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thus thrown off by the world, he throws off the world in turn, and commences a career of independent starvation. Kith and kin he abjures-they, however, having first abjured him—and connects himself with an entirely new set, gentlemen who, like himself, having been disgusted and annoyed with the crushing and squeezing, and difficulty of keeping their places in society, have withdrawn from its pressure to hover on its skirts, and to contemplate with a philosophic eye the vain and anxious turmoil from which they have retired. The torn-downer, in fact, absolutely acquires a certain citizen-of-the-world sort of look; a bland, expansive kind of expression, indicative of an entire exemption from all the cares, and passions, and prejudices of life. He has got above them all. It has been already hinted, that the torn-downer, who, we may as well add, is also a kind of drunken philosopher, is in a deplorable state as to externals; but this is a department of his entire composition worthy of some special consideration.

In the attire of the subject of our sketch, however wretched it may be, there may always be perceived an attempt at something above the mechanic or tradesman-something approximating to his former condition-something which he desires should distinguish him from the vulgar herd of idle dissipators, with whom he feels sensitively conscious he might otherwise be classed. With the torn-downer, then, the surtout is a favourite article of dress; so is the drab or brown hat. In these, then, especially the former, you very generally find him attired.

The surtout is in a deplorable condition: it is bleached and threadbare, cruelly and mercilessly brushed, sorely battered about the button-holes, torn at the pockets, and minus all the buttons behind. Still, it is a surtout, and, being so, forms one of the desired marks of distinction. A white neck cloth too is often aimed at, and occasionally accomplished; but the surtout buttoned close upon an old greasy black stock is the most general fashion and wear of the torn-downer. There is something, by the way, in this desperate sort of pretension in the article of dress that greatly adds to the squalor of his appearance. He looks infinitely more wretched than the open, undisguised mendicant. The latter's rags bespeak poverty indeed, but the former's bleached surtout and battered white hat give an idea of a state of desperation and wretchedness far beyond what mere poverty would suggest.

Another peculiarity in the clothes of the torn-downer is, that they never seem to fit him. They do not seem to have been made for him; neither have they. They are the cast-off clothes of some acquaintance who knew him in his better days; and hence, as formerly alluded to, the superior sort of cut observable in his apparel, however wretched it may otherwise be.

There is something worth noting, too, in another circumstance relating to the present department of our subject. Select any particular individual of the class of whom we are speaking; keep him in your eye for some time, and you will perceive his outer man gradually progressing, day by day, from shabbiness to utter desperation. You will perceive everything about him getting rapidly into the last stage of decay: the bleached and dilapidated surtout becoming more and more bleached and dilapidated; the baked, battered, and shapeless drab hat becoming more baked, battered, and shapeless. Marking this, you begin to wonder how matters are to end, how far shabbiness can be carried; and, above all, how or where on earth your torn-downer is to get his outer man renovated. A crisis you see is approaching, and it is one in which you begin to feel an interest. You see that your man cannot possibly hold out much longer, and marvel greatly what turn affairs will take in the end; when, lo! just at this critical moment, all your curiosity, all your speculations, are put an end to, by the sudden appearance of your torn-downer in an entire new rig, that is, new with reference to him, but it is, of course, all second.

hand, the gift of some charitable friend. It fits very indif ferently, being either too wide or too narrow. too long or too short; but it is, on the whole, in tolerable order, and, although palpably never intended for its present wearer, is a most desirable and timeous acquisition.

Whenever then-we speak from a series of observations all confirmatory of the fact-the torn-downer gets into the last stage of desperation as to apparel, he is sure to burst upon you one day in a state of entire renovation—a renovation extending from top to toe, from shoe to hat. A new rig is certain to come from some quarter or other; and we rather think our friend relies on this, -that he reposes on the feeling that somebody must and will supply him with a new suit when a new suit can no longer be delayed.

Elevated by the comfortable sensations imparted by his new integuments, the poor torn-downer begins to look a little large, to hold his head considerably higher than usual. If he carries a stick, he now shoulders it with an easy, careless kind of air, and in his manner altogether presents a sort of ludicrous caricature of the independent gentleman.

Heaven knows how the torn-downer lives! It is a mystery. But a still greater is where he lives. We verily believe no human being but himself knows this. It is in some strange, out-of-theway and interminable purlieu of the City. We have frequently endeavoured to trace him to his quarters, but never yet succeeded. His turnings, and windings, and doublings, through narrow alleys and tortuous passages, were sure to throw us out in the long-run, and to baffle all attempts at seeing him fairly kennelled.

