endeavored to improve the taste of the people by a genuine poetic feeling, and perfection in the structure of the

verse.

But our Biscayan thought a poet's life incomplete without the sympathy which only a loving and intelligent wife can afford. So he incurred the expense of a household, as well as gave support to his aged parents. Along with laboring at the public press and writing and publishing Los Cantares, he found time to compose his Rose-colored Tales, all concerned with the ordinary life of the country in which his boyhood was passed, and all seen through that softly colored magic medium through which mature age loves to look back to the period of careless hopeful youth. These stories are called The Resurrection of the Soul, The Stepmother, From our Country to Heaven, The Judas of the House, and Juan Palamo. All end happily, all are imbued with the purest morality, and breathe an atmosphere in which live the best feelings of our nature.

While writing the dedication of them to his wife, he was enlivened by the anticipation of a visit they would shortly make to his natal village.

"While I write this, the most cherished wish of my life is about to be gratified. Before the July sun withers up the flowers, the breezes and the flowers of my native hills shall cool our foreheads, and perfume our hair. The venerable man who honors himself and thee in calling thee his daughter, is now going from house to house in the village, and telling the companions of my boyhood, while tears of joy find their way down his cheek, My children are coming; my son is about revisiting his native valleys as lovingly as he bade them adieu twenty years ago.'

"And our father and our brothers are thinking on us every moment, and doing all in their humble means to beautify and cheer the apartments destined for us. Every time they come to the windows, they expect to see my form on the hillock where they caught the last sight of me seventeen years ago."

Alas! what disappointments wait on such pleasant anticipations! Paying a tardy visit to the scenes so lovingly and pleasurably remembered, the careworn elderly man finds dear old

houses levelled; new, raw ones reared on their site; old paths and ways deserted, and new roads laid down; new and uninteresting topics filling up conversation, the once fresh and fair romantic boys and girls now commonplace husbands and wives, except such as have been removed by death or change of residence. His former comrades, youths and maids once buoyant with bright hopes, are now gray-haired and wrinkled, or distressed, or departed, and of the revered and loved old people of long ago not one has been left to bid him welcome. There are now no ties to detain him in his long regretted native place; he hastens back to his ordinary colorless occupation and cares, rendered agreeable or tolerable by habit, and wishes he had not gone on that sorrowful journey.

In the greater part of these tales figures the Indian, that is, one who has spent some time in Mexico or the West Indies, and returns to cheer or disturb the former companions of his early life. The narratives are made up of simple village annals, loves and jealousies, injustices and their punishments, generous deeds and their recompenses, constancy sharply tried and victorious, unions at the threshing floors, Sunday morning devotions, Sunday evening recreations, troubles of good housewives with their play-lov. ing little boys, and all the worries and comforts and joys and griefs that attend on the lives of those whose lot is to cultivate the earth, the curé always filling the office of the good fairy in household tales.

SATIRE: DON JOSE GONZALEZ DE TEJADA.

Don José Gonzalez de Tejada may be taken as the representative man, of the living Spanish satirists. Few looking on the steady, easy-going, fat, and florid young man with good-nature playing about the corners of his mouth, would suspect the keen spirit of satire which inspires his verses. Making use of the romance form before explained, he celebrated in the public

Don Adelardo Lopez de Ayala writes his drama of "So Much per Cent," in which he excites unmeasured contempt for the greed of gold, and the rage of speculation, whose visit to the old soil of chivalry the author deprecates with all his might.

Don Gaspar Bono Serrano, a brave and devout military chaplain, once attending the wounded in Don Carlos's camp, and an Arragonese by birth, has given the lie to the public impression that no poet is born outside of Castile and Andalucia.

While it must be owned with regret that pestilent French novels have found their way in abundance across the Pyrenees, the native literature of Spain, with scarce an exception, maintains its ancient prestige for Christian morality. Long may the word continue to be said!

