what elegance and
vivacity
in all his
person!
person!
Warner - World's Best Literature - v05 - Bro to Cai
Thine own Castlereagh! let him still be thine own!
A wretch never named but with curses and jeers!
Till now, when the isle which should blush for his birth,
Deep, deep as the gore which he shed on her soil,
Seems proud of the reptile which crawled from her earth,
And for murder repays him with shouts and a smile!
Without one single ray of her genius, without
The fancy, the manhood, the fire of her race —
The miscreant who well might plunge Erin in doubt
If she ever gave birth to a being so base.
If she did — let her long-boasted proverb be hushed,
Which proclaims that from Erin no reptile can spring:
See the cold-blooded serpent, with venom full flushed,
Still warming its folds in the breast of a King!
Shout, drink, feast, and flatter! O Erin, how low
Wert thou sunk by misfortune and tyranny, till
Thy welcome of tyrants hath plunged thee below
The depth of thy deep in a deeper gulf still!
My voice, though but humble, was raised for thy right:
My vote, as a freeman's, still voted thee free;
This hand, though but feeble, would arm in thy fight,
And this heart, though outworn, had a throb still for thee!
Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not my land;
I have known noble hearts and great souls in thy sons,
And I wept with the world o'er the patriot band
Who are gone, but I weep them no longer as once.
## p. 2989 (#563) ###########################################
LORD BYRON
2989
For happy are they now reposing afar,—
Thy Grattan, thy Curran, thy Sheridan, all
Who for years were the chiefs in the eloquent war,
And redeemed, if they have not retarded, thy fall.
Yes, happy are they in their cold English graves!
Their shades cannot start to thy shouts of to-day,–
Nor the steps of enslavers and chain-kissing slaves
Be stamped in the turf o'er their fetterless clay.
Till now I had envied thy sons and their shore,
Though their virtues were hunted, their liberties fled
There was something so warm and sublime in the core
Of an Irishman's heart, that I envy – thy dead.
Or if aught in my bosom can quench for an hour
My contempt for a nation so servile, though sore,
Which though trod like the worm will not turn upon power,
'Tis the glory of Grattan, and genius of Moore!
THE DREAM
I
0"
U'R life is twofold: sleep hath its own world,
A boundary between the things misnamed
Death and existence; sleep hath its own world,
And a wide realm of wild reality;
And dreams in their development have breath,
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy;
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,
They take a weight from off our waking toils,
They do divide our being; they become
A portion of ourselves as of our time,
And look like heralds of eternity;
They pass like spirits of the past, - they speak
Like sibyls of the future; they have power —
The tyranny of pleasure and of pain;
They make us what we were not — what they will,
And make us with the vision that's gone by,
The dread of vanished shadows. — Are they so ?
Is not the past all shadow ? What are they?
Creations of the mind ? — The mind can make
Substance, and people planets of its own
With beings brighter than have been, and give
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.
## p. 2990 (#564) ###########################################
2990
LORD BYRON
I would recall a vision which I dreamed
Perchance in sleep — for in itself a thought,
A slumbering thought, is capable of years,
And curdles a long life into one hour.
II
I saw two beings in the hues of youth
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill,
Green and of mild declivity, the last
As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such,
Save that there was no sea to lave its base,
But a most living landscape, and the wave
Of woods and corn-fields, and the abodes of men
Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke
Arising from such rustic roofs;— the hill
Was crowned with a peculiar diadem
Of trees, in circular array, so fixed,
Not by the sport of nature, but of man:
These two, a maiden and a youth, were there
Gazing - the one on all that was beneath
Fair as herself — but the boy gazed on her;
And both were young, and one was beautiful;
And both were young, yet not alike in youth.
As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge,
The maid was on the eve of womanhood;
The boy had fewer summers, but his heart
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye
There was but one beloved face on earth,
And that was shining on him; he had looked
Upon it till it could not pass away;
He had no breath, no being, but in hers;
She was his voice; he did not speak to her,
But trembled on her words; she was his sight,
For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers,
Which colored all his objects; — he had ceased
To live within himself; she was his life,
The ocean to the river of his thoughts,
Which terminated all: upon a tone,
A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow,
And his cheek change tempestuously — his heart
Unknowing of its cause of agony.
But she in these fond feelings had no share:
Her sighs were not for him; to her he was
Even as a brother - but no more: 'twas much,
1
1
1
## p. 2991 (#565) ###########################################
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2991
For brotherless she was, save in the name
Her infant friendship had bestowed on him;
Herself the solitary scion left
Of a time-honored race. - It was a name
Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not -- and why?
Time taught him a deep answer — when she loved
Another; even now she loved another,
And on the summit of that hill she stood
Looking afar if yet her lover's steed
Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew.
III
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
There was an ancient mansion, and before
Its walls there was a steed caparisoned.
Within an antique oratory stood
The boy of whom I spake; — he was alone,
And pale, and pacing to and fro; anon
He sat him down, and seized a pen, and traced
Words which I could not guess of: then he leaned
His bowed head on his hands, and shook as 'twere
With a convulsion — then arose again,
And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear
What he had written, but he shed no tears.
And he did calm himself, and fix his brow
Into a kind of quiet: as he paused,
The lady of his love re-entered there;
She was serene and smiling then, and yet
She knew she was by him beloved, - she knew,
For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart
Was darkened with her shadow, and she saw
That he was wretched; but she saw not all.
