are carelessly adopted, merely as the arbitrary and insignificant abbreviations of detail, than in pity or sorrow at the imperfections which such confusion of accessories in the drama may be supposed to include. Such men as these are, indeed, like the first patriarchs, the free inheritors of the world, and wandering through all nature, boldly cultivate what they please, and as they please, with a tenfold harvest of fruits and flowers. And, as we have just been endeavouring to enforce, such men as these are the guides and masters of mankind in every age; because they lift the standard of human excellence to heights that invite the holy ambition of all succeeding virtue. If not themselves examples, they can form those creations which supply their place, and can discharge the duties of instruction by a poetical proxy; and, therefore, did we affirm that with such apostles of the muse, imagination, which evermore holds the avenues of the heart, is found to be only the form of reason decked with the roses of a May queen, or, as it were, mirrored in that enchanted stream of fable which was said to reflect the sternest mien in a portrait of symmetry and loveliness.

We were obliged to turn over these vague but earnest pages, in order to verify the thought which we have just cited from the commencement of our observations, and have thus been led to perceive to how protracted a length we have deduced them. We shall, therefore, close our disquisitions, which we have not meant to be either very logical in connection, or very profound in speculation, with a pleasing hope that the advent of genius may soon render them utterly inapplicable. We should imagine that the candour of criticism can scarcely go farther than this devoted sacrifice of the pertinency of our lucubrations to the welfare of literature !

Let it not be understood, however, that there are not writers still occupying the field, though the armour be somewhat rusted and the arm droop fatigued though the argument of the

shield be obscured, and deeds of high enterprize be rather remembered than achieved. And let not this pomp of knightly metaphor exclude from the number the muse of the gentler sex, the poetess who has told us, in prevailing numbers, all the beautiful secrets of woman's heart, and drawn portraits which, perhaps, alone, of all poetical representations of earthly excellence, are ideal without being imaginary. Felicia Hemans has, indeed, approved herself a worthy interpreter of the inestimable feelings of the female breast, and woman in her pages (whether we regard the subjects of some, or the exquisitely feminine spirit which pervades all) is more truly vindicated than if her "rights" were proclaimed by a thousand Mary Wollstoncrafts-thus, walking in the true nobility of her own loveliness and purity, and asserting her claims on the heart with the silent eloquence of perpetual constancy, dignity, and truth. Dare we hope that Ireland will seem to the Corinna of the west, in some of those legendary fragments which gave to Campbell his almost sweetest lay, to offer "Records of Woman" not unworthy of being combined with those which preserve to us so many beautiful flowers of female virtue?

We have recalled the memory of sweet music to those who are acquainted with the verse of Mrs. Hemans ; and we shall not, by prolonging our inharmonious contrast, disturb the pleasure of their recollections. On a future occasion it is not improbable that we may return to the merits of our poetry, and the duties of those who are to continue and magnify the present era, or to prepare a new one. We are willing to believe that at this hour there exist those who are formed by nature to supply an ennobling aliment to the imagination of the age, and

"On earth to make us heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays." WORDSWORTH.

W. A. B.

AFTER having described to you the bull-fights here, I see nothing for it, but to keep up the dramatic effect, by proceeding from a matter of lesser interest to something of greater. I see nothing for it, I say, but to give you an account of an execution. I have lately witnessed one, and am ready to relate to you the details of it, if you have courage enough to read my letter.

But just give me leave to tell you how I came to be present at an execution. I have already remarked that in a strange country one feels it incumbent on him to see everything; and is ever apprehensive that some unfortunate moment of laziness or fatigue should cause him to lose some characteristic trait of manners. In addition to this, the story of the unfortunate man who suffered, had inspired me with considerable interest. I wished to see the character of his countenance; and, last of all, I was not sorry to have an opportunity of making trial of the strength of my nerves.

