Clara, meantime, wounded, but not irritated, by his harsh refusal of her request, had sought her favourite shrine to pour forth her prayers in saddened, but not angry, mood. In the afternoon a heavy storm had driven her back to her house, and she sat expecting her husband about the usual hour of his return, when, amid the pelting of the rain, and the rumbling of the thunder, she heard a knocking at her door. She opened it, and admitted an aged couple, more worn out, as it appeared, by fatigue and suffering, than even by age. Their story was soon told. They were of distinguished rank, but had been driven, by the fury of the revolutionary party, from their home, and obliged to seek their safety in flight. Their known politics, and their rank, had made them objects of pursuit; and they had, at length, sought security in the solitude of these mountains, till the storm had driven them to beg the refuge she had so kindly afforded.

The return of Don Diego was still protracted, and the conversation of the hostess and her guests was continued with more confidence till the mention of her husband's name, and some of the circumstances attendant on his marriage, the name of his native city, and such particulars as he had thought it unnecessary to conceal from his wife, raised a suspicion, which further inquiry confirmed, that it was to the aged parents of her husband that Clara had given shelter. Who shall describe the innocent joy of that wife, or the caresses which these parents showered upon her?

At length, leaving the old couple to talk over their brightened prospects, the joy of recovering their long lost son, the happy Clara, full of thankfulness, sought her favourite shrine, there to pour forth the overflowings of her heart.

The pursuit of game had carried Don Diego far beyond the limits. of his ordinary excursions, the violence of the storm had further delayed him; but he was now returning home, the darkness that was closing around him adding to the gloom within his mind. As he moodily pursued his way, he saw in the distance the watchfires of a gipsy encampment. This was enough to bring back his mind to the horrible thoughts which were seldom long absent from it. He remembered that this was the very day that had been marked seven years before by his first meeting with La Gitana, in Segovia; that this was also the anniversary of his appearance at the festival in the village of St. Esteban. Then recurred to his mind the insulting tones with which the song against the honour and constancy of woman had been poured into his ears on the day of his marriage. "Accursed gipsy!" he involuntarily exclaimed, "am I never to be free from thy remembrance-art thou doomed to haunt my every path?" "Yes," exclaimed a voice from a thicket near him, a voice he knew too well; "yes, till my prophecy is accomplished."

For a minute the iron nerves of Don Diego were shaken, and a feeling of awe and dread overwhelmed him-it passed, and the most violent fury succeeded; he raised his gun, which was charged with ball, but in the darkness he knew not which way to direct his fire. He remained for a few minutes as if rooted to the spot, but all was tranquil, and he hurried homewards, his mind brooding over the visions of jealousy which had filled it in the morning.

He had nearly reached his home, and was about to unload his piece, when a deep, short growl from his dog, a growl called forth only by the unexpected presence of strangers, arrested him. He changed his purpose, and, shouldering his gun, turned up a side-path which led more directly to his dwelling, and by which his Clara was wont to come out to meet him. She comes not as usual; he is close to the entrance; he calls her; she answers not; what can have so occupied her? He opens the side door-what is it meets his eyes? Horror of horrors, a man's hat and cloak still wet from the afternoon's storm, and hung up as if to dry. Petrified at the sight, he silently retreats, and approaches the other side of the house, where an open part of the shutters allowed him to look into the principal apartment. It is almost dark, but the embers of the fire still glow and illumine the fearful scene. "There, there," he cries, "are the guilty couple, he hanging over and pouring forth accents of rapture, she listening with eagerness. But they escape not my vengeance!" Stealthily is the shutter drawn aside, firmly is the gun pointed-it bellows forth the signal of destruction; a sharp scream is heard, and the man falls motionless to the ground, while his companion bends over him, uttering piercing shrieks. "Ah! ah! dost thou lament him, dost thou weep over him; then share his fate!" Again sounded the message of destruction, and another innocent victim lay extended on the floor.

At this moment Don Diego heard the voice of his wife calling to him from the direction of the little shrine. He rushed to meet her as

if to assure himself of the reality of what seemed a vision. "Am I too late, dearest Diego, to see the meeting?" "Meeting! what meeting?" he screamed forth in agony. "The meeting of father and mother and son; of my husband with his parents!"

"MY PARENTS !!!"

A month after this the little town of Gomez was the scene of a public execution. A priest had been sent by Clara's father on the morning after the feast to visit his daughter, whose presence he had missed the day before. The minister of the church arrived but to be witness to a scene of horror, and bound to secrecy by no sacred confession, taunted and insulted by the now desperate cavalier, softened by no excuses or explanations, for Diego would suffer none to be given, he denounced him to the officers of justice.

Punishment followed as a matter of course, for to none were the palliating circumstances known. To none save three, to the unfortunate criminal himself, to his wife, and to her, the fearful one, who was the author, the prophesier of all, and who failed not to superintend the accomplishment of her own prophecies.

When the criminal appeared in the place of execution, there existed, notwithstanding the greatness of his crime, some sympathy in every breast, save one. Amid the silence of horror which immediately preceded his death, there was raised one loud, insulting, heartless laugh of derision. It was a last cry of triumph from the terrible Gitana.

E.

RHYMES FOR THE TIMES, AND REASON FOR THE SEASON.

BY THOMAS HOOD, ESQ.

No. I.

AN OPEN QUESTION.

"It is the king's highway that we are in, and in this way it is that thou hast placed the lions."-BUNYAN.

