  In commencing a brief final notice of "The Viceroy and the Aristocracy," we regret much to inform our readers that it is, in a manner, a story without an end. One of the most striking peculiarities of this anonymous author, consists in his singular and unaccountable habit of leaving every thing unfinished. Despising the rule generally observed by romance writers, of bringing their works to some sort of climax or dÉnouement, he in no one instance takes the trouble to dispose satisfactorily of his characters; but, after strongly interesting the reader in their fate, abandons them in the middle of their career, as if he intended, some day or other, to complete their history in another volume. The inventive and descriptive powers displayed in his writings, render it impossible to attribute this peculiarity to lack of ability. A chapter or two would frequently be sufficient to terminate every thing in one way or the other; but these chapters, owing to some whim of the author, are denied us. Manifold are the eccentricities of genius, and our unknown friend has evidently no small share of them. We are compelled, therefore, to look upon his books less as regular novels, than as a series of sketches, scenes, and adventures, with slight connecting links; and resembling, by their vivid colouring, and graphic and characteristic details, some admirably painted and gorgeous panorama, of which the materials exhibit infinite variety and the most striking contrasts. We cannot hope, in our translation, to do full justice to so able an original; and the less so as, in the extracts given, we are compelled to take considerable liberties in the way of abridgement. We are, nevertheless, desirous of following the fortunes of Don Manuel as far as the author acquaints us with them; previously to which, however, we will lay before our readers one or two fragments, having little connexion with the plot of the book, but highly illustrative of the singular state of Mexican society and manners at the period referred to. We commence with a striking sketch of the LÉperos, as they appeared when assembled outside the city of Mexico, awaiting the arrival of VicÉnte GuerÉro and the patriot army. The morning of the ninth of February 1812, had scarcely dawned, when the entire multitude of those wretched beings, known by the name of LÉperos, left the city of Mexico, and advanced along the Ajotla road as far as the chain of volcanic hills already alluded to. The road in question forms, with the land adjacent to it, one of the most dreary portions of the rich valley of Mexico or Tenochtitlan; and the swampy ground through which it passes, and which is only exchanged, beyond the hillocks, for a stratum of lava, exhibited, even in the most palmy days of Mexican splendour, the same gloomy and desert character as at the period here referred to. Wretched huts, inhabited by half-naked Indians, who either worked at the desague,[7] or gained a scanty existence by fishing, and here and there a spot of ground planted with vegetables, were the most agreeable objects to be met with; while the low grounds lay entirely waste, even the obtuse Indians being deterred by their poisonous exhalations from attempting their cultivation. It was along this road, early upon the above-named morning, that hordes of brown, squalid, sullen-looking beings, equally debased in mind and body, were seen advancing; dragging themselves listlessly along, now slowly, then more rapidly, in the direction Upon reaching the rising ground, the squalid throng distributed itself in groups over the road, or on and around the hillocks, as if intending to take up its position there. In all imaginable postures, lying, standing, sitting, and squatting down, they waited; why, and for whom, it would have been hard to say, since they themselves had only an indistinct perception of their object. Hours passed away, and there they still were, sunk in the lazy apathy which is a characteristic of the Mexican Indians, and of all much-oppressed nations—a natural consequence of the despotism that crushes them, and causes them at last to look upon the unseen power by which they are oppressed as the decree of an iron fate which it would be impossible to resist or evade. For a long time profound silence reigned among these thousands and tens of thousands—a silence broken only by an occasional indistinct murmur or sigh, which found, however, neither reply nor echo. A group that had stationed itself on a projection of the hillock over which winds the road from Mexico to Ajotla, at last had its attention attracted by a party of