He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp
He took her hand; a moment o'er his face
A tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced, and then it faded as it came;
He dropped the hand he held, and with slow steps
Retired, but not as bidding her adieu,
For they did part with mutual smiles; he passed
From out the massy gate of that old hall,
And mounting on his steed he went his way,
And ne'er repassed that hoary threshold more.
## p. 2992 (#566) ###########################################
2992
LORD BYRON
IV
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The boy was sprung to manhood: in the wilds
Of fiery climes he made himself a home,
And his soul drank their sunbeams: he was girt
With strange and dusky aspects; he was not
Himself like what he had been; on the sea
And on the shore he was a wanderer.
There was a mass of many images
Crowded like waves upon me, but he was
A part of all; and in the last he lay
Reposing from the noontide sultriness,
Couched among fallen columns, in the shade
Of ruined walls that had survived the names
Of those who reared them; by his sleeping side
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds
Were fastened near a fountain; and a man
Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while,
While many of his tribe slumbered around:
And they were canopied by the blue sky,
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful,
That God alone was to be seen in Heaven.
V
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The lady of his love was wed with one
Who did not love her better: in her home,
A thousand leagues from his, — her native home,
She dwelt, begirt with growing infancy,
Daughters and sons of beauty, but behold!
Upon her face there was the tint of grief,
The settled shadow of an inward strife,
And an unquiet drooping of the eye,
As if its lid were charged with unshed tears.
What could her grief be? — she had all she loved,
And he who had so loved her was not there
To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish,
Or ill-repressed affliction, her pure thoughts.
What could her grief be? — she had loved him not,
Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved,
Nor could he be a part of that which preyed
Upon her mind — a spectre of the past.
## p. 2993 (#567) ###########################################
LORD BYRON
2993
VI
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The wanderer was returned. - I saw him stand
Before an altar with a gentle bride;
Her face was fair, but was not that which made
The star-light of his boyhood; - as he stood
Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came
The self-same aspect, and the quivering shock
That in the antique oratory shook
His bosom in its solitude; and then
As in that hour — a moment o'er his face
The tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced - and then it faded as it came,
And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke
The fitting vows, but heard not his own words,
And all things reeled around him; he could see
Not that which was, nor that which should have been
But the old mansion, and the accustomed hall,
And the remembered chambers, and the place,
The day, the hour, the sunshine and the shade,
All things pertaining to that place and hour,
And her who was his destiny came back,
And thrust themselves between him and the light:
What business had they there at such a time ?
VII
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The lady of his love oh! she was changed
As by the sickness of the soul; her mind
Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes,
They had not their own lustre, but the look
Which is not of the earth; she was become
The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts
Were combinations of disjointed things;
And forms impalpable and unperceived
Of others' sight, familiar were to hers.
And this the world calls frenzy: but the wise
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance
Of melancholy is a fearful gift;
What is it but the telescope of truth?
Which strips the distance of its phantasies,
And brings life near in utter nakedness,
Making the cold reality too real!
V-188
## p. 2994 (#568) ###########################################
2994
LORD BYRON
VIII
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The wanderer was alone as heretofore;
The beings which surrounded him were gone,
Or were at war with him; he was a mark
For blight and desolation, compassed round
With hatred and contention; pain was mixed
In all which was served up to him, until,
Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,
He fed on poisons, and they had no power,
But were a kind of nutriment; he lived
Through that which had been death to many men
And made him friends of mountains: with the stars
And the quick spirit of the universe
He held his dialogues; and they did teach
To him the magic of their mysteries;
To him the book of night was opened wide,
And voices from the deep abyss revealed
A marvel and a secret
Be it so.
IX
My dream was past; it had no further change.
It was of a strange order, that the doom
Of these two creatures should be thus traced out
Almost like a reality - the one
To end in madness — both in misery.
SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY
From Hebrew Melodies)
S"
He walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
## p. 2995 (#569) ###########################################
LORD BYRON
2995
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear, their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB
T".
HE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the
sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen;
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride:
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpets unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
## p. 2996 (#570) ###########################################
2996
LORD BYRON
FROM THE PRISONER OF CHILLON)
M
Y HAIR is gray, but not with years,
Nor grew it white
In a single night,
As men's have grown from sudden fears;
My limbs are bowed, though not with toil,
But rusted with a vile repose,
For they have been a dungeon's spoil,
And mine has been the fate of those
To whom the goodly earth and air
Are banned and barred — forbidden fare:
But this was for my father's faith
I suffered chains and courted death;
That father perished at the stake
For tenets he would not forsake:
And for the same his lineal race
In darkness found a dwelling-place;
We were seven who now are one,
Six in youth, and one in age,
Finished as they had begun,
Proud of persecution's rage;
One in fire, and two in field,
Their belief with blood have sealed;
Dying as their father died,
For the God their foes denied;
Three were in a dungeon cast,
Of whom this wreck is left the last.
There are seven pillars of Gothic mold
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old;
There are seven columns, massy and gray,
Dim with a dull imprisoned ray,
A sunbeam which hath lost its way,
And through the crevice and the cleft
Of the thick wall is fallen and left;
Creeping o'er the foor so damp,
Like a marsh's meteor lamp:
And in each pillar there is a ring,
And in each ring there is a chain;
That iron is a cankering thing,
For in these limbs its teeth remain,
With marks that will not wear away,
Till I have done with this new day,
.