The following is the story of my culprit, I forgot to learn his name:He was a peasant, from the environs of Valencia, in high estimation and repute among his fellows for his brave and enterprising turn of character. In fact, he was quite the cock of his village. Not one of the young men danced better, could throw the bar further, or was so much at home in all the old songs of the country. He was by no means quarrelsome, but it was well known that it was not a matter of much difficulty to rouse him. If he accompanied travellers, as their escort, his carbine on his shoulder, no robber would dare to attack them, even if their valises were stuffed with doubloons. It was quite a sight worth seeing this young man, his velvet jacket on his shoulder, strutting along the road, and bearing himself with an air of the haughtiest superiority. In a word, he

PROSPER MERIME'E.

was a majo in the fullest sense of the word. A majo is at once a fine gentleman of the lower class, and a man who is peculiarly sensitive on the subject of his honour.

The Castilians have a proverb among them against the Valencians-a proverb, in my opinion, wholly without foundation. It attacks, at once, their mode of living, their women, and their courage. I can assure you that the cookery of Valencia is most excellent; that the women are excessively pretty, and, perhaps, have the fairest complexions in all Spain; and I am now going to give you a specimen of what sort of fellows the men are.

A bull-fight was about to take place. The majo was desirous to be there, but had not a single real in his purse. He reckoned, however, on getting admission through a volunteer royalist, a friend of his, who was to be on guard that day. He was disappointed-the volunteer adhered inflexibly to his orders. The majo entreated-the volunteer was firm-some reproachful language was interchanged. To cut the matter short, the volunteer repulsed him rudely by a blow with the butt-end of his musket in the stomach. The majo went off; but those who observed the deadly paleness which overspread his facewho noticed a certain violent clenching of his hands, his distended nostrils, and the expression of his eyes, felt convinced that something unfortunate would come of it.

About a fortnight after this occurrence, this surly volunteer was one of a detachment sent in pursuit of some smugglers. He slept that day at a solitary little inn. In the middle of the night a voice was heard to call the volunteer by his name " Open the door, it is a message from your wife." The volunteer came down half-dressed; but scarcely had he opened the door when a carbine was discharged so close to him as to set his shirt on fire at the

same moment that a dozen slugs were lodged in his body. The murderer disappeared. Who could it have been? is the question. No one can guess. Beyond all doubt it was not the majo who killed him; for he can produce a dozen women, devoted to him, and all good royalists, who would swear by the name of their saint, and kiss their thumb upon it, that they had seen him, each at her village, precisely at the very hour and minute that the murder was committed.

Shortly after the majo showed himself publicly, with a bold front, and wearing the calm air of a man who is desirous to free himself from a disagreeable suspicion. Just in the same manner, at Paris, a man presents himself at Tortoni's in the afternoon, after a duel, in which he has just winged some impertinent fellow. You are also to observe, that assassination is the duel of the poor fellows here; and a duel seriously different in its consequences from ours, inasmuch as it is usually followed by two deaths; whereas, in high life, people oftener scratch than kill one another.

All went on very well, till a certain alguazil, with an over-and-above excess of zeal, (caused, as some say, by his being new in his office; or, according to others, by his being in love with a girl who exhibited a preference for the majo,) bethought himself of arresting this amiable young man. As long as he satisfied himself with threats, his rival but laughed at him, but when, at last, he was going to seize him by the collar, he gave him a beef's tongue to swallow-an expression, in that country, for a stab of a knife. But does even the law of self-defence, give authority for thus making an alguazil's place

vacant?

The alguazils are of great consequence in Spain, almost of as much as constables in England. To ill-use one is a hanging matter. Accordingly the majo was forthwith apprehended, lodged in prison and tried, and condemned, after a long procedure, for the forms of justice are still more tedious here than with us.

Now, if you are disposed to take a good-natured view of all the circumstances you will agree with me that this man hardly deserved his lot; that he was the victim of an unfortunate

VOL. IV.

fatality, and that without laying too great a weight on their consciences, his judges could have well restored him to that society, of which (as the orators say) he was intended to have been the ornament. But rarely do judges possess this high and poetical style of reasoning; he was condemned to death without a single dissentient voice.