We have said that the torn-downer does nothing, and this is true of him generally; but he sometimes clerks a little for small concerns, for he writes a capital business-hand, figures well, and is altogether rather a shrewd and clever sort of person. He may be found, then, occasionally putting in order the greasy hieroglyphical books and long-winded unintelligible accounts of some small huckstery business. But his favourite employment is clerking to a publican; for here there is always something in the way of drink going, and even although there should not be so much of this as he could wish, the very idea of being amongst it, as it were, is delightful to him.

If the torn-downer be, as he frequently is, a broken-down lawyer, then he picks up a trifle now and then, mostly, however, still in the shape of drink, by teaching small roguery to small swindling bankrupts, whom he puts in the way of doing their creditors.

HERO-ADMIRATION PERNICIOUS.

Or all that is pernicious in admiration, the admiration of heroes is the most pernicious; and how delusion should have made us admire what virtue should teach us to hate and loathe, is among the saddest evidences of human weakness and folly. The crimes of heroes seem lost in the vastness of the field they occupy. A lively idea of the mischief they do, of the misery they create, seldom penetrates the mind through the delusions with which thoughtlessness and falsehood have surrounded their names and deeds. Is it that the magnitude of the evil is too gigantic for entrance? We read of twenty thousand men killed in a battle, with no other feelings than that "it was a glorious victory." Twenty thousand, or ten thousand, what reck we of their sufferings? The hosts who perished are evidence of the completeness of the triumph; and the completeness of triumph is the measure of merit, moral books they so often put into our hands, have inspired us and the glory of the conqueror. Our schoolmasters, and the imwith an affection for heroes; and the hero is more heroic in proportion to the number of the slain-add a cypher, not one iota is added to our disapprobation. Four or two figures give us no more sentiment of pain than one figure, while they add marvellously to the grandeur and splendour of our victor. Let us draw forth one individual from those thousands, or tens of thousands;-his leg has been shivered by one ball, his jaw broken by another-he is

bathed in his own blood, and that of his fellows,-yet he lives, tortured by thirst, fainting, famishing. He is but one of the twenty thousand- one of the actors and sufferers in the scene of the hero's glory-and of the twenty thousand there is scarcely one whose suffering or death will not be the centre of a circle of misery. Look again, admirers of that hero! Is not this wretchedness? Because it is repeated ten, ten hundred, ten thousand times, is not this wretchedness?-Bentham's Deontology.

AN EVENING IN FLORENCE.

I HAD passed an hour in the saloon of the Count of St. Leu, whose palace stands conspicuous among those splendid buildings upon the quay of the Arno, near the bridge of the Holy Trinity in Florence. The count was confined to his bed by illness; his customary evening circle awaited him in vain; it was at length announced that he was too ill to appear; sherbet was served, and the guests departed.

Nothing is more disagreeable in a strange city than an interrupted soirée, by which our social arrangements for the evening are destroyed; one then feels doubly a stranger. M. de D, a relative of Prince Talleyrand, proposed to take us to the Pergola, where the "Rosamond" of Donizetti was to be performed, and in which Duprez was to sing. "Rosamond" is a feeble composition. It is said of this work, that the composer had been captured by four brigands, who led him to their cave, and, with their bayonets at his breast, compelled him to write an opera. "Rosamond," written in one night, was the result.

We approached the Pergola; the street was dark, and the theatre closed. Some one of the neighbourhood informed us, that Duprez was to sing at the Palazzo Pucci, in a concert given by a celebrated vocalist.

"We may as well proceed to the Palazzo Pucci," said our conductor with a smile; and away we went.

versation; no one spoke; M. de D-- himself, with his adventurous boldness, acquired by constant intercourse with the world, was constrained and silent.

The impression made upon me by this group may well be imagined. It was the first time I had seen the countess, and I understood nothing of this extraordinary silence in a Florentine saloon, where the winged words generally fly so rapidly, and all seem to speak in chorus. I first learned, alas! after leaving the palace, how much of meaning and consecrated etiquette there was in this reception.

