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the dog was Mouton, who, leaping from the shop of the nail-maker, came yelping with joy, and precipitated himself toward his master. Bernard took him in his arms, embraced him, and began to weep.

The nail-maker however continued to whistle for Médor; but Mouton was Mouton himself once more; again the friend of his friend Bernard; he did not budge.

The nail-maker came out and gave the dog a kick in punishment of his disobedience. Bernard returned the workman a blow of the fist which stunned him. Other workmen came out to take the part of their comrade; a fight took place ; the guard came and took off Bernard, who passed the night at the watch-house.

The next day, being released from confinement, he again presented himself at the shop of the nail-maker, who received him with a menacing air.

"I have not come to quarrel with you,' said Bernard ; on the contrary, I come to beg you to do me a service. And first, I beg your pardon for my quickness of yesterday ; but this dog belongs to me.'

· How ! cried the nail-maker, this dog belong to you! Do you take me for a thief ? Holloa, Martin, did n't I pay eight francs, good current money, for Médor ??

• Monsieur,' replied Bernard, 'I do not mean to say that this dog does not now belong to you, since you have bought and paid for him; but he did belong to me, and I have come to entreat you to consent to sell him to me again.'

Thus saying, Bernard tried to get a peep into the shop to see his only friend.'

No,' said the nail-maker ; Médor suits me very well ; and of a great number that I have tried, he is the only one that I can make do my work. He is too valuable for me to give him up.'

At this moment Bernard caught a glimpse of Mouton, who was in a wheel which he made to revolve. His heart smote him at the sight.

• Monsieur,' said he, · I will give you twenty francs.'

No,' said the nail-maker; I have bought Médor, and I intend to keep him. And beside, it is not for a man who was near murdering me yesterday, that I shall deprive myself of such a useful animal.'

• I am very sorry for what happened yesterday, but it was you who commenced the attack.'

• How! I attack you! I had scarcely laid eyes upon you when you threw yourself upon me like a ruffian, as you are.'

• You gave Mouton a kick !

• And had I not a right to correct my dog, who would not come when I whistled for him ?'

• Ah! Monsieur,' said the soldier; “it was more than a year since we had seen each other!

Mouton here uttered a piercing cry. Bernard was about entering the shop; the nail-maker held him back. Bernard clenched his fist, but restrained himself.

Mon Dieu! what are they doing to Mouton ?'

* Probably he has caught sight of you, stopped in his work, and has deserved chastisement.'


Monsieur,' cried Bernard, I will give you twenty-five francs : it is all I have in the world; I will beg my way back; but that is nothing, if I only have Mouton with me. Here, take my twenty-five francs, I entreat you.'

The workman hesitated a moment. Bernard was breathless. Revenge however gained the ascendancy, and the nailer with emphasis exclaimed:

· No; Médor is useful to me; he is my property ; I have paid for him, and I will keep him. If you were to offer me a hundred francs, you should not have him.'

Bernard tried to speak; the other workmen came out and drove him off. On returning the next day, another piercing cry was heard, but this time Bernard plainly saw its cause. On recognizing his master, the dog had stopped, the wheel ceased to revolve, and the workman, interrupted in his labor, had given him a prick with a red-hot nail-rod. Mouton quickly resumed his gyrations. Bernard again essayed to enter the work-shop; Mouton once more stood still; and a second prick of the hot iron recalled him to his new duties.

Bernard departed with swelling heart. He could not even pass by the nailer's workshop, without exposing Mouton to cruel torments. He did not return the next day.

And what then ?' • He never came back.' • He returned then to his regiment ?'

* No; he was never again heard of; and no one ever knew what be. came of him.'


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Why sighs the breeze by Newstead? why that wail
Of freezing terror, borne on the night air;
The simultaneous voice of winds and waves,
Mourning their poet lost? Upon the ear,
It passes by, with distant, saddening moan,
As though each voice itself were one deep sigh,
For Friendship, Love and Genius from that bower
Of beauty, gone forever!

