterer, with the alcalde of Carolina. As he and his gang

were one day waiting, at the Venta we have before mentioned, the
anival of some expected travellers, they were surprised at seeing a
middle-aged man ride boldly towards them, and still more so when
they found it was Diego Calderón, a substantial shopkeeper, who
was the cumpadre of their chief.

They all exclaimed, " What is the matter, Diego ?" and Jose
Maria went forward to inquire the reason of his visit without pre-
vious notice; but they were still more astonished when the old man
told them that he had relinquished business in the town, and made
up his mind to become a member of the band. In vain Jose Maria
tried to dissuade him from such an act of madness; in vaiu did
Caballero, the renegado, and others, laugh at the absurdity of a
l^erson of his years taking to the highway. The cumpadre declared
that he had weighed the matter in his mind, that he could not be
happy without the society of his godson, and was determined to
enlist under liis banner if they would let him.

Jose Maria then adopted a more serious tone; and, stepping a

few paces in advance of the band, solemnly asked the cimipadre if
he woidd not listen to the advice of his companions, and return to his
home ; warning him, at the same time, of the importance of the
question. The old man replied, that his resolution was already
taken; on wliich Jose Maria drew a pistol fromliis belt, and shot the
traitor dead on the spot.

The band were horror struck at a cold-blooded murder like this,

s
130 LA HERMOSA RAFAELLA.

and Cabaliero stepped forth to express the general sentiment; when

Jose Maria drew from his breast a copy of the agreement, which the
cumpadre had but the day before signed, to betray t h e m ; and then
lie asked if the spy merited or not the sentence that had just been
inflicted? The band replied with a cheer, and placed from that
moment implicit confidence in their leader.

The romance attached to the life of Jose Maria made several

strangers interested in his b e h a l f ; and so far from having been
robbed by him being deemed a misfortune, many rejoiced on becom-
ing acquainted, at the expense of a few dollars, with so remarkable
a personage.

Englishmen ever go beyond the usual line, when curiosity or the

love of danger inspires them :—so that the citizens of Malaga were
not astonished to learn, that one of our countrymen had absolutely
come out for the purpose of making acquaintance with Jose M a r i a ;
and after having in vain sought for an introduction at Cadiz, had
passed on to their city, with the hope of meeting some person who
could present him amicably to the gang.

The people laughed at such a strange proposal, and many of them

looked upon our young friend as httle better than a loco; but still
El Inges was not abashed, and he persisted in asking every one
he met, " How can I make acquaintance with Jose M a r i a ? " At
length, when he was almost tired with the fruitless inquiry, an old
woman came to see him at the fonda where he lodged, and to ask
him if he was serious in his desire to visit the mountain cliief, and
 LA HERMOSA RAFAELLA. 131
if he would pay her well for undertaking to conduct liiin? He
replied in an ecstasy, that she might have her own terms, and lie
presented her with a handful of dollars, as an earnest of his good
will.

He set out the same night, attended by the old dame, who jogged
along, amusing the road by recounting various incidents of her
patron's life, till they abandoned the cultivated country, and struck
into the wild mountains where the robbers held their court. They
travelled the greater part of the next day, tiU they came near a lone
house on the top of a high hill, in which the old woman said Jose
Maria was waiting to receive them. As they rode up to the door,
a man, dressed in the superb Andalusian costume, came forth, and
received them with the usual greeting, and an attendant instantly fol-
lowed, who took charge of the horses.

It was Jose Maria who bade them welcome. The Enghshman

was delighted at liis reception; and on the robber inquiring the
motive of his visit, frankly told him that he had no other object than
to make acquaintance with a cavalier whose courage, gallantry, and
humanity were renowned all over Europe. Jose Maria acknowledged
with due courtesy the compliments of his young friend, and candidly
admitted that he had been informed of his desire to visit liim, even
when hefirstarrived at Cadiz ; and that he had only delayed sending
a messenger until he was assured of his good faith, and that no other
motive than curiosity was at work.