I knew not, at the time, that a dreadful calamity had recently fallen upon this exiled family; I knew not that this young and lovely princess was the widow of that unfortunate Napoleon, the son of Hortense, who had met a violent death in Romagna. Time had robbed the catastrophe of none of its horrors, which were constantly present to the minds of these sad mourners. But, instead of tears, prevailed that deep-seated, inexhaustible, and unconquerable sorrow, which still endures when the black crape has faded, and ceases but with the last throb of the broken heart. A widow of eighteen years, and in what manner widowed? There are some misfortunes so dreadful, that they momentarily shake even a settled and unwavering faith in the righteousness of God's providence. There are calamities, entirely out of the usual course of human events, apparently intended for the special affliction of some devoted individual, and resulting from a combination of circumstances so strange and frightful, that to the sceptic they naturally seem to emanate from the Spirit of Evil. It was not enough that a young girl, full of grace and spirit, like this Princess Charlotte, at an age usually gilded by the sunshine of careless joy, should be called to mourn all those illustrious dead who, to us, are merely the brilliant subjects of universal history, but to her were near relatives and dear friends. A ray of happiness seemed at last to fall upon the innocent exile; a happy marriage had prepared for her a brilliant future, and given her the most delightful residence in that city of refuge for the unfortunate-beautiful Florence; it had blessed her with wealth, honour, love. But, alas! ere the bridal garland had yet lost its freshness or its fracommenced the solemn requiem for the loved, the lost, the dead! I remained an hour in this abode of sorrow, during all which time but few words were interchanged. Although exerting myself to restrain a childish curiosity, I could not refrain from an occasional glance at the objects around me. The saloon was spacious, splendidly gilded, and luxuriously furnished. In one of those moments when the Princess Charlotte had made a successful effort to combat busy memory, that she might speak on other subjects than that which incessantly occupied her heart, she observed to me that this palace had formerly belonged to the Prince Demidoff, of whom her family had purchased it. This noble building, now so silent and solitary, of which two sorrowing women were the sole inhabitants, had then witnessed all those brilliant festivals given by the rich Muscovite to the descendants of the Guelfs and the Ghibellines. How instructive, how full of change, is the history of a palace! As joy dies away in the hearts of men, so also expire the flames of the lustres; and the mournful darkness of the saloon affords its silent sympathy to suffering humanity.

The street was full of carriages, and the hall crowded with people. It was impossible to obtain a place for one, and we were three. M. de Dobserved, that he was well acquainted with the owner of the palace, a wealthy Englishman, who often in-grance, ere the last echoes of the marriage hymn had yet ceased, dulged in the generous practice of loaning his hall and his lustres to artists for these occasions. "We must obtain admission at all hazards," added he; "I have just heard that Duprez is to sing two arias from Tell,' and that is worth more than the whole of 'Rosamond.' Wait for me but one minute."

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"We will to the Countess Survilliers," said M. de D--; "I have not seen her for five weeks, and will introduce you to her." We gladly acceded to the proposal, and our carriage was soon rolling along the dark and solitary streets leading to the Ponte Vecchio. Crossing the Arno, we penetrated a sombre and dilapidated suburb, where one would hardly think of seeking for a queen's palace. It seemed, indeed, as if we ourselves were going into exile.

The carriage stopped before a high trellis; the servant pulled the bell; it seemed like ringing at the door of an Egyptian tomb, so many were the answering echoes, and so solemn was the silence of the place. At length the slow movement of a porter was heard. Before opening, he asked our names. M. de D- gave his, which was known to almost every porter in Florence; and the gate swung upon its hinges.

The dark and deserted court through which we passed was rendered still more dismal by the dying flicker of a solitary lantern. We ascended a broad, resounding staircase; M. de D, after very cavalierly dismissing the old porter, opened the first door of the apartments, and conducted us to the grand reception-room.

Two ladies were in the saloon. One of them, the ci-devant Queen of Spain, appeared to have been asleep upon a sofa, and aroused by the noise of our entrance. The other, the Princess Charlotte, her daughter, was occupied in drawing at a small table. The Countess Survilliers welcomed us by a graceful inclination of the head, and with a motion of the hand pointed out to us our seats. She was ill, and suffering much; her pale countenance, however, yet retained its noble and dignified expression. The Princess Charlotte discontinued her drawing, yet preserved a cold and melancholy demeanour. We knew not how to introduce con

The amiable princess seemed desirous of making compensation for the sad constraint which circumstances had imposed on us all. Twice towards the end of our visit were her pale features lighted up with a faint, sweet smile. She showed to us her album, which contained many beautiful emanations from her own mind and heart.

