The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction, Vol. 13, - Various
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 10838-h.htm or 10838-h.zip:
(http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/1/0/8/3/10838/10838-h/10838-h.htm)
or
(http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/1/0/8/3/10838/10838-h.zip)
THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.
VOL. 13, No. 350.] SATURDAY, JANUARY 3, 1829. [PRICE 2d.
* * * * *
BRUCE CASTLE, TOTTENHAM.
[Illustration: BRUCE CASTLE, TOTTENHAM.]
The engraving represents this interesting structure, as it appeared in
the year 1686; being copied from a print, after a picture by Wolridge.
The original castle was very ancient, as appears by the foundations, and
an old brick tower over a deep well, the upper part of which has been
used as a dairy. The castle is said to have been built by Earl Waltheof,
who, in 1069 married Judith, niece to William the Conqueror, who gave
him the earldom of Northampton and Huntingdon for her portion. Matilda
or Maud, their only child, after the death of Simon St. Liz, her first
husband, married David, first of the name, king of Scotland; and Maud,
being heiress of Huntingdon, had in her own right, as an appendix to
that honour, the manor of Tottenham in Middlesex.
Robert Bruce, grandson of David, Earl of Huntingdon, and grandfather to
Robert I. of Scotland, memorable as the restorer of the independence of
his country, became one of the competitors for the crown of Scotland in
1290, but being superseded by John Baliol, Bruce retired to England, and
settled at his grandfather's estate at Tottenham, repaired the castle,
and acquiring another manor, called it and the castle after his own
name. Shakspeare says,
Fearless minds climb soonest unto crowns,
and the fortunes of the two Bruces are "confirmation strong as holy
writ."
The estate being forfeited to the crown, it had different proprietors,
till 1631, when it was in the possession of Hugh Hare, Lord Coleraine.
Henry Hare, the last Lord Coleraine of that family, having been deserted
by his wife, who obstinately refused, for twenty years, to return to
him, formed a connexion with Miss Roze Duplessis, a French lady, by whom
he had a daughter, born in Italy, whom he named Henrietta Roza
Peregrina, and to whom he left all his estates. This lady married the
late Mr. Alderman Townsend; but, being an alien, she could not take the
estates; and the will being legally made, barred the heirs at law; so
that the estate escheated to the crown. However, a grant of these
estates, confirmed by act of parliament, was made to Mr. Townsend and
his lady, whose son, Henry Hare Townsend, Esq. in 1792, voluntarily sold
the property for the payment of the family debts; and "although the
castle may soon be levelled with the ground, yet the destruction of this
ancient fabric will acquire him more honour, than if the prudence of his
ancestors had enabled him to restore the three towers, of which now only
one remains."[1]
[1] Gough's Camden.
The present mansion is partly ancient, and partly modern, and was very
lately the property of Sir William Curtis, Bart. Up to the period at
which the castle is represented in the engraving, the building must have
undergone many alterations, as the tower on the left, and the two
octagonal and centre towers, will prove. The grounds there appear laid
out in the trim fashion of the seventeenth century, and ornamented with
fountains, vases, &c.
* * * * *
NEW YEAR'S CUSTOM.
_(For the Mirror.)_
BROMLEY PAGETS, Staffordshire, is 129 miles from London, and is a pretty
town on the skirts of Derbyshire. This place is remarkable, or was
lately, for a sport on New Year's Day and Twelfth Day, called _The
Hobby-Horse Dance_, from a person who rode upon the image of a horse,
with a bow and arrow in his hands, with which he made a snapping noise,
and kept time to the music, while six men danced the hay and other
country dances, with as many deer's heads on their shoulders. To this
hobby-horse belonged a pot, which the reeves of the town kept filled
with cakes and ale, towards which the spectators contributed a penny,
and with the remainder they maintained their poor and repaired the
church.
HALBERT H.
* * * * *
THE BARON'S TRUMPET.
_(For the Mirror.)_
Thou blowest for Hector.
TROILUS and CRESSIDA.
Sound, sound the charge, when the wassel bowl
Is lifted with songs, let the trumpets shrill blast
Awaken like fire in the warrior's soul,
The bright recollections of chivalry past;
Let the lute or the lyre the soft stripling rejoice,
No music on earth is so sweet as thy voice.