WHAT! shut the Gardens! lock the lattic'd gate!
Refuse the shilling and the Fellow's ticket!
And hang a wooden notice up to state,

"On Sundays no admittance at this wicket!"
The Birds, the Beasts, and all the Reptile race
Denied to friends and visiters till Monday!
Now, really, this appears the common case
Of putting too much Sabbath into Sunday-
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

The Gardens,-so unlike the ones we dub

Of tea, wherein the artizan carouses,-
Mere shubberies without one drop of shrub,—
Wherefore should they be closed like public-houses?
No ale is vended at the wild Deer's Head,-
Nor rum-nor gin-not even of a Monday-
The Lion is not carv'd-or gilt—or red,

And does not send out porter of a Sunday-
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

The Bear denied! the Leopard under locks!
As if his spots would give contagious fevers,
The Beaver close as hat within its box,

So different from other Sunday beavers!
The Birds invisible-the Gnaw-way Rats-
The Seal hermetically sealed till Monday-
The Monkey tribe-the Family of Cats,
We visit other families on Sunday-
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What is the brute profanity that shocks

The super-sensitively-serious feeling?

The Kangaroo-is he not orthodox

To bend his legs, the way he does, in knee ling?
Was strict Sir Andrew, in his Sabbath coat,
Struck all a heap to see a coati mundi?
Or did the Kentish Plumtree faint to note
The Pelicans presenting bills on Sunday?
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What feature has repulsed the serious set?

What error in the bestial birth or breeding,
To put their tender fancies on the fret-?

One thing is plain-it is not in the feeding!
Some stiffish people think that smoking joints
Are carnal sins 'twixt Saturday and Monday-
But then the beasts are pious on these points,
For they all eat cold dinners on a Sunday-
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What change comes o'er the spirit of the place,
As if transmuted by some spell organic?
Turns fell Hyæna of the Ghoulish race?

The Snake, pro tempore, the true Satanic?
Do Irish minds,-(whose theory allows

That now and then Good Friday falls on Monday)—
Do Irish minds suppose that Indian Cows

Are wicked Bulls of Bashan on a Sunday-
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

There are some moody Fellows, not a few,
Who, turn'd by Nature with a gloomy bias,
Renounce black devils to adopt the blue,

And think when they are dismal they are pious-
Is't possible that Pug's untimely fun

Has sent the brutes to Coventry till Monday-
Or p'rhaps some animal, no serious one,

Was overheard in laughter on a Sunday-
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What dire offence have serious Fellows found

To raise their spleen against the Regent's spinney?
Were charitable boxes handed round,

And would not Guinea Pigs subscribe their guinea?
Perchance, the Demoiselle refused to moult

The feathers in her head-at least till Monday;

Or did the Elephant, unseemly, bolt

A tract presented to be read on Sunday

But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

At whom did Leo struggle to get loose?

Who mourns thro' Monkey tricks his damag'd clothing ?
Who has been hissed by the Canadian Goose?
On whom did Llama spit in utter loathing?
Some Smithfield Saint did jealous feelings tell,
To keep the Puma out of sight till Monday,
Because he prey'd extempore as well

As certain wild Itinerants on Sunday-
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy ?

To me it seems, that in the oddest way
(Begging the pardon of each rigid Socius)
Our would-be Keepers of the Sabbath-day
Are like the Keepers of the Brutes ferocious-
As soon the Tiger might expect to stalk

About the grounds from Saturday till Monday,
As any harmless Man to take a walk,

If Saints could clap him in a cage on Sunday-
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

In spite of all hypocrisy can spin,
As surely as I am a Christian scion,

lion.

I cannot think it is a mortal sin-
(Unless he's loose) to look upon a
I really think that one may go, perchance,
To see a bear, as guiltless as on Monday-
(That is, provided that he did not dance)

Bruin's no worse than bakin' on a Sunday-
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Aug.-VOL. LIX. NO. CCXXXVI,

2

In spite of all the fanatic compiles,

I cannot think the day a bit diviner,
Because no children, with forestalling smiles,
Throng, happy, to the gates of Eden Minor-
It is not plain, to my poor faith at least,
That what we christen "Natural" on Monday,
The wondrous history of Bird and Beast,
Can be Unnatural because it's Sunday-
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Whereon is sinful phantasy to work?

The Dove-the wing'd Columbus of Man's haven? The tender Love-bird-or the filial Stork?

The punctual Crane-the providential Raven ? The Pelican whose bosom feeds her young?

Nay, must we cut from Saturday till Monday That feather'd marvel with a human tongue, Because she does not preach upon a SundayBut what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

The busy Beaver-that sagacious beast!
The Sheep that own'd an Oriental Shepherd-
That Desart-ship, the Camel of the East,

The horned Rhinoceros-the spotted LeopardThe Creatures of the Great Creator's hand

Are surely sights for better days than Monday-
The Elephant, although he wears no band,
Has he no sermon in his trunk for Sunday-
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What harm if men who burn the midnight oil,
Weary of frame, and worn and wan in feature,
Seek once a-week their spirits to assoil,

And snatch a glimpse of " Animated Nature?"
Better it were, if, in his best of suits,

The artisan who goes to work on Monday Should spend a leisure hour amongst the brutes, Than make a beast of his own self on SundayBut what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Why, zounds! what raised so Protestant a fuss
(Omit the zounds! for which I make apology)

But that the Papists, like some Fellows, thus

Had somehow mixed up Dens with their Theology?
Is Brahma's Bull-a Hindoo god at home—
A papal Bull to be tied up till Monday-

Or Leo, like his namesake, Pope of Rome,
That there is such a dread of them on Sunday-
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Spirit of Kant! have we not had enough

To make Religion sad, and sour, and snubbish,
But Saints Zoological must cant their stuff,

As vessels cant their ballast-rattling rubbish!
Once let the sect triumphant to their text,
Shut Nero up from Saturday till Monday,
And sure as fate they will deny us next

To see the Dandelions on a Sunday-
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?