Chapter X: Part 10

Dr. Pertinax gave way to the supplications of the commission, and consented to survey all the machinery and magic, with which they might deceive his eyes, said he, but not his mind.

“My dear fellow, don’t be downhearted,” said St. Thomas, as he sewed some wings on to the Doctor’s shoulder-blades: “Look at me, I was an unbeliever, and....”

“Sir,” replied Pertinax, “you lived in very different times, the world was then in its theological age, as Comte said, and I have passed through all those ages and have lived side by side with the ”_Criticisms of Pure Reason_“ and the ”_Philosophia Ultima_“; so that I believe in nothing, not even in the mother who bore me; I only believe in this, inasmuch as I know that I am, I am conscious, but without falling into the preconception of confounding representation with essence, which is unattainable, that is to say, excepting the being conscious, putting aside all that is not myself (and all being in myself) I _know_, by knowing that everything is represented (and I as everything else) by simply appearing to be what it is, and the reality of which is only investigated by another volitive and effective representation, a harmful representation, being irrational and the original sin of the Fall; therefore, this apparent desire undone, nothing remains to explore, since not even the will for knowledge remains.”

Only St. Job heard the last word of this discourse, and, scratching his bald crown with his potsherd, he replied—

“The truth is, you savants are the very devil for talking nonsense, and do be offended, but those things, whether in your head or imagination, as you please, will give you warm work to see them in reality as they are.”

“Forward! forward!” shouted Diogenes at this moment; “the sophists denied me motion, and you know how I proved it; forward!”

And they began their flight through boundless space. Boundless? Pertinax thought it so, and said—

“Do you expect to show me all the Universe?”

“Certainly,” replied St. Thomas.

“But since the Universe—seemingly, of course—is infinite ... how can you conceive the limit of space?”

“Conceive it, with difficulty; but see it, easily. Aristoteles sees it every day, for he takes the most terrible walks with his disciples, and certainly he complained that the space for walking ended before the disputes of his peripatetics.”

“But how can space have an end? If there is a limit, it will have to be nothing; but as nothing does not exist, it cannot form a boundary; for a boundary is something, and something apart from what is bounded.”

St. Job, who was already growing impatient, cut him short—

“Enough, enough of conversation! but you had better bend your head so as not to knock it, for we have arrived at that limit of space which cannot be conceived, and if you take a step more, you will break your head against that nothing you are denying.”

And effectually; Pertinax saw there was nothing more beyond; wished to feel it, and bumped his head.

“But this can’t be!” he exclaimed, while St. Thomas applied to the bump one of those pieces of money which pagans take with them on their journey to the other world.

There was no help for it, they had to turn back, the Universe had come to an end. But ended or not, how beautiful shone the firmament with its millions and millions of stars!

“What is that dazzling light shining above there, higher than all the constellations? Is it some nebula unknown to the astronomers of the earth?”

“A pretty nebula!” replied St. Thomas; “that is the celestial Jerusalem, from which we have just descended, and what is shining so are the diamond walls round the city of God.”

“So that those marvels related by Chateaubriand, and which I thought unworthy of a serious man...?”

“Are perfectly true, my friend. And now let us go and rest on that star passing below there, for i’ faith, I am tired of so much going backwards and forwards.”

“Gentlemen, I am not presentable,” said Pertinax; “I have not yet doffed my shroud, and the inhabitants of this star will laugh at such indecorous garb....”

The three Ciceroni of Heaven all burst out laughing together. Diogenes was the first to exclaim—

“Though I should lend you my lantern, you would not meet a living soul in that star, nor in any other star.”

“Of course,” added Job, very seriously, “there are no inhabitants except on the Earth; don’t talk such nonsense.”

“This I cannot believe!”

“Well, let us go and show him,” said St. Thomas, who was already growing angry. And they journeyed from star to star, and in a few minutes had traversed all the Milky Way and the most distant starry systems. Nothing, not a sign of life. They did not even encounter a flea, for all the numerous globes they surveyed. Pertinax was horrified.

“This is the Creation!” he exclaimed; “what solitude! Come, show me the Earth; I want to see that privileged region; by what I conjecture, all modern cosmography is a lie, the Earth is still, and the centre of all the celestial vault; and round her revolve the suns and planets, and she is the largest of all the spheres....”

“Not at all,” replied St. Thomas; “astronomy is not mistaken; the earth revolves round the sun, and you will soon see how insignificant she appears. Let us see if we can find her amongst all that crowd of stars. _You_ look for her, St. Job; _you_ have plenty of patience.”

“I will!” exclaimed the Saint of the potsherd, as he hooked his spectacles round his ears.

“It is like looking for a needle in a bottle of hay!... I see her! there she goes! look! look how small! she looks like a microbe!”

Pertinax looked at the Earth and sighed.

“And are there no inhabitants except on that mote?”

“Nowhere else.”

“And the rest of the Universe is empty?”

“Empty.”

“Then of what use are such millions and millions of stars?”

“As lamps. They are the public illumination of the Earth. And they are also useful for singing praises to the Almighty. And they serve as eke-outs in poetry, and you can’t deny they are very pretty.”

“But all empty?”

“Every one!”

Pertinax remained in the air for a good time sad and thoughtful. He felt ill. The edifice of his “_Philosophia Ultima_” was threatening ruin. Upon seeing that the Universe was so different from what reason demanded, he began to believe in the Universe. That brusque lesson of reality was the rude and cold contact with material which his spirit needed in order to believe. “It is all so badly arranged, but perhaps it is true!” thus thought the philosopher. Suddenly he turned to his companions, and asked them—“Does Hell exist?”

