Part 2

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.

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RETROSPECTIVE GLEANINGS.

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THEATRICAL BILL.

At a play acted in 1511, on the Feast of St. Margaret, the following disbursements were made as the charges of the exhibition:--

_£. s. d._ To musicians, for which, however, they were bound to perform three nights 0 5 6 For players, in bread and ale 0 3 1 For decorations, dresses, and play-books 1 0 0 To John Hobbard, priest, and author of the piece 0 2 8 For the place in which the representation was held 0 1 0 For furniture 0 1 4 For fish and bread 0 0 4 For painting three phantoms and devils 0 0 6 And for four chickens for the hero 0 0 4

H. B. A.

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ROBINSON CRUSOE'S ISLAND.

The United States ship, Vincennes, visited the island of Juan Fernandez, off the coast of Chili, a few months since, and remained there three days. There were two Yankees and six Otaheitans on the island. The former had formed a settlement for the purpose of supplying whale-ships with water, poultry, and vegetables. The soil is said to be astonishingly fertile.

_--New York Shipping List, 1366._

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THE LETTER H.

_From an old History of England._

"Not superstitiously I speak, but H his letter still Hath been observed ominous to England's good or ill."

Humber the Hun, with foreign arms, did first the brutes invade; Helen to Rome's imperial throne the British crown convey'd; Hengist and Horsus first did plant the Saxons in this isle; Hungar and Hubba first brought Danes, that sway'd here a long while; At Harold had the Saxon end at Hardy Knute the Dane; Henries the First and Second did restore the English reign; Fourth Henry first for Lancaster did England's crown obtain; Seventh Henry jarring Lancaster and York unites in peace; Henry the Eighth did happily Rome's irreligion cease.

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CHURCH OF AUSTIN FRIARS.

The church of Austin Friars is one of the most ancient Gothic remains in the City of London. It belonged to a priory dedicated to St. Augustine, and was founded for the friars Eremites of the order of Hippo, in Africa, by Humphry Bohun, Earl of Hereford and Essex, 1253. A part of this once spacious building was granted by Edward VI. to a congregation of Germans and other strangers, who fled hither from religious persecutions. Several successive princes have confirmed it to the Dutch, by whom it has been used as a place of worship. J.M.C.

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DAUPHIN OF FRANCE.

The heir apparent of the crown of France derives his title of Dauphin from the following very singular circumstance. In 1349, Hubert, second Count of Dauphiny, being inconsolable for the loss of his heir and only child, who had leaped from his arms through a window of his palace at Grenoble into the river Isere, entered into a convent of jacobins, and ceded Dauphiny to Philip, a younger son of Philip of Valois (for 120,000 florins of gold each of the value of twenty sols or ten pence English,) on condition that the eldest son of the king of France should be always after styled "the Dauphin," from the name of the province thus ceded. Charles V., grandson to Philip of Valois, was the first who bore the title in 1530.

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THE OLD ELEPHANT, FENCHURCH-STREET.

Everything connected with the name of HOGARTH is interesting to the English reader. He was apprenticed to a silversmith, and from cutting cyphers on silver spoons, he rose to be sergeant painter to the king--and from engraving arms and shop-bills, to painting kings and queens--the very top of the artist's ladder. The soul-breathing impulses of genius enabled him to effect all this, and his example, (in support of the maxim, that "every man is the architect of his own fortune,") will be respected and cherished, at home and abroad, as long as self-advancement continues to be the great stimulus to aspiring industry.

The old Elephant public-house therefore merits the attention of all lovers of painting and genius; for in it, previous to his celebrity, lodged WILLIAM HOGARTH. It was built before the fire of London, and although so near, escaped its ravages; but the house was pulled down a short time since, and another of more commodious construction erected on its site. On the wall of the tap-room, in the old house, were four paintings by Hogarth: one representing the Hudson's Bay Company's Porters; another, his first idea for the Modern Midnight Conversation, (differing from the print in a circumstance too broad in its humour for the graver,) and another of Harlequin and Pierot seeming to be laughing at the figure in the last picture. On the first floor was a picture of Harlow Bush Fair, covered over with paint. This information is copied from an old print picked up in our "collecting" rambles, at the foot of which it is stated to have been obtained from "Mrs. Hibbert, who has kept the house between thirty and forty years, and received her information relating to Mr. Hogarth from persons at that time well acquainted with him." The paintings were, we believe, removed previous to the destruction of the old house.