Sound, sound the charge when the foe is before us,
When the visors are closed and the lances are down,
If we fall, let the banner of victory o'er us
Dance time to thy clarion that sings our renown:
To the souls of the valiant no requiem is given,
So fit as thine echoes, to soothe them in heaven.
LEON.
* * * * *
THE NEW YEAR
_(For the Mirror.)_
Twenty-nine, Father Janus! and can it be true,
That your _double-fac'd_ sconce is again in our view?
Take a chair, my old boy--while our glasses we fill,
And tell us, "what news"--for you can if you will.
Shall we have any war? or will there be peace?
Will swindlers, as usual, the credulous fleece?
Will the season produce us a _deluge_ of rain?
Did the comet bring coughs and catarrhs in his train?
Will gas, so delicious, _perfume_ our abodes?
Will McAdam continue "Colossus of _roads?_"
Will Venus's boy be abroad with his bow,
And make the dear girls over bachelors crow?
Will _quid-nuncs_ from scandalous whispers refrain?
Will poets the pent of Parnassus attain?
Will travellers' tomes touch the truth to a T?
Will critics from caustic coercion be free?
Shall we check crafty care in his cunning career?
In short--shall we welcome a happy new year?
What, _mum_, Father Janus?--egad I suppose,
Not one of our queries you mean to disclose.
Let us, therefore, the blessings which Providence sends,
To our country, to us, our relations and friends,
With gratitude own--and employ the supplies,
As prudence suggests, "to be merry and wise."
Nor ever, too curious the future to pry,
Presume on our own feeble strength to rely;
But, taught by the _past;_ for the _future_, depend
Where the wise and the good all their wishes extend.
JACOBUS.
* * * * *
FALLING STONES.
_(For the Mirror.)_
Of these bodies, the most general opinion now is, that they are really
of _celestial_ origin. But a few years ago, nothing could have appeared
more absurd than the idea that we should ever be able to examine the
most minute fragment of the siderial system; and it must, no doubt, be
reckoned among the wonders of the age in which we live, that
considerable portions of these heavenly bodies are now known to have
descended to the earth. An event so wonderful and unexpected was at
first received with incredulity and ridicule; but we may now venture to
consider the fact as well established as any other hypothesis of natural
philosophy, which does not actually admit of mathematical demonstration.
The attention of our philosophers was first called to this subject by
the falling of one of these masses of matter near Flamborough Head, in
Yorkshire; it weighed about 50 pounds, and for some years after its
descent did not excite the interest it deserved, nor would perhaps that
attention have been paid to it which was required for the investigation
of the truth, if a similar and more striking phenomenon had not happened
a few years afterwards at Benares, in the East Indies. Some fragments of
the stones which fell in India were brought to Sir Joseph Banks by Major
Williams; and Sir Joseph being desirous of knowing if there might not be
some truth in these repeated accounts of falling stones, gave them to be
analyzed, when it was found by a very skilful analysis, published in the
Transactions, 1802, that the stones collected in various countries, and
to which a similar history is attached, contained very peculiar
ingredients, and all of the same kind. The earthy parts were silex and
magnesia, in which were interspersed small grains of metallic iron.
Since these investigations, the subject has attracted very general
attention, and most of the fragments of stones said to have fallen from
heaven, and which have been preserved in the cabinets of the curious, on
account of this tradition, have been analyzed, and found to consist of
the same ingredients, varying only in their different proportions.
Pliny relates, that a great stone fell near Egos Potamos, in the
Thracian Chersonese, in the second year of the 78th Olympiad. In the
year 1706, another large stone is, on the authority of Paul Lucas, then
at Larissa, said to have fallen in Macedonia. It weighed 72 pounds.
Cardan assures us, that a shower of at least 1,200 stones fell in Italy,
the largest of which weighed 120 pounds; and their fall was accompanied
by a great light in the air.
The caaba, or great black stone, preserved by the Mahometans in the
Temple of Mecca, had probably a celestial origin. It is said to have
been brought from heaven by the angel Gabriel. Some astronomers imagine
that these stones have been thrown from a lunar volcano. There is
nothing, perhaps, philosophically inconsistent in this theory, for
volcanic appearances have been seen in the moon; and a force such as our
volcanoes exert would be sufficient to project fragments that might
possibly arrive at the surface of the earth. But probability is
certainly against it, and it seems more likely that they are fragments
of comets. For those bodies, from their own nature, must be subject to
chemical changes of a very violent nature; add to this, that from the
smallness of their dimensions, a fragment projected from them with a
very slight velocity would never return to the mass to which it
originally belonged; but would traverse the celestial regions till it
met with some planetary or other body sufficiently ponderous to attract
it to itself.