It was not without humid eyes that we took our leave. No word was spoken in the carriage; and the whole city seemed to have caught a shade of our sadness. The Arno murmuringly rippled by the foundations of the old Ghibelline mansions upon its banks; the rising moon shed its pale light upon the cypress wood which frowns above the Villa Strozzi; and the illuminated clock upon the dark tower of the old palace indicated the hour of eleven, when, amid congenial stillness and gloom, we reached our hotels.

Early in 1839, "Princess Charlotte, daughter of the King Joseph Napoleon, died at Sarzana, on her way from Florence to Genoa for the benefit of her health. Her decease produced great regret where she was known, from her taste for the arts, for which she possessed remarkable talents. Since her youth she had been in exile with her family, but still entertained an enthusiastic affection for France. She resided with the Queen Julia, her mother, in Frankfort and Brussels, till the death of Napoleon at St. Helena. She traversed the Atlantic to offer consolation to her father, then in the United States, the feeble state of her mother's health having

1840.]

THE LONDON SATURDAY JOURNAL.

prevented her from going. Princess Charlotte returned to Europe in 1822, and she was united to a prince worthy of her, Prince Napoleon. His premature death had deeply affected her; and in her turn she has been suddenly taken away by the breaking

of a blood-vessel."

PELAYO AND THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER.

BY WASHINGTON IRVING.

It is the common lamentation of Spanish historiographers, that for an obscure and melancholy space of time immediately succeeding the conquest of their country by the Moslems, its history is a mere wilderness of dubious facts, groundless fables, and rash exaggerations. Learned men, in cells and cloisters, have worn out their lives in vainly endeavouring to connect incongruous events, and to account for startling improbabilities, recorded of this period. The worthy Jesuit, Padre Abarca, declares that, for more than forty years, during which he had been employed in theological controversy, he had never found any so obscure and inexplicable as those which rise out of this portion of Spanish history, and that the only fruit of an indefatigable, prolix, and even prodigious study of the subject was a melancholy and mortifying state of indecision.

During this apocryphal period flourished Pelayo, the deliverer of Spain, whose name, like that of William Wallace, will ever be linked with the glory of his country; but linked, in like manner, by a bond in which fact and fiction are inextricably interwoven.

a gentle damsel, of marriageable age, and exceeding fair to look
upon. He was attended by a trusty clerk from his comptoir,
and a man-servant; while another servant led a hackney, laden
with bags of money, with which he intended to purchase merchan-

dise.

When the Gascons heard of this wealthy merchant and his convoy passing through the mountains, they thanked their stars, for they considered all peaceful men of traffic as lawful spoil, sent by Providence for the benefit of hidalgos like themselves, of valour ambush in a lonely defile by which the travellers had to pass, and gentle blood, who lived by the sword. Placing themselves in they silently awaited their coming. In a little while they beheld His looks bespoke the good cheer of them approaching. The merchant was a fair, portly man, in a buff surcoat and velvet cap. his native city, and he was mounted on a stately, well-fed steed, while his wife and daughter paced gently on palfreys by his side. The travellers had advanced some distance in the defile, when the Bandoleros rushed forth and assailed them. The merchant, though but little used to the exercise of arms, and unwieldy in his form, yet made valiant defence, having his wife and daughter and overpowered; one of his servants was slain, the other took to money-bags at hazard. He was wounded in two places, and flight.

The freebooters then began to ransack for spoil, but were disaptheir swords to the breast of the trembling merchant, they depointed at not finding the wealth they had expected. Putting The quaint old chronicle of the Moor Rasis, which, though wild manded where he had concealed his treasure, and learned from and fanciful in the extreme, is frequently drawn upon for early him of the hackney that was following, laden with money. Overawaited the arrival of the golden spoil. facts by Spanish historians, professes to give the birth, parentage,joyed at this intelligence, they bound their captives to trees, and and whole course of fortune of Pelayo, without the least doubt or hesitation. It makes him a son of the Duke of Cantabria, and descended, both by father and mother's side, from the Gothic shall pass over the romantic story of his childkings of Spain. hood, and shall content myself with a scene of his youth, which was passed in a castle among the Pyrenees, under the eye of his widowed and noble-minded mother, who caused him to be instructed in everything befitting a cavalier of gentle birth. While the sons of the nobility were revelling amid the pleasures of a licentious court, and sunk in that vicious and effeminate indulgence which led to the perdition of unhappy Spain, the youthful Pelayo, in his rugged mountain-school, was steeled to all kinds of hardy exercises. A great part of his time was spent in hunting the bears, the wild boars, and the wolves, with which the Pyrenees and so purely and chastely was he brought up by his abounded; good lady-mother, that, if the ancient chronicle from which I draw my facts may be relied on, he had attained his one-and-twentieth year without having once sighed for woman!