horsemen approaching from the direction of Buen Vista. This sight, although by no means unusual on that frequented road, appeared to interest the LÉperos. They raised their heads, gazed a while at the riders, gave a kind of growl, like dogs who perceive something strange or suspicious, and then for the most part stretched themselves out again. Some, however, continued to mutter and grumble, and at last began to utter audible curses. "Ahuitzote!" exclaimed one of the Guachinangos, rising to his feet, and fixing the oblique gaze of his eyes, which were set wide apart, upon the distant horsemen. "Ahuitzote!" repeated his companions—the last syllable of the word seeming to stick in their throats. "I was lying yesterday under the portales," murmured an Indian, "when Agostino Iturbide came by"—— He was too indolent to finish what he would have said; but a glance at his legs and shoulders, which were bloody and scarred with sabre cuts, completed his meaning. "The earth belongs to Tonantzin,[8] the heavens to the Virgin of Guadalupe, "And when the sons of Tenochtitlan shall have pulque for their drink," muttered a third. "And tortillas with fat chili for their food," chimed in a fourth. "Maldito Don Agostino! He is more the Ahuitzote of the children of Tenochtitlan than the Gachupins themselves." During this dialogue, an old Indian of powerful frame had ascended the hillock, and squatted himself down on one of the blocks of lava with which the ground was strewed. The other LÉperos seemed to regard him with a certain degree of respect and attention, and, after muttering the name of Tatli Ixtla,[9] they remained silent, as if expecting him to speak. As this, however, did not immediately follow, they let their heads sink again, and relapsed into their previous state of brooding apathy. The Indian gazed mysteriously around him, lit a cigar, and, after a few puffs, broke silence in the low murmuring tones peculiar to the Indian race. "Ixtla has heard the discourse of the Cura Hippolito of Tlascala. It was no cuento de fraile.[10] Ixtla has often heard the same from the priests of his own race. Will my brothers hear the words of the Cura Hippolito?" There was an unanimous sign of assent from the Indians. "He who hath ears to hear, let him hear! So said the Cura Hippolito, and so saith Ixtla. When Don Abraham, a most excellent caballero, greatly esteemed both by the Holy Virgin of Guadalupe and by Mexicotl"—— The speaker paused, for his cigar was going out. We take advantage of the pause, to inform our readers that the Don Abraham who was thus strangely, and, according to the custom of the Mexican Indian priests, brought into the society of Mexicotl and the Virgin of Guadalupe, was no other than the Jewish patriarch. "When Don Abraham," continued the Indian, "felt his end approaching, he called his son, Don Isaac, and bequeathed to him all his possessions; after which he died in the Lord. This Don Isaac was, as the seÑores have perhaps heard, a God-fearing man, who had two sons, Don Esau and Don Jago. Of these, your worships must understand, Don Esau was the elder, or first-born, and Don Jago the younger. And when Don Jago was twenty years old, he had a dream, in which he was told to go to the Madre Patria, where great good fortune awaited him." The man paused at the words Madre Patria, by which the reader will always understand Spain. A number of LÉperos had ascended the hillock, and collected round the speaker. "As SeÑor Don Jago," resumed Tatli Ixtla, "as younger son, had less claim upon the inheritance of his father than Don Esau, he did according to his dream, and betook himself to the Madre Patria, where, by his pleasant discourse, he won the favour of the King of the Moors, who bestowed on him his daughter, the Princesa DoÑa Lea, in marriage, and also, after two years, his second daughter, the Princesa DoÑa Rachel. By these two wives he had twelve sons and daughters, who were all kings and queens in the Madre Patria, as well as their father, to whom the Gachupins still pray, under the name of Sant Jago de Compostella." The Indians and Metises, of whom the crowd of LÉperos consisted, nodded with that air of quiet conviction which may be frequently remarked amongst the lower classes in certain European countries, when they hear histories related which are supported by the authority of great names, and to doubt the truth of which might endanger both body and soul. "When Don Jago had established his kingdom," continued the old Indian, "the wish came over him to visit his own land again; so he set out with his servants, and, after many