He then invited him to dinner, showed him the bed where he was
S 2
 l!
itti

132 LA HERMOSA RAFAELLA.

to sleep, introduced him to Caballero and tlie Renegado, and desired

him to feel at ease. They dined together, and spent a delightful
evening, the robbers recounting the various incidents of their lives,
playing the guitar, and singing appropriate songs; while the English-
man was in ecstasy, laughed, danced, and sung, and appeared the
happiest of the party.

,1 Jose Maria seemed quite flattered by the good fellowship of liis

h
young friend, and, snatching up liis guitar, sang him the following
• i
ballad, which was the choice morceau of his old companion the Con-
trabandist.

T H E BANDIT'S SONG.

FREE as the stream which down these rills

So wild and fitful flows.
Free as the breeze which o'er these hills
In wanton fragrance blows—

I live. For me—no tyrant chain

Can bend my soul to fate :
For threat—I send him back disdain;
For menace—deadly hate.

I lead a bold and happy hfe,

I own no law nor care—
I find delight in deeds of strife.
And thus defy despair.

The Bandit youth—the true and bold.

Deserves to be my friend—
My heart for his—for him my gold—
His life with mine defend.
 LA HERMOSA RAFAELLA. J.3.3

As for the rest, the idle crowd.

Or base and timid slave.
T o them my soul has never bow'd,
I hate him to the grave.

But hark ! I hear the distant hum.

T h e voices of my foes—
Up, up, good steed—I hear them come—
Now like the wind he goes.

Brave steed ! oh, gallant, gallant steed !—

How beautiful and free !
My saviour in the hour of need—
H i s sire was liberty !

The Lieutenant Carderò also contributed his extempore talent on

being called on by Jose Maria, and sung the following stanzas in
praise of wine, of which he was so sincere a devotee.

LET us drink—let us drink of this liquor so bright ;

T o wine, not to love, our devotions are paid.
T h e sun has gone down, we are children of night—
Deck the table with flow'rs—the banquet be laid.

Come, drain every glass ; let the bright current flow ;

In wine there is friendship—its essence is truth.
Let clusters of vine to eternity glow.
And fill up the bowl with perpetual youth.

A way with the weak and effeminate thought

Of love, rosy cheeks, or soul-stirring eyes—
This glass is my mistress—the aroma that's caught
From wine is more sweet than the breath of her sighs.
 134 LA HERMOSA RAFAELLA.

Come, friends of my soul, come, about me entwiné.

The moments are brief, let not one of them pass.
For danger is near ; but that sweetens our wine—
Wlio trembles at death, when his life is this glass ?

The next morning he was awoke at an early hour by Jose Maria,

who told liiin that he was reluctantly obliged to go to another x>art of
the country on professional duty, but that a guide was ready to con-
duct him safely to Malaga; that he relied upon his discretion, and
then he took a warm leave of the young man, offering a thousand
prayers for his long life. The Englishman returned the pressure of
the bandit's hand, and, taking out his purse, offered him the con-
tents.

" For what is this ? " exclaimed Jose Maiia.

" Wliy," said the Englishman, " your time is worth the money;
if you had met me on the road, I should have delivered it cheerfully
—you must not be cheated out of your regular dues."
" Oh!" replied Jose Maria, " I never take money unless I win it
on the road;—put up your purse, and if ever you should be at a loss
for cash, remember that I am your banker—Adios amigo—vai usted
con dios."

The young man returned to Malaga, and his adventure with Jose
Maria is to this hour full of pleasant recoUections to him and to his
friends.

Jose Maria was one day looking out for Ms spies when he met a
little girl with a basket in her hand, near a village, who, on being
•
 LA HERMOSA RAFAELLA. 135
questioned, informed him that her mother's new-born infant was to
be christened the following day, and that she was going for the
sweetmeats and confectionary necessary to treat the neighbours with
on the occasion. Jose took out his purse, gave her a present for her
mother, as well as an ounce to buy a plentiful su^jply of all that was
needful, and desired her to tell her family that a gentleman of the
neighbourhood, who had a regard for them, would come in the next
day and stand godfather to the child. The little girl ran home with
the news, and preparations were made to do honour to the noble
stranger, and the priest was informed that he might expect a hand-
some fee.

