VICTORIAN. It is a dream, sweet child! a waking dream, Of that rare happiness, which even on earth Heaven gives to those it loves. Now art thou rich, And I am now the beggar. PRECIOSA (giving him her hand). CHISPA (aside). I have still And I have two to take. I've heard my grandmother say, that Heaven gives almonds Nothing more. HYPOLITO. So farewell, To you, ye cloistered shades of Alcalá; To you, ye radiant visions of romance, Written in books, but here surpassed by truth, And leaves the Gipsy with the Spanish Student. SCENE VI. A pass in the Guadarrama mountains. Early morning. A Muleteer crosses the stage, sitting sideways on his mule, and lighting a paper cigar with flint and steel. SONG. If thou art sleeping, maiden,37 Awake and open thy door; 'Tis the break of day, and we must away, O'er meadow, and mount, and moor. Wait not to find thy slippers, But come with thy naked feet; We shall have to pass through the dewy grass, And waters wide and fleet. (Disappears down the pass. Enter a Monk. A Shepherd appears on the rocks above.) MONK.-Ave Maria, gratia plena. Olá! good man! SHEPHERD.-Olá! MONK.-Is this the road to Segovia? SHEPHERD.-It is, your reverence. MONK.-How far is it? SHEPHERD.-I do not know. MONK.-What is that yonder in the valley? MONK.-A long way to breakfast. SHEPHERD.-Ay, marry. MONK.-Are there robbers in these mountains? SHEPHERD. Yes, and worse than that. MONK. What? SHEPHERD.-Wolves. MONK.-Santa Maria! Come with me to San Ildefonso, and thou shalt be well rewarded. SHEPHERD.-What wilt thou give me? (They disappear. A mounted Contrabandista passes, wrapped in his SONG. Worn with speed is my good steed, With the white star in thy forehead! Onward, for here comes the Ronda, Ay, jaléo! Ay, ay, jaléo! Ay, jaléo! They cross our track. (Song dies away. Enter PRECIOSA, on horseback, attended by VICTORIAN, HYPOLITO, DON CARLOS, and CHISPA, on foot, and armed.) VICTORIAN. This is the highest point. See, Preciosa, see how all about us Here let us rest. Kneeling, like hooded friars, the misty mountains Oh, glorious sight! PRECIOSA. HYPOLITO.-Most wonderful! VICTORIAN. Most beautiful indeed! And in the vale below, Where yonder steeples flash like lifted halberds, San Ildefonso, from its noisy belfries, Sends up a salutation to the morn, As if an army smote their brazen shields, PRECIOSA.- VICTORIAN. And which way lies At a great distance yonder. Dost thou not see it? PRECIOSA. No. I do not see it. VICTORIAN. The merest flaw that dents the horizon's edge. There, yonder! HYPOLITO. 'Tis a notable old town, Boasting an ancient Roman aqueduct, Wherein, you may remember, poor Gil Blas PRECIOSA. Oh, yes! I see it now, Yet rather with my heart than with mine eyes, The eastern tale, against the wind and tide, Great ships were drawn to the Magnetic Mountains, (She weeps.) But the first ray of sunshine that falls on thee Stay no longer! Alas and CHISPA. I have a father, too, but he is a dead one. alack-a-day! Poor was I born, and poor do I remain. I neither win nor lose. Thus I wag through the world, half the time on foot, and the other half walking; and always as merry as a thunder-storm in the night. And so we plough along, as the fly said to the ox. Who knows what may happen? Patience, and shuffle the cards! I am not yet so bald, that you can see my brains; and perhaps, after all, I shall some day go to Rome, and come back Saint Peter! Benedicite! [Exit. Then enter BARTOLOME wildly, as if in pursuit, with a carbine in his hand.) (A pause BARTOLOME. They passed this way! I hear their horses' hoofs ! Yonder I see them! Come, sweet caramillo, (Fires down the pass.) Ha! ha! Well whistled, my sweet caramillo ! THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. FROM THE SWEDISH OF BISHOP TEGNER. [THE Children of the Lord's Supper, from the Swedish of Bishop Tegnér, enjoys no inconsiderable reputation in the North of Europe, and for its beauty and simplicity merits the attention of English readers. It is an idyl, descriptive of scenes in a Swedish village; and belongs to the same class of poems as the Luise of Voss, and the Hermann und Dorothea of Göthe. But the Swedish poet has been guided by a surer taste than his German predecessors. His tone is pure and elevated; and he rarely, if ever, mistakes what is trivial for what is simple. There is something patriarchal still lingering about rural life in Sweden, which renders it a fit theme for song. Almost primeval simplicity reigns over that Northern land, almost primeval solitude and stillness. You pass out from the gate of the city, and, as if by magic, the scene changes to a wild woodland landscape. Around you are forests of fir. Overhead hang the long, fan-like branches, trailing with moss, and heavy with red and blue cones. Under foot is a carpet of yellow leaves; and the air is warm and balmy. On a wooden bridge you cross a little silver stream, and anon come forth into a pleasant and sunny land of farms. Wooden fences divide the adjoining fields. Across the road are gates, which are opened by troops of children. The peasants take off their hats as you pass; you sneeze, and they cry, "God bless you!" The houses in the villages and smaller towns are all built of hewn timber, and for the most part painted red. The floors of the taverns are strewn with the fragrant tips of fir-boughs. In many villages there are no taverns, and the peasants take turns in receiving travellers. The thrifty housewife shows you into the best chamber, the walls of which are hung round with rude pictures from the Bible; and brings you her heavy silver spoons,-an heirloom,-to dip the curdled milk from the pan. You have oaten cakes baked some months before; or bread with aniseed and coriander in it, or perhaps a little pine-bark. Meanwhile the sturdy husband has brought his horses from the plough, and harnessed them to your carriage. Solitary travellers