days, came to his father's house. And now listen, SeÑores," said the Indian, raising his voice. "Don Esau was, as you know, the first-born, and as The countenances of the LÉperos began to express increased interest in the narration. "It was in the estio,"[11] resumed the Indian, "that Jago returned to his father's house, where a great entertainment was given to him. Don Esau was away at the hunting-grounds, while Don Jago was feasting on the best of tortillas and the finest Tacotitlan pulque, better no Count could have." At the mention of the pulque, there was a strong sensation amongst the listeners. "Don Esau came home hungry from the chase, and found his brother with a dish of frijolos before him, the best that ever were grown upon the Chinampas of the Chalco.[12] Now, what think you the traitor Jago did?" "Io sÉ! Io sÉ! We know!" cried several Indians eagerly. "The seÑores," said the old man gravely, "will hear that Ixtla speaks no lies. Jago drew back his dish of frijolos, as if from a dog; and when Don Esau begged for a mouthful, he promised him the whole dish if he would give up his birthright; but if he would not do so, then Jago swore that not a single frijolo should pass Don Esau's lips." "And Don Esau?" cried the LÉperos. "What would my brothers have done had they been thirsty and a-hungered, and had seen before them the skin of pulque, and the dish of tortillas and frijolos?" This argumentum ad hominem elicited sundry greedy looks from the surrounding crowd; and cries of "Ah, tortillas! ah, pulque!" burst from the craving lips of the LÉperos. "In short," continued the old Indian, "Don Esau gave what his hunger forced him to give, and Don Jago gave in return the dish of frijolos and a fine large skin full of Tacotitlan pulque." "Maldito gavacho!" growled the LÉperos, who, in spite of their longings, could not help finding the exchange an unfair one. "Hush!" said the Indian. "Don Esau, as you shall now hear, was the father of the sons of Tenochtitlan." At this new piece of intelligence, the crowd opened their eyes wider than before. "Well, seÑores," continued the Indian, "Don Esau had his dish of frijolos, and Don Jago the inheritance which he had long coveted. Then Jago went back to the Madre Patria, and Esau, having lost his birthright, wandered out into the wide world. You all know, seÑores, that Mexico is the world, for Tenochtitlan is the capital of the world."[13] The LÉperos nodded. "To Tenochtitlan, then, did Esau betake himself, with his wives and his sons, and built the great city on the lake, and made the Chinampas; and soon the city became greater than any one in Mexico. For many hundred years did the sons of Don Esau rule in Tenochtitlan and Anahuac, and his younger sons in Mechoacan and Cholula; and the children of his concubines lived as freemen in Tlascala." "Es verdad," murmured one of the LÉperos. "Es verdad," they all repeated. "Well," continued the narrator, "the sons of Don Esau throve and multiplied, and had dollars and tortillas in plenty, when of a sudden it came into the heads of Don Jago's children's children that their father had had the share of the first-born, and that they, as his descendants, inherited the right over the whole world; that is to say, over Mexico, and that the sons of Esau owed them a tribute. Thereupon, as they were "Malditos hereges!" muttered the LÉperos. "And when they had taken Tenochtitlan," continued the Indian, "they said, 'See, here it is good to dwell. Here let us build our ranchos, and the sons of Esau shall plant our maize and sow our chili, dig our gardens, and tap our agave-trees; and their daughters shall spin our cotton, their wives bake our tortillas, their children seek for gold in the rivers, and their men, instead of warriors, shall be caballitos and tenatores.' And so it came to pass." The Indian who had given this rÉsumÉ of Father Hippolito's sermon, now paused, either because he had nothing further to say, or because he was reflecting what would be the best application he could make to his hearers of these various wanderings and sufferings of the children of Esau. The pause that ensued, however, was sufficiently long for the LÉperos entirely to forget all they had heard. Their look of stupid vacancy returned, and they relapsed, like so many swine, into their various postures of lazy repose, quite oblivious of the orator who had so skilfully transferred to Mexico the heroes of the Old Testament. Some of them continued gazing down the road at the horsemen, who were now drawing near. "Ahuitzote!" grumbled an Indian. "Son Gachupinos." "Don Agostino, though