In fact, the whole party were assembled in the parish at tlie

appointed time, and no one was wanted but tlie promised sponsor.
They had not to wait long for him, for a few minutes after the
clock struck, a gallant cavalier galloped up to the church-door, and
walked to the altar, where he was recognized by the little girl as her
benevolent friend of the preceding day.

The ceremony was gone through, and there only remained the
formality of inserting the names of the witnesses in the parish registry.
" Pray, Sir," said the priest, " what name shall we set down for you ? "
" For me?" said the stranger, " Why, my own—Jose Maria! "

The clergyman started back with affright—the people were thunder-

struck—but Jose Maria coolly took up the pen, wrote down his name,
and walked to the church-door, mounted his gallant horse, and
vanished as it were from the eyes of the astonished multitude.
J3rj LA HERMOSA RAFAELLA.

We have yet numerous stories to tell of Jose Maria and his com-
panions ; but our space is limited, and we are compelled to hasten to
the termination of his career, and to narrate the miserable and
unworthy manner of his death. About four years since, the very year
before the death of Ferdinand VII., the Infanta Don Francisco de
Paula, being in Andalusia, and having heard a great deal of the
romantic history of our hero, determined to procure him a pardon or
indullo. His Royal Highness was supported in the application by
all the nobility of the province, and it was finally agreed that Jose
Maria should be pardoned, as well as such of his companions as
chose to abandon their evil life, on condition that he would give
his services to the state by organizing a police for the prevention of
iuture robberies. Jose Maria was glad to take advantage of those
terms, for though his plunder was enormous, his expenses in bribing
alcaldes and military, and secretaries of public offices and spies,
were immense ; and he had not, after all his adventures, been able to
realize a sum worthy of retiring on. H e therefore surrendered, with
Caballero and a few of his band, giving fair notice to the rest, that
he would allow them six months' time to change the scene of their
operations; but at the end of that period he would capture them
where he could.

H e was regularly installed head of the police for the distiict, and
served the Government for some time with pei-fect good faith and
unwearied zeaL The greater part of his old companions changed to
other provinces, but a few still remained to haunt the Seville road.

One day, separated from his escort, he approached a house on a

 LA HERMOSA RAFAELLA. 137

hill-side, where he suspected robbers were concealed—entered it—and

demanded of the owners if they knew where certain men, whom he
named, were to be found. The people denied all knowledge on the
subject: but he was not satisfied, and determined to search the
house. H e examined several apartments, and when he attempted to
force a door which led to an out-house, he was cautioned from witliin,
in the voice of a former comrade, to beware, as there were three men
there who were determined not to be taken alive. Unused to fear, he
rushed against the door, resolved to break it open, when he received
in his heart the contents of three shots, fired at the instant, and fell a
dead man to the ground.

Thus died Jose Maria, one of the most remarkable of Andalusian

banditti!
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 M A T I L D A DIEZ.

MATILDA DIEZ is a young actress of the Theatre del Principe at

Madrid. She was born in Seville, and frequently appeared there and
at Cadiz. She is the only support of the declining Spanish stage
—is a most amiable personage in private life, and on the evenings
when she does not perform, she has a select Tertaha at her house.
It is difficult to get presented at that circle, but it was our good
fortune to be admitted, and we had the pleasure of frequently listen-
ing to the romantic tales which she recited for the amusement of
her friends.

On one evening when she was in a full flow of spirits, she dressed
herself in the costume of which the accompanying portrait is a
sketch; and stood in the middle of the floor to recite, in her own
innnitable manner, the following story, which many of us at the time
thought was original, though probably it may be found in some of
the old Spanish tales of saintly interposition.
T 2
j^Q MATILDA DIEZ.

THE STORY.

Don Diego de la Barra lived in Seville, just at the opening of the

new street, wliieh leads now to the beautiful walk of the Christina, by
the side of the romantic Guadilquivir. H e was rich, courageous, and
of course in love. Which of you gentlemen is not ?—What would we
young maidens do if you did not fall in love and marry us ?