The deep sea
On Arran's rocky shore hath caught the sound,
And, in the restless moaning of its waves,
That chafe their stormy barriers, when the might
Of winds is on them, loud laments for thee.
Where in its castled beauty flows the Rhine,
Murmuring genly by its sweet Rhine-song,
Breathing soft tales of love and chivalry,
In lingering accents to the vesper-chime
Of convent bells by Munster and Cologne;
Bright, glorious river! where the vine-clad hills
Smile in the sunbeams of gay sunny France,
Bending beneath their purple vintage; there
Are memories of thee!

Adna's wave
Calls for thee in its distant ocean-swell,
Murmuring, as sigh its billows on the strand,

Repeating the hoarse echoes of thy name.
Thou dreamer! who, by its romantic shore
Didst lay thee down and sleep, or the world tired,
Lulled by its voice to slumber. But that dream,
So gloriously beautial, the world
Enchanted heard, and sighed to hear. In vain!
No longer by the Adriatic's shore,
Or where the Tiber pours his urn, and rolls
His yellow sands, or by the lingering gloom
Thai falls from Rome's proud turrets, does he dwell
Who mused upon their greatness.

On that shore,
Lara, which was the object of thy dreams,
When first the light of song broke o'er them, and
Thy hand assayed the poet's lyre; which blent
With every aspiration of thy soul:
By far-famed Vissilonghi, comes a voice
Of winds and waves at strife, that distant sweep
With touch of mortal sadness past, and they
Alone do know the secret of thy rest.

Angust, 1844.

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In the preceding legends has been darkly shadowed out a true story of the woes of Spain. It is a story full of wholesome admonition, rebuking the insolence of human pride, and the vanity of human ambi. tion, and showing the futility of all greatness that is not strongly based on virtue. We have seen, in brief space of time, most of the actors in this historic drama disappearing, one by one, from the scene, and going down, conqueror and conquered, to gloomy and unhonored graves. It remains to close this eventful history, by holding up as a signal warning, the fate of the traitor, whose perfidious scheme of vengeance brought ruin on his native land.

Many and various are the accounts given in ancient chronicles of the fortunes of Count Julian and his family, and many are the traditions on the subject still extant among the populace of Spain, and perpetuated in those countless ballads sung by peasants and muleteers, which spread a singular charm over the whole of this romantic land.

He who has travelled in Spain in the true way in which the country ought to be travelled ; sojourning in its remote provinces; rambling among the rugged defiles and secluded valleys of its mountains; and making himself familiar with the people in their out-of-the-way hamlets, and rarely visited neighborhoods, will remember many a group of travellers and muleteers, gathered of an evening around the door or the spacious hearth of a mountain venta, wrapped in their brown cloaks, and listening with grave and profound attention to the long historic bal. lad of some rustic troubadour, either recited with the true ore rotundo and modulated cadences of Spanish elocution, or chanted to the tinkling

of a guitar. In this way, he may have heard the doleful end of Count Julian and his family recounted in traditionary rhymes, that have been handed down from generation to generation. The particulars, however, of the following wild legend are chiefly gathered from the writings of the pseudo Moor, Rasis: how far they may be safely taken as historic facts it is impossible now to ascertain; we must content ourselves, therefore, with their answering to the exactions of poetic justice.

As yet every thing had prospered with Count Julian. He had gratified his vengeance; he had been successful in his treason, and had acquired countless riches from the ruin of his country. But it is not outward success that constitutes prosperity. The tree flourishes with fruit and foliage while blasted and withering at the heart. Wherever he went, Count Julian read hatred in every eye. The Christians cursed him as the cause of all their woe; the Moslems despised and distrusted him as a traitor. Men whispered together as he approached, and then turned away in scorn; and mothers snatched away their children with horror if he offered to caress them. He withered under the execration of his fellow men; and last, and worst of all, he began to loathe himself. He tried in vain to persuade himself that he had but taken a justifiable vengeance: he felt that no personal wrong can justify the crime of treason to one's country.