The three sighed, made gestures of compassion, and replied—

“Yes; it exists.”

“And condemnation is eternal?”

“Eternal.”

“A solemn injustice!”

“A terrible reality!” replied the three in chorus.

Pertinax wiped his brow with his shroud. He was perspiring philosophy. He began to believe that he was in the other world. The injustice of everything convinced him. “Then the cosmogony and the theogony of my infancy was the truth?”

“Yes; the first and only philosophy.”

“Then I am not dreaming?”

“No.”

“Confession! confession!” groaned the philosopher; and he swooned into the arms of Diogenes.

* * * * *

When he awoke, he found himself in his bed. His old servant and the priest were by his side.

“Here is the confessor, sir, for whom you asked....”

Pertinax sat up, stretched out both hands, and looking at the confessor with frightened eyes, cried—

“I say and repeat, that all is pure representation, and that I am the victim of an unworthy farce.”——And he expired really.

“_Solos de Clarin._” _Leopoldo Alas._

_A FEW THOUGHTS ON LIGHT._

Man has invented artificial light, he inferred it from natural light; he has in the same way invented artificial truths, inferring them from supreme truths.

The sun appears every day illuminating space to show us the heavens.

In Madrid the gas is lighted every night that we may see the earth.

Man is to God what a box of matches is to the sun.

Human pride can also write its Genesis.

It can begin like this—

“One day man said—‘Fiat lux,’ and there were matches.“

Henceforward a blaze of light which illumines us perfectly.

The light invented by men is worth more than the light created by God: let us see how.

A thousand sunbeams cost nothing; one box of matches costs a halfpenny.

”_Hojas Sueltas._” _José Selgas._

_EPIGRAMS._

TO A CRITIC.

Thy foolish criticism
On the plays composed by me
Wounds not my egotism;
But a sore, indeed, ’t would be,
Should they be praised by thee.

_Leandro Fernandez de Moratin_, 1760-1828.

TO A TRANSLATOR OF THE ÆNEID.

In bad Spanish great Vergil
You dare to asperse.
And tell us most closely
You follow his verse:
If to imitate Maro
Is your real intent,
Pray will it’s to burn
By _your_ last testament.

* * * * *

The mother of young Cupid,
Once her baby sleepless lay,
Fearful lest the child should perish,
Weeping loud in her dismay,
Quickly to the gods repair’d.
Grave Morpheus took it in his care,
Laid it in the bed of Hymen,—
In a trice it slumber’d there.

* * * * *

Love, Morpheus, and I
Shared a maiden fair;
Love took her heart
As his due share,
And Morpheus liked
Her sweet eyes best
So I for myself
Claimed all the rest.

* * * * *

The Devil tried hard
Job’s faith to impair,
Loss of property, children,
And health he’d to bear,
But failing to tempt him
To curse his own life,
To make him despair
He left him his wife.

* * * * *

A MATHEMATICIAN,
García by name.
Was thus sadly address’d
By the wife of the same:
How is’t you acquir’d
Such a great reputation
And are so behindhand
In Multiplication?

_Pablo de Jérica._

* * * * *

THE SUN-DIAL.

A sun-dial was made by some natives near Quito,
Who thought it so fine (in Spanish “bonito”),
They put up a roof to protect it from rain,
Saying, “We never shall have such a sun-dial again.”
But of use it was none, since the roof hid the sun.
And I said in my heart, ’tis a nice counterpart
Of good laws for our weal
Spoil’d by fools’ silly zeal!

_J. E. Hartzenbusch_, 1806-1880.

_FOLK-TALES._

THE GIRL WHO WANTED THREE HUSBANDS.

A certain Pacha had a daughter who had three suitors. When her father asked her which of the three she would marry, she replied she wanted all three. To this he replied it was impossible, no woman ever had three husbands; but the girl, who was wilful and spoilt, persisted, and at last the good Pacha in despair called the three suitors before him and told them he would give his daughter to whichever returned with the most wonderful thing within a year’s time. The three suitors set out in quest, and after vainly wandering about the world for many months, one of them met a witch who showed him a looking-glass in which you saw whatever you wished to see. This he bought from her. The second suitor also met this witch, who sold him a strip of carpet, which, when you sat upon it, carried you to wherever you wished to go; while the third suitor bought from her a salve, the which, when applied to the lips of a newly laid out corpse returned the body to life. Now the three suitors met, and showed each other their respective finds.

“Let us wish to see our fair mistress,” said one; and they wished and looked into the mirror, when, lo and behold! they saw her dead, laid out in her coffin ready for burial. They were overwhelmed with grief.

“My salve will restore her to life,” said the third suitor, “but by the time we get to her she will have been long buried and devoured by worms.”

“But my carpet will take us to her at once,” cried the second suitor, and so they all sat down on it and wished.

In a trice they found themselves in the Pacha’s palace, and the salve was applied to the dead girl’s lips. She immediately came to life again, sat up, and looking at the Pacha said—

“I was right, you see, father, when I wanted all three.”

_(Abridged from) Fernan Caballero._

PÉR SOLUTION OF THE DIFFICULTY.

There was in the village of Abadiano a certain farmer called Chomin, who had made a prodigious fortune by his devotion to a number of saints of both sexes.

When first married he possessed nothing beyond his wife and a dog; but it occurred to him to make perpetual family saints of St. Isidro, patron of farmers; St. Antonio, advocate of animals; St. Roque, enemy of the plague; Santa Lucia, protector of the sight; St. Barbara, enemy of thunderbolts and lightning, and other innumerable saints, to each of whom he offered up every night their respective Pater Noster and Ave Maria, and certes, he struck a mine of wealth by so doing, for from that moment he began to prosper, and in such a way that after a few years he had the best house and farm in the district of Gaztelua.