Well, Don Diego was young, handsome, gallant, and desperately

stricken by the charms of Dona Candelaña, the daughter of the old
Gobernador, the remains of whose palace are still to be seen a little
distance from the city. But though he was rather wild, and spent
his money foolishly, and disposed of Ins heart without his father's
leave, he was a good lad in the main—a Christian of pure faith, who
never forgot to pay his duty to the benevolent San Francisco, the
saint whose little chapel was burned last year, when the lazy monks
were expelled from Seville.

The old Gobernador was in a great fury when he heard that Don
Diego was enamoured of his daughter, as he had contracted her in
marriage with the old Duke of Medina—a man of many years and
many virtues—an excellent grandfather, but an indifferent bride-
gi-oom—being well qualified to give away the hand of the beautiful
Candelaria—but totally unworthy of claiming it himself.

The Señorita had seen the young hero of our tale, and had been
captivated by loim at first sight. Tender passages of love passed
between the giddy paii*—letters were introduced and answered—and
to cut the courtship short—wliich though very pleasant to be engaged
 MATILDA DIEZ. U^

in, is very fastidioso to hear of—tliey agreed to run away with each
other, to be married in secret, and to take the chance of subduing
the old Governor's heart when it was too late to refuse his consent.

A night was fixed when there was no moon-light to disclose the

blushes of the foolish maid; and punctual to the appointed hour,
Don Diego sallied forth, wrapped up in his large cloak, and with no
other arms than his trusty sword. Silently he stole through the lanes
which then led to the suburbs of Seville, and gladly did he congra-
tulate himself on not being observed by the patrol, when the cold
night-air touched his cheek, and he was safe beyond the last avenue
of the city. H e traced liis way by the well-known path along the
river-bank, thinking only of the beautiful creature who was to
elope with liim that hour, when he was startled by a voice which came
in the most sepulchral tone—" Don Diego—Don Diego! Cut me
down—cut me down! "

The young man stopped for an instant; but imagining that it was
fancy which distracted him, as quicldy resumed liis way. But the
silence of the night was again broken by the same unearthly voice—
" Por Tamor de San Francisco ! Joveneitoj cut me down—cut me
down!"

A moment's fear blanched Don Diego's cheek, but he shook it

off, grasped his sword by the handle, and determined to pursue his
road, when the same sepulchral note again smote his heart—" Cut
me down—cut me down ! "
 142 . MAHLDA DIEZ.

Don Diego now arrested his step, determined to push the mystery
to the end; and there he saw a gibbet standing by the river-side, a
ladder placed against it, and the figure of a man swinging in the
wind, hanging from it by a rope. " Cut me down—cut me down! "
continued the spectre. " P o r I'amor de San Francisco! "

This appeal to his patron saint determined the young man ; and
steeling his heart to the consequences, he mounted the ladder, and
with his sword cut the rope which held the body, and allowed it to
drop to the ground.

H e then descended himself; but what was his surprise to see the
body standing upright at liis side ; and to hear it exclaim—" Gracias,
Don Diego—muchas gracias, Don Diego! "

Don Diego faltered not, but wrapping his cloak around him, was
about to pursue his road, after giving the usual parting benediction,
which was rather an equivocal one, to his companion, considering
the circumstances under which they met.—" Vaya usted con Dios ! "
said he.
' ' V a y a ! V a y a ! " was the reply; " con Dios " (with God!) stuck
in the spectre's throat.

The young man passed on, and had just reached, the rising'ground,
which overlooked the Governor's garden, when he again heard the
same unearthly voice at his elbow, exclaiming,—"Where art thou
going?" H e started at the sound; and, lo, at his side stood the
 MATILDA DIEZ. j^g

same spectral form—tlie rope by which the body had been hung
stiU hanging from his neck, and the links of the chain which bound
his hands clanking in the air.

" Diavolo ! " exclaimed Don Diego, forgetting his prudence in his
impatience.