We have numerous other instances of these phenomena, which are attested
by many very credible witnesses, but I will not at present monopolize
more of your valuable pages with this subject, though one of
considerable interest; yet I may, perhaps, at some future period, if
agreeable, send you a few rather more circumstantial and more
interesting accounts than the above.
_Near Sheffield._
J.M.C----D.
* * * * *
THE POET, CHATTERTON.
_(To the Editor of the Mirror.)_
Should the following notice of Chatterton, which I copy from a _small
handkerchief_ in my possession, be thought worthy of a place in the
MIRROR, you will oblige me by inserting it. The handkerchief has been in
my possession about twenty-five years, and was probably printed soon
after the poet's death; he is represented sitting at a table, writing,
in a miserable apartment; behind him the bed turned up, &c.
SUFFOLK.
_The Distressed Poet, or a true representation of the unfortunate
Chatterton._
The painting from which the engraving was taken of the distressed poet,
was the work of a friend of the unfortunate Chatterton. This friend drew
him in the situation in which he is represented in this plate. Anxieties
and cares had advanced his life, and given him an older look than was
suited to his age. The sorry apartment portrayed in the print, the
folded bed, the broken utensil below it, the bottle, the farthing
candle, and the disorderly raiment of the bard, are not inventions of
fancy. They were realities; and a satire upon an age and a nation of
which generosity is doubtless a conspicuous characteristic. But poor
Chatterton was born under a bad star: his passions were too impetuous,
and in a distracted moment he deprived himself of an existence, which
his genius, and the fostering care of the public would undoubtedly have
rendered comfortable and happy. Unknown and miserable while alive, he
now calls forth curiosity and attention. Men of wit and learning employ
themselves to celebrate his talents, and to express their approbation of
his writings. Hard indeed was his fate, born to adorn the times in which
he lived, yet compelled to fall a victim to pride and poverty! His
destiny, cruel as it was, gives a charm to his verses; and while the
bright thought excites admiration, the recollection of his miseries
awakens a tender sympathy and sorrow. Who would not wish that he had
been so fortunate as to relieve a fellow creature so accomplished, from
wretchedness, despair, and suicide?
WRITTEN ON VIEWING THE PORTRAIT OF CHATTERTON.
Ah! what a contrast in that face portray'd,
Where care and study cast alternate shade;
But view it well, and ask thy heart the cause,
Then chide, with honest warmth, that cold applause
Which counteracts the fostering breath of praise,
And shades with cypress the young poet's bays:
Pale and dejected, mark, how genius strives
With poverty, and mark, how well it thrives;
The shabby cov'ring of the gentle bard,
Regard it well, 'tis worthy thy regard,
The friendly cobweb, serving for a screen,
The chair, a part of what it once had been;
The bed, whereon th' unhappy victim slept
And oft unseen, in silent anguish, wept,
Or spent in dear delusive dreams, the night,
To wake, next morning, but to curse the light,
Too deep distress the artist's hand reveals;
But like a friend's the black'ning deed conceals;
Thus justice, to mild complacency bends,
And candour, all harsh influence, suspends.
Enthron'd, supreme in judgment, mercy sits,
And, in one breath condemns, applauds, acquits:
Whoe'er thou art, that shalt this face survey,
And turn, with cold disgust, thine eyes away.
Then bless thyself, that sloth and ignorance bred
Thee up in safety, and with plenty fed,
Peace to thy mem'ry! may the sable plume
Of dulness, round thy forehead ever bloom;
May'st thou, nor can I wish a greater curse;
Live full despis'd, and die without a nurse;
Or, if same wither'd hag, for sake of hire,
Should wash thy sheets, and cleanse thee from the mire,
Let her, when hunger peevishly demands
The dainty morsel from her barb'rous hands,
Insult, with hellish mirth, thy craving maw
And snatch it to herself, and call it law,
Till pinching famine waste thee to the bone
And break, at last, that solid heart of stone.
* * * * *
LAY OF THE WANDERING ARAB.
"Away, away, my barb and I,"
As free as wave, as fleet as wind,
We sweep the sands of Araby,
And leave a world of slaves behind.