Nor were his hardy contests confined to the wild-beasts of the forest. Occasionally he had to contend with adversaries of a The skirts and defiles of these more formidable character. border mountains were often infested by marauders from the Gallic plains of Gascony. The Gascons, says an old chronicler, were a people who used smooth words when expedient, but force when they had power, and were ready to lay their hands on everything they met. Though poor, they were proud; for there was not one who did not plume himself on being a hidalgo, or the son of somebody.

At the head of a band of these needy hidalgos of Gascony was one Arnaud, a broken-down cavalier. He and four of his followers were well armed and mounted; the rest were a set of scamper-grounds on foot, furnished with darts and javelins. They were the terror of the border,-here to-day and gone to-morrowsometimes in one pass, sometimes in another. They would make sudden inroads into Spain, scour the roads, plunder the country, and were over the mountains and far away, before a force could be collected to pursue them.

Now it happened one day, that a wealthy burgher of Bordeaux, who was a merchant trading with Biscay, set out on a journey for that province. As he intended to sojourn there for a season, he took with him his wife, who was a goodly dame, and his daughter,

On this same day Pelayo was out with his huntsmen among the mountains, and had taken his stand on a rock, at a narrow pass, to await the sallying forth of a wild boar. Close by him was a page conducting a horse, and at the saddle-bow hung his armour; for he always prepared for fight among these border mountains. While thus posted, the servant of the merchant came flying from the robbers. On beholding Pelayo, he fell on his knees, and implored his life; for he supposed him to be one of the band. It was some time before he could be relieved from his terror and made to tell his story. When Pelayo heard of the robbers, he concluded they were the crew of Gascon hidalgos upon the scamper. Taking his armour from the page, he put on his helmet, slung his buckler round his neck, took lance in hand, and mounting his steed, compelled the trembling servant to guide him to the scene of action. At the same time he ordered the page to seek his huntsmen, and summon them to his assistance.

When the robbers saw Pelayo advancing through the forest with a single attendant on foot, and beheld his rich armour sparkling in the sun, they thought a new prize had fallen into their hands; and Arnaud and two of his companions, mounting their horses, advanced to meet him. As they approached, Pelayo stationed himself in a narrow pass between two rocks, where he could only be assailed in front, and bracing his buckler and lowering his lance, awaited their coming.

"Who and what are ye?" cried he; "and what seek ye in "We are huntsmen," replied Arnaud; "and, lo! our game this land ?" runs into our toils."

"By my faith," replied Pelayo, "thou wilt find the game more readily roused than taken! Have at thee for a villain!”

So saying, he put spurs to his horse and ran full speed upon him. The Gascon, not expecting so sudden an attack from a single horseman, was taken by surprise. He hastily couched his lance, but it merely glanced on the shield of Pelayo, who sent his own through the middle of his breast, and threw him out of his One of the other robbers made at Pelayo, saddle to the earth. and wounded him slightly in the side, but received a blow from the His companion, seeing him fall, put spurs to his steed sword of the latter, which cleft his skullcap and sank into his brain. and galloped off through the forest.

The

Beholding several other robbers on foot coming up, Pelayo | should be molested by any of the scattered band of robbers. returned to his station between the rocks, where he was assailed bodies of the slain marauders were buried, and the corpse of the by them all at once. He received two of their darts on his buckler, servant was laid upon one of the horses captured in the battle. a javelin razed his cuirass, and, glancing down, wounded his Having formed their cavalcade, they pursued their way slowly up horse. Pelayo then rushed forth and struck one of the robbers one of the steep and winding passes of the Pyrenees. dead; the others beholding several huntsmen advancing, took to flight, but were pursued, and several of them taken.

