or my neck over a mop, I enter the little bay-windowed apartment, where, upon happier mornings, my eyes are accustomed to be greeted by the sight of a well-spread breakfast table, a comfortable fire-side, a smiling wife, a hissing tea-kettle, and a dozing cat. But, Oh! misery! the carpet and rug have vanished! My wife is there, but she no longer smiles, she has put on her Saturday's countenance. There is a fire in the grate, but I am not permitted to approach it. A small table is jammed into the furthest corner of the room, at which I am doomed to swallow a hasty meal, while door and window stand wide open, be it June, or be it January, to give a free current to the air, that the floor may be soon dry, for the weather is never considered. Hot or cold, wet or fine, the house must be cleaned on that day. Arguments avail nothing. Mistress and maids are alike devoted to the adoration of the aquatic divinities, and swim or drown is the despotic alternative! By the time I have finished my breakfast, the deluge has extended to my bed-room. Sally has sallied in, the windows are wide open, the side carpets have been flung out of them into the garden; the chairs, dressing-table, glass, &c., are piled upon the bed; the curtains and valances are twisted and tucked up, and one of the presiding Potamides is up to her purple elbows in soap, flannels, and scrubbing-brushes. The nursery is also a watery waste; the children have been sent into the fields, or if it happen to be as wet out of doors as it is in, (which, by the way, is hardly possible,) they are forced to fly with their unfortunate father from chamber to chamber, till the tour of the house be completely made, and the spot from which we were first ejected has become rather drier than any other.

I once in my life ventured to take a peep at the cook and the kitchen. I started back in dismay. The old

woman, who without her shoes must measure nearly five feet ten, was mounted upon a pair of high pattens. Her grey locks were streaming about her shoulders, like the Welch bard's in the picture, and her face was smeared all over with soot and brick-dust. The temple partook of the derangement of its high priestess. The dresser was covered with pots and pans, and the brick-floor blushed through the overwhelming flood like a coral reef through the ocean! The animals too, upon this day of execution, skulk into holes and corners: the wretched little bandylegged terrier, having rung the morning peal before mentioned, slinks with his tail between his legs into the stable, and poor black pussy picks her way, shaking her feet at every step, to the coal-cellar, where, mounted on the small-beer barrel which occupies a corner of it, she sits, sulky and silent, till the waters have passed away, and the dove returns with the olive branch!

My style, I fear, upon this dank subject, carries with it an air of pleasantry, and, if so, I can only assure you, it is far from my intention; for, if one theme more than another can fling a wet blanket over my usual good spirits, it is this, whenever it arises humidly to my mind.

The stable, the pig-sty, and the cellar, are the only sanctuaries from the pursuit of the pitiless element, and to the former I have not unfrequently retreated with pen, ink, and paper, to finish my sermon for Sunday, squatting on a bundle of hay with my galloway's saddle on my knees by way of a writing-desk.

This weekly persecution is not confined to my exterior sensations. My stomach, Sir,-my craving stomach,— suffers in an equal proportion; nothing is to be dirtied; all is to be reserved for Sunday; the dinner is composed of small scraps, for the pantry must be cleared, though the fragments be mouldy. Should a friend, forgetful of

the customs of the parsonage, or regardless of his own felicity, attempt, like a second Leander, to swim across the little Hellespont of the hall, and succeed in gaining firm footing by the parlour fire-side, which, towards the afternoon, begins to assume a more inviting appearance, a thousand apologies are made for the Saturday's repast. "I'm ashamed to set you down to such a dinner, but to-day's Saturday you know; and Saturday's Saturday every where." Thank Heaven, the latter part of the speech is merely Mrs. B.'s façon de parler, for, were it really so, in her sense of the word, a universal deluge must be the inevitable consequence!

To keep off the ague, and make some atonement to my friend for the Mosaic appearance of the dishes, I draw, perhaps, a cork extraordinary, and should a drop of wine unfortunately sully the bright surface of the table, Mrs. B. rises with the dignity of an empress, and, with a rubber, labours for twenty minutes to efface the spot. For our tables, you must know, ever since we obtained from London the receipt for polishing mahogany, would serve the purpose of looking-glasses, and the particular one on which we dine is considered by Mrs. B. the brightest jewel in her diadem.

I might fill a quire of paper, were I fully to describe all the inconveniences which I weekly endure in despite of every argument, salutary and festive: but I have already, perhaps, intruded more upon your time than you may fancy the subject warrants, for there are many vexations, annoying enough to the sufferer, which lose all their sting when put clumsily upon paper; and if you have not really undergone the exquisite torture I have attempted to describe, it is very probable you will think me a fidgety, discontented person, who is apt to make mountains of molehills, or, rather, in this case, to magnify

a pail of water till it looks like the Atlantic Ocean, or that I have been absolutely bitten by the bandy-legged terrier aforesaid, and am labouring under the first alarming symptoms of hydrophobia! Be it as it may, I have unburdened my mind, and that is a consolation though a very poor one. Mrs. B. is, of course, ignorant of the step I have taken, and, as she never reads any thing but the Scriptures, and the accidents and offences in the Sunday Observer, she is likely, I trust, to remain so; for, wretched as her over-cleanliness makes me, or rather her mode of cleaning, absolute rebellion might drive her into the other extreme, and I had "better bear the ills I have," than cause parsonage to remind me of the Scotch days of Cromwell, when houses in the city of Glasgow were only cleansed on family deaths and christenings, a nuisance which was in some degree removed by Oliver himself, who commanded them to shovel out the dirt daily.

Mrs. B. has just entered the room to say bed.

I must go to For it is Friday night, and the clatter of the scrubbing-brush against the wainscot of the parlour, as, step by step, it descends the stairs, has more than once interrupted my lucubrations, and must form some excuse for the imperfections of this mournful epistle. Heaven send me well through to-morrow!" The sun has made a golden set," and I trust it will be fine enough for me to walk over to whereby I shall escape some of the disasters of the day, and have an opportunity of putting

this in the post unknown to Mrs. B.

I am, Sir, your constant Reader,

Parsonage,

and very obedient humble Servant,

Friday, March 11th, 1825.

P. B.

375

SOME ACCOUNT OF CERVANTES' CAPTIVITY IN ALGIERS.

THERE probably is no other writer who possesses so thoroughly European a reputation as Cervantes. The great poets and authors of England have been (till the present day) comparatively unknown in France; and, thence, to the continent generally. Voltaire was the first who, both by his praise and his dispraise, his candour and his sneering, made Shakspeare and Milton, and some few of a later date, in some degree known, and in some slight degree duly estimated, by his countrymen-and, through them, by cultivated Europe.

In return, Corneille, Racine, Voltaire-even Molière -are (though constantly talked of, familiarly,) known in England only to literary persons-that is, to persons of literary taste and cultivation. Le Sage is more generally read in England, certainly; for he clothed his satire, delicate and delightful as it is, in stories; and thereby he adds the vast mass of readers, who read for the story alone, to those who love to seek the soul of the Licentiate beneath the fountain-stone, and do not pass on with an heedless sneer.

two.

Rousseau bears a sort of intervening rank between the Some people read his works as a sort of " physiological curiosity;" others seek them because they are told they ought not to seek them, and read on in the vain. hope to find at last that any thing so insupportably wearisome can lead to more entertaining naughtiness. But it is not so; let those who would be the first to cry out at this, and to exclaim against the presumption of calling the Héloise dull; let them answer fairly and truly, whether they have ever read it through. In nine cases out of ten,