One evening, passing accidentally across the market-place, I happened to see some workmen engaged in erecting, by the light of torches, beams of wood arranged in an extraordinary manner, forming something like the Greek letter II. Soldiers who were placed in a circle around them, repulsed any of the bystanders who were too curious; and for the following reason: The gibbet, for this was one, is constructed by means of men who are bound to render certain services to the state, and the workmen who are put in requisition cannot, without incurring the penalty of rebellion, refuse these services. As a sort of compensation the authorities take care that they perform their task, which public opinion makes rather disgraceful, as far as it is possible, secretly To effect this, they surround them with soldiers, who keep the crowd at a distance, and they work only at night, so that it becomes impossible to recognize them, and, accordingly, they avoid on the morrow the risk of being called gallows-builders.

At Valencia an old Gothic tower is used as the prison. The style of its architecture is noble, especially the front, which overlooks the river. It stands at one of the extreme points of the city, and serves as a gate. It is called la Puerta de los Serranos. From the platform, on top of it, the eye traces the course of the Guadalquivir, the five bridges which cross it; the public walks of Valencia, and the smiling country which lies all around. It is rather a mournful gratification, that of looking out upon the green fields when one is enclosed with four walls; but in truth it nevertheless is a positive enjoyment, and those prisoners must feel obliged to the gaoler who allows them occasionally to take the air on this platform. For prisoners the most trifling pleasure has its price.

It was out of this prison that the

0

culprit should proceed, and from thence through the most populous streets in the town, mounted upon an ass, to the market place, where he was to take his leave of this world.

At an early hour I found myself before the Puerta de los Serranos, with a Spanish friend, who was good enough to accompany me, I expected to have found a considerable crowd assembled since the morning, but I was mistaken. The artizans continued to work undisturbedly in their shops; the peasants left the town quietly after having sold their vegetables; there was no indication that any extraordinary event was about to take place, except perhaps a dozen dragoons drawn up near the gate of the prison. This want of anxiety, in the Valencians to witness executions, should not, I am of opinion, be attributed to excessive sensibility. Neither am I certain if I ought to think, with my conductor, that they have been so well accustomed to this sort of sight that it no longer has any attractions for them. It is probable rather that this indifference arises from the industrious habits of the people of Valencia. The love of labour and of gain, distinguishes them not only among the people of all the other provinces of Spain, but even among those of all Europe.

At eleven o'clock the gate of the prison was thrown open; forthwith a tolerably numerous procession of Franciscan monks presented themselves. They were preceded by a large crucifix carried by a penitent, supported by two acolytes, each having a lantern fixed at the end of a great stick, by way of handle. The crucifix, the size of life, was made of pasteboard, painted, with a singular closeness of imitation of reality. The Spaniards, who endeavour to make religion a thing of awe, excel in representing wounds, bruises, and traces of the tortures endured by their martyrs. Upon this crucifix, which was to figure at a tragic spectacle, they had not spared to exhibit blood, putrid matter, and livid contusions. It was the most hideous piece of anatomy that could well be imagined. The bearer of this horrible figure stopped in front of the gate. The soldiers were drawn up at a little distance; about a hundred inquisitive spectators were grouped

behind, but sufficiently near to lose nothing of what was about to be said or done, when the criminal should come forward with his confessor.

Never shall I forget the countenance of this man. He was tall and emaciated, and appeared about thirty years of age. His forehead was lofty, his hair thick, black as a raven, and as straight as the hairs of a brush. His eyes large, but sunken, seemed unusually brilliant. His feet were bare, and he was clothed in a long black dress, upon which was embroidered, just over the place of his heart, a blue and red cross. This is the mark of the brotherhood of suffering. The collar of his shirt, plaited like a ruff, fell down over his shoulders and chest. A whitish cord, which was easily distinguishable on the black stuff of his dress, went several times round his body, and fastened with knots, bound his arms and hands in the attitude one assumes in praying. Between his hands he held a little crucifix, and an image of the Virgin. His confessor was short, fat, and red-faced, with the air of a man who was once a jovial fellow, but who had some time given up such a life.

I

Behind the culprit was a man, pale, lank, of a mild and timid cast of countenance. He wore a brown vest, with black breeches and stockings. should have taken him for a notary, or an alguazil in undress, but that he had on his head a large grey hat, with a broad leaf, such as picadors wear in the bull-fights. At the sight of the crucifix he took off his hat respectfully, and I then observed a little ladder, in ivory, fastened to the crown of his hat, like a cockade. He was the executioner.