'Tis mine to range in this wild garb,
Nor e'er feel lonely though alone;
I would not change my Arab barb,
To mount a drowsy Sultan's throne.
Where the pale stranger dares not come,
Proud o'er my native sands I rove;
An Arab tent my only home,
An Arab maid my only love.
Here freedom dwells without a fear--
Coy to the world, she loves the wild;
Whoever brings a fetter here,
To chain the desert's fiery child.
What though the Frank may name with scorn,
Our barren clime, our realm of sand,
There were our thousand fathers born--
Oh, who would scorn his father's land?
It is not sands that form a waste,
Nor laughing fields a happy clime;
The spot, the most by Freedom graced,
Is where a man feels most sublime!
"Away, away, my barb and I."
As free as wave as fleet as wind,
We sweep the sands of Araby,
And leave a world of slaves behind!
* * * * *
NOSTALGIA--MALADIE DE PAYS--CALENTURE.
_(For the Mirror.)_
This disease, according to Dr. Darwin, is an unconquerable desire of
returning to one's native country, frequent in long voyages, in which
the patients become so insane, as to throw themselves into the sea,
mistaking it for green fields or meadows:--
"So, by a _calenture_ misled,
The mariner with rapture sees,
On the smooth ocean's azure bed,
Enamell'd fields and verdant trees.
With eager haste he longs to rove
In that fantastic scene, and thinks
It must be some enchanting grove,
And in he leaps, and down he sinks."
SWIFT.
The Swiss are said to be particularly liable to this disease, and when
taken into foreign service, frequently to desert from this cause, and
especially after hearing or singing a particular tune, which was used in
their village dances, in their native country, on which account the
playing or singing this tune was forbidden by the punishment of death.
"Dear is that shed, to which his soul conforms,
And dear that hill, which lifts him to the storms."
GOLDSMITH.
Rousseau says, "The celebrated Swiss tune, called the _Rans des Vaches_,
is an air, so dear to the Swiss, that it was forbidden under the pain of
death to play it to the troops, as it immediately drew tears from them,
and made those who heard it desert, or die of what is called _la maladie
de pays_, so ardent a desire did it excite to return to their native
country. It is in vain to seek in this air for energetic accents capable
of producing such astonishing effects, for which strangers are unable to
account from the music, which is in itself uncouth and wild. But it is
from habit, recollections, and a thousand circumstances retraced in this
tune by those natives who hear it, and reminding them of their country,
former pleasures of their youth, and all those ways of living, which
occasion a bitter reflection at having lost them. Music, then, does not
affect them as music, but as a reminiscence. This air, though always
the same, no longer produces the same effects at present as it did upon
the Swiss formerly; for having lost their taste for their first
simplicity, they no longer regret its loss when reminded of it. So true
it is, that we must not seek in physical causes the great effects of
sound upon the human heart."
This disease (says Dr. Winterbottom) affects the natives of Africa as
strongly as it does those of Switzerland; it is even more violent in its
effects on the Africans, and often impels them to dreadful acts of
suicide. Sometimes it plunges them into a deep melancholy, which induces
the unhappy sufferers to end a miserable existence by a more tedious,
though equally certain method, that of dirt eating.
Such is the powerful influence of the lore of one's native country.
P.T.W.
* * * * *
SINGULAR CUSTOM OF THE SULTAN OF TURKEY.
_(For the Mirror.)_
After the opening of the Bairam,[2] a ceremony among the Turks, attended
with more than ordinary magnificence; the Sultan, accompanied by the
Grand Signior and all the principal officers of state, goes to exhibit
himself to the people in a kiosk, or tent near the seraglio point,
seated on a sofa of silver, brought out for the occasion. It is a very
large, wooden couch covered with thick plates of massive silver, highly
burnished, and there is little doubt from the form of it, and the style
in which it is ornamented that it constituted part of the treasury of
the Greek emperors when Constantinople was taken by the Turks.
INA.
[2] The Bairam of the Turks answers to our Easter, as their Ramadan
does to our Lent.
* * * * *
THE SKETCH-BOOK
* * * * *
EL BORRACHO.[3]
[3] The Drunkard; the Spanish origin of this title is endeavoured to
to be recognised in its title.
Not long since, a couple resided in the suburbs of Madrid, named Perez
and Juana Donilla; and a happy couple they might have been, had not
Perez contracted a sad habit of drinking, which became more and more
confirmed after every draught of good wine; and such draughts were
certainly more frequent than his finances were in a state to allow.