## p. 2997 (#571) ###########################################
LORD BYRON
2997
Which now is painful to these eyes,
Which have not seen the sun so rise
For years
-I cannot count them o'er;
I lost their long and heavy score
When my last brother drooped and died,
And I lay living by his side.
Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls:
A thousand feet in depth below,
Its massy waters meet and flow;
Thus much the fathom-line was sent
From Chillon's snow-white battlement,
Which round about the wave enthralls:
A double dungeon wall and wave
Have made — and like a living grave
Below the surface of the lake
The dark vault lies wherein we lay;
We heard it ripple night and day:
Sounding o'er our heads it knocked;
And I have felt the winter's spray
Wash through the bars when winds were high
And wanton in the happy sky;
And then the very rock hath rocked,
And I have felt it shake unshocked,
Because I could have smiled to see
The death that would have set me free.
PROMETHEUS
I
T".
VITAN! to whose immortal eyes
The sufferings of mortality,
Seen in their sad reality,
Were not as things that gods despise:
What was thy pity's recompense ?
A silent suffering, and intense;
The rock, the vulture, and the chain,
All that the proud can feel of pain,
The agony they do not show,
The suffocating sense of woe,
Which speaks but in its loneliness,
And then is jealous lest the sky
Should have a listener, nor will sigh
Until its voice is echoless.
## p. 2998 (#572) ###########################################
2998
LORD BYRON
II
Titan! to thee the strife was given
Between the suffering and the will,
Which torture where they cannot kill;
And the inexorable Heaven,
And the deaf tyranny of Fate,
The ruling principle of Hate,
Which for its pleasure doth create
The things it may annihilate,
Refused thee even the boon to die;
The wretched gift eternity
Was thine -- and thou hast borne it well.
All that the Thunderer wrung from thee
Was but the menace which flung back
On him the torments of thy rack;
The fate thou didst so well foresee,
But would not to appease him tell;
And in thy Silence was his Sentence,
And in his Soul a vain repentance,
And evil dread so ill dissembled
That in his hand the lightnings trembled.
III
Thy Godlike crime was to be kind,
To render with thy precepts less
The sum of human wretchedness,
And strengthen Man with his own mind;
But baffled as thou wert from high,
Still in thy patient energy,
In the endurance and repulse
Of thine impenetrable Spirit,
Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse,
A mighty lesson we inherit:
Thou art a symbol and a sign
To Mortals of their fate and force;
Like thee, Man is in part divine,
A troubled stream from a pure source;
And Man in portions can foresee
His own funereal destiny;
His wretchedness and his resistance,
And his sad unallied existence:
To which his Spirit may oppose
Itself — and equal to all woes,
## p. 2999 (#573) ###########################################
LORD BYRON
2999
And a firm will, and a deep sense,
Which even in torture can descry
Its own concentred recompense,
Triumphant where it dares defy,
And making Death a Victory.
A SUMMING-UP
From "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage)
I
HAVE not loved the world, nor the world me;
I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bowed
To its idolatries a patient knee,-
Nor coined my cheek to smiles,— nor cried aloud
In worship of an echo: in the crowd
They could not deem me one of such; I stood
Among them, but not of them, in a shroud
Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still could,
Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued.
I have not loved the world, nor the world me,–
But let us part fair foes. I do believe,
Though I have found them not, that there may be
Words which are things,— hopes which will not deceive,
And virtues which are merciful, nor weave
Snares for the failing: I would also deem
O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve;
That two, or one, are almost what they seem,
That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream.
ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR
'T'S
MISSOLONGHI, January 22d, 1824.
vs time this heart should be unmoved,
Since others it hath ceased to move:
Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
Still let me love!
My days are in the yellow leaf;
The flowers and fruits of love are gone:
The worm, the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone!
## p. 3000 (#574) ###########################################
3000
LORD BYRON
The fire that on my bosom preys
Is lone as some volcanic isle;
No torch is kindled at its blaze —
A funeral pile.
The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share,
But wear the chain.
But 'tis not thus, and 'tis not here,
Such thoughts should shake my soul — nor now,
Where glory decks the hero's bier,
Or binds his brow.
The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece, around me see!
The Spartan, borne upon his shield,
Was not more free.
Awake! (not Greece — she is awake! )
Awake, my spirit! Think through whom
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,
And then strike home!
Tread those reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood ! — unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be.
If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live?
The land of honorable death
Is here:-up to the field, and give
Away thy breath!
Seek out less often sought than found-
A soldier's grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest.
## p. 3001 (#575) ###########################################
3001
FERNAN CABALLERO
(CECILIA BÖHL DE FABER)
(1796-1877)
NGLAND, France, and Spain have each produced within this
century a woman of genius, taking rank among the very
first writers of their respective countries. Fernan Caballero,
without possessing the breadth of intellect or the scholarship of
George Eliot, or the artistic sense of George Sand, is yet worthy to
be named with these two great novelists for the place she holds in
Spanish literature. Interesting parallels might be drawn between
them, aside from the curious coincidence that each chose a mascu-
line pen-name to conceal her sex, and to gain the ear of a generation
suspicious of feminine achievements. Each portrayed both the life
of the gentleman and that of the rustic, and each is at her best in
her homelier portraitures.
