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which is still found in the best feelings of a Spaniard, when too much exalted, that the reader will, we hope, excuse us for the shock which we cannot spare him in relating our concluding story.
A crowd of relatives had flocked to receive Don Pero Nuñez. The joy which his return, and the meeting of so many near relatives had kindled, made the whole house ring with jokes and laughter. This riotous mirth, however, had the effect of wakening a suspicion in the knight's mind, which seems to have disturbed him since his battle with the Frenchman. In consequence of a national prejudice, which time has scarcely weakened, a person who is blind of one eye, becomes an object of scorn among the Spaniards. The appellation of Tuerto adheres inseparably to his name, and he is subject to a certain degree of suspicion, as if so visible a mark were intended to caution others against something mischievous and unsafe in his disposition.[1] Don Pero Nuñez became more and more uneasy at the continual laughter which prevailed among his visitors; till, unable to bear a mirth of which he suspected he was the object, and in which his own wife seemed to join, he retired to his chamber, and threw himself on the bed, hiding his head under his cloak. The wife, observing Nuñez's long absence, went after him, and was alarmed to find him in this state. Being assured that he was not ill, she would not leave him till, though with shame, he had confessed the cause of his grief. She then left the room, and had not been out many minutes, when, entering again, she hung upon her husband's neck, her face discoloured with blood. "My husband," she said, "if any one should be so dead to honour, so heartless, as to be jocular on the subject of your lost eye, I shall be sure to share the scorn: for my hands have done that on myself which you suffered from the lance of your enemy."[2] B. W.
SONNET.
Answer to "The Rhine Revisited," in a contemporary publication.
'Twas not a dream—a golden lustre played
On the pure bosom of the western sea,
And gently from the calm wave's deep-blue shade
There rose a swell, which sounded mournfully
As low it trembled o'er the shipwreck'd shore,
Or echoed midst the trees which darkened near,
Charming the eye, that soon would gaze no more
Upon its loveliness, its witchery there.
It was no dream. The sun-beam slept profound
On the wide main, and from the murmuring grove
Borne onwards, came the wild soft note of love,
While sea-birds flew the ie caves around:
And though so fair, so beautiful, this scene,
Still Memory whisper'd—all is not a Dream.
- ↑ The reader will observe that one of the three Regents during the minority of Don Alfonzo XI. whose names we mentioned at the beginning of this article, is called Don Juan el Tuerto. Neither his royal descent, nor his power, could exempt him from this scornful surname.
- ↑ As a literal translation from antiquated Spanish would preserve nothing of the original style but its quaintness, we have used considerable freedom in rendering it into English. The story, in the words of the Spanish author, will be found in No. IV. of the Variedades o Mensagero de Londres, published by Mr. Ackermann, in the present month.