The spectre placed its fingers on its lips, and Diego did not repeat
the exclamation. " Where art thou going ? " again he cried.
" Pray leave me," returned the young lover, resuming his good
humour, and adopting a coaxing tone.
" No, I can't do t h a t — I wWl follow you wherever you go."
" Nonsense, my good friend ; recollect I cut you down from that
ugly gibbet, where the crows were making free with your carcase. I
am going to a place where you will be a most unwelcome guest."
" Don Diego—Don Diego ! I am under orders, and must accom-
pany you."
" Then you must run fast," said the youth, starting at the top of
his speed, and darting down the hill in the direction of the Governor's
garden. H e glanced around him for a moment and the spectre was
not to be seen. H e gaily approached the spot where the vision of
his love was to bless his sight—drew forth the silken ladder he had
prepared—threw it up and made it fast to the wall ; and was pre-
paring to ascend, when he felt a cold hand placed on liis shoulder,
wluch cliilled liim to the heart.

I t was the spectre's hand which arrested him. " You are mad ! "
144 MATILDA DIEZ.

exclaimed the same deep voice. "You are mad and rusliing on
destruction!"

Don Diego's indignation mastered his fears—the blood again oil'-

culated in his veins—he threw open his cloak, grasped liis trusty
sword, and made a blow at the unsightly form wliicli held liim. The
sword passed through the air—appeared to divide the body in two—
stuck deep into the ground—and the same unearthly voice again was
heard from the same unearthly form,—" Don Diego! Don Diego ! "
Diego started back, the hair stood on his head, the cold drops of
sweat fell from his brow. The spectre was unconcerned—and
repeated in the same tone—" Don Diego—Don Diego !—Where art
thou going ?—Rash boy, beware !"

Don Diego, naturally bold, plucked up
time ; and finding he had to deal with a
ing could choke, or a sword put an end
make the matter an affair of honour; and
secrecy, confessed to the ghost that he was
the Governor's daughter.
his courage for the third
body wliich neither hang-
to, he was determined to
with strict injunctions to
going to run away with

" Caramba! " chuckled the spectre. " I should like to see your
love !"
"Wait a few minutes," rephed the youth, " a n d I will fetch her
hither."
" Cliico! " returned the ghost. " I think I will step before you to
announce your coming."
 MATILDA DIEZ. 145

"Anda, Señor MuertoI" exclaimed the youth, "none of your

bromas here—a good joke even becomes th-esome."
" A joke, Don Diego ! I will soon prove to you that I am serious
and with these words Don Diego felt himself put aside, and saw the
spectre standing on the ladder.

Diego, petrified, knew not what to do; but he thought of his

favourite saint, and called San Francisco to liis aid.

" T h a t will do!" exclaimed the ghost, winking at our hero as

he tripped up the steps. Don Diego rushed after to pull him
back, but in vain he clutched at the unsubstantial form. The spectre
ran on, put its head above the garden-wall, and at that instant a
dozen shots were heard, and the spectre and Don Diego dropped to
the ground, the latter happily unhurt.

"Well, what do you think of t h a t ? " said the ghost. "Who is

your friend now ?"
" Oh, Candelaria ! Candelaria!" sobbed the youth.
" I will finish you !" exclaimed the old Gobernador, appearing at
the top of the garden-wall, with a bevy of his servants, and all aiming
their muskets at Diego and his friend.

But scarcely had they pulled the trigger when the spectre caught
up Don Diego in his arms and carried him safely beyond the reach
of the vindictive Gobernador and his satellites.

The ghost then acquainted the young man with the motives of his
U
] 46 MATILDA DIEZ.

interference. It was his patron saint who, aware of the folly he

was about to commit, in running away with Doña Candelaria, and
that the old Gobernador had discovered the plot, and laid a plan to
assassinate him in the very act, had sent liim to try the young man's
piety. The appeal winch Diego had made to the name of San
Francisco had decided the matter in his favour. Had he not cut
down the corpse from the gibbet, he would himself have been a dead
man.

Don Diego poured out his thanks to the ghost, aud his prayers to
the patron saint, and in a week after he managed to elude the Go-
bernador's watclifidness, ran away with the beautiful Candelaria,
and married her at the Cathedral Church of Seville.
 LA JOTA ARAGONESA.

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148 L A JOTA A R A G O N E S A .