Unlike her illustrious compeers, Fernan Caballero did not grow
up amid the scenes she drew. In the scanty records of her life it
does not appear whether, like George Sand, she had first to get rid
of a rebellious self before she could produce those objective master-
pieces of description, where the individuality of the writer disappears
in her realization of the lives and thoughts of a class alien to her
Her inner life cannot be reconstructed from her stories: her
outward life can be told in a few words. She was born December
25th, 1796, in Morges, Switzerland, the daughter of Juan Nicholas Böhl
de Faber, a German merchant in Cadiz, who had married a Spanish
lady of noble family. A cultivated man he was, greatly interested
in the past of Spain, and had published a collection of old Castil-
ian ballads. From him Cecilia derived her love of Spanish folk-lore.
Her earliest years were spent going from place to place with her
parents, now Spain, now Paris, now Germany. From six to sixteen
she was at school in Hamburg. Joining her family in Cadiz, she
was married at the age of seventeen. Left a widow within a short
time, she married after five years the wealthy Marquis de Arco-
Hermaso. His palace in Seville became a social centre, for his young
wife, beautiful, witty, and accomplished, was a born leader of society.
She now had to the full the opportunity of studying those types of
Spanish ladies and gentlemen whose gay, inconsequent chatter she has
so brilliantly reproduced in her novels dealing with high life. The
own.
## p. 3002 (#576) ###########################################
3002
FERNAN CABALLERO
i
success.
Marquis died in 1835, and after two years she again married, this
time the lawyer De Arrom. Losing his own money and hers, he
went as Spanish consul to Australia, where he died in 1863. She
remained behind, retired to the country, and turned to literature.
From 1857 to 1866 she lived in the Alcazar in Seville, as governess
to the royal children of Spain. She died April 7th, 1877, in Seville, -
somewhat solitary, for a new life of ideas flowing into Spain, and
opposing her intense conservatism, isolated her from companionship.
Fernan Caballero began to publish when past fifty, attained
instant success, and never again reached the high level of her first
book. La Gaviota' (The Sea-Gull) appeared in 1849 in the pages
of a Madrid daily paper, and at once made its author famous. (The
Family of Alvøreda,' an earlier story, was published after her first
Washington Irving, who saw the manuscript of this,
encouraged her to go on. Her novels were fully translated, and she
soon had a European reputation. Her work may be divided into
three classes: novels of social life in Seville, such as Elia' and
Clemencia'; novels of Andalusian peasant life, as "The Family of
Alvoreda' ('La Gaviota' uniting both); and a number of short
stories pointing a moral or embodying a proverb. She published
besides, in 1859, the first collection of Spanish fairy tales.
Fernan Caballero created the modern Spanish novel. For two
hundred years after Cervantes there are few names of note in prose
fiction. French taste dominated Spanish literature, and poor imita-
tions of the French satisfied the reading public. A foreigner by
birth and a cosmopolitan by education, the clever new-comer cried
out against this foreign influence, and set herself to bring the
national characteristics to the front. She belonged to the old Span-
ish school, with its Catholicism, its prejudices, its reverence for the
old, its hatred of new ideas and modern improvements. She painted
thus Old Spain with a master's brush. But she especially loved
Andalusia, that most poetic province of her country, with its deep-
blue luminous sky, its luxuriant vegetation, its light-hearted, witty
populace, and she wrote of them with rare insight and exquisite
tenderness. Tasked with having idealized them, she replied:_"Many
years of unremitting study, pursued con amore, justify me in assuring
those who find fault with my portrayal of popular life that they are
less acquainted with them than I am. ” And in another place she
says: -“It is amongst the people that we find the poetry of Spain
and of her chronicles. Their faith, their character, their sentiment,
all bear the seal of originality and of romance. Their language may
be compared to a garland of flowers. The Andalusian peasant is
elegant in his bearing, in his dress, in his language, and in his
ideas. ”
## p. 3003 (#577) ###########################################
FERNAN CABALLERO
3003
Her stories lose immensely in the translation, for it is almost im-
possible to reproduce in another tongue the racy native speech, with
its constant play on words, its wealth of epigrammatic proverbs, its
snatches of ballad or song interwoven into the common talk of the
day. The Andalusian peasant has an inexhaustible store of bits of
poetry, coplas, that fit into every occurrence of his daily life. Fernan
Caballero gathered up these flowers of speech as they fell from the
lips of the common man, and wove them into her tales. Besides their
pictures of Andalusian rural life, these stories reveal a wealth of
popular songs, ballads, legends, and fairy tales, invaluable alike to
the student of manners and of folk-lore. She has little constructive
skill, but much genius for detail. As a painter of manners and of
nature she is unrivaled. In a few bold strokes she brings a whole
village before our eyes. Nor is the brute creation forgotten. In her
sympathy for animals she shows her foreign extraction, the true
Spaniard having little compassion for his beasts. She inveighs against
the national sport, the bull-fight; against the cruel treatment of
domestic animals. Her work is always fresh and interesting, full of
humor and of pathos. A close observer and a realist, she never dwells
on the unlovely, is never unhealthy or sentimental. Her name is a
household word in Spain, where a foremost critic wrote of 'La
Gaviota':-“This is the dawn of a beautiful day, the first bloom of
a poetic crown that will encircle the head of a Spanish Walter
Scott. ”
Perhaps the best summary of her work is given in her own words,
where she says:-
«In composing this light work we did not intend to write a novel,
but strove to give an exact and true idea of Spain, of the manners
of its people, of their character, of their habits. We desired to
sketch the home life of the people in the higher and lower classes,
to depict their language, their faith, their traditions, their legends.