Want of space prevents any notice of the feuilleton and the drama of Spain at the present day, and other literary topics interesting the Spanish capital. An instance of the interest taken in sound fictional literature in high quarters is furnished by the publication of the complete collected novels of Fernan Caballero, and of Antonio Trueba at the expense of the Queen. Meanwhile Fernan, or rather Doña Cæcilia, (née) de Faber, dwells in the Royal Alcazar of Seville in apartments granted by her queen, employs herself writing an educational work for the junior portion of the roy al family, and enjoys an extensive view from her windows over the old Moorish buildings, the Guadalquiver, and the charming Andalucian landscape through which it winds.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

WITH a woman's tact, Adelaide set to work to provide some powerful attraction for her father; and luckily the proposed formation of a scientific society brought many men of his own way of thinking to town just then: and among them Mr. Spence, and a lord or two of "promotion of knowledge" ce lebrity. Having managed thoroughly to interest her father in this society, Adelaide told him that sea-air would benefit Hester's health, that she intended to go with her for a few weeks to try it, that meantime Mr. Spence would keep him company in the house, which Lucy Fairfield would take charge of. To this Mr. Godfrey, though somewhat taken by surprise, as sented he had already, at Adelaide's request, invited Mr. Spence to spend a few weeks with him; but that gen

tleman was not exactly well pleased to find on his arrival that the ladies were already preparing for departure. He had intended to win a bride during his visit, thinking that even if Hester proved obdurate, he might have a chance with the fair young widow. But the carriage was already at the door. "I shall send the carriage back, father, in a day or two," said Adelaide. "I do not care to have my horses at a livery stable; Hester and I are going to rusticate, ride donkeys, climb hills, and throw pebbles into the sea: we take only Norah with us, and you will have to see that the carriage horses are duly exercised every day." waved her hand in adieu, giving no time for reply. The gentlemen could only bow their assent. Mr. Godfrey was too well acquainted with Adelaide's imperious temperament to think of disputing her commands; he had long

She

learned to respect even her eccentricities. Was she not a duchess?

The journey went on well enough the first day, but on the second, Adelaide surprised her retinue by sending them back with the carriage, telling them she would proceed onward with a hired vehicle. The coachman and footman looked as if they would like to remonstrate, but it had been proved to be somewhat dangerous to argue with this very positive lady, accustomed to obey no will except her own. They submitted in silence, therefore, though much against their inclination. "Now," said Adelaide, when they had departed, "we can enjoy the luxury of being ourselves, unencumbered by state and trappings. Hester, do you think you can teach Norah to call me plain ma'am,' for a little while, till we return home? I am again Adelaide Godfrey, that name will tell nothing and will enable us to act as we like, unobserved by any."

It was not found difficult to initiate Norah into the idea that the great duchess wanted to lay aside her dig nity for a while, for the truth was Norab's difficulty had ever been to get herself to say "your grace," on requisite occasions. These preliminaries settled, the ladies proceeded on their journey, took ready furnished lodgings in H, and prepared to lead the quiet life of the middle classes of society when out on a "bathing for health" excursion.

The location of the Catholic chapel was soon examined, the priest's house communicating with it. In neat straw bonnets trimmed with white, and plain muslin dresses, Adelaide and Hester assisted at the daily mass. In the priest they recognized at once the Abbé Martigni, and in the noble-featured youth who knelt by his side Adelaide traced the likeness, now first becoming dear to her, of her late husband. A day or two elapsed ere she could summon courage to call at the house. At length the moment arrived for the looked-for visit; the sisters had, however, scarcely gained entrance

to the outer court, when their attention was attracted by loud sobs from a little boy and girl, who stood weeping as if their hearts would break. The abbé was speaking to the woman with whom they came; he then turned to the children, and patting them on the heads, said tenderly: "I will come directly, my poor children." He turned hastily away without perceiving his visitors. Adelaide took the boy's hand kindly. "What is the matter ?" she asked. The boy could not speak for weeping, but the woman answered: "His mother, my lady, poor Biddy, shure, she has fallen from her seat, on to the stone pavement, while she was claning the windows of a large house in Queen street, and they say she must die.”