Night after night was spent at the tavern; fairly might he be said to
_swallow_ all that he earned by his daily labour; and Juana and himself
(fortunately they had no children to maintain) must have been reduced
to absolute mendicity, but for the exemplary conduct of the former, who
contrived to support her spouse and herself upon the scanty produce of
her unwearied industry. If ever a sentiment of gratitude for undeserved
favours animated the bosom of Perez Donilla, he took, it must be
confessed, a strange method of declaring it; not only would he, upon his
return from his lawless carousals, grumble over that humble fare, the
possession of which at all he ought to have considered as scarce less
than a miracle, but, in his madness, unmerciful strappings were sure to
be the portion of his miserable wife. Poor Juana bore these cruelties
with a patience that ought to have canonized her under the title of St.
Grizzle: she could not, indeed, forbear crying out, under these frequent
and severe castigations; nor could she refrain from soliciting the aid
of three or four favourite gentlemen saints, who, little to the credit
of their gallantry and good-nature, always turned a deaf ear upon her
plaints and entreaties; not a word, however, of the inhuman conduct of
her _worser_ half did she breathe to _mortal_ ear. Neighbours, however,
have auricular organs like walls and little pitchers, tongues like
bells, and a spice of meddling and mischief in them like asses; so that
no wise person will suppose the conduct of Perez Donilla to his wife was
long a secret in Madrid. Juana had two brothers and a cousin resident in
the city--Gomez Arias, chief cook to his reverence the Canon Fernando;
Hernan Arias, head groom to Don Miguel de Corcoba, a knight of
Calatrava; and Pedro Pedrillo, a young barber-surgeon, in business for
himself. Gomez and Hernan, hearing of Juana's misfortunes, said, like
affectionate brothers. "God help our poor sister, and may her own
relations help her also; for if _they_ do not, nobody else will, and she
certainly can't help herself." The like words they repeated to Pedro
Pedrillo, until he, being a sharp, handsome young fellow, and
particularly fond of showing forth his fine person and finer wit, agreed
to visit his cousin, and contrive some plan to extricate her from the
cruelty of Perez. Making himself, therefore, as fascinating as possible,
he marched directly to the house, or rather cabin, of Juana Donilla, and
stood before her, smiling and watching her small, thin fingers plaitting
straw for hats, some minutes ere she was aware of his presence. "Pedro!"
exclaimed she, with a countenance and voice of pleasure, as she
recognised the intruder.--"Ay, _Pedro_ it is, indeed, Juana; but,
improved as _I_ am. O, mercy upon me, how black _you_ are
looking!"--"_Black_, cousin? Nay, then, I'm sure 'tis not for want of
washing. Come, come, Pedro, no jokes, if you please."--"By St. Jago,
fair cousin, I'm as far from a joke as I am from a diploma; and my
business in this house, as in most houses, is no _jest_, I assure you.
In a word, the cries which you utter when suffering from the insane fury
of your sottish husband have reached even me, and I'm come to offer you
a little advice and assistance. No denial of the fact, Juana; those
black bruises avouch it without a tongue."--Juana held down her head,
colour mounted into her cheeks, tears suffused her eyes, her bosom
heaved convulsively, and for some moments she was silent from confusion,
shame, grief, and gratitude. At length, withdrawing her hand from the
affectionate grasp of Pedro, and dashing it athwart her eyes, she looked
up and said mildly, "Thanks, many thanks, dear cousin, for your
kindness. I cannot dissemble with you; what would you have me do? I
could not _beat_ him in return; and, oh! save him from the arm of
my brothers!"--"What have you always done?"--"Borne his stripes, and
called for help upon St. Jago, St. Francis Xavier, St. Benedict, and
St. Nicholas!"--"And did you never invoke the three holy Maries?"--
"Never."--"Then that's what you ought to have done," returned Senor
Pedrillo, with the utmost gravity. "Now mind me,--call upon _them_
for aid next time your husband maltreats you."--"Alas!" sighed the
afflicted wife, "_that_ will most surely be to-night. I've not much
faith in your remedy, Pedro; but may be there's no harm in trying
it."--"Farewell, then, my poor, pretty, patient, black-bruised cousin,"
cried Pedrillo; "next time you see the _doctor_, let him know how his
remedy has sped;" and with a comical expression of countenance, half
melancholy, half mirthful, the "trusty and well-beloved cousin"
departed.