In Chomin’s house even a headache was unknown; the wheat, which in Biscay generally produces sixteen bushels for one sown, produced twenty-four for Chomin; the maize, which nearly always produces thirty for one, produced forty for Chomin; not a single head of his cattle had come to grief, although he had many, and when a storm burst upon the heights of Gorbea and Amboto, and the lightning flashed towards Abadiano, it always took good care to make a little round so as to avoid passing over Chomin’s buildings and property.

Chomin had a servant by name Péru, to whom he had promised his daughter, Mari-Pepa, with whom Péru was in love, and verily not without motive, for she was the prettiest girl that came to dance on Sundays in the market-place of Abadiano.

Péru was a hard worker, and as honest as the day; but he had a very short memory, and was not over-intelligent; it was related of him among other things, how one day that Péru had to go to San Antonio de Urquiola, his master having commissioned him to kiss the Saint for him, Péru, instead of giving the kiss to the Saint, gave it to the Saint’s pig, which always accompanies him. But in spite of this, if he was in love with Mari-Pepa, she was still more in love with him, for we know what women are like; they may dislike a man for being poor, ugly, or wicked, but they don’t mind how stupid he is.

One night, the eve of St. James, after the whole family, under the direction of Chomin, had told their rosary, with an extra rosary of Pater Nosters and Ave Marias to the patron saints of the house, Chomin said to Péru—

“Listen, Péru. To-morrow begins the fair of Basurto, and I am thinking of going there to see if I can buy a pair of bullocks to rear and train, so that when you and Mari-Pepa marry you may have a good yoke of oxen, for it is already time to think of settling you.”

Péru and Mari-Pepa, upon hearing this, blushed as red as cherries, and looked at each other with eyes dancing with joy.

Chomin continued, “I shall be away for at least a couple of days, for until I come across a pair which will be the pride of the country I wo come back. Meanwhile, Péru, you will have to take my place at prayers, and be careful not to forget the Pater Noster and Ave Maria for each of the Saints who protect us.”

“Don’t you worry about it,” replied Péru, “not a single one shall be forgotten.”

“I hope not, Péru, for, you see, we owe them a great deal. My wife and I had only one rag in front and another behind when we made them our Saints, and to-day.... Well, you shall see a good few ounces of gold from the sweepings of our stables on your and Mari-Pepa’s wedding-day! But suppose you omit, for example, St. Barbara and her corresponding Pater Noster and Ave Maria, and a tempest bursts over us.... Lord Jesus, at the very thought my legs tremble! Now let us see, Péru, if you know by heart all the saints to whom you must pray.”

Péru recited the names of all the patrons of the family to Chomin’s satisfaction, but the latter burdened his fealty in the accomplishment of his task, by threatening that he should not become his son-in-law if he did a single saint out of their respective Pater Noster and Ave Maria, which omission would be sure to be found out by the ill-luck which would certainly happen to the family, house, property, or cattle.

The next morning, after he had attended early mass, Chomin took his way to the fair, now certain that Péru would not pass over a single saint. Poor Péru took the charge so much to heart, and above all the threat, that he passed the whole night and next morning in trying to find a sure way of not forgetting a single saint, but with no avail, however much he racked his brains. And it was a serious case, for Péru said to himself, “I know all their names off like a parrot, but as there are twenty-five besides the Virgin, how can I help it if I give an Ave Maria or so short, and there is an end to my marriage with Mari-Pepa? It would be a pretty to-do if that happened, for I shall not find another companion like her easily, and then Chomin won’t let us leave the house without some household furniture, a good yoke of oxen, and fifty ducats for the dowry.”

At the fall of evening all the village was dancing to the sound of the tambourine in the market-place of Abadiano, all except Péru and Mari-Pepa. Péru was sitting amidst brambles and furze on a desolate slope overlooking the village. Mari-Pepa was in the market-place close to the village fountain, refusing to dance with anybody, and full of grief at Péru’s state of mind.

Suddenly Péru uttered a shout of joy and flew down the hill, seized Mari-Pepa, and began the maddest dance ever seen in Abadiano. He had thought out an infallible way how not to forget a single saint in the celestial city.

That evening, after praying to each of the particular saints appointed by Chomin special patron saints of the family, lest any should have been forgotten he prayed to _all the saints in the celestial city,—and seven leagues without_, in case any should be taking a walk.

_A. Trueba._

_MIRACLES OF ST. ISIDRO, PATRON-SAINT OF MADRID._

OLD CHRISTOVAL’S ADVICE, AND THE REASON WHY HE GAVE IT.

If thy debtor be poor, old Christoval cried,
Exact not too hardly thy due;
For he who preserves a poor man from want,
May preserve him from wickedness too.

If thy neighbour should sin, old Christoval cried,
Never, never unmerciful be!
For remember it is by the mercy of God
That thou art not as wicked as he.

At sixty-and-seven the hope of heaven
Is my comfort, old Christoval cried;
But if God had cut me off in my youth,
I might not have gone there when I died.

You shall have the farm, young Christoval,
My good master Henrique said;
But a surety provide, in whom I can confide,
That duly the rent shall be paid.

I was poor, and I had not a friend upon earth,
And I knew not what to say;
We stood by the porch of St. Andrew’s Church,
And it was St. Isidro’s day.

Take St. Isidro for my pledge,
I ventured to make reply;
The Saint in Heaven may perhaps be my friend,
But friendless on earth am I.

