down through all the branches. The Squire, in the indulgence of his
love of every thing that smacks of old times, has held so many grave
conversations with the parson at table, about popular superstitions
and traditional rites, that they have been carried from the parlour to
the kitchen by the listening domestics, and, being apparently
sanctioned by such high authority, the whole house has become infected
by them.
The servants are all versed in the common modes of trying luck, and
the charms to insure constancy. They read their fortunes by drawing
strokes in the ashes, or by repeating a form of words, and looking in
a pail of water. St. Mark's Eve, I am told, was a busy time with them;
being an appointed night for certain mystic ceremonies. Several of
them sowed hemp-seed to be reaped by their true lovers; and they even
ventured upon the solemn and fearful preparation of the dumb-cake.
This must be done fasting, and in silence. The ingredients are handed
down in traditional form: "An eggshell full of salt, an eggshell full
of malt, and an eggshell full of barley-meal." When the cake is ready,
it is put upon a pan over the fire, and the future husband will
appear, turn the cake, and retire; but if a word is spoken or a fast
is broken during this awful ceremony, there is no knowing what
horrible consequences would ensue!
The experiments, in the present instance, came to no result; they that
sowed the hemp-seed forgot the magic rhyme that they were to
pronounce--so the true lover never appeared; and as to the dumb-cake,
what between the awful stillness they had to keep, and the awfulness
of the midnight hour, their hearts failed them when they had put the
cake in the pan; so that, on the striking of the great house-clock in
the servants'-hall, they were seized with a sudden panic, and ran out
of the room, to which they did not return until morning, when they
found the mystic cake burnt to a cinder.
The most persevering at these spells, however, is Phoebe Wilkins, the
housekeeper's niece. As she is a kind of privileged personage, and
rather idle, she has more time to occupy herself with these matters.
She has always had her head full of love and matrimony. She knows the
dream-book by heart, and is quite an oracle among the little girls of
the family, who always come to her to interpret their dreams in the
mornings.
During the present gayety of the house, however, the poor girl has
worn a face full of trouble; and, to use the housekeeper's words,
"has fallen into a sad hystericky way lately." It seems that she was
born and brought up in the village, where her father was parish-clerk,
and she was an early playmate and sweetheart of young Jack Tibbets.
Since she has come to live at the Hall, however, her head has been a
little turned. Being very pretty, and naturally genteel, she has been
much noticed and indulged; and being the housekeeper's niece, she has
held an equivocal station between a servant and a companion. She has
learnt something of fashions and notions among the young ladies, which
have effected quite a metamorphosis; insomuch that her finery at
church on Sundays has given mortal offence to her former intimates in
the village. This has occasioned the misrepresentations which have
awakened the implacable family pride of Dame Tibbets. But what is
worse, Phoebe, having a spice of coquetry in her disposition, showed
it on one or two occasions to her lover, which produced a downright
quarrel; and Jack, being very proud and fiery, has absolutely turned
his back upon her for several successive Sundays.
The poor girl is full of sorrow and repentance, and would fain make up
with her lover; but he feels his security, and stands aloof. In this
he is doubtless encouraged by his mother, who is continually reminding
him what he owes to his family; for this same family pride seems
doomed to be the eternal bane of lovers.
As I hate to see a pretty face in trouble, I have felt quite concerned
for the luckless Phoebe, ever since I heard her story. It is a sad
thing to be thwarted in love at any time, but particularly so at this
tender season of the year, when every living thing, even to the very
butterfly, is sporting with its mate; and the green fields, and the
budding groves, and the singing of the birds, and the sweet smell of
the flowers, are enough to turn the head of a love-sick girl. I am
told that the coolness of young Ready-Money lies very heavy at poor
Phoebe’s heart. Instead of singing about the house as formerly, she
goes about pale and sighing, and is apt to break into tears when her
companions are full of merriment.