As he stepped out from the doorway, the criminal, who had been obliged to stoop his head in passing through the wicket, drew himself up to his full height, opened his eyes widely, took in the entire crowd with a rapid glance, and breathed heavily. It seemed to me that he drank in the fresh air with a pleasure caused by his having been long immured in a confined and narrow dungeon. The expression of his countenance was singular. It was not that of fear, but rather uneasiness. He seemed resigned, yet without any bravado or affectation of courage. I could not help thinking that I would wish, on a similar occa

sion, to be able to carry as steady a countenance.

His confessor desired him to kneel down before the crucifix; he obeyed, and kissed the feet of this frightful image. At this moment all that stood by were moved, and kept a deep silence. The confessor perceiving it, raised his hands to disengage them from his long sleeves, which would have impeded his oratorical gesture, and began to deliver a discourse which had probably served him more than once before on a similar occasion, with a loud and vehement voice, but, nevertheless monotonous, from the regular repetition of the same intonations. He pronounced each word distinctly. His accent was tolerably pure, and he spoke in good Castilian, which the criminal probably understood but imperfectly. He began each sentence in a shrill tone of voice, which, as he proceeded, went into a falsetto; but he finished always in a low and deep tone.

In substance, he told the criminal, whom he always addressed by the name of brother—“ you have deserved the death you are about to suffer, and have even been treated with lenity in being condemned to the gallows; for your crimes have been enormous." Here he said a few words about the murders he had committed, but dwelt at greater length on the state of irreligion in which the penitent had passed his youth, and which alone had hurried him to his ruin. "But what," continued the confessor," is your justly-deserved punishment to what this Saviour (pointing to the image) endured for you?" The poor man looked down most devoutly upon the wooden god, and raised his eyes from the image to heaven. The people bowed their heads, and the confessor commenced a long-winded peroration, which, however, had more sense than the exordium. He told him, that the mercy of God was infinite, and that sincere repentance alone could avail to disarm his just anger.

The criminal looked up, and fixed his eyes on the priest with an air a little fierce, and said to him, “Father, it would have sufficed to tell me I was about to go into glory: let us proceed."

The confessor returned into the prison, quite satisfied with his sermon. Two Franciscans took his place beside

the criminal, whose duty it was to remain with him to the last moment.

They then placed him on a mat, which the hangman drew after him a little, but without violence, and as if by tacit agreement between the passive person and his executioner. It is a mere matter of form, for the purpose of seeming to carry into effect the letter of the sentence-" to be hanged, after having been drawn upon a hurdle."

This done, the unfortunate man was placed on an ass, which the hangman led by the halter; at either side of him walked one of the Franciscans, preceded by two long files of monks of this order, and of laymen, who form part of the brotherhood of desamparodos. The banners and the crucifix were not forgotten: behind the ass came a notary and two alguazils dressed in black, silk breeches and stockings, swords at their side, and mounted on poor horses, wretchedly equipped; a troop of cavalry brought up the rere. As the procession went slowly on, the monks chanted litanies in an indistinct voice, and men in cloaks made a circuit through the crowd, holding out silver plates to the spectators, and asking alms for the unfortunate man (por el pobre). This money serves to have masses said for the repose of his soul; and for this reason, to a good Catholic, who is about to make his mortal exit by way of the gallows, it must be a great consolation to see the plates rapidly filled with money. Every body gives something. Heretic as I am, I gave my little offering with seeming respect.

In truth, I like these ceremonies of the Catholic church, and I wish I had faith in them. Upon an occasion such as this, they have the advantage of making a much deeper impression on the crowd than our cart, our police, and the rest of the mean, pitiful train which attended our executions. Lastly, and it is for this reason especially that I like these crosses and processions, they must contribute powerfully to alleviate the last sufferings of a criminal. This funeral pomp in some measure flatters one's vanity, a feeling which attends us to the last moment of our existence. Then the monks, whom he has been taught to reverence from infancy, and who now offer up prayers for him-their hymns-the voices of the