We entered the church and came to his grave,
And I fell on my bended knee;
I am friendless, holy Isidro,
And I venture to call upon thee.

I call upon thee my surety to be,
Thou knowest my honest intent;
And if ever I break my plighted word,
Let thy vengeance make me repent

I was idle, the day of payment came on,
And I had not the money in store;
I feared the wrath of Isidro,
But I feared Henrique more.

On a dark, dark night I took my flight
And hastily fled away:
It chanced that by St. Andre Church
The road I had chosen lay.

As I passed the door I thought what I had swore
Upon St. Isidr day;
And I seemed to fear because he was near,
And faster I hastened away.

So all night long I hurried on,
Pacing full many a mile;
I knew not his avenging hand
Was on me all the while.

Weary I was, and safe I thought,
But when it was daylight,
I had, I found, been running round
And round the church all night.

I shook like a palsy and fell on my knees,
And for pardon devoutly I prayed:
When my Master came up—What, Christoval,
You are here betimes, he said.

I have been idle, good master! I cried,
Good master, and I have been wrong!
And I have been running round the church
In penance all night long.

If thou hast been idle, Henrique said,
Go home and thy fault amend;
I will not oppress thee, Christoval,
May the Saint thy labour befriend.

Homeward I went a penitent,
And I never was idle more;
St. Isidro blest my industry,
As he punished my fault before.

When my debtor was poor, old Christoval said,
I have never exacted my due;
I remembered Henrique was good to me,
And copied his goodness too.

When my neighbour has sinned, old Christoval said,
I have ever forgiven his sin.
For I thought of the night by St. Andrew’s Church,
And remembered what I might have been.

_Southey’s “Letters from Spain and Portugal.”_

THE WEDDING NIGHT.

Before Isidro’s holy shrine
Hernando knelt and pray’d,
“Now, blessed Saint, afford thine aid,
And make Aldonza mine;
And fifty pieces I will lay,
The offering of my Wedding Day,
Upon thy holy shrine.”

Hernando rose and went his way;
Isidro heard his vow;
And, when he sued, Aldonza now
No longer said him nay;
For he was young and _débonair_,
And sped so well that soon the fair
Had fix’d the Wedding Day.

The Wedding Day at length is here.
The day that came so slow;
Together to the church they go,
The youth and maid so dear;
And kneeling at the altar now
Pronounced the mutual marriage vow,
With lips and heart sincere.

And joy is on Hernando’s brow,
And joy is in his breast;
To him by happiness possest,
The past exists not now;
And gazing on the wedded maid,
The youth forgot Isidro’s aid,
And thought not of his vow.

The sun descended from the height
Of heaven his western way;
Amid Hernando’s hall so gay,
The tapers pour their light;
The Wedding Guests, a festive throng,
With music and with dance and song,
Await the approach of night.

The hours pass by, the night comes on,
And from the hall so gay,
One by one they drop away,
The Wedding Guests; anon
The festive hall is emptied quite;
But whither on his Wedding Night
Is young Hernando gone?

Hernando he had gone away
The Wedding Guests before;
For he was summon’d to his door
By an old man cloth’d in grey.
Who bade the Bridegroom follow him;
His voice was felt in every limb,
And forced them to obey.

The old man he went fast before,
And not a word said he,
Hernando followed silently,
Against his will full sore;
For he was dumb, nor power of limb
Possess’d, except to follow him,
Who still went mute before.

Towards a church they hasten now,
And now the door they reach;
The Bridegroom had no power of speech,
Cold drops were on his brow;
The church where St. Isidro lay,
Hernando knew, and in dismay,
He thought upon his vow.

The old man touch’d the door, the door
Flew open at his will,
And young Hernando followed still
The silent man before;
The clasping doors behind him swung,
And thro’ the aisles and arches rung
The echo of their roar.

Dim tapers, struggling with the gloom,
Sepulchral twilight gave:
And now to St. Isidro’s grave
The old man in grey is come.
The youth that sacred shrine survey’d,
And shook to see no corpse was laid
Within that open tomb.

“Learn thou to pay thy debts aright!”
Severe the old man said,
As in the tomb himself he laid;
“Nor more of vows make light.”
The yearning marble clos’d its womb,
And left Hernando by the tomb,
To pass his Wedding Night.

_Southey’s “Letters from Spain and Portugal.”_

_FATHER COBOS’ HINT._

(LAS INDIRECTAS DE PADRE COBOS.)

A certain Father Superior of, I don’t know where, used to take such delicious cups of chocolate as only holy friars do. An intimate friend of the friar, who was extremely fond of chocolate, began visiting him very frequently, and always at the hour in which his reverence drank his chocolate, the friar being so courteous as to always order another cup for his visitor. But as this friend abused the father’s hospitality by coming day after day, the latter complained of this sponging tendency, whereupon a lay-friar, whose name was Father Cobos, declared that it fell to him to give him a hint to drop this habit. To this the Father Superior agreed. Noticing soon after that his friend no longer came to the convent, and desirous to know the lay-friar’s hint, he asked him after a fortnight what he had said to make his friend leave off coming even to see him.

“I gave him a hint,” replied Father Cobos. “I said, ‘Look you, Don Fulano, don’t be so disobliging as to take your chocolate at home; for the Father Superior says you are such a tremendous glutton that it warms the cockles of his heart every time he sees you.’”

The Father Superior was so amused at this that he divulged the story, and since then the hints of Padre Cobos have become proverbial throughout Spain.