What we have sought above all is to paint after nature, and with
the most scrupulous exactitude, the objects and persons brought
forward. Therefore our readers will seek in vain amid our actors for
accomplished heroes or consummate villains, such as are found in
the romances of chivalry or in melodramas. Our ambition has been
to give as true an idea as possible of Spain and the Spaniards. We
have tried to dissipate those monstrous prejudices transmitted and
preserved like Egyptian mummies from generation to generation. It
seemed to us that the best means of attaining this end was to
replace with pictures traced by a Spanish pen those false sketches
sprung from the pens of strangers. ”
## p. 3004 (#578) ###########################################
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THE BULL-FIGHT
From (La Gaviota?
W*
HEN after dinner Stein and his wife arrived at the place
assigned for the bull-fight, they found it already filled
with people.
A brief and sustained animation preceded
the fête. This immense rendezvous, where were gathered
together all the population of the city and its environs; this
agitation, like to that of the blood which in the paroxysms of a
violent passion rushes to the heart; this feverish expectation, this
frantic excitement,-kept, however, within the limits of order;
these exclamations, petulant without insolence; this deep anxiety
which gives a quivering to pleasure: all this together formed a
species of moral magnetism; one must succumb to its force or
hasten to fly from it.
Stein, struck with vertigo, and his heart wrung, would have
chosen flight: his timidity kept him where he was.
He saw
in all eyes which were turned on him the glowing of joy and
happiness; he dared not appear singular. Twelve thousand per-
sons were assembled in this place; the rich were thrown in the
shade, and the varied colors of the costumes of the Andalusian
people were reflected in the rays of the sun.
Soon the arena was cleared.
Then came forward the picadores, mounted on their unfortu-
nate horses, who with head lowered and sorrowful eyes seemed
to be -- and were in reality — victims marching to the sacrifice.
Stein, at the appearance of these poor animals, felt himself
change to a painful compassion; a species of disgust which he
already experienced. The provinces of the peninsula which he had
traversed hitherto were devastated by the civil war, and he had
had no opportunity of seeing these fêtes, so grand, so national,
and so popular, where were united to the brilliant Moorish
strategy the ferocious intrepidity of the Gothic race. But he
had often heard these spectacles spoken of, and he knew that
the merit of a fight is generally estimated by the number of
horses that are slain. His pity was excited towards these poor
animals, which, after having rendered great services to their
masters,- after having conferred on them triumph, and perhaps
saved their lives, - had for their recompense, when age and the
excess of work had exhausted their strength, an atrocious death
1
i
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which by a refinement of cruelty they were obliged themselves
to seek. Instinct made them seek this death; some resisted,
while others, more resigned or more feeble, went docilely before
them to abridge their agony. The sufferings of these unfortu-
nate animals touched the hardest heart; but the amateurs had
neither eyes, attention, nor interest, except for the bull. They
were under a real fascination, which communicated itself to
most of the strangers who came to Spain, and principally for
this barbarous amusement. Besides, it must be avowed — and
we avow it with grief — that compassion for animals is, in
Spain, particularly among the men, a sentiment more theoretical
than practical. Among the lower classes it does not exist at all.
The three picadores saluted the president of the fête, preceded
by the banderilleros and the chulos, splendidly dressed, and car-
rying the capas of bright and brilliant colors. The matadores
and their substitutes commanded all these combatants, and wore
the most luxurious costumes.
“Pepe Vera! here is Pepe Vera ! ” cried all the spectators.
« The scholar of Montés! Brave boy! What a jovial fellow!
how well he is made!
what elegance and vivacity in all his
person! how firm his look! what a calm eye! ”
“Do you know,” said a young man seated near to Stein,
“what is the lesson Montés gives to his scholars ?
He pushes
them, their arms crossed, close to the bull, and says to them,
Do not fear the bull — brave the bull! ) »
Pepe Vera descended into the arena. His costume was of
cherry-colored satin, with shoulder-knots and silver embroidery
in profusion. From the little pockets of his vest stuck out the
points of orange-colored scarfs. A waistcoat of rich tissue of
silver and a pretty little cap of velvet completed his coquettish
and charming costume of majo.
After having saluted the authorities with much ease and
grace, he went like the other combatants to take his accustomed
place. The three picadores also went to their posts, at equal
distance from each other, near to the barrier. There was then
a profound, an imposing silence. One might have said that this
crowd, lately so noisy, had suddenly lost the faculty of breathing.