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 L A JOTA A R A G O N E S A . 149

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 THE AVENGING MOOR*

THE din of Z a r g u a l ' s arms was h e a r d — t h e tramphng of his s t e e d —

A s fast he fled, like felon hound, before the Moor's jereed ;
H e hath left his honour on the field—his faithful slaves have b l e d —
A n d now he calls the wilderness to hide his craven head.

I t may not b e — i t may not b e — t h e recreant flies in v a i n —

Stern Hassan's steed unerring tracks the path his foe hath ta'en ;
F a s t — f a s t he nears his shrinking p r e y — A l l a h , it Allah ! now—
W h a t vengeance hot, and stern, and dark, is burning on his b r o w !

" H o ! Z a r g u a l — t u r n thee—caitiff", t u r n ! I dare thee to the figlit!

T h y G o d hath left thee. I n f i d e l ! and A l l a h guards the r i g h t ! "
T h u s spake the haughty Saracen, while prone upon his knee
Sank down the recreant Christian, t h e n — t h e scorn of Paynimrie.

N o word he s p a k e — n o blade he b a r e d — n o r courted he the strife.

H i s abject, cringing looks alone implored his forfeit life : —
Fierce Hassan turn'd aside his e y e — i t was a sorry sight
T o see upon the blushing ground a yet unwounded k n i g h t !

" O h ! I have fought the Infidel for many summers now,

B u t never have I met in fight with craven vile as thou !
H e n c e ! take thy -wretched life, and g o — f o r , b y great Osman's Lord,
T h y blood would stain the spotless sheen of my unsullied sword! "
J. M .

* T h e flight o f D o n M a n o e l Z a r g u a l , a n d the m a g n a n i m i t y o f his pursuer, t h e M o o r H a s s a n e l A c h b a r , f o r m

the s u b j e c t o f m a n y A n d a h i s i a n l y r i c s . W h o t h e caitifF k n i g h t w a s is a m a t t e r of some m y s t e r y ; uor would
research avail m u c h the c h a r a c t e r o f S p a n i s h chivalry i n the olden t i m e j — b e s i d e s ,

" T e gods ! m u s t o n e swear to t h e t r u t h o f a s o n g ? "

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 DEATH AND LOVE.

IT was a cold night in the month of February, we know not how

many ages ago, that two travellers, of a very opposite appearance,
dismounted from their mules, and demanded a lodging at the well-
known Fonda de las Qmtro NacioneSf at Aranguez. The same inn is
now to be seen at the end of the market-place of the village, wliich
borders upon the splendid summer palace of the Kings of Spain:
the landlord an Englislmian, who for his sins has turned miller and
inn-keeper; and the patrona a French woman, who has a talent
for running up a large score, and of talking more in a given space
of time than any other personage in the province. If we are not
believed, let one of our readers pay a visit the next summer to the
Sitio, and if the noise of his wife's tongue does not exceed the noise
of liis mill-wheels in rapidity, we will admit that we have mistaken
fiction for truth, and are not worthy of being believed in future.

Well, on the night in question, the two travellers knocked at the

inn-gates, and the Moso conducted them with the usual ceremony
X
154 DEATH AND LOVE.

to the only room whicli chanced at that moment to be disengaged.

They were both wrapped up in large cloaks, and though one was
milcli shorter than the other, the waiter took no particular notice of
either; but showing them thi^ir respective alcobas, said, that he
would send in his mistress to consult with them on the subject of
supper, that most essential consideration to a wearied traveller.

In the mean time the travellers held on their cloaks, bowing with
great ceremony, and wondering what their respective business could
be; and it was not until the Señora appeared, that they thought
proper, out of respect to her, to lay aside their capas, and to display
themselves as they really were. They did so ; but what was the
horror of the good lady, as the heavy mantle descended from the
shoulders of the tall stranger, to see that he was a gaunt, disjointed
figure, with eyes as it were sightless—a walking skeleton more than a
living man! She started back in aíñ'ight; but the stranger, with a
hollow voice, begged of her to be composed. " May I ask you, Sir,"
said she, gathering a little courage, " what is your name ? "
" Death!" replied the skeleton^—"Para servir usted."
" What a funny old fellow!" exclaimed the other traveller, also
letting drop his manta, and displaying the rosy cheeks of a youth
scarcely sixteen.—" What a funny old fellow!" again roared he.
Death turned liis ghastly countenance to reprove the boy; but the
lad was not afraid, and though ready to split his sides with laughing,
he incessantly repeated—"What a funny old fellow! What a funny
old chap! "
" And pray, my young giggling master," said the patrona, " may
I also beg the favour of your titles and distinctions ?"