_Juan Martinez Villergas._

_POPULAR SONGS._

THE PARSLEY VENDOR.

This morning as the golden sun
Was rising, pretty maid,
I saw you in the garden
Bending o’er the parsley bed.
To see you somewhat nearer
Through the garden gate I strayed,
And found when I went out again
I’d lost my heart, sweet maid.
You must have come across it,
For I lost it there, I say.
“Oh, pretty parsley maiden,
Give back my heart, I pray.”

_A. Trueba_, 1819-1889.

PETENERA.

When He made thee those black lashes
God, no doubt, would give thee warning
That for all the deaths thou causest,
Thou must put thyself in mourning.

(_Trans. A. Strettel._)

* * * * *

Alcaldè măyòr, Alcaldè măyòr,
You sentence poor prisoners for theft,
While your daughter walks out with her black eyes,
And robs all our hearts right and left.

LA GRANADINA.

Some tears, my pretty maiden,
If only two or three,
And the goldsmiths of Granàda
Shall set them as jewels for me.

* * * * *

They tell me that you love me,
But ’tis a falsehood bold;
So circumscribed a bosom
Could never two hearts hold.

* * * * *

As I carelessly opened
Your letter, my dear,
Your heart dropp’d out,
Into my bosom, I fear,
So I took it in; but
As there’s no room for two,
I have taken out mine,
Which I now send to you.

BOLERO.

I saw two stones
Fight in your street
For the joy of being trodden
Under your feet;
And I ponder’d then.
If the stones do this,
Oh, what will men?

BOLERO.

A favour, Blacksmith,
I ask of you;
Pray make me a lover
Of steel so true.
And this is what he replies to me
It can’t be very true
If a man it’s to be.

* * * * *

As we know, God made man first,
And afterwards the womenstock;
First of all the tower is built.
But last of all the weather-cock.

* * * * *

May the Lord God preserve us from evil birds three,
From all friars, and curates, and sparrows that be;
For the sparrows eat up all the corn that we sow,
The friars drink down all the wine that we grow,
Whilst the curates have all the fair dames at their nod:
From these three evil curses preserve us, good God.

(_Trans. G. Borrow._)

_PROVERBS._

The Man is Fire, the Woman tow, the Devil comes the flame to blow.

Choose your Wife on a Saturday, not on a Sunday.

While the tall Maid is stooping the little one hath swept the House.

He who hath a handsome Wife, or a Castle on the Frontier, or a Vineyard near the Highway, never lacks a quarrel.

He who marries a Widow, will have a dead Man’s Head often thrown in his Dish.

There’s not a pin’s point between the yes and no of a woman.

Mother, what kind of thing is this Marrying? Daughter, ’tis to spin, to bear Children, and to cry your eyes out.

The honest woman and the broken leg within doors.

Women and hens soon lost with gadding about.

He who stirs honey must have some stick to him.

In the house of the tambourinist, all dance.

No olla without bacon, no wedding without a tambourine.

A partridge frightened is half cooked.

There’s many a good drinker under a ragged cloak.

God doth the Cure, and the Doctor takes the Money.

When the Devil hies to his Prayers he means to cheat you.

Change of Weather finds Discourse for Fools.

When all Men say you are an Ass, ’tis time to bray.

A Handful of Mother-wit is worth a bushel of Learning.

A Pound of Care will not pay an ounce of Debt.

A broken head never lacked a rag.

As good bread is baked here as in France.

When loaves are lacking, cake will do.

He who sings, scares away sorrow.

The hen lives on even with the pip.

However early you get up, the day won’t break any sooner.

Short cuts, deep ruts.

Patience, and shuffle the cards.

The hare jumps out when you least expect her.

Where you hope to find rashers there are not even spits.

Opportunity is painted bald.

When the heifer’s given you, run quick with the halter.

He who is not Handsome at Twenty, nor Strong at Thirty, nor Rich at Forty, nor Wise at Fifty, will never be Handsome, Strong, Rich, nor Wise.

I wept when I was born, and every day shows why.

Buy at a Fair, and sell at home.

Let us be Friends, and put out the Devil’s eye.

Women, Wind, and Fortune are ever changing.

When going up hill
For a mule I sigh,
But I like my own legs
When I downwards hie.

He who will have a Mule without any Fault must keep none.

You should not blame the pannier for the donkey’s fault.

The mule said to the donkey. Gee up, long ears.

There’s a difference between Peter and Peter.

God keep me from him whom I trust, from him whom I trust not I shall keep myself.

The foot of the Owner is the best manure for his Land.

If your dove-cote never lacks corn, you will never lack pigeons.

Lock your Door, that you may keep your Neighbour honest.

Never mention the rope in the house of a hanged man.

Finger nails come in when wedges are useless.

When the abbot sings out, the acolyte’s not far behind.

At night all cats are grey.

One devil’s like another.

He who sheared me still handles his scissors.

Once bitten by a scorpion, and frightened at its shadow.

Flies don’t enter a closed mouth.

Some have the glory, and others card the wool.

Don’t stretch your leg further than the street is long.

What you have to give to the mouse give to the cat.

Smugglers make better custom-house officers than do carbineers.

Money paid, arms soon tired.

Italy to be born in, France to live in, and Spain to die in.

_ANECDOTES._

An astute Gallegan one day presented himself with the most candid air at the shop of a tailor, telling him he had come to draw the fifty reals he had deposited with him two years ago.

The tailor was thunderstruck, and replied that he had no money of his, whereupon the Gallegan began to cry out and complain loudly and bitterly, which soon drew a crowd round the shop door.