The alcalde gave the signal, the clarions sounded, and as if
the trumpet of the Last Judgment had been heard, all the spec-
tators arose with most perfect ensemble; and suddenly was seen
opened the large door of the toril, placed opposite to the box
>>>
## p. 3006 (#580) ###########################################
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occupied by the authorities. A bull whose hide was red pre-
cipitated himself into the arena, and was assailed by a universal
explosion of cheers, of cries, of abuse, and of praise. At this
terrible noise the bull, affrighted, stopped short, raised his head;
his eyes were inflamed, and seemed to demand if all these prov-
ocations were addressed to him; to him, the athletic and power-
ful, who until now had been generous towards man, and who
had always shown favor towards him as to a feeble and weak
enemy. He surveyed the ground, turning his menacing head on
all sides - he still hesitated: the cheers, shrill and penetrating,
became more and more shrill and frequent. Then with a quick-
ness which neither his weight nor his bulk foretold, he sprang
towards the picador, who planted a lance in his withers. The
bull felt a sharp pain, and soon drew back. It was one of those
animals which in the language of bull-fighting are called "boy-
antes,” that is to say, undecided and wavering; whence he did not
persist in his first attack, but assailed the second picador. This
one was not so well prepared as the first, and the thrust of his
lance was neither so correct nor so firm; he wounded the ani.
mal without being able to arrest his advance. The horns of the
bull were buried in the body of the horse, who fell to the ground.
A cry of fright was raised on all sides, and the chulos surrounded
this horrible group; but the ferocious animal had seized his
prey, and would not allow himself to be distracted from his
vengeance.
In this moment of terror, the cries of the multitude
were united in one immense clamor, which would have filled
the city with fright if it had not come from the place of the bull-
fight. The danger became more frightful as it was prolonged.
The bull tenaciously attacked the horse, who was overwhelmed
with his weight and with his convulsive movements, while the
unfortunate picador was crushed beneath these two enormous
masses. Then seen to approach, light as a bird with
brilliant plumage, tranquil as a child who goes to gather flowers,
calm and smiling at the same time, a young man, covered with
silver embroidery and sparkling like a star. He approached in
the rear of the bull; and this young man of delicate frame, and
of appearance so distinguished, took in both hands the tail of the
terrible animal, and drew it towards him. The bull, surprised,
turned furiously and precipitated himself on his adversary, who
without a movement of his shoulder, and stepping backward,
avoided the first shock by a half-wheel to the right.
was
## p. 3007 (#581) ###########################################
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The bull attacked him anew; the young man escaped a second
time by another half-wheel to the left, continuing to manage him
until he reached the barrier. There he disappeared from the
eyes of the astonished animal, and from the anxious gaze of the
public, who in the intoxication of their enthusiasm filled the air
with their frantic applause; for we are always ardently impressed
when we see man play with death, and brave it with so much
coolness.
«See now if he has not well followed the lesson of Montés!
See if Pepe Vera knows how to act with the bull! ” said the
young man seated near to them, who was hoarse from crying
out.
The Duke at this moment fixed his attention on Marisalada.
Since the arrival of this young woman at the capital of Anda-
lusia, it was the first time that he had remarked any emotion on
this cold and disdainful countenance. Until now he had never
seen her animated. The rude organization of Marisalada was too
vulgar to receive the exquisite sentiment of admiration. There
was in her character too much indifference and pride to permit
her to be taken by surprise. She was astonished at nothing,
interested in nothing. To excite her, be it ever so little, to
soften some part of this hard metal, it was necessary to employ
fire and to use the hammer.
Stein was pale. «My lord Duke,” he said, with an air full of
sweetness and of conviction, is it possible that this diverts you? ”
"No," replied the Duke; "it does not divert, it interests me. ”
During this brief dialogue they had raised up the horse. The
poor animal could not stand on his legs; his intestines protruded
and bespattered the ground. The picador was also raised up; he
was removed between the arms of the chulos. Furious against
the bull, and led on by a blind temerity, he would at all hazards
remount his horse and return to the attack, in spite of the dizzi-
ness produced by his fall. It was impossible to dissuade him;
they saw him indeed replace the saddle upon the poor victim,
into the bruised flanks of which he dug his spurs.
“My lord Duke,” said Stein, "I may perhaps appear to you
ridiculous, but I do not wish to remain at this spectacle. Maria,
shall we depart ?
"No," replied Maria, whose soul seemed to be concentrated in
«Am I a little miss ? and are you afraid that by
accident I may faint ? ”
her eyes.
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1
1
“In such case,” said Stein, "I will come back and take you
when the course is finished. ” And he departed.
The bull had disposed of a sufficiently good number of horses.
The unfortunate courser which we have mentioned was taken
away — rather drawn than led by the bridle to the door, by
which he made his retreat. The others, which had not the
strength again to stand up, lay stretched out in the convulsions
of agony; sometimes they stretched out their heads as though
impelled by terror. At these last signs of life the bull returned
to the charge, wounding anew with plunges of his horns the
bruised members of his victims. Then, his forehead and horns
all bloody, he walked around the circus affecting an air of provo-
cation and defiance: at times he proudly raised his head towards
the amphitheatre, where the cries did not cease to be heard;
sometimes it was towards the brilliant chulos who passed before
him like meteors, planting their banderillos in his body. Often
from cage, or from a netting hidden in the ornaments of a
banderillero, came out birds, which joyously took up their flight.
The first inventor of this strange and singular contrast could not
certainly have had the intention to symbolize innocence without
defense, rising above the horrors and ferocious passions here
below, in its happy flight towards heaven. That would be,
without doubt, one of those poetic ideas which are born spon-
taneously in the hard and cruel heart of the Spanish plebeian,
as we see in Andalusia the mignonette plant really flourish be-
tween stones and the mortar of a balcony.
At the signal given by the president of the course, the clar-
ions again sounded. There was a moment of truce in this bloody
wrestling, and it created a perfect silence.