come and go in uncouth one-horse chaises. Most of them have pipes in their mouths, and hanging around their necks in front a leather-wallet, in which they carry tobacco, and the great bank-notes of the country, as large as your two hands. You meet also groups of Dalekarlian peasant women, travelling homeward or townward in pursuit of work. They walk barefoot, carrying in their hands their shoes, which have high heels under the hollow of the foot, and soles of birch-bark. Frequent, too, are the village churches, standing by the roadside, each in its own little garden of Gethsemane. In the parish-register great events are doubtless recorded. Some old king was christened or buried in that church; and a little sexton, with a rusty key, shows you the baptismal font or the coffin. In the churchyard are a few flowers, and much green grass; and daily the shadow of the church-spire, with its long tapering finger, counts the tombs, representing a dial-plate of human life, on which the hours and minutes are the graves of men. The stones are flat, and large, and low, and perhaps sunken, like the roofs of old houses. On some are armorial bearings; on others only the initials of the poor tenants, with a date, as on the roofs of Dutch cottages. They all sleep with their heads to the westward. Each held a lighted taper in his hand when he died; and in his coffin were placed his little heart-treasures, and a piece of money for his last journey. Babes that came lifeless into the world were carried in the arms of gray-haired old men to the only cradle they ever slept in; and in the shroud of the dead mother were laid the little garments of the child that lived and died in her bosom. And over this scene the village pastor looks from his window in the stillness of midnight, and says in his heart, "How quietly they rest, all the departed!" Near the churchyard-gate stands a poor-box, fastened to a post by iron bands and secured by a padlock, with a sloping wooden roof to keep off the rain. If it be Sunday, the peasants sit on the church-steps and con their psalm-books. Others are coming down the road with their beloved pastor, who talks to them of holy things from beneath his broad-brimmed hat. He speaks of fields and harvests, and of the parable of the sower, that went forth to sow. He leads them to the Good Shepherd, and to the pleasant pastures of the spirit-land. He is their patriarch, and, like Melchizedek, both priest and king, though he has no other throne than the churchpulpit. The women carry psalm-books in their hands, wrapped in silk handkerchiefs, and listen devoutly to the good man's words. But the young men, like Gallio, care for none of these things. They are busy counting the plaits in the kirtles of the peasant girls, their number being an indication of the wearer's wealth. It may end in a wedding. I will endeavour to describe a village-wedding in Sweden. It shall be in summertime, that there may be flowers, and in a southern province, that the bride may be fair. The early song of the lark and of chanticleer are mingling in the clear morning air; and the sun, the heavenly bridegroom with golden locks, arises in the east, just as our earthly bridegroom with yellow hair arises in the south. In the yard there is a sound of voices and trampling of hoofs, and horses are led forth and saddled. The steed that is to bear the bridegroom has a bunch of flowers upon his forehead, and a garland of corn-flowers around his neck. Friends from the neighbouring farms come riding in, their blue cloaks streaming to the wind; and finally the happy bridegroom, with a whip in his hand, and a monstrous nosegay in the breast of his black jacket, comes forth from his chamber; and then to horse and away towards the village where the bride already sits and waits. Foremost rides the spokesman, followed by some half-dozen village musicians. Next comes the bridegroom between his two groomsmen, and then forty or fifty friends and wedding guests, half of them perhaps with pistols and guns in their hands. A kind of baggage-waggon brings up the rear, laden with food and drink for these merry pilgrims. At the entrance of every village stands a triumphal arch, adorned with flowers and ribands and evergreens; and as they pass beneath it, the wedding-guests fire a salute, and the whole procession stops. And straight from every pocket flies a black-jack, filled with punch or brandy. It is passed from hand to hand among the crowd; provisions are brought from the waggon, and after eating and drinking and hurrahing, the procession moves forward again, and at length draws near the house of the bride. Four heralds ride forward to announce that a knight and his attendants are in the neighbouring forest, and pray for hospitality. "How many are you?" asks the bride's father. "At least three hundred," is the answer; and to this the host replies, "Yes; were you seven times as many, you should all be welcome; and in token thereof receive this cup." Whereupon each herald receives a can of ale; and soon after, the whole jovial company comes storming into the farmer's yard, and riding round the may-pole which stands in the centre, alights amid a grand salute and flourish of music. In the hall sits the bride, with a crown upon her head and a tear in her eye, like the Virgin Mary in old church paintings. She is dressed in a red bodice and kirtle, with loose linen sleeves. There is a gilded belt around her waist, and around her neck strings of golden beads and a golden chain. On the crown rests a wreath of wild roses, and below it another of cypress. Loose over her shoulders falls her flaxen hair, and her blue innocent eyes are fixed upon the ground. O thou good soul, thou hast hard hands, but a soft heart! Thou art poor. The very ornaments thou wearest are not thine. They have been hired for this great day Yet art thou rich; rich in |