The tailor was sure of his fact, since there was no document to attest the imaginary deposit, but fearing the scandal might damage his business, yet unable to confess to the debt after denying it, had recourse to a neighbouring tradesman, who promised to settle the affair.

“Look you here, yokel, why are you making such a fuss about a mistake? Don’t you remember that it was to my shop you brought the fifty reals?”

“Oh, yes,” slyly replied the Gallegan; “but that was another fifty.”

* * * * *

While ascending a steep hill the mayoral opens the door, of the diligence every now and then, to shut it with a loud bang, without a word to the passengers.

“Oh, mayoral!” cries one, “why do you open and shut the door like that, we are freezing.”

“Hush! it’s for the mules; every time the door slams they think somebody has got out, and pull better.”

A countryman wrote the following letter to his son, a student in the capital:—

“MY DEAR SON,—This is to tell you that I am very displeased with the bad conduct which I have been told you observe in Madrid. If a good thrashing could be sent by post, you would have had several from me. As for your mother, the good woman spoils you as usual. Enclosed you will find an order for seventy reals, which she sends you without my knowledge,

“Your father,
JOHN.”

* * * * *

Horse-dealer, exhibiting a superb animal to probable customer:—

“Take this one, sir. He’s a splendid trotter. Mount him at four in the morning at Madrid, and you’ll be at Alcalá at five.”

“He won’t suit me.”

“Why not?”

“What should I do at five o’clock in the morning at Alcalá where I know nobody?”

* * * * *

“The deuce! I do feel bad.”

“What’s the matter.”

“I ate a steak of horse-flesh and it’s going round and round in my inside.”

“My dear fellow! It must have been a circus-horse!”

* * * * *

A young girl was taken to see a bull-fight for the first time, and one of the matadors was furiously attacked by a bull.

“Don’t be afraid, dear, don’t be afraid!” exclaimed her father, while the matador was flying through the air with the impetus of the beast’s horns.

“Oh, no, papa, it’s the bull-fighter who’ll be afraid.”

* * * * *

AT A STATION.

“A peseta for a cup of chocolate! It’s very dear. It would be better to lower the price, though it should be of an inferior quality.”

“To please you, señor, I will make it three reals, but I can’t make it of inferior quality.”

* * * * *

IN SCHOOL.

“Now, Pepito, is _huevo_ [egg] masculine or feminine?”

(Pepito, thoughtfully) “It’s very difficult to tell.”

“Difficult? What do you mean?”

“Well, sir, how can one know until the chicken’s hatched?”

* * * * *

An Aragonese carman was unmercifully beating a mule who had fallen down in one of the chief streets of the capital. The passers-by stopped to censure the carman’s conduct, exclaiming—

“How cruel!”

“Poor mule!”

“What a beast the man is!”

The carman stopped his blows and going to the mule’s head, said—

“Caramba! Jocky; what a lot of friends you’ve made in Madrid!”

* * * * *

In the porch of a church a beggar’s stool, on the stool a hat, in the hat a cardboard with the inscription—

“Ladies and gentlemen, do not forget a poor blind man, who has gone to his breakfast.”

* * * * *

A dying courtier said to the priest that the only favour he asked of God was to let him live till he had paid his debts.

“That is a good motive, my son, and it is to be hoped that your prayer will be heard.”

“Alas, father! If it were, I should be sure never to die.”

* * * * *

An Arab of Tetuan asked a Jew, which of the three religions was the best: the Jewish, the Christian, or the Mahometan?

The Jew replied—“If Messiah really came, the Christian is the best; if He did not, mine is the best; but whether or no, yours, Mahomet, is always bad.”

_ECCENTRICITIES OF ENGLISHMEN._

It is not to be wondered at that a country so fecund in heroes and men of genius as the home of Nelson, Newton, and Byron, should also produce some very eccentric men. Of no other sons of Adam are such whimsicalities and oddities related as of those born in England. At every step on the other side of the Channel one meets with mad philosophers, who, if they unexpectedly inherit a large fortune, instead of leading a sybaritic life, order a schooner or brig to be built, embark straight away without troubling about their destination, let the wind take them whither it lists, swallow half-a-dozen bottles of rum, double themselves into a berth, and mingle their snores with the roaring of the waves until their craft strands on a shoal, when the dampness of the ocean reminds them it’s time to wake up.

I knew an Englishman poorer than a retired Spanish ensign, and more miserly than an old clo’man, who, with the help of a clever Newfoundland, which he loved like a brother, saved the life of a lord’s daughter who had fallen into the Thames. Ten years later, when he did not even remember his generous deed, he received from the father of the lord’s daughter a gift of £200,000 sterling. This stroke of good luck produced no impression on his mind, to judge by any outward expression of joy; and the following day when his creditors came to congratulate him, they found him, to their surprise, bathed in his own blood. Not far from the corpse lay a letter with the following contents: “Let nobody be accused of my death, ascribe it still less to bad fortune. I was happy in the act of suicide; I had good health and money. And yet I felt inclined to kill myself first, because I felt inclined, secondly, because from a boy I had always wished for a capital of £100,000, and I find myself with one hundred thousand more than I wanted. I leave half my fortune to my Newfoundland dog, to be invested in cat’s-meat, of which he is very fond, and the other half to whoever undertakes to buy the cat’s-meat for the dog. Witness my signature....”

Needless to say, that all who knew the last will and testament of the deceased, wanted to discharge it, with no further philanthropy than receiving the recompense. As for the dog, which was present at the reading of his master’s will, that so greatly concerned him, he did not show the slightest sign of joy. However, the will was declared invalid, and to avoid all disputes the £200,000 were returned to the chest of the noble lord.