Then Pepe Vera, holding in his left hand a sword and a red-
hooded cloak, advanced near to the box of the alcalde. Arrived
opposite, he stopped and saluted, to demand permission to slay
the bull.
Pepe Vera perceived the presence of the Duke, whose taste
for the bull-fight was well known; he had also remarked the
who was seated at his side, because this woman, to
whom the Duke frequently spoke, never took her eyes off the
matador.
He directed his steps towards the Duke, and taking off his
cap, said,
«Brindo (I offer the honor of the bull) to you, my
lord, and to the royal person who is near you. "
1
1
woman
## p. 3009 (#583) ###########################################
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At these words, casting his cap on the ground with an inimi-
table abandon, he returned to his post.
The chulos regarded him attentively, all ready to execute his
orders. The matador chose the spot which suited him the best,
and indicated it to his quadrilla.
"Here! ” he cried out to them.
The chulos ran towards the bull and excited him, and in
pursuing them met Pepe Vera, face to face, who had awaited his
approach with a firm step. It was the solemn moment of the
whole fight. A profound silence succeeded to the noisy tumult,
and to the warm excitement which until then had been exhib-
ited towards the matador.
The bull, on seeing this feeble enemy, who had laughed at
his fury, stopped as if he wished to reflect. He feared, without
doubt, that he would escape him a second time.
Whoever had entered into the circus at this moment would
sooner believe he was assisting in a solemn religious assembly,
than in a public ainusement, so great was the silence.
The two adversaries regarded each other reciprocally.
Pepe Vera raised his left hand: the bull sprang on him.
Making only a light movement, the matador let him pass by his
side, returned and put himself on guard. When the animal
turned upon him the man directed his sword towards the ex-
tremity of the shoulder, so that the bull, continuing his advance,
powerfully aided the steel to penetrate completely into his body.
It was done! He fell lifeless at the feet of his vanquisher.
To describe the general burst of cries and bravos which broke
forth from every part of this vast arena, would be a thing abso-
lutely impossible. Those who are accustomed to be present at
these spectacles alone can form an idea of it. At the same time
were heard the strains of the military bands.
Pepe Vera tranquilly traversed the arena in the midst of
these frantic testimonials of passionate admiration and of this
unanimous ovation, saluting with his sword right and left in
token of his acknowledgments. This triumph, which might have
excited the envy of a Roman emperor, in him did not excite the
least surprise — the least pride. He then went to salute the
ayuntamiento; then the Duke and the royal” young lady.
The Duke then secretly handed to Maria a purse full of gold,
and she enveloped it in her handkerchief and cast it into the
arena.
V-189
## p. 3010 (#584) ###########################################
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Pepe Vera again renewed his thanks, and the glance of his
black eyes met those of the Gaviota. In describing the meeting
of these looks, a classic writer said that it wounded these two
hearts as profoundly as Pepe Vera wounded the bull.
We who have not the temerity to ally ourselves to this
severe and intolerant school, we simply say that these two
natures were made to understand each other— to sympathize.
They in fact did understand and sympathize.
It is true to say that Pepe had done admirably.
All that he had promised in a situation where he placed him-
self between life and death had been executed with an address,
an ease, a dexterity, and a grace, which had not been baffled for
an instant.
For such a task it is necessary to have an energetic tempera-
ment and a daring courage, joined to a certain degree of self-
possession, which alone can command twenty-four thousand eyes
which observe, and twenty-four thousand hands which applaud.
IN THE HOME CIRCLE
From (La Gaviota)
A
MONTH after the scenes we have described, Marisalada was
more sensible, and did not show the least desire to return
to her father's. Stein was completely re-established; his
good-natured character, his modest inclinations, his natural sym-
pathies, attached him every day more to the peaceful habits of
the simple and generous persons among whom he dwelt. He.
felt relieved from his former discouragements, and his mind was
invigorated; he was cordially resigned to his present existence,
and to the men with whom he associated.
One afternoon, Stein, leaning against an angle of the convent
which faced the sea, admired the grand spectacle which the open-
ing of the winter season presented to his view. Above his head
floated a triple bed of sombre clouds, forced along by the im-
petuous wind. Those lower down, black and heavy, seemed like
the cupola of an ancient cathedral in ruins, threatening at each
instant to sink down. When reduced to water they fell to the
ground. There was visible the second bed, less sombre and
lighter, defying the wind which chased them, and which sep-
arating at intervals sought other clouds, more coquettish and
## p. 3011 (#585) ###########################################
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more vaporous, which they hurried into space, as if they feared
to soil their white robes by coming in contact with their com-
panions.
“Are you a sponge, Don Frederico, so to like to receive all
the water which falls from heaven? ” demanded José, the shep-
herd of Stein. "Let us enter; the roofs are made expressly for
such nights as these. My sheep would give much to shelter
themselves under some tiles. ”
Stein and the shepherd entered, and found the family assem-
bled around the hearth.
At the left of the chimney, Dolores, seated on a low chair,
held her infant; who, turning his back to his mother, supported
himself on the arm which encircled him like the balustrade of
a balcony; he moved about incessantly his little legs and his
small bare arms, laughing and uttering joyous cries addressed
to his brother Anis. This brother, gravely seated opposite the
fire on the edge of an empty earthen pan, remained stiff and
motionless, fearing that losing his equilibrium he would be
tossed into the said earthen pan an accident which his mother
had predicted.