The good merchant of Bordeaux and his family beheld this scene with trembling and amazement, for never had they looked upon such feats of arms. They considered Don Pelayo as a leader of some rival band of robbers; and when the bonds were loosed by which they were tied to the trees, they fell at his feet and implored mercy. The females were soonest undeceived, especially the daughter; for the damsel was struck with the noble countenance and gentle demeanour of Pelayo, and said to herself— Surely nothing evil can dwell in so goodly and gracious a form." Pelayo now sounded his horn, which echoed from rock to rock, and was answered by shouts and horns from various parts of the mountains. The merchant's heart misgave him at these signals, and especially when he beheld more than forty men gathering from glen and thicket. They were clad in hunters' dresses, and armed with boar-spears, darts, and hunting swords; and many of them led hounds in long leashes. All this was a new and wild scene to the astonished merchant; nor were his fears abated when he saw his servant approaching with the hackney, laden with money-bags; "for of a certainty," said he to himself, "this will be too tempting a spoil for these wild hunters of the mountains."

Pelayo, however, took no more notice of the gold than if it had been so much dross; at which the honest burgher marvelled exceedingly. He ordered that the wounds of the merchant should be dressed, and his own examined. On taking off his cuirass, his wound was found to be but slight; but his men were so exasperated at seeing his blood, that they would have put the captive robbers to instant death, had he not forbidden them to do them any harm.

The huntsmen now made a great fire at the foot of a tree, and bringing a boar which they had killed, cut off portions, and roasted them, or broiled them on the coals. Then drawing forth loaves of bread from their wallets, they devoured their food half raw, with the hungry relish of huntsmen and mountaineers. The merchant, his wife, and daughter looked at all this, and wondered; for they had never beheld so savage a repast.

Pelayo then inquired of them if they did not desire to eat: they were too much in awe of him to decline, though they felt a loathing at the thought of partaking of this hunter's fare; but he ordered a linen cloth to be spread under the shade of a great oak, on the grassy margin of a clear running stream; and to their astonishment they were served, not with the flesh of the boar, but with dainty cheer, such as the merchant had scarcely hoped to find out of the walls of his native city of Bordeaux.

The good burgher was of a community renowned for gastronomic prowess: his fears having subsided, his appetite was now awakened, and he addressed himself manfully to the viands that were set before him. His daughter, however, could not eat; her eyes were ever and anon stealing to gaze on Pelayo, whom she regarded with gratitude for his protection, and admiration for his valour and now that he had laid aside his helmet, and she beheld his lofty countenance glowing with manly beauty, she thought him something more than mortal. The heart of the gentle donzella, says the ancient chronicler, was kind and yielding; and had Pelayo thought fit to ask the greatest boon that love and beauty could bestow-doubtless meaning her fair hand-she could not have had the cruelty to say him nay. Pelayo, however, had no such thoughts: the love of woman had never yet entered his heart; and though he regarded the damsel as the fairest maiden he had ever beheld, her beauty caused no perturbation in his breast.

When the repast was over, Pelayo offered to conduct the merchant and his family through the defiles of the mountains, lest they

Toward sunset, they arrived at the dwelling of a holy hermit. It was hewn out of the living rock; there was a cross over the door, and before it was a great spreading oak, with a sweet spring of water at its foot. The body of the faithful servant who had fallen in the defence of his lord was buried close by the wall of this sacred retreat, and the hermit promised to perform masses for the repose of his soul. Then Pelayo obtained from the holy father consent that the merchant's wife and daughter should pass the night within his cell; and the hermit made beds of moss for them, and gave them his benediction; but the damsel found little rest, so much were her thoughts occupied by the youthful champion who had rescued her from death or dishonour.

Pelayo, however, was visited by no such wandering of the mind, but, wrapping himself in his mantle, slept soundly by the fountain under the tree. At midnight, when everything was buried in deep repose, he was awakened from his sleep, and beheld the hermit before him, with the beams of the moon shining upon his silver hair and beard.

"This is no time," said the latter, "to be sleeping; arise, and listen to my words, and hear of the great work for which thou art chosen!"

