Stark in the bosom of that polar land, Before their cold breath grows that robber band: But what can teach Ambition? Pride subdue ? And, in a living Chariot fiery, Convoyed thee straight triumphant up the sky- A still small voice of Mercy, calm and clear, Descended-" Peace on Earth! Goodwill to Men!"- END OF PART I. MENECHILDA, THE IDIOT OF MADRID. IF, at the age of twenty, you had belonged to that splendid army, which, after painful marches, arrived at Madrid during the summer of 1823– of that army, as gallant from discipline and array, as if it had just emerged from the barracks to go on parade-you would have felt proud at walking through the streets of the capital of Spain, decked in that elegant French uniform, which had neither the amplitude nor tastelessness of the inhabitants of the South, nor the stiffness of those of the North. You would there have seen the young French officers, during their leisure hours, inundating the long vistas of the Prado, or the now silent alleys of the Retiro. You would have witnessed elegant cavalry officers lounging around the luxurious gilt carriages which slowly bore the beautiful denizens of palaces situated in the streets D'Alcala or San-Bernardo. At the same time you would have seen others, who, seated on the low chairs at the foot of time-worn sycamores, derived an inexpressible pleasure in conversing, in an under-tone, with the acquaintances they had formed but a few days previously. Every one, at the end of a week or two, had created for himself a new family, in accordance with his rank, his station, and his tastes; and these new relations interchanged attentions and affections. At the corner of the Calle-Mayor, and of that little street which leads to the square of Guadalajara, under the arcades where are sold the fine Portuguese oranges, the citrons and lemons of Majorca, with the dates and pomegranates of Andalusia, were to be seen numerous groups of officers belonging to the garrison of Madrid. They were pressing towards a small door which formed the entrance to a tobacconist's. Adopting immediately the customs of the new country in which they were destined to reside for some time, the Frenchmen smoked like the Spaniards, and regaled themselves with the exquisite flavour from the leaves of Havannah. But it was far less the quality of the merchandise sold them which drew the greater part of the garrison to this obscure shop, than the fine eyes of Menechilda, the most beautiful girl in Madrid, who, the very next day after the arrival of the French troops, had assembled around her a numerous court. French military men have a peculiar instinct. in searching out beautiful women from amongst their most hidden re cesses, At the end of three weeks, Menechilda had made her choice. If she was still visited by gallants, they came to admire the fine shape, the brilliant eyes, and the many graces of the pretty shopwoman of the Calle-Mayor, but without hope of receiving any other encouragement than a smile for all their attentions. For, I repeat it, Menechilda had made her choice; and the fair Andalusian had voluntarily bestowed her heart, and did not conceive that it was right to accept homage from any one but him whom she had singled from all the others. It was Frank, subaltern in one of those regiments of light cavalry where the dress is so handsome, with the robe laid across the shoulder, the hanging sword-knot so brilliant and glittering, and the curved sabre dangling and sounding against the uneven pavement. It was Frank of Alsace, with the light hair of the children of the Rhine, blue eyes, and well-turned moustache, who had superseded the numerous admirers of Menechilda. Frank, the gallant soldier, had sworn that he loved no other than the fair Andalusian,—and he believed so. On him were bestowed the first sighs, the virgin love, and all the thoughts of Menechilda. When Frank walked across the Calle-Mayor, he stopped at the house of Menechilda. His horse, Alkirk, was tied to one of the trees in the street of Guadalajara. There the young girl, reconducting Frank under the chestnut-trees, always carried some cakes, or azucarillos, to the courser. She then stroked his powerful neck, or passed her little fingers through his mane; and you would have said, by his neighing and pawing, and chewing his bit, that the steed felt proud of his master's lady love. Frank every where escorted Menechilda. He was with her in the oakwalks of the Retiro, and upon the green banks of the Mançanarès, under those tall plantain trees, which yield a shade so thick and enviable, and from the gate of San Vincente to the bridge of Segovia. He took her also to mass at the chapel of Miestra Señora d'Atocha, and to the majestic ceremonies of the church of San-Isidro, where the organ breathes in gentle murmurs, or bursts in thunder under the arches of a building the richest and most ornamented in Madrid. When kneeling upon the mats before one of the saints, Menechilda leant forward and struck her gentle bosom, and behind her stood Frank, immoveable, leaning upon his sabre, with his head uncovered, and his eyes fixed upon the ceiling of the temple, you would have believed you saw a symbolical group of statuary, representing Strength and Religion, or the Angel of War protecting Weakness. Menechilda prayed to the Almighty for Frank. The Spanish girl confounded in her thoughts God N. S.-VOL. I. H and her lover, and her prayers were ardently directed to heaven; for she believed she should purify herself completely by frequent adorations at the shrine of Santa-Barbara. Innocent mixture of religious belief and human failings, which revealed a secret confidence in the goodness of the Eternal! One day, Frank was passing in full gallop before Menechilda: his horse slipped upon the shining pavement, plunged, fell, and then rolled in the dust. Frank struck his head violently, and remained motionless, pale, and senseless. Taken into Menechilda's apartments, he was treated with the most tender care. After some hours, he recovered from his swoon, and awaked in the arms of his mistress. The fright which the young girl had sustained roused in her bosom a deep feeling of love, the force of which she had not yet experienced. "I shall not know how to evince my affection," said she to Frank; "if you are faithless to me I shall die; if you quit me I shall lose my senses. Always keep your promise with me, and do not ever leave me." Frank swore upon the honour of the number of his regiment that he would ever love her, and that he would remain with her for ever. Four months had elapsed since the French troops entered Madrid. Already a report was circulated, that one division was