Maria was sewing at the right side of the chimney; her
granddaughters had for seats dry aloe leaves, -excellent seats,
light, solid, and sure. Nearly under the drapery of the chimney-
piece slept the hairy Palomo and a cat, the grave Morrongo,
tolerated from necessity, but remaining by common consent at
a respectful distance from each other.
In the middle of this group there was a little low table, on
which burned a lamp of four jets; close to the table the Brother
Gabriel was seated, making baskets of the palm-tree; Momo was
engaged in repairing the harness of the good "Swallow (the
ass); and Manuel, cutting up tobacco. On the fire was conspicu-
ous a stew-pan full of Malaga potatoes, white wine, honey, cinna-
mon, and cloves. The humble family waited with impatience till
the perfumed stew should be sufficiently cooked.
“Come on! Come on! ” cried Maria, when she saw her guest
and the shepherd enter. “What are you doing outside in
weather like this ? 'Tis said a hurricane has come to destroy
the world. Don Frederico, here, here! come near the fire. Do
you know that the invalid has supped like a princess, and that
at present she sleeps like a queen! Her cure progresses well -
—
is it not so, Don Frederico ? »
## p. 3012 (#586) ###########################################
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ren.
Her recovery surpasses my hopes. ”
My soups! ” added Maria with pride.
“And the ass's milk,” said Brother Gabriel quietly.
« There is no doubt,” replied Stein; "and she ought to con-
tinue to take it. ”
"I oppose it not,” said Maria, “because ass's milk is like the
turnip — if it does no good it does no harm. ”
"Ah! how pleasant it is here! ” said Stein, caressing the child-
"If one could only live in the enjoyment of the present,
without thought of the future !
“Yes, yes, Don Frederico," joyfully cried Manuel, « Media
vida es la candela; pan y vino, la otra media. ' ” (Half of life is
the candle; bread and wine are the other half. )
“And what necessity have you to dream of the future ? ”
asked Maria. “Will the morrow make us the more love to-day?
Let us occupy ourselves with to-day, so as not to render painful
the day to come. ”
"Man is a traveler,” replied Stein; "he must follow his
route. ”
“Certainly,” replied Maria, «man is a traveler; but if he
arrives in a quarter where he finds himself well off, he would
say, We are well here; put up our tents. »
“If you wish us to lose our evening by talking of traveling,”
said Dolores, we will believe that we have offended you, or
that you are not pleased here. ”
“Who speaks of traveling in the middle of December? ” de-
manded Manuel. Goodness of heaven! Do you not see what
disasters there are every day on the sea ? — hear the singing of the
wind! Will you embark in this weather, as you were embarked
in the war of Navarre ? for as then, you would come out morti-
fied and ruined. ”
Besides, » added Maria, “the invalid is not yet entirely cured. ”
“Ah! there,” said Dolores, besieged by the children, "if you
will not call off these creatures, the potatoes will not be cooked
until the Last Judgment. ”
The grandmother rolled the spinning-wheel to the corner, and
called the little infants to her.
“We will not go,” they replied with one voice, “if you will
not tell us a story. ”
“Come, I will tell you one,” said the good old woman. The
children approached. Anis took up his position on the empty
((
((
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3013
earthen pot, and the grandma commenced a story to amuse the
little children.
She had hardly finished the relation of this story when a
great noise was heard. The dog rose up, pointed his ears, and
put himself on the defensive. The cat bristled her hair and pre-
pared to fly. But the succeeding laugh very soon was frightful:
it was Anis, who fell asleep during the recital of his grandmother.
It happened that the prophecy of his mother was fulfilled as to
his falling into the earthen pan, where all his little person
disappeared except his legs, which stuck out like plants of a
new species. His mother, rendered impatient, seized with one
hand the cotlar of his vest, raised him out of this depth, and
despite his resistance held him suspended in the air for some
time-- in the style represented in those card dancing-jacks, which
move arms and legs when you pull the thread which holds
them.
As his mother scolded him, and everybody laughed at him,
Anis, who had a brave spirit, - a thing natural in an infant,-
burst out into a groan which had nothing of timidity in it.
“Don't weep, Anis,” said Paca, “and I will give you two
chestnuts that I have in my pocket. ”
« True ? " demanded Anis.
Paca took out the two chestnuts, and gave them to him.
Instead of tears, they saw promptly shine with joy the two rows
of white teeth of the young boy.
“Brother Gabriel,” said Maria, "did you not speak to me of
a pain in your eyes ? Why do you work this evening ? ”
“I said truly,” answered brother Gabriel; “but Don Frederico
gave me a remedy which cured me. ”
“Don Frederico must know many remedies, but he does not
know that one which never misses its effect,” said the shep-
herd.
"If you know it, have the kindness to tell me,” replied Stein.
"I am unable to tell you,” replied the shepherd. "I know
that it exists, and that is all. ”
“Who knows it then ? » demanded Stein.
« The swallows,” said José.
« The swallows ? »
“Yes, sir. It is an herb which is called 'pito-real,' which
nobody sees or knows except the swallows: when their little ones
lose their sight the parents rub their eyes with the pito-real,
## p. 3014 (#588) ###########################################
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1
((
and cure them. This herb has also the virtue to cut iron - every-
thing it touches.