For a time, he sought in luxurious indulgence to soothe, or forget, the miseries of the mind. He assembled round him every pleasure and gratification that boundless wealth could purchase; but all in vain. He had no relish for the dainties of his board; music had no charm wherewith to lull his soul, and remorse drove slumber from his pillow. He sent to Ceuta for his wife Frandina, his daughter Florinda, and his youthful son Alarbot ; hoping in the bosom of his family to find that sympathy and kindness which he could no longer meet with in the world. Their presence, however, brought him no alleviation. Florinda, the daughter of his heart, for whose sake he had undertaken this signal vengeance, was sinking a victim to its effects. Wherever she went, she found herself a bye-word of shame and reproach. The outrage she had suffered was imputed to her as wantonness, and her calamity was magnified into a crime. The Christians never mentioned her name without a curse, and the Moslems, the gainers by her misfortune, spake of her only by the appellation of Cava, the vilest epithet they could apply to woman.

But the opprobrium of the world was nothing to the upbraiding of her own heart. She charged herself with all the miseries of these disastrous wars; the deaths of so many gallant cavaliers; the conquest and perdition of her country. The anguish of her mind preyed upon the beauty of her person. Her eye, once soft and tender in its expression, became wild and haggard ; her cheek lost its bloom, and became hollow and pallid ; and at times there was desperation in her words. When her father sought to embrace her, she withdrew with shuddering from his arms; for she thought of his treason, and the ruin it had brought upon Spain. Her wretchedness increased after her return to her native country, until it rose to a degree of frenzy. One day when she was walking with her parents in the garden of their palace, she entered a tower, and, having barred the door, ascended to the battlements. From thence she called to them in piercing accents, expressive of her insupportable anguish and desperate determination. • Let this city,' said she, be henceforth called Malacca, in memorial of the most wretched of women, who therein put an end to her days.' So saying, she threw herself headlong from the tower, and was dashed to pieces. The city, adds the ancient chronicler, received the name thus given it, though afterwards softened to Malaga, which it still retains, in memory of the tragical end of Florinda.

The Countess Frandina abandoned this scene of wo, and returned to Ceuta, accompanied by her infant son. She took with her the remains of her unfortunate daughter, and gave them honorable sepulture in a mausoleum of the chapel belonging to the citadel. Count Julian departed for Carthagena, where he remained plunged in horror at this doleful event.

About this time, the cruel Suleiman, having destroyed the family of Muza, had sent an Arab general, named Alahor, to succeed Abdalasis as emir or governor of Spain. The new emir was of a cruel and sus. picious nature, and commenced his sway with a stern severity that soon made those under his command look back with regret to the easy rule of Abdalasis. He regarded with an eye of distrust the renegado Christians who had aided in the conquest, and who bore arms in the service of the Moslems; but his deepest suspicions fell upon Count Julian. • He has been a traitor to his own countrymen,' said he : how can we be sure that he will not prove traitor to us ?'

A sudden insurrection of the Christians who had taken refuge in the Asturian mountains quickened his suspicions, and inspired him with fears of some dangerous conspiracy against his power. In the height of his anxiety, he bethought him of an Arabian sage named Yuza, who had accompanied him from Africa. This son of Science was withered in form, and looked as if he had outlived the usual term of mortal life. In the course of his studies and travels in the East, he had collected the knowledge and experience of ages; being skilled in astrology and, it is said, in necromancy, and possessing the marvellous gift of prophecy or divination. To this expounder of mysteries Alahor applied, to learn whether any secret treason menaced his safety.

The astrologer listened with deep attention and overwhelming brow to all the surmises and suspicions of the emir; then shut himself up to consult his books, and commune with those supernatural intelligences subservient to his wisdom. At an appointed hour, the emir sought him in his cell. It was filled with the smoke of perfumes: squares and cir. cles and various diagrams were described upon the floor; and the astrologer was poring over a scroll of parchment covered with cabalistic characters. He received Alahor with a gloomy and sinister aspect; pretending to have discovered fearful portents in the heavens, and to have had strange dreams and mystic visions.

• Oh emir,' said he, .be on your guard! Treason is around you, and in your path : your life is in peril. Beware of Count Julian and his family.'

• Enough,' said the emir. "They shall all die ! Parents and chil. dren-all shall die !

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