To the searchers into life and manners, Hogarth's moral paintings, to which branch of art the above belong, are treasures of great prize; and whether over his originals at the gallery in Pall Mall, or their copies at the printsellers--the Elephant in Fenchurch-street, or the "painting moralist's" tomb in Chiswick churchyard--Englishmen have just cause to be proud of his name.

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THE SELECTOR

AND LITERARY NOTICES OF _NEW WORKS_

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DAYS DEPARTED; OR, BANWELL HILL:

_A Lay of the Severn Sea, by the Rev. W. Lisle Bowles._

This is a delightful volume--full of nature and truth--and in every respect worthy of "one of the most elegant, pathetic, and original living poets of England." Moreover, it is just such a book as we expected from the worthy vicar of Bremhill; dedicated to the Bishop of Bath and Wells; and dated from Bremhill Parsonage, of which interesting abode we inserted an unique description in our last volume.

As our principal object is to give a few of the _poetical pictures_, we shall be very brief with the prose, and merely quote an outline of the poem. Mr. Bowles, it appears, is a native of the district in which he resides, and this circumstance introduces some beautiful retrospective feelings:--

But awhile, Here let me stand, and gaze upon the scene, Array'd in living light around, and mark The morning sunshine,--on that very shore Where once a child I wander'd,--Oh! return (I sigh,) "return a moment, days of youth, Of childhood,--oh, return!" How vain the thought, Vain as unmanly! yet the pensive Muse, Unblam'd, may dally with imaginings; For this wide view is like the scene of life, Once travers'd o'er with carelessness and glee, And we look back upon the vale of years, And hear remembered voices, and behold, In blended colours, images and shades Long pass'd, now rising, as at Memory's call, Again in softer light.

The poem then proceeds with a description of an antediluvian cave at Banwell, and a brief sketch of events since the deposit; but, as Mr. Bowles observes, poetry and geological inquiry do not very amicably travel together; we must, therefore, soon get out of the cave:--

But issuing from the Cave--look round--behold How proudly the majestic Severn rides On the sea,--how gloriously in light It rides! Along this solitary ridge, Where smiles, but rare, the blue Campanula, Among the thistles, and grey stones, that peep Through the thin herbage--to the highest point Of elevation, o'er the vale below, Slow let us climb. First, look upon that flow'r The lowly heath-bell, smiling at our feet. How beautiful it smiles alone! The Pow'r, that bade the great sea roar--that spread the Heav'ns-- That call'd the sun from darkness--deck'd that flow'r, And bade it grace this bleak and barren hill. Imagination, in her playful mood, Might liken it to a poor village maid, Lowly, but smiling in her lowliness, And dress'd so neatly, as if ev'ry day Were Sunday. And some melancholy Bard Might, idly musing, thus discourse to it:-- "Daughter of Summer, who dost linger here. Decking the thistly turf, and arid hill, Unseen--let the majestic Dahlia Glitter, an Empress, in her blazonry Of beauty; let the stately Lily shine, As snow-white as the breast of the proud Swan, Sailing upon the blue lake silently, That lifts her tall neck higher, as she views The shadow in the stream! Such ladies bright May reign unrivall'd, in their proud parterres! Thou would'st not live with them; but if a voice, Fancy, in shaping mood, might give to thee, To the forsaken Primrose, thou would'st say, 'Come, live with me, and we two will rejoice:-- Nor want I company; for when the sea Shines in the silent moonlight, elves and fays, Gentle and delicate as Ariel, That do their spiritings on these wild bolts-- Circle me in their dance, and sing such songs As human ear ne'er heard!'"--But cease the strain, Lest Wisdom, and severer Truth, should chide.