a Creole, is a worse Ahuitzote than the Gachupins," murmured another LÉpero. "The Creoles," screamed a Zambo, "are the piques' eggs,[14] the Gachupins the piques themselves. The Creoles are the sons of the Marquis, and of his conquistadores and camerados, who made the Tlascalans help them against Anahuac, and when they had won it, made slaves of their allies. Larifari! Viva la libertad!" "Viva la libertad!" cried another of the same negro-Indian race, who was standing with his arms a-kimbo, and looking down with sovereign contempt upon the mob of LÉperos. "Viva la libertad! Viva! Viva! See there, the house of Conde San Jago, the richest caballero in Mexico, who made netto six million dollars out of a single bonanza.[15] Netto, seÑores. Viva la libertad! D'ye know, seÑores, what liberty is? We have been where it flourished, in Guanaxato, where we brought the dollars out of the Alhondega by baskets-full. Si, seÑorias, the most beautiful, milkwhite, silver dollars, to be had for the taking; that is liberty." "Viva la libertad!" exclaimed the knot of LÉperos. The cry was repeated by the next group, and by the next, till it was taken up by thousands of voices. "Todos diablos!" cried the Zambo, "a hurra for liberty, that Cassio may take what he likes, and where he likes. I will have the condesa Ruhl's donzella to pour out my pulque, and the condesa herself—by the virgin of Guadalupe, she shall be our tortillera!"[16] "Santa Brigida, santa Agata, santa Marta, santa Ursula, con todas sus diez mil virgenes, pray for the senses of the seÑor Chino!" cried the LÉperos, beyond measure astonished and angry at the presumption of the "Que se tenga por blanco!" yelled a hundred, and soon a thousand, LÉperos, roaring with laughter. And then dancing round him in a circle, they again vociferated, "Que se tenga por blanco!" The ragged Zambo, who, in his day-dream of ambition, had selected a countess for his cupbearer, did not seem disposed easily to give up his claims to a white skin. He gazed for a moment at the mad antics and grimaces of the filthy and ugly mob by which he was surrounded, and then again vociferated, "Io soy blanco, y todo blanco es caballero!" "A rascally thief from Vera Cruz, that is what you are," was the retort; "a sand-fly that would fain creep in and make its nest amongst us." "I will show you who has the most power, your VicÉnte GuerÉro, or Cassio Isidro," cried the Zambo. "I will let you know it," added he, his hands stuck in his sides as if in defiance, "and before ten months are past, I will have VicÉnte GuerÉro for my muleteer." The Zambo's cup was filled to overflowing by this last piece of presumption, and a thousand Indians, forgetting their sloth and apathy, sprang forward to seize and punish the man who had dared to speak lightly of one of the greatest heroes of the Revolution, the representative of the interests of the coloured races. But the Zambo was far more nimble than the sluggish LÉperos, and his speed of foot, and active bounds over the heaps of lava, enabled him to laugh at the pursuit and menaces of those zealous partisans of the illustrious VicÉnte GuerÉro. This kind of familiar, not to say profane, adaptation of the Scriptures to the comprehension of the lowest and most ignorant classes, for the furtherance of a political or other temporal object, is not altogether without example amongst the priesthood of some European countries. We pass on to a midday scene in the city of Mexico. There had been a disturbance, followed by some menacing demonstrations on the part of the authorities; and the streets, instead of being silent and entirely deserted, as is usually the case in Mexico during the first three hours of the afternoon, were traversed by numerous passengers. The following picture of a Spanish-American interior, is peculiarly characteristic. It was one of those delightful February afternoons, when the freshness of the Mexican winter blends with the approaching summer heat which is so soon to succeed it, when the sun begins to resume its power, and the heavens appear so pure and deep, and so transparent in the brilliancy of their golden-tinted azure, that the eye seems to penetrate beyond them into infinite space. From the mirador, or balcony, of the house of St Simon Stilitta, whence they commanded a view of the cathedral, of several palaces, and for nearly a mile down the long Tacuba street, three pairs of dark eyes were flashing bright glances through the gilt trellis-work. It was a stately and right Catholic-looking mansion, that Casa de San Simon—which was so called because its front