Mrs. Hannah, the vestal gentlewoman of my Lady Lillycraft, has had
long talks and walks with Phoebe, up and down the avenue of an
evening; and has endeavoured to squeeze some of her own verjuice into
the other's milky nature. She speaks with contempt and abhorrence of
the whole sex, and advises Phoebe to despise all the men as heartily
as she does. But Phoebe's loving temper is not to be curdled; she has
no such thing as hatred or contempt for mankind in her whole
composition. She has all the simple fondness of heart of poor, weak,
loving woman; and her only thoughts at present are how to conciliate
and reclaim her wayward swain.
The spells and love-charms, which are matters of sport to the other
domestics, are serious concerns with this love-stricken damsel. She is
continually trying her fortune in a variety of ways. I am told that
she has absolutely fasted for six Wednesdays and three Fridays
successively, having understood that it was a sovereign charm to
insure being married to one's liking within the year. She carries
about, also, a lock of her sweetheart's hair, and a riband he once
gave her, being a mode of producing constancy in a lover. She even
went so far as to try her fortune by the moon, which has always had
much to do with lovers' dreams and fancies. For this purpose, she went
out in the night of the full moon, knelt on a stone in the meadow, and
repeated the old traditional rhyme:
"All hail to thee, moon, all hail to thee;
I pray thee, good moon, now show to me
The youth who my future husband shall be."
When she came back to the house, she was faint and pale, and went
immediately to bed. The next morning she told the porter's wife that
she had seen some one close by the hedge in the meadow, which she was
sure was young Tibbets; at any rate, she had dreamt of him all night;
both of which, the old dame assured her, were most happy signs. It has
since turned out that the person in the meadow was old Christy, the
huntsman, who was walking his nightly rounds with the great
stag-hound; so that Phoebe's faith in the charm is completely shaken.
THE LIBRARY.
Yesterday the fair Julia made her first appearance downstairs since
her accident; and the sight of her spread an universal cheerfulness
through the household. She was extremely pale, however, and could not
walk without pain and difficulty. She was assisted, therefore, to a
sofa in the library, which is pleasant and retired, looking out among
trees; and so quiet, that the little birds come hopping upon the
windows, and peering curiously into the apartment. Here several of the
family gathered round, and devised means to amuse her, and make the
day pass pleasantly. Lady Lillycraft lamented the want of some new
novel to while away the time; and was almost in a pet, because the
"Author of Waverley" had not produced a work for the last three
months.
There was a motion made to call on the parson for some of his old
legends or ghost stories; but to this Lady Lillycraft objected, as
they were apt to give her the vapours. General Harbottle gave a minute
account, for the sixth time, of the Disaster of a friend in India, who
had his leg bitten off by a tiger, whilst he was hunting; and was
proceeding to menace the company with a chapter or two about Tippoo
Saib.
At length the captain bethought himself and said, he believed he had a
manuscript tale lying in one corner of his campaigning trunk, which,
if he could find, and the company were desirous, he would read to
them. The offer was eagerly accepted. He retired, and soon returned
with a roll of blotted manuscript, in a very gentlemanlike, but nearly
illegible, hand, and a great part written on cartridge-paper.
"It is one of the scribblings," said he, "of my poor friend, Charles
Lightly, of the dragoons. He was a curious, romantic, studious,
fanciful fellow; the favourite, and often the unconscious butt of his
fellow-officers, who entertained themselves with his eccentricities.
He was in some of the hardest service in the peninsula, and
distinguished himself by his gallantry. When the intervals of duty
permitted, he was fond of roving about the country, visiting noted
places, and was extremely fond of Moorish ruins. When at his quarters,
he was a great scribbler, and passed much of his leisure with his pen
in his hand.
"As I was a much younger officer, and a very young man, he took me, in
a manner, under his care, and we became close friends. He used often
to read his writings to me, having a great confidence in my taste, for
I always praised them. Poor fellow! he was shot down close by me, at
Waterloo. We lay wounded together for some time, during a hard contest
that took place near at hand. As I was least hurt, I tried to relieve
him, and to stanch the blood which flowed from a wound in his breast.