BR
 DEATH AND LOVE. 155

" Oh, I am called Love!" carelessly replied the youth: " perhaps
you have heard of me before uow."
" Death and Love ! " muttered the hostess—" in the Fonda of the
Four Nations!—If the town knew who my lodgers were, all the old
folk would be off, as fast as their legs could carry them, to Madrid,
and my house woidd be crammed with the maids of honour and the
young caballeros of the court."
" I am hungry," groaned out Death.
" I want my supper—aye, good dame, look sharp," chimed in the
youngster;—" tliis gentleman and 1 have done our work to-day.
Let us have the best the house affords."
" I live upon cold meat," says Death.
" Cold meat! " echoed the patrona.
" And I upon grilled kidneys," says Love; " keep perpetually
broiling."
" Cold meat first, and a broil after;—'tis the way of all flesh/'
quoth the hostess.
" I am very hungry," roared out Death, extending his wide jaws
from ear to ear.
" Amiga," smiled the urchin, " like a good soul, send in the
supper."

The patrona retired, and in the course of half an hour a cold

shoulder of mutton for Death, and a grilled pullet for Love, were on
the table.

Both the travellers set to with a good appetite.—" Amigo, your

X 2
156 DEATH AND I.OVE.

good health," broke in the youth, pouring out a bumper of the Val
cle Penas, which filled a great magnum at Ms side«
" Your health," said Death, drawing a skull from under his gar-
ment, and filling it to the brim.

The red wine looked like blood drunk from the skull—and Love
shuddered at the sight, but he was not a lad to be down-hearted,
and he soon threw off the awkward feeling.

" I hope you are bound my road," says the youth ; " I am going
to Andalusia. The spring is just commenced; I am in great request
in the south of Spain, jjarticularly in the spring and summer."
" Winter is my time," grinned D e a t h ; " I am now going to
Madrid—tliis is the season for Pulmonias, The chill blasts of Gu-
darama are only waiting my coming to descend upon the capital."
" You had better change the road," replied Love; " I hate those
chilling blasts you speak of—we have only zephyrs at Seville."
" I always visit Seville in the dog-days," said D e a t h ; — " the town
is too hot then to hold you, young gentleman. I ever follow you,
my child."
" Yes," replied Love, " you put up with my cast-off patients.
When people are done with me, then you pounce upon them."
" None of your insolence," retorted D e a t h ; " I'd have you to
know, I deal with the first people in the land; your society is limited,
but I shake hands with all the world."
" Yes, you make acquaintance," laughed Love, " with the old and
the ugly, with skin and bone;—my friends are all in the prime of
 DEATH AND LOVE. 157

life^youtli and beauty are my companions. My way is strewed

with f l o w e r s p l e a s u r e attends me. I am welcomed wherever
I go."
" Why, you little brat," said Death, " can you compare your
portion to mine ?—you step in at the cottage, but the palace is shut
in your face. You are welcomed by the poor, but laughed at by the
rich. Wlio can refuse my acquaintance ? who leave the world with-
out a parting word from me
" Do you call me a little brat ? " cried Love, slipping a bow from
under his coat, and putting an arrow to i t ; " I will soon teach you
that I am your master."

With that, drawing the shaft home, he let fly across the table at
Death. Tlie barbed point rattled against the bones of the old gentle-
man's chest, and dropped blunted on the ground.