Next is a sketch of Steep Holms, introducing the following exquisite episode:

Dreary; but on its steep There is one native flower--the Piony. She sits companionless, but yet not sad: She has no sister of the summer-field, That may rejoice with her when spring returns. None, that in sympathy, may bend its head, When the bleak winds blow hollow o'er the rock, In autumn's gloom!--So Virtue, a fair flow'r, Blooms on the rock of care, and though unseen, It smiles in cold seclusion, and remote From the world's flaunting fellowship, it wears Like hermit Piety, that smile of peace, In sickness, or in health, in joy or tears, In summer-days, or cold adversity; And still it feels Heav'n's breath, reviving, steal On its lone breast--feels the warm blessedness Of Heaven's own light about it, though its leaves Are wet with ev'ning tears! So smiles this flow'r: And if, perchance, my lay has dwelt too long. Upon one flower which blooms in privacy, I may a pardon find from human hearts, For such was my poor Mother![4]

[4] Daughter of Dr. Grey, author of Memoria Technica, &c. rector of Hinton, Northamptonshire, and prebendary of St. Paul's.

We pass over some marine sketches, which are worthy of the _Vernet_ of poets, a touching description of the sinking of a packet-boat, and the first sound and sight of the sea--the author's childhood at Uphill Parsonage--his reminiscences of the clock of Wells Cathedral--and some real villatic sketches--a portrait of a _Workhouse Girl_--some caustic remarks on prosing and prig parsons, commentators, and puritanical excrescences of sects--to some unaffected lines on the village school children of Castle-Combe, and their annual festival. This is so charming a picture of rural joy, that we must copy it:--

If we would see the fruits of charity. Look at that village group, and paint the scene. Surrounded by a clear and silent stream, Where the swift trout shoots from the sudden ray, A rural mansion, on the level lawn, Uplifts its ancient gables, whose slant shade Is drawn, as with a line, from roof to porch, Whilst all the rest is sunshine. O'er the trees In front, the village-church, with pinnacles, And light grey tow'r, appears, while to the right An amphitheatre of oaks extends Its sweep, till, more abrupt, a wooded knoll, Where once a castle frown'd, closes the scene. And see, an infant troop, with flags and drum, Are marching o'er that bridge, beneath the woods, On--to the table spread upon the lawn, Raising their little hands when grace is said; Whilst she, who taught them to lift up their hearts In prayer, and to "remember, in their youth," God, "their Creator,"--mistress of the scene, (Whom I remember once, as young,) looks on, Blessing them in the silence of her heart.

And, children, now rejoice,-- Now--for the holidays of life are few; Nor let the rustic minstrel tune, in vain, The crack'd church-viol, resonant to-day, Of mirth, though humble! Let the fiddle scrape Its merriment, and let the joyous group Dance, in a round, for soon the ills of life Will come! Enough, if one day in the year, If one brief day, of this brief life, be given To mirth as innocent as yours!

Then we have an "aged widow" reading "GOD'S own Word" at her cottage-door, with her daughter kneeling beside her--a sketch from those halcyon days, when, in the beautiful allegory of Scripture, "every man sat under his own fig-tree." This is followed by the "Elysian Tempe of Stourhead," the seat of Sir Richard Colt Hoare, to whose talents and benevolence Mr. Bowles pays a merited tribute. Longleat, the residence of the Bishop of Bath and Wells, succeeds; and Marston, the abode of the Rev. Mr. Skurray, a friend of the author from his "youthful days," introduces the following beautiful descriptive snatch:--

And witness thou, Marston, the seat of my kind, honour'd friend-- My kind and honour'd friend, from youthful days. Then wand'ring on the banks of Rhine, we saw Cities and spires, beneath the mountains blue, Gleaming; or vineyards creep from rock to rock; Or unknown castles hang, as if in clouds; Or heard the roaring of the cataract. Far off,[5] beneath the dark defile or gloom Of ancient forests--till behold, in light, Foaming and flashing, with enormous sweep, Through the rent rocks--where, o'er the mist of spray, The rainbow, like a fairy in her bow'r, Is sleeping while it roars--that volume vast, White, and with thunder's deaf'ning roar, comes down.

[5] At Shaffhausen.

Part III. opens with the following metaphorical gem:--