He lay with his head in my lap, and looked up thankfully in my face,
but shook his head faintly, and made a sign that it was all over with
him; and, indeed, he died a few minutes afterwards, just as our men
had repulsed the enemy, and came to our relief. I have his favourite
dog and his pistols to this day, and several of his manuscripts, which
he gave to me at different times. The one I am now going to read, is a
tale which he said he wrote in Spain, during the time that he lay ill
of a wound received at Salamanca."
We now arranged ourselves to hear the story. The captain seated
himself on the sofa, beside the fair Julia, who I had noticed to be
somewhat affected by the picture he had carelessly drawn of wounds and
dangers in a field of battle. She now leaned her arm fondly on his
shoulder, and her eye glistened as it rested on the manuscript of the
poor literary dragoon. Lady Lillycraft buried herself in a deep,
well-cushioned elbow-chair. Her dogs were nestled on soft mats at her
feet; and the gallant general took his station in an armchair, at her
side, and toyed with her elegantly ornamented work-bag. The rest of
the circle being all equally well accommodated, the captain began his
story; a copy of which I have procured for the benefit of the reader.
THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA.
What a life do I lead with my master; nothing but blowing of
bellowes, beating of spirits, and scraping of croslets! It is a
very secret science, for none almost can understand the language
of it. Sublimation, almigation, calcination, rubification,
albification, and fermentation; with as many termes unpossible to
be uttered as the arte to be compassed.
--LILLY'S _Gallathea_.
Once upon a time, in the ancient city of Granada, there sojourned a
young man of the name of Antonio de Castros. He wore the garb of a
student of Salamanca, and was pursuing a course of reading in the
library of the university; and, at intervals of leisure, indulging his
curiosity by examining those remains of Moorish magnificence for which
Granada is renowned.
Whilst occupied in his studies, he frequently noticed an old man of a
singular appearance, who was likewise a visitor to the library. He was
lean and withered, though apparently more from study than from age.
His eyes, though bright and visionary, were sunk in his head, and
thrown into shade by overhanging eyebrows. His dress was always the
same: a black doublet; a short black cloak, very rusty and threadbare;
a small ruff and a large overshadowing hat.
His appetite for knowledge seemed insatiable. He would pass whole days
in the library, absorbed in study, consulting a multiplicity of
authors, as though he were pursuing some interesting subject through
all its ramifications; so that, in general, when evening came, he was
almost buried among books and manuscripts.
The curiosity of Antonio was excited, and he inquired of the
attendants concerning the stranger. No one could give him any
information, excepting that he had been for some time past a casual
frequenter of the library; that his reading lay chiefly among works
treating of the occult sciences, and that he was particularly curious
in his inquiries after Arabian manuscripts. They added, that he never
held communication with any one, excepting to ask for particular
works; that, after a fit of studious application, he would disappear
for several days, and even weeks, and when he revisited the library,
he would look more withered and haggard than ever. The student felt
interested by this account; he was leading rather a desultory life,
and had all that capricious curiosity which springs up in idleness. He
determined to make himself acquainted with this book-worm, and find
out who and what he was.
The next time that he saw the old man at the library, he commenced his
approaches by requesting permission to look into one of the volumes
with which the unknown appeared to have done. The latter merely bowed
his head, in token of assent. After pretending to look through the
volume with great attention, he returned it with many acknowledgments.
The stranger made no reply.
"May I ask, senor," said Antonio, with some hesitation, "may I ask
what you are searching after in all these books?"
The old man raised his head, with an expression of surprise, at having
his studies interrupted for the first time, and by so intrusive a
question. He surveyed the student with a side glance from head to
foot: "Wisdom, my son," said he, calmly; "and the search requires
every moment of my attention." He then cast his eyes upon his book,
and resumed his studies.
"But, father," said Antonio, "cannot you spare a moment to point out
the road to others? It is to experienced travellers like you, that we
strangers in the paths of knowledge must look for directions on our
journey."