" Shot for s h o t ! " groaned Death, drawing his bow also from
under his coat, and fitting to it a blood-stained arrow.
Love held up the great bottle of Val de Pen^s, and turned the
arrow in its flight.—" Wine is the shield of Love—Love never dies,"
cried he
" Death is never in love," chuckled the other.
" A truce! " exclaimed both together.
" I shall go to bed," says D e a t h ; " I hate the society of people ol'
your age."
" Go to the Demonio! " said Love, " I never kept such dull com-
pany before."
" Patrona, Patrona ! " roared both at the same moment;—" here,
158 DEATH AND LOVE.

lock up our bows and arrows for the night—call us betimes in the
morning ; we have both a long journey to make."

Death lay down in his alcoba, but was awake half the night, plot-
ting miscliief, and feasting his imagination on the prospect of a good
business at Madrid.

Love rolled himself into a heap, wrapped the bed-clothes about

him, and was fast asleep in a moment.

The patrona snatched up their bows and arrows, and tumbled them
into an old closet; the arrows fell out of the quivers, and became
mixed together on the floor.

Early the next morning Death and Love awoke at the same hour,
and both called up the landlady, and paid their bills. Each wrapped
himself in his cloak and mounted his mule.

" My bow and arrows !" screamed Death,

" My bow and arrows !" exclaimed Love, at the same instant.

The patrona, flurried at their impatience, gathered them all up in

a heap, and then divided them the best she coidd, handing each
his bow and one half the bundle of arrows.

" Adios, Patrona ! " said Death.

" Adio, Hermosissima ! " said Love.
" Para siempre ! " whimpered the hostess.
 DEATH AND LOVE. 159

" Si Signer a ! " replied Love.

" No," said Death, " no, not for e v e r I will return tliis way
with the cholera."

The travellers pursued their respective routes. Death passed on

through V a l de Mores to M a d i i d ; Love went on by Toledo to
Seville.

Death beheld an old man sitting on the road-side in the last

stage of poverty—he claimed him as his victim, and pierced him
with his dart. " Oh, Juliana! " exclaimed the wretch ; — " beloved
Juliana! I languish in the extremity of my passion—I am dying
for l o v e ! "

Death could not believe liis ears—for the first time in his life his
arrows failed him. Love, at the same hour, was whistling as he
passed over the bridge of the Tagus, and took a fancy to try one of
his darts on the heart of an old maid, who was going by demurely to
church. The victim dropped a corpse at his feet. The urchin ran
away in affright.

Whenever we see an old man or an old woman expiring, not in

the arms of death, but mocking the passion of love by the evidence
of being its victim, it is certain that Death has, in mistake ibr one
of his own darts, shot home with the arrow of his late companion.

A n d whenever we see the young and the blooming suddenly car-

 I

IGü DEATH AND LOVE.

ried oiF to the grave, as it were, from the steps of the altar, we may
be assured that Love has armed his quiver with some of the fatal
shai'ts of his grim associate in the Posada of Aranguez.

" Y desde entonces aca

Mata el amor con su vira
Mozos, que ninguno pasa
De los veinte cinco arriba,
A los ancianos a quien
Matar la muerte solia,
Ahora los enamora
Con las saetas que tira.
Mirad qual esta ya el mundo
Vuelto lo de abaxo arriba.
Amor por da vida—mata.
Muerte por matar, da vida."
 • I'

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LA ROSA.
 T H E MAID OF ANDALUSIA.

MAID of the land to which belong

Glories, that Time hath made his booty !
Alas ! what recollections throng
Around thee, Andalusian Beauty 1

Maid of the bright and burning d i m e —

A n d barb-like step, and glittering eye !
T h a t country's name may yield to Time,
B u t thine is one that cannot die!

Wliat though Spain's chivalry be fled.

Swept by Cervantes' smile away * ;
T h y country's spirit is not dead—
I read it in that dark eye's ray.

T h o u still art fair, as when thy glance

Pointed the steel to Moorish slaughter—
W h e n Roland's brand and Roderick's lance
Dealt death for Andalusia's daughter !

T h o u still art fair as when thine eye

Lighted the heroic Cid to glory;
A n d was the star that beam'd on high,
O'er many a field renown'd in story.

Be, then, that eye the lodestar still.

T h a t points to honour and to d u t y ;
A beacon on the pathless hill
T o Spain's sons, Andalusian Beauty !

* Cervantes smiled Spain'» chivalry away.—BYHON.

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