Then Pelayo arose, and seated himself on a rock, and the hermit continued his discourse :

"Behold," said he, "the ruin of Spain is at hand! It will be delivered into the hands of strangers, and will become a prey to the spoiler. Its children will be slain, or carried into captivity; or such as may escape these evils will harbour with the beasts of the forest or the eagles of the mountain. The thorn and bramble will spring up where now are seen the corn-field, the vine, and the olive; and hungry wolves will roam in place of peaceful flocks and herds. But thou, my son, tarry not thou to see these things, for thou canst not prevent them. Depart on a pilgrimage to the sepulchre of our blessed Lord in Palestine; purify thyself by prayer; enrol thyself in the order of chivalry; and prepare for the great work of the redemption of thy country; for to thee it will be given to raise it from the depth of its affliction."

Pelayo would have inquired farther into the evils thus foretold, but the hermit rebuked his curiosity.

"Seek not to know more," said he, "than Heaven is pleased to reveal. Clouds and darkness cover its designs, and prophesy is never permitted to lift up, but in part, the veil that rests upon the future."

The hermit ceased to speak, and Pelayo laid himself down again to take repose; but sleep was a stranger to his eyes.

When the first rays of the rising sun shone upon the tops of the mountains, the travellers assembled round the fountain beneath the tree, and made their morning's repast. Then, having received the benediction of the hermit, they departed in the freshness of the day, and descended along the hollow defiles leading into the interior of Spain. The good merchant was refreshed by sleep and by his morning's meal; and when he beheld his wife and daughter thus secure by his side, and the hackney laden with his treasure close behind him, his heart was light in his bosom, and he carolled a chanson as he went, and the woodlands echoed to his song. But Pelayo rode in silence, for he revolved in his mind the portentous words of the hermit; and the daughter of the merchant ever and anon stole looks at him full of tenderness and admiration, and deep sighs betrayed the agitation of her bosom.

At length they came to the foot of the mountains, where the forests and the rocks terminated, and an open and secure country lay before the travellers. Here they halted, for their roads were widely different. When they came to part, the merchant and his wife were loud in thanks and benedictions, and the good burgher would fain have given Pelayo the largest of his sacks of gold;

but the young man put it aside with a smile. "Silver and gold," said he, need I not; but if I have deserved aught at thy hands, give me thy prayers, for the prayers of a good man are above all price."

In the mean time the daughter had spoken never a word. At length she raised her eyes, which were filled with tears, and looked timidly at Pelayo, and her bosom throbbed; and after a violent struggle between strong affection and virgin modesty, her heart relieved itself by words.

"Senior," said she, "I know that I am unworthy of the notice of so noble a cavalier; but suffer me to place this ring upon a finger of that hand which has so bravely rescued us from death; and when you regard it, you may consider it as a memorial of your own valour, and not of one who is too humble to be remembered by you."

With these words she drew a ring from her finger, and put it upon the finger of Pelayo; and having done this, she blushed and trembled at her own boldness, and stood as one abashed, with her eyes cast down upon the earth.

Pelayo was moved at the words of the simple maiden, and at the touch of her fair hand, and at her beauty, as she stood thus trembling and in tears before him; but as yet he knew nothing of woman, and his heart was free from the snares of love. "Amiga," (friend,) said he, "I accept thy present, and will wear it in remembrance of thy goodness." So saying, he kissed her on the

cheek.

The damsel was cheered by these words, and hoped that she had awakened some tenderness in his bosom; but it was no such thing, says the grave old chronicler, for his heart was devoted to higher and more sacred matters: yet certain it is that he always guarded well that ring.

When they parted, Pelayo remained with his huntsmen on a cliff, watching that no evil might befal them until they were far beyond the skirts of the mountain; and the damsel often turned to look at him, until she could no longer discern him, for the distance and the tears that dimmed her eyes.

And for that he had accepted her ring, says the ancient chronicler, she considered herself wedded to him in her heart, and would never marry; nor could she be brought to look with eyes of affection upon any other man, but, for the true love which she bore Pelayo, she lived and died a virgin. And she composed a book which treated of love and chivalry, and the temptations of this mortal life; and one part discoursed of celestial matters, and it was called "The Contemplations of Love;" because, at the time she wrote it, she thought of Pelayo, and of his having accepted her jewel, and called her by the gentle appellation of "Amiga." And often thinking of him in tender sadness, and of her never having beheld him more, she would take the book, and would read it as if in his stead ; and while she repeated the words of love which it contained, she would endeavour to fancy them uttered by Pelayo, and that he stood before her.

ATMOSPHERIC EFFECTS.