The stranger looked disturbed: "I have not time enough, my son, to
learn," said he, "much less to teach. I am ignorant myself of the path
of true knowledge; how then can I show it to others?"
"Well, but, father--"
"Senor," said the old man, mildly, but earnestly, "you must see that I
have but few steps more to the grave. In that short space have I to
accomplish the whole business of my existence. I have no time for
words; every word is as one grain of sand of my glass wasted. Suffer
me to be alone."
There was no replying to so complete a closing of the door of
intimacy. The student found himself calmly but totally repulsed.
Though curious and inquisitive, yet he was naturally modest, and on
after-thoughts he blushed at his own intrusion. His mind soon became
occupied by other objects. He passed several days wandering among the
mouldering piles of Moorish architecture, those melancholy monuments
of an elegant and voluptuous people. He paced the deserted halls of
the Alhambra, the paradise of the Moorish kings. He visited the great
court of the lions, famous for the perfidious massacre of the gallant
Abencerrages. He gazed with admiration at its mosaic cupolas,
gorgeously painted in gold and azure; its basins of marble, its
alabaster vase, supported by lions, and storied with inscriptions.
His imagination kindled as he wandered among these scenes. They were
calculated to awaken all the enthusiasm of a youthful mind. Most of
the halls have anciently been beautified by fountains. The fine taste
of the Arabs delighted in the sparkling purity and reviving freshness
of water; and they erected, as it were, altars on every side, to that
delicate element. Poetry mingles with architecture in the Alhambra. It
breathes along the very walls. Wherever Antonio turned his eye, he
beheld inscriptions in Arabic, wherein the perpetuity of Moorish power
and splendour within these walls was confidently predicted.
Alas! how has the prophecy been falsified! Many of the basins, where
the fountains had once thrown up their sparkling showers, were dry and
dusty. Some of the palaces were turned into gloomy convents, and the
barefoot monk paced through these courts, which had once glittered
with the array, and echoed to the music, of Moorish chivalry.
In the course of his rambles, the student more than once encountered
the old man of the library. He was always alone, and so full of
thought as not to notice any one about him. He appeared to be intent
upon studying those half-buried inscriptions, which, are found, here
and there, among the Moorish ruins, and seem to murmur from the earth
the tale of former greatness. The greater part of these have since
been translated; but they were supposed by many at the time, to
contain symbolical revelations, and golden maxims of the Arabian sages
and astrologers. As Antonio saw the stranger apparently deciphering
these inscriptions, he felt an eager longing to make his acquaintance,
and to participate in his curious researches; but the repulse he had
met with at the library deterred him from making any further advances.
He had directed his steps one evening to the sacred mount, which
overlooks the beautiful valley watered by the Darro, the fertile plain
of the Vega, and all that rich diversity of vale and mountain that
surrounds Granada with an earthly paradise. It was twilight when he
found himself at the place, where, at the present day, are situated
the chapels, known by the name of the Sacred Furnaces. They are so
called from grottoes, in which some of the primitive saints are said
to have been burnt. At the time of Antonio's visit, the place was an
object of much curiosity. In an excavation of these grottoes, several
manuscripts had recently been discovered, engraved on plates of lead.
They were written in the Arabian language, excepting one, which was in
unknown characters. The Pope had issued a bull, forbidding any one,
under pain of excommunication, to speak of these manuscripts. The
prohibition had only excited the greater curiosity; and many reports
were whispered about, that these manuscripts contained treasures of
dark and forbidden knowledge.
As Antonio was examining the place from whence these mysterious
manuscripts had been drawn, he again observed the old man of the
library wandering among the ruins. His curiosity was now fully
awakened; the time and place served to stimulate it. He resolved to
watch this groper after secret and forgotten lore, and to trace him to
his habitation. There was something like adventure in the thing, that
charmed his romantic disposition. He followed the stranger, therefore,
at a little distance; at first cautiously, but he soon observed him to
be so wrapped in his own thoughts, as to take little heed of external
objects.