Adelaide whispered, "take me to your mother;" the boy looked at the woman; "aye," said she, "do you and Sissy go home with the ladies, I will wait to show his reverence the way." Led by Adelaide and Hester, the girl and boy threaded back the way to their wretched home, and entered it some time before the priest arrived. In one of those dreary places of large cities called a "blind alley”—where the houses nearly meet in the upper stories, and where the sunshine of heaven is excluded; surrounded by bad smells, and the very atmosphere of which makes us shrink and shudder as we enter the damp and dirty houses, the inhabitants of which are for the most part very dirty also-here in a cellar, darker even than its neighbors, lay a poor widow with four children weeping around her. The woman was barely sensible; her brain and spine were injured; the doctor had said she could not live till night; two women, neighbors, were with her trying "to get sense out of her," as they said. It was the first time the sisters had ever witnessed such a scene. The very walls were covered with dirt; the floor was partly brick, and where these were broken away, the foot slipped into holes of the bare earth; the windows were so covered with dust and cobwebs it was difficult to find out what they

son.

were made of. On a low pallet, on a dirty straw-bed, with no blankets, no sheets, naught save one dirty coverlet, lay a figure with long, dark, lank hair, almost covering her face and perAdelaide approached, but the woman heeded her not; her large dark eyes were set: she moaned from time to time, but spoke not. "Where do you feel pain?" kindly inquired the lady. "Oh! bless you, my lady, she cannot spake," said one of the wonen. "The Lord be praised, here comes his reverence," said the other. "May the sweet Jesus lend her her senses a few minutes, to let her spake to the priest!" The abbé entered; he looked very grave; he sat down on the bed (there was no other seat in the room) to examine the pulse and breathing of the patient. He spoke to her. She answered not. "Try to rouse her," he said to the women. They called to her: "Biddy, dear, shure here's his reverence. Biddy,won't you spake to the priest?" She continued unconscious. "Have you a smelling-bottle?" he said to Adelaide. "We must bring her to consciousness, I wish I had some eau-de Cologne." "I will fetch you some," said Adelaide.

The sisters went out and purchased the eau-de-Cologne, also bread and refreshments for the children; and then in that damp, unwholesome den, the duchess watched long hours by the side of the unfortunate woman. She was unattended too, for Hester had grown faint, and Adelaide had insisted on her going home, and the abbé had left for a while. At length consciousness returned, and the poor mother opened her eyes again. The priest was immediately sent for, as he had desired to be, and the first words she whispered betrayed a consciousness of his presence, for they were: " Bring me my God! O my sweet Jesus, come!" The room was cleared for a few moments. Biddy had been a faithful member of the church-she was a monthly communicant, and the last sacraments brought unspeakable con

"I

Isolation to her. She had remained silent and in prayer for some time. A change came over her, and she motioned the father to come near to her. am dying, father, and but for one thought it were sweet to die. My children-oh! my children! I have struggled father, you know I have struggled to keep them in the true faith, to make them love Jesus and Mary; and now, must they go to the scoffers? must they hear their faith laughed at? O my God! O my Jesus! have pity on my children! Mary, my mother, send a mother to my children. Let me come to thee in love and not in fear. O mother of God, pity my children!" Agony caused the drops to stand on the poor woman's brow; tears streamed down her cheeks; her hands were clasped convulsively together; it was as though the soul were anxious to depart, but delayed in order to plead with heaven in favor of the dear little ones it left behind. There was a solemn pause within that dreary chamber. The dim candle seemed to take a bright unearthly light. The spirits of all were hushed in awe. Surely angels were hovering near, whispering to the mother that her prayer was heard, for a smile broke over the features, the hands unclenched themselves, peace overshadowed the room; and then, as if moved by a power she could not withstand, Adelaide came forward and knelt down in solemnity by the dying woman's side. Taking within her own that now almost lifeless hand, she said: "I promise you, my sister, before God and this holy priest, that I will take care of your children while I live, and that they shall be carefully brought up in the holy Catholic Faith." The woman's eyes were no longer sensible to sight, but her spirit heard the promise. "I thank thee, O my God!" she uttered. Shortly after a ray of indescribable rapture lighted up her features, "Jesus, Mary, I come!" she said; and the soul had flown to its home in the bright, bright realms of everlasting

bliss.