We are all aware, if the weather be damp and foggy, that a listless and languid state is produced; whilst during dry weather, however cold it may be, there is a feeling of light-heartedness and cheerfulness pervading the whole system. In the first instance the atmosphere is robbing us of our electricity, which it greatly absorbs; in the latter case the dryness of the air is such, that it leaves us in possession of the electricity which seems to belong to us: hence the buoyancy of spirits on the cold and frosty days of December and January, and the suicidal despondency of November; and hence the elasticity, the life and animation of the Frenchmanthe sluggish heavy movement of the Dutchman-the variable feelings of the Englishman, one day full of hope and cheerfulness, and the next day at war with himself and all the rest of mankind. To every one, in damp moist conditions of the atmosphere, flannel is a great comfort, bat silk is the most useful covering of the body: it is by far the best friend and comforter that can be applied. We know that if a silk handkerchief be perfectly dry, lightning the most aecumulated could not pass through it, so decided a non

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conductor is it; hence, if worn next to the skin, the air cannot absorb the electricity of the human body. Silk waistcoats, drawers and stockings of the same material, are of the greatest service during the humid state of the winter months of this country. The than from the most active tonic, and they will prove a more invihypochondriac, the nervous, will derive from them more benefit gorating cordial than any spirituous dram; nor are the effects transient, for a buoyancy of spirits and an agreeable warmth are thus diffused over the whole frame. Patients, too, during mercurial influence, are much better wrapped in silk than even when confined | to bed.-Dr. Sigmond.

CHINA AND THE CHINESE.

NO. V.

WALKS UPON THE ISLAND OF HONAN,

These

THIS island lies in the river opposite to the city of Canton, and is about eight miles in length, and nearly one-third of that in its greatest breadth. Its shape and position will be seen by a reference to the map of the Canton river, No. 66. It has long been well known to foreign visitors, as it has afforded them space for inhaling sweet draughts of fresh air, and for enjoying the whole some effects of recreative exercise. I have heard of quarrels and fights which took place between foreigners and natives, and have witnessed what would have ended in something of the same kind had I not interposed; but I must do the Chinese the justice to say, that I think the strangers were most worthy of blame. They condescended to resent the abuse of a few dirty urchins, or ventured to take greater liberties than the laws against trespassing allowed them, and so words led to blows, and valour was overmatched by numbers. A traveller might traverse the length and breadth of the island, and never meet more serious opposition than what a little coolness, set off by a little philanthropy, might fairly overcome. A great number of tanka-boats hover near the landingplaces in front of the factories to convey passengers to the island, the Fa Te Gardens, or to any other place whither inclination may lead them. As we descend towards the point of embarkation, the boat-women, guessing our object, are always loud and pressing in their invitation, and prefer their several claims with an enthusiasm that seems to have something of real friendship about it. boats are the epitome of a dwelling-house, and present all the most essential comforts in miniature. The visitors are of course introduced into the principal apartment, which is not furnished with moveable seats, as at Macao, but has a settle extending round it, whereon we range ourselves, and find shelter from the wind and the rain, or from the torrid rays of the sun in summer. For neatness the apartment can scarcely find an equal; which distinguishing attribute in the Chinese character is nowhere displayed in a more engaging manner than in one of these floating habitations. A corner is generally occupied by a niche, or, in humble phraseology, a cupboard, dedicated to some deity, or to the manes of departed ancestors. An odorous match smokes in honour of them at dawn, and again at sun-down, while a candle casts its flickering gleams over their imaginary presence during the watches of the night. A Chinese landscape, a poetic conceit in graphic, or, as the natives call them, everlasting characters, a patch of gilded paper, or perhaps a foreign print, adorns the walls of this tasteful apartment. But it is not unusual to see the picture of a Chinese beauty, with her finely-arched and pencilled eyebrows, and her eyes melting in a smile of fondness. For, whatever we may choose to talk about the degraded condition of Chinese females, their countrymen appear to reckon handsome women among the chief glories of their land; "Heaven above, and Soo-chow below," a city in the province of Keangnan,-i. e. the latter is an earthly paradise corresponding to the one in heaven,—say the coiners of an old adage, because, as a Chinaman who spoke English indifferently well said,

"the women there are above all."

After crossing the river, which is rather less than a furlong in width, we land at a flight of steps formed by slabs of granite, and proceed up a narrow lane in front of an elegant little temple, and steer our way thence through two or three streets till we come

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