The latter, finding himself again possessor of funds of which he had taken leave for ever, desired to use them to satisfy a caprice, which should give him the fame, throughout the whole country, of a wit. He laid a wager with a rich tradesman that he would not sell a hundred thousand sovereigns at a halfpenny each, though he should take his stand for six hours in one of the most crowded spots of the capital. This proposition deceived the tradesman as it would have deceived anybody, and he agreed to take the bet, the stakes being nothing less than £200,000, convinced that it was impossible he could lose. There was a Court _levée_ that day, and a tremendous crowd of people were crossing the Thames over Westminster Bridge towards St. James’s Palace. The tradesman and the lord took up their post one side of the bridge, behind a huge open chest, full of sovereigns. “A ha’penny each, sovereigns a ha’penny each!” cried the tradesman, and the lord at his side did nothing but laugh; the stipulations being that the lord should only be allowed to laugh, and the tradesman to say “A ha’penny each, sovereigns a ha’penny each!” The people passed on, saying: “What a take in! Good heavens! Sovereigns for a ha’penny. What will they be like?” The tradesman began to despair. More than one passer-by took up one of the coins, turned it round and round, and then noticing the laughter which the lord pretended he could not stifle, put the money back, saying, “They are well imitated, but nobody can do me.”

“A ha’penny each, sovereigns a ha’penny each!” shouted the tradesman unceasingly, and the more he exerted himself to cry his ware, the more clearly did the public think they saw through the trick by which he hoped to empty their pockets. They stayed thus from nine in the morning till three in the afternoon, the lord laughing and the tradesman shouting. The result was that the latter lost the bet. Only two sovereigns were sold, and these were bought by a medical student, believing them to be false, but hoping to pass them in a gambling den or other low place. When he found they were accepted, he returned post-haste to Westminster Bridge to lay in a new provision, but arrived too late; the lord and the tradesman had already vanished.

_A. Ribot y Fontserré._

_NEWSPAPER HUMOUR._

IN THE STREET.

Excuse me, I can’t stop. The sermon begins at five, and Padre Macario preaches to-day. His words are worth their weight in gold, I don’t want to lose _one_. I thought of going to call on the Zaragatonas to give them a piece of my mind; deceitful things, they wrote an anonymous letter to the head of my husband’s department, saying he had the influenza, and that all the office would catch it, which is a vile story; he is quite well, and if he had anything the matter with him I should say so at once.... They may be thankful this is Holy Week or I should teach them a thing or two, but I don’t want to offend Heaven to-day. The wicked scandalmongers! ... They shall hear from me sooner or later. ... But ... I can’t stop. What’s the time? Five o’clock. I must run the whole way. Oh! do you think you could manage to send me some stalls for La Tubau![19]

IN THE CHURCH.

“Hail, Mary,” ... Madam, you are crushing my mantilla. ... “full of grace,” ... yes, _you_, Madam! “Blessed are thou amongst.” ... Good evening, doña Agustina. ... No, the sermon has not commenced yet, but it must very soon for I saw Padre Macario go into the sacristy.... Yes, isn’t there a crowd, and quite natural too, there are not many orators _like_ him.... “Our Father which” ... You look rather pale? What’s the matter? ... Oh, don’t speak to me of husbands, there are some wretches amongst them? ... What, he wouldn’t let you come to the sermon? Heavens, what a man! Mine, thank God, is not like that; on the contrary, so that I might feel quite easy, he has promised to give baby his food. He’s a very good husband; fancy, this morning I had to go out to see the dynamiters in court, and he stayed at home to wash out some baby-clothes.... “Thy kingdom come,” ... but he has his enemies. Those horrid Zaragatonas; ... they can’t bear me because I’m plump. ... They’re jealous and I’ve told them so. It’s the will of Heaven, for as for eating, I eat very little, and some days a little stewed veal, an omelette, and half-a-dozen oranges satisfy me as much as if I had eaten an ox. But it’s no good, they dislike me, because they themselves are so scraggy, and now they’ve started a nasty rumour about my husband. Suppose he has a little cold in the head, what’s that to do with them? “Pray for our sins now and” ... _They_ are consumptive, if you like: you need only look at them, especially the eldest, who dresses her salad with cod-liver oil. I, of course, respect the sacredness of this week, or I should go and see them, when they would have to look to themselves. Besides, I don’t like talking ill of anybody, but they had a lieutenant-colonel lodging with them, who only slept there, for he ate with his mess, and paid them ten reals for a tiny bedroom, and was always making them presents besides; if he had an old pair of trousers, for instance, he would give them to their mother to make a little jacket for herself. Now that all means something. In fact, I don’t like scandal, but that lieutenant-colonel, “the Lord is with thee.”... What? Padre Macario in the pulpit? So he is, and just going to begin.

“Dear Brethren....”

What eloquence!

“May you in truth be brethren, with your conscience free from the sin of hatred....”

He’s right. People are so uncharitable, those Zaragatonas, for instance.

“Love one another with the love of brethren. Christ pardoned His tormentors....”

(_Much moved_) Ah! ah! It seems impossible that people won’t repent. When I think of those Zaragatonas, I don’t know what’s the matter with me! No, when Holy Week is over, I shall go and hear what they have to say for themselves. Horrid creatures!

“_De todo un poco._” _Luis Taboada_ (_Madrid Comico_).

* * * * *

A coiner of false money was confessing that he had made and uttered dollars (20 reals) which were only worth four reals.

“You must restore the difference,” said the priest.

“But to whom can I restore it, father?” asked the compunctious penitent.