was adorned with the image of the aforesaid patron. An image of St. Francisco was his companion, and between the two was the balcony, occupied by three young girls, whose blooming beauty contrasted strongly with the harsh-featured and indifferently carved and painted effigies of the two holy men. Although none of the three damsels were more than half through their The mirador on which the three girls were lounging and smoking, was connected with the sala, or drawing-room, by lofty folding-doors, which stood open. At the further end of this sala was the estrada, a kind of raised platform; on the estrada a large low ottoman, and on the ottoman two figures, of which the one sat upright, and the other was in a reclining posture. The girdle of the latter was loosened, and the upper part of the body bare of all covering, except a profusion of glossy black hair, which was spread out over the bosom and shoulders; answering, however, less the purpose of a veil, than that of making more evident the whiteness of the owner's skin. The lady thus unceremoniously disapparelled was apparently very young; but no inference could be drawn from her face, which was concealed in the lap of her companion, a mulatto girl, whose fingers and eyes were alike busy in an investigation of her mistress's head; a search so eager, active, and absorbing, that she resembled a huntress, forgetting, in the ardour of the chase, all surrounding objects. The saloon occupied by these two damsels was furnished in the usual manner of Spanish houses of the better class; the floor spread with esteras, or mats, a large table in the centre, and two smaller ones at the sides, the latter supporting images of the Virgen de los Remedios, and of San Jago de Compostella. A dozen or two high-backed chairs, dating probably from the time of Philip the Fourth, made up the furniture. The walls were covered with square tiles of blue earthenware, the hangings were of green Cordovan leather, and instead of the chandelier, which hung in one corner of the extensive apartment, six silken cords were suspended from the large gilt hook in the centre of the ceiling. On the table in the middle of the room lay several musical instruments, amongst them a Spanish guitar and a Mexican teponatzli or lute—the latter a hollow wooden cylinder, with two parallel holes cut in the centre, and played upon by means of sticks tipped with caoutchouc. A cloister-like stillness reigned in the saloon as well as on the balcony, and not a syllable was uttered, although fully a quarter of an hour had elapsed since the arrival of the young ladies and their donzellas. Nor was there more vivacity of movement than of tongue. From time to time, one or other of the three girls would push aside her mantilla, and dart a flashing glance into the street, and then, meeting no return, relapse into her former languor. "A ellos! a ellos! Go on!" at length cried a voice out of the lap of the mulatto girl. "Que quiere? What do you want?" "Porque?" she asked "Porque acabar? Why leave off?" "Que quiere vmd?" returned the waiting-maid; "matar los todos? A ninguna seÑora de calidad se los mata todos. No lady of quality has them all killed." "Mentira! 'Tis a lie!" screamed her mistress peevishly. "Es verdad! 'Tis true!" interposed DoÑas Ximene, Celestina, and Laura, putting their hands into their hair, and after a short search producing manifest proofs of the truth of the waiting-maid's assertion, and of their own powers of endurance. Thereupon the head sank once more into the lap of the mulatto maiden, who began to disentangle and arrange the hair. Again all was still. The three seÑoritas gazed out into the street, and smoked and yawned; the attendant twisted and plaited her mistress's abundant tresses; all was apathy leaden, Mexican apathy. In a side chamber, of which the door stood half open, a voice was suddenly heard, uttering sundry Oh's! and Ah's! in such a strange, half-groaning, half-screaming tone, that the four young ladies burst into a loud fit of laughter. The chamber was much smaller than the saloon, but yet far larger and higher than an ordinary European bedroom, and, like the sala, was lined with blue china tiles. In one part of it there hung a hammock, the occupant of which, judging from his or her loud and regular snore, was soundly sleeping. On the right hand stood a sort of hybrid machine, between a bed and an ottoman, which might have been cleaner, and on which, besides other articles of dress, lay a blue cloak, richly embroidered with gold. Hats crushed out of shape, dusty trowsers, dirty linen, and implements