They passed along the skirts of the mountain, and then by the shady
banks of the Darro. They pursued their way, for some distance from
Granada, along a lonely road that led among the hills. The gloom of
evening was gathering, and it was quite dark when the stranger stopped
at the portal of a solitary mansion.
It appeared to be a mere wing, or ruined fragment, of what had once
been a pile of some consequence. The walls were of great thickness;
the windows narrow, and generally secured by iron bars. The door was
of planks, studded with iron spikes, and had been of great strength,
though at present it was much decayed. At one end of the mansion was a
ruinous tower, in the Moorish style of architecture. The edifice had
probably been a country retreat, or castle of pleasure, during the
occupation of Granada by the Moors, and rendered sufficiently strong
to withstand any casual assault in those warlike times.
The old man knocked at the portal. A light appeared at a small window
just above it, and a female head looked out: it might have served as a
model for one of Raphael's saints. The hair was beautifully braided,
and gathered in a silken net; and the complexion, as well as could be
judged from the light, was that soft, rich brunette, so becoming in
southern beauty.
"It is I, my child," said the old man. The face instantly disappeared,
and soon after a wicket-door in the large portal opened. Antonio, who
had ventured near to the building, caught a transient sight of a
delicate female form. A pair of fine black eyes darted a look of
surprise at seeing a stranger hovering near, and the door was
precipitately closed.
There was something in this sudden gleam of beauty that wonderfully
struck the imagination of the student. It was like a brilliant,
flashing from its dark casket. He sauntered about, regarding the
gloomy pile with increasing interest. A few simple, wild notes, from
among some rocks and trees at a little distance, attracted his
attention. He found there a group of Gitanas, a vagabond gipsy race,
which at that time abounded in Spain, and lived in hovels and caves of
the hills about the neighbourhood of Granada. Some were busy about a
fire, and others were listening to the uncouth music which one of
their companions, seated on a ledge of the rock, was making with a
split reed.
Antonio endeavoured to obtain some information of them, concerning the
old building and its inhabitants. The one who appeared to be their
spokesman was a gaunt fellow, with a subtle gait, a whispering voice,
and a sinister roll of the eye. He shrugged his shoulders on the
student's inquiries, and said that all was not right in that building.
An old man inhabited it, whom nobody knew, and whose family appeared
to be only a daughter and a female servant. He and his companions, he
added, lived up among the neighbouring hills; and as they had been
about at night, they had often seen strange lights, and heard strange
sounds from the tower. Some of the country people, who worked in the
vineyards among the hills, believed the old man to be one that dealt
in the black art, and were not over-fond of passing near the tower at
night; "but for our parts," said the Gitano, "we are not a people that
trouble ourselves much with fears of that kind."
The student endeavoured to gain more precise information, but they had
none to furnish him. They began to be solicitous for a compensation
for what they had already imparted; and, recollecting the loneliness
of the place, and the vagabond character of his companions, he was
glad to give them a gratuity, and to hasten homewards.
He sat down to his studies, but his brain was too full of what he had
seen and heard; his eye was upon the page, but his fancy still
returned to the tower; and he was continually picturing the little
window, with the beautiful head peeping out; or the door half open,
and the nymph-like form within. He retired to bed, but the same object
haunted his dreams. He was young and susceptible; and the excited
state of his feelings, from wandering among the abodes of departed
grace and gallantry, had predisposed him for a sudden impression from
female beauty.
The next morning, he strolled again in the direction of the tower. It
was still more forlorn, by the broad glare of day, than in the gloom
of evening. The walls were crumbling, and weeds and moss were growing
in every crevice. It had the look of a prison, rather than a
dwelling-house. In one angle, however, he remarked a window which
seemed an exception to the surrounding squalidness. There was a
curtain drawn within it, and flowers standing on the window-stone.
Whilst he was looking at it, the curtain was partially withdrawn, and
a delicate white arm, of the most beautiful roundness, was put forth
to water the flowers.