The priest hesitated for a moment, then said—

“Make as many other dollars worth thirty-six reals.”

“_La Ilustracion Española y Americana._”

SPANISH CEREMONY.

A very ceremonious Spaniard, when asked why he was not present at the funeral of a certain personage, replied—

“Because he owed me a call.”

CHILDREN.

A governess out walking with two children:—
“Look, that’s the white cow that gives us our milk.”
“Does that black one give us the coffee then?”

* * * * *

“Oh, children! what are you doing up that tree?”
“Mama, Pepito wanted to pick some pears.”
“And you?”
“I got up to persuade him not to.”

RURAL SYMPATHY.

“My boy,” said a happy mother, “has won the first prize at school.”

“I can understand your feelings. Oh, how well I remember how pleased I was when our pig took a prize at the show.”

“_Blanco y Negro._”

IN THE STALLS.

“Do you notice how fat all the chorus are?”

“Yes, the manager is very economical, and the fat ones get the same pay as the thin but fill the stage better.”

“_Blanco y Negro_”

* * * * *

“Take care they don’t give you mule’s flesh,” said a mistress to her maid, who was going out marketing.

“And how can I tell, ma’am?”

“I don’t know, but mind you don’t buy any.”

“Good, ma’am; I won’t take any meat until the butcher has shown me the cow’s horns.”

“_La Ilustracion Española y Americana._”

* * * * *

Furious wife to inflexible husband:—

“My health requires it. The doctor has ordered me a change of air.”

“Very well, my dear, use another fan.”

“_La Ilustracion Española y Americana._”

THE ANARCHIST AGITATION.

Military police to poor wretch found in a miserable garret suspiciously hiding a paper:—

“Some little preparation for the First of May, eh?”

(_Timidly_) “Only a sonnet dedicated to the victims.”

“_Madrid Comico._”

SUNDAY REST.

The Congress is at present warmly debating the question as to Sunday rest. As scarcely any of us Spaniards work even on week-days, _why_ should we work on a Sunday?

“_Madrid Comico._”

* * * * *

Woman and Man,
I’ve a specialist’s word,
Are as different quite
As a fish and a bird.
She, like the latter,
Is graceful and sweet,
White feathers, charms many,
Long wings, and short feet.
He, on the contrary,
Sticky as gum.
Has, patent or hidden,
Sharp fins, a fair sum.
They marry each other,
For love possibly,
And the law of their cage
Turns and takes out the key.
Poor things, unaware
Were they, but now larn,
That the well-being of one
Is the other one’s harm.
If she longs for air,
For water he cries;
The bird drowns in water,
In air the fish dies.

But some pairs are happy, to me you reply!
Yes, some few amphibious creatures, I sigh.

“_Los Lunes de el Imparcial._” _Manuel del Palacio._

_HUMOROUS ADVERTISEMENTS._

“Then they could not have been bought at BRANAS, MATUTE 12, father!”]

When Love has the toothache,
He is halting and thin,
So get rid of the tooth
If your fair one you’d win.

(TIRSO PEREZ, MAYOR, 73, DENTIST.)]

_Madrid Comico._

_AT THE THEATRE._

_Madrid Comico._

NOTES CRITICAL AND BIOGRAPHICAL.

[_The accent, used in Spanish both for accentuation and pronunciation, has mostly only been given in the names of persons and places in which it is necessary for the pronunciation, as José, otherwise Jose._]

ALARCON, PEDRO ANTONIO DE, perhaps the most popular Spanish writer of the nineteenth century, was born in Guadix in 1833, and was a member of a noble family of but little means. After studying first jurisprudence, and afterwards theology, he devoted himself to letters, for which he had always shown a strong proclivity. Amongst the best known of his numerous works are “The Three-Cornered Hat,” which is based on an old Spanish tale, somewhat Boccaccian in flavour; “The Scandal”; “La Alpujarra,” the records of a delightful trip in Andalusia; and several collections of short tales, of which many have been translated into English—notably by Mary J. Serrano (New York).

ALAS, LEOPOLDO, author and critic of the present day.

ALEMAN, MATEO, native of Seville, flourished in the year 1609. He followed in the steps of Mendoza, by the more ample portraiture of the life of a rogue than is the former’s Lazarillo, in his “Guzman de Alfarache,” which appeared in 1553, forty-six years after its prototype. Little is known of Aleman’s life; he seems to have been long employed in the Treasury, and at last to have retired, and devoted the rest of his life to letters. But he claims to be remembered by his work, “Guzmann de Alfarache,” the popularity of which was so immediate that, like “Don Quixote,” it provoked a spurious “Second Part” before the real continuation appeared, and was soon translated into the chief European tongues, French, Italian, German, Portuguese, and even Latin, and into excellent English by Mabbe, whose contemporary, Ben Jonson, thus speaks of it:

“The Spanish Proteus, which, though writ
But in one tongue, was formed with the world’s wit,
And hath the noblest mark of a good booke,
That an ill man doth not securely looke
Upon it; but will loathe or let it passe,
As a deformed face doth a true glasse.”

(Verses prefixed to Mabbe’s translation, and signed by Ben Jonson.)

AYGUALS DE IZCO, WENCESLAO, nineteenth century. This author, now often held up as a model to avoid, enjoyed, some fifty years ago, no little popularity as a humorous writer.

“BOOK OF JOKES, THE,” is to be found in the collection of “Spanish Salt,” edited by A. Paz y Melía, and published in 1890. Señor Paz believes most of the tales in the “Book of Jokes” should be ascribed to Hurtado de Mendoza.