Late that night, Perez Donilla entered his own habitation as intoxicated
and belligerent as ever. "Where's my supper?"--"Here," said his wife,
trembling, as she placed before him a few heads of garlic, a piece of
salted trout, a little oil, and a crust of barley bread. "What's all
this, woman?" exclaimed Perez, in a voice of thunder; and with glaring
eyes and demoniacal fury he dashed the fish at her head, and the rest of
his supper upon the floor. "Wretch! how durst _you_ fatten upon olios
and ragouts, and set trash like _this_ before your _husband?_"--"My
dear," replied Juana, meekly, "I am starving; nothing have I tasted
since breakfast."--"Don't lie, you jade! Where's the wild-fowl and the
Bologna sausage sent you by that rogue, Gomez? Stolen were they from
the canon's kitchen, and you know it! And where's the skin of excellent
Calcavella, from the Caballero's overflowing vaults? Give it to me this
_instant_, you hussy, you vixen, you--"--"Indeed, _indeed_," cried the
unfortunate wife in deep anguish, "I take all the saints in heaven to
witness--."--"That, and that, and _that_," interrupted the furious
tyrant, lashing her severely, according to custom, with a thick thong of
leather, and now and then adding a blow with his fist; "let's see if
_that_ will bring me a supper fit for a Christian, and a draught of Don
Miguel's Calcavella!" Juana remembered Pedrillo's advice, and after
roaring out more loudly than usual for aid from St. Jago, St. Francis,
St. Benedict, and St. Nicholas, shrieked at the highest pitch of her
voice, "May the three blessed Maries help me!" No sooner were the words
uttered, than in rushed three apparitions, arrayed in white, but so
enfolded in lined, that it was impossible to determine whether they
represented men or women; of their visages, only their eyes were
visible, peering frightfully from the white covering of their heads;
each brandished a good stout cudgel, and each, without uttering a word,
falling quick as thought upon Perez Donilla, repaid him the blows he had
lavished on his unhappy wife with such interest, as would have sealed
his fate indubitably, had not she interposed; but upon the entreaties of
that exemplary wife, the three holy Maries remitted the remainder of
their flagellation, and retired, leaving Perez senseless on the floor.
Poor Juana was agonized at beholding the state to which her graceless
partner was reduced, and hauling him, as well as her own exhausted
strength would permit, upon his miserable pallet, washed the blood and
dust from his wounds, and watched his return to consciousness with
unexampled tenderness and dutiful fidelity. Perez at length opened his
eyes, and said, in the mild voice which was natural to him when sober,
"My poor Juana, I wish you could fetch your cousin Pedro to see me; I
think I shall die." Juana was half distracted at this speech; and
running to the next house, bribed a neighbour's child by the promise of
a broad-brimmed straw hat, to shade his complexion from the sun, to run
for Doctor Pedrillo. Pedro soon arrived, and was evidently more puzzled
respecting his deportment than the case of his patient. Sundry "nods,
and becks, and wreathed smiles," and sundry eloquent glances of his
bright black eyes, were covertly bestowed upon his _fair_ cousin; anon,
with ludicrous solemnity, he felt the pulse of Perez, shook his head,
and, in short, imitated with inimitable exactness all the technical
airs and graces of a regular graduate of Salamanca.--"Cousin," cried he
at length, with a sly look at Juana, "I pity your plight--from my soul I
do; but your case is, I am grieved to say, desperate, unless I am
informed of the _cause_ of these monstrous weals, bruises, slashes, and
chafings, in order that my prescription, may--"--"The _cause_ of them,"
said Perez, almost frightened to death, "is, having to my cost a _saint_
of a wife."--"How! that a _misfortune?_ explain yourself, my poor
fellow."--"Readily," replied Donilla, "if that will help to heal
me."--He then explained minutely the circumstances of the case,
concluding thus:--"Not but what I am, after all, remarkably indebted to
Juana, for had she only called the eleven thousand Virgins to her
assistance, their zeal would undoubtedly have divided my body amongst
them; since, then, my wife has such friends in heaven; I shall
henceforth be careful how I enrage them again."--Perez Donilla kept to
his resolution, and the _Three Maries_, whom, without doubt, the
intelligent reader has recognised through their disguise, lived for many
years to rejoice in the blessed effects of a severe, but merited
infliction. M.L.B.