about to make a retrograde movement, and retrace its way to France. The regiment to which Frank belonged must return among the first. This news was received with indifference on the part of the Alsacian. He imagined, however, that it might give pain to Menechilda: he therefore acted a sensible, natural, and reasonable part; but one which will appear full of barbarity to those who remember that the Spaniard had conceived a violent passion for him. A detachment of hussars were to set off some days in advance, and precede the division. Frank went with them. He determined to conceal his departure from Menechilda. Certainly he was a man full of feeling and delicacy, this Frank, the Alsacian subaltern of hussars. He departed. The evening before he had left Menechilda with the usual salutation. She did not see him the day after. She attributed his absence to his military duties. Two days were passed in painful expectancy, in inexpressible anguish. She at last heard the terrible news-the departure of Frank for his own country! return to Madrid. She would never see him again! that she wept? No: not a tear bedewed her eye-lid; but her lips became pale and trembling, her forehead burning. A thousand ideas passed through her brain; but one alone prevailed. She would see Frank, and die. He would never May be you think She set off, traversed Madrid, arrived at the gate of Fuencarral, and walked a long, long time, upon that white and dusty road which passes through a plain, so waste, so uniform and scorching, that you cannot find a single tree to shade you from the sun; not a village or hamlet to repose in. The sun darted his rays upon a head in which a frightful discase was gendering-a complete disorganisation of the thinking power -Menechilda became insane. From that moment she was inexhaustible. The young and delicate girl, who used to be fatigued when she went from the Retiro to the Calle-Mayor, walked all the day without nourishment, without rest. She passed the first night under the portico of a church at Buitrago. The next day she came up to the rear-guard of the division, and walked for some time confounded pell-mell with the servants and followers of the army, and, it must be said, in hearing of their gross proposals, of their brutal jokes. At the end of a few days her feet were bare, mangled, and bleeding; her dishevelled hair fell, covered with dust, upon her neck, which was now wasted by suffering; her skin was tanned and blistered by a burning sun. Menechilda, the pretty Menechilda, no one knew her now, but under the name of the Idiot of Madrid. The soldiers bawled, "Ah! Idiot!" She looked at them stedfastly, hung down her head, and walked on, continually! Alas! if she could but have given vent to a flood of tears! One evening she arrived at Toloso, and went to pass the night under the fluted pilasters which sustain the porch of San Antonio. The poor Idiot of Madrid felt cold. The moon shone bright, and the weather was clear; but the night was as damp and frosty as the previous day had been oppressive. Without having tasted food for two days, Menechilda crouched down against one of the interior columns of the arch of entrance. She was bewildered, without strength, without senses. She sunk under her misfortunes; but could no longer collect a thought, and had forgotten both the pleasures and the misfortunes of the past. Frank was even effaced from her memory. She began to sleep in a heavy, fatiguing slumber, interrupted with startings, when the great clock of San Antonio sounded twelve. A smaller clock, with a shriller sound, reverberated several minutes. It was the hour of prayer of the monks in the adjoining convent. This sound roused her from her lethargy. She quickly rose, and directed her steps into the street of Arguillos, opposite the church where she had passed the night. After several turns she came upon the bridge which joins Toloso to the other bank, in front of the route to Navarre. The Deba pours along its limpid waves with noise and bluster, as if annoyed to find its course obstructed by the fragments of rock which are broken off from the high mountains around the base of which it winds in a thousand turns. Sometimes it widens into an open pool, letting you see, as though through a crystal, the green plants which taper off in emerald ribbons; at other times, motionless, deep, and gloomy, like the rocks which are reflected in it, it seems to stop its course, in order to rise, foaming, sparkling, and brilliant, and fall in showers at the foot of the oaks and elm trees which border the meadows between the road to Madrid, and the chain of mountains which extend from the fountains of the Araquil to the outlet of the Orrio. They One She At the moment when the poor girl arrived upon the bridge, two drunken soldiers were making their way to their quarters. cried out, "This is the Idiot of Madrid," and tried to catch her. of them seized her, squeezed her hand violently and kissed her. escaped from their hands, jumped upon the parapet of the bridge, and threw herself into the river. The soldiers were frightened and fled. The poor girl fell upon a point of a rock, and fractured her skull. The shock was terrible. This short moment of intense agony brought back a sun-beam of reason, and recalled to her memory four months of joy, of happiness, and of misconduct. The water, which ran rapid and bubbling beneath the bridge, threatened to engulph her. She wished to recal the existence which was about to cease, and to struggle back to life. She tried to scramble up the rock; but it was worn by the waves of the Deba, polished, covered with slippery mosses, and viscous weeds. Sliding down, she raised her right hand to make the sign of the cross. She repented before God: her lips murmured, "Ave Maria purissima !” No one returned the salutation of her country; no one replied "Sin peccado concebida !" Her inmost thought God alone knew. This was a secret between the Creator and his helpless creature-between the master and the servant-between her who had sinned and Him who grants mercy. She disappeared. DEATH AND LIFE. BY J. W. MARSTON, ESQ. DEATH. VICTORY! Victory! I am the crowned king O'er earth and sea extends. O rocks! that once did rear Can ye thus disappear? O ancient towers of strength! That scoff'd me many a day; Has this lean hand, at length, Graven upon your crumbling walls "Decay ?" O sturdy oaks! that cast Your shade o'er Normans as they past; Ye, that your leaves have shed On many a hero's bed, And deck'd in verdant vest The gray-friar's tranquil rest Where ye were rooted is the plough-share sent, O Babylon! and ye Cities of olden time! 2. Within ye once was revelry, |