of the toilet, were scattered about the apartment, side by side with costly articles of apparel, the value of one of which would have sufficed to cleanse the whole house, and keep it clean for half a year to come. Below the hammock sat an Indian girl, with a fan of feathers upon her lap; her head was inclined upon her breast, and sleep had overtaken her in the midst of the monotonous occupation of fanning the inmate of the hammock. Near the bed or sofa stood a mulatto, holding a box of cigars and a light. "Oh! Ah! Ih!" again groaned the occupant of the bed, from which a nightcap now emerged. A meagre grimy hand next appeared, pulled off the nightcap, and disclosed a dry, brown physiognomy, of which the cheeks, temples, and hollows round the eyes, were puckered into innumerable dark olive-green wrinkles. This lamentable interjection, which was somewhat louder than the preceding one, caused a commotion in the hammock, from which there now appeared another tawny countenance, ornamented with a few warts as large as peas, and with a beard which would have been a fitting decoration for a grenadier. All effort was made to raise the body as well as the head, but the weight of the former made the attempt abortive, and the whole figure again disappeared in the hollow of its hanging couch. A second, and more vigorous trial was successful, and there came into view the head, neck, shoulders, and other component parts of a female bust, the more minute description of which we will spare our readers. The lady of the house, for it was no less a person, did not seem in the least embarrassed by the presence of the mulatto, but sat upright n her hammock. "Manca!" cried she, in a voice like an ill-conditioned trumpet, and gazing around her as she spoke. "Manca!" she repeated in a yet harsher tone; and then throwing her right foot and leg over the side of the hammock, she, by a tremendous kick, knocked the drowsy Manca off her perch. By this exertion there was communicated to the hammock a swinging motion which seemed highly pleasing to the Spanish lady, who allowed her left foot to follow her right, neither of them being protected by stockings or any other covering; and then, holding on with both For the third time did the Spaniard utter his lamentable Oh! Ah! "Don Matanzas!" screamed the seÑora, "it is impossible to shut one's eye for your groans. Can one have no quiet; not even for the siesta? C—jo!" And again she jerked herself into her hammock, which Manca now kept in a state of vibration, creating a cool breeze in the room, but at the same time raising clouds of dust. About two minutes elapsed, during which not a word was spoken; the Spaniard had lighted a cigar, and was puffing forth volumes of smoke. On a sudden he took the cigar from his mouth, apparently in a great rage. "Muerte y infiernos!" he exclaimed. A twinge interrupted him, and he relapsed into his groanings, while his greenish-brown physiognomy was horribly distorted. "Muerte y infiernos!" he resumed, as the pangs diminished in violence. "No quiet, say you? And whose fault is it? Who brought us up here from Acapulco?" "Would you have stopped there to be made minced meat of by the rebels?" retorted his wife. "Maldito mal pais," growled the Spaniard. "Would that I had remained in the Madre Patria!" The lady cast a glance of the most supreme contempt upon her shadow of a husband, took a cigar from the Indian girl, and beckoned the mulatto to bring her a light. It was only when her cigar was in full puff that she vouchsafed a reply. "Remain in the Madre Patria, say you? To dine with St Antonio,[18] I suppose. To feast upon garlic soup, with six-and-thirty garbanzos in it, and as many drops of oil swimming on the hot water. Porquerias! No hablas como Cristiano." "Not speak like a Christian, say you?" cried the Spaniard with a sort of comical shudder. "Jesus, Maria, y Jose! Nosotros! We, who descend from the oldest Christians of whom Castile can boast—we, whose ancestors were at the fight by Roncesvalles"—— "Pshaw! the man talks nonsense. Did we not come all the way from Acapulco to get him cured of his consumption? And now we are here, the fool will not see the doctor, because he would be obliged to call the Zambo Don, or SeÑor. Cursed folly!" "Folly!" returned her better half furiously—"Folly, do you say? You may call it so; you who have not a drop of the blood of the Matanzas in your veins. Folly, quotha!" continued he with a fresh outburst of indignation; "the heroism of a Matanzas, whose three hundred forefathers must look down on him from heaven with pride and exultation, especially the great Matanzas who in the fight by Roncesvalles"—— "Roncesvalles or no Roncesvalles!" interrupted his spouse, "my ancestors were members of the Seville Consulado, SeÑor! remember that; and it was through them that you got your present place, and became what you now are, a richer man than all your three hundred ancestors put together; three hundred beggars, indeed, who had only three cloaks amongst them all, and as many soup-dishes, in which they begged their olla." The Spaniard threw a scornful glance at his wife. "We have," said he, in mighty dudgeon——"Oh! ah!" groaned the poor devil, his features twisted up with pain. "We have," he continued after a moment, "a pedigree as long as the Tacuba Street, SeÑora, while yours—pshaw! it would not make a mat for this room." The man had raised himself up, and spoke in a sharp screaming voice, but the last words he uttered were half stifled by pain. "Folly!" continued he, after a pause—"folly, do you call it! because we refuse to indulge an insolent Zambo, who dares to expect that a descendant of the great Matanzas, a viejo Cristiano, should style him SeÑor—a Matanzas, whose nobility is older than that of the king himself!" And so saying, the shrivelled anatomy of a creature placed upon his "Folly! d'ye call it?" he repeated. "Yes, folly," laughed his wife; "I would style the Zambo 'your majesty,' if I wanted him." And she went on with her smoking and swinging. The Spaniard took a fresh cigar out of the mulatto's box, lit it, and soon enveloped himself and his cocked hat in a cloud of vapour. The truce between the contending parties lasted several minutes, during which the Spaniard sat up in his bed without any other clothing than a flannel shirt and the cocked hat aforesaid, and his lady lay quiescent in her hammock. She was the first to break silence. "Matanzas, you are an old fool," cried she, "and if I were Don Toro"—— "Don him no Dons!" interrupted her husband. "He has no right to them. Ah! oh!" groaned the suffering wretch. "No, never will we give to a miserable Zambo the title of SeÑor; we, whose ancestors were at the fight of Roncesvalles. And the dog expects that we should stand up on his entrance, as before a viejo Cristiano, and greet him as SeÑor!" "The standing up might be dispensed with," rejoined the lady, "seeing that you are not able to do it." "We call the Zambo Don!" reiterated the Spaniard, "and stand up on his entrance! Madre de Dios, what insolence! No, SeÑora, that shall never be," continued he with much solemnity. "By the Virgen de los Remedios, and the most excellent Sant Jago, that shall never be! Were we a thousand times as ill, and this Zambo could cure us by the mere touch of his staff, as SeÑor Don Moses did the Israelites—DoÑa Anna," said the man, with an assumption of immense dignity, "we would rather die a thousand deaths that call the Zambo SeÑor, or stand up before him. We are a viejo Cristiano, y basta! Enough! I have spoken." During this declaration of his principles, the Spaniard's cigar had gone out; he lit another, pressed down his huge cocked hat deeper upon his forehead, took a long cross-hilted dagger from the wall, with the words, "Ven, mi querida Virgen!" and kissing the sacred emblem, laid it before him. Husband and wife had quarrelled themselves weary, and now remained silent. The dispute seemed to have excited no interest in the saloon and mirador, where the young ladies were still lounging, yawning, and smoking; their features wearing that disagreeable relaxed expression which is frequently to be observed in the countenances of Mexican women. A moment, however, was sufficient to change the scene. The SeÑorita Ximene had gazed awhile, with the drooping underlip and careless glance of indifference, upon a number of persons who were coming up the Tacuba Street, and who, to judge from their garb, were for the most part members of the cinco gremios, the five guilds or handicrafts. On a sudden, however, her eyes lost their vague and languid look, and became fixed and sparkling; her lips were protruded as if inviting a kiss; her hand was extended, her mantilla fell, as of itself, into graceful folds—it was but an instant, and the damsel was completely transformed. Her two companions had scarcely remarked this change, when they in their turn underwent a like metamorphosis; their countenance became all animation, their manner fascination itself; they were no longer the same beings. "Don Pinto y un superbo hombre!" whispered Ximene. "Quien es? Who is it?" asked Celestine. "No sÉ," replied the other two. The whispering and commotion in the balcony had roused DoÑa Isidra from her state of indolent apathy. Her hair was already tressed and knotted; she now hastily slipped on a gown, darted through the folding-doors out upon the mirador, and clapped her hands together, uttering the words, "Venid, venid, querido!" Then tripping back into the saloon with her three companions, they all four seized the cords of variegated silk that hung down, as already mentioned, from the centre of the ceiling, which was full fifteen feet high. The waiting-maid had just had time to slip on DoÑa Isidra's basquina, and fasten her mantilla on the crown of The damsels were now picturesquely beautiful. No trace was visible of the dull apathy which, but two minutes before, had seemed to weigh them down. The yellow tint of their cheeks had become a glowing carnation; the thick-lipped, half-open mouth was closed with an arch expression, the eyes flashed fire; all was grace and seduction. The fascinating basquina, embellishing the full round form, and reaching down to the knees; beneath it the petticoat of light blue silk; the elegant folds of both garments, and the indescribable play of the mantilla, now half veiling, then revealing, the speaking, love-glancing eyes. It was an enchanting group, which acquired additional grace when joined by the two cavaliers, in their characteristic Mexican costume, embroidered jackets, and short cloaks. The girls bounded forward to welcome Don Pinto and his companion, a handsome young Creole; and with a "Venid, venid, senores!" offered them the two remaining cords. A hasty pressure of the hand, an ardent glance, and the dancers stood ready to begin. "The Chica of Yucatan," whispered Don Pinto. The maidens were all fire, glowing with eagerness. An Indian girl took up the guitar, and began to play the dance that had been asked for, accompanied by another on the Mexican instrument already described, which yielded tones hollow and tremulous, but yet melodious, somewhat resembling those of an harmonica. The dance commenced with a slow gliding step, the dancers holding the ropes with one hand, while with the other the ladies coquetted their mantillas. It was impossible to behold any thing more fascinating than their movements, as they glided past each other, their eyes flashing, mantillas waving, their full and graceful forms exhibiting the most enchanting contours. Presently the step changed, the movements became quicker, ladies and cavaliers more animated, crossing, circling, winding, quite unembarrassed by the cords, which they still held, and which, as they trode the complicated mazes of the dance, gradually formed themselves into a sort of network. As the ropes grew shorter, the movements of the dancers became necessarily more circumscribed, until at length the completion of the net brought them together into one panting, glowing, voluptuous group. For an instant they remained motionless, and the music ceased; but then again commencing, they retraced their steps through the complicated mazes of this most singular of dances, until the network they had so skilfully interwoven, was as skilfully and gracefully disentwined. Y basta! as Don Matanzas says; for we cannot allow ourselves to follow our author any further in his somewhat glowing description of Mexican dances, the license of which appears to be in accordance with the unrestrained morals and manners of the people. We return then to Don Manuel, who cannot get over his remorse at having, under the influence of a generous but fleeting impulse, assisted the rebels against the troops of his rightful sovereign; and as his free-agency is in no way restrained by GuerÉro, he leaves the patriot army and repairs to Mexico. Whilst endeavouring to obtain an interview with the viceroy's sister, DoÑa Isabella, he is discovered, apprehended, and thrown into one of the subterranean dungeons which extend under a considerable portion of the viceregal palace. On discovering the name of the prisoner, the viceroy, in pursuance of his designs on the immense wealth of the Conde de San Jago, resolves to make away with this, his nephew and heir. The great power and influence of the count, his popularity in Mexico, a popularity which is in some degree shared by his nephew, compel the viceroy to proceed with extreme caution in carrying out his design. While deliberating as to the best means to be employed, one of Don Manuel's servants, named Cosmo Blanco, is brought in a prisoner, and this circumstance suggests a plan to the plotting viceroy and his secretary and creature, Don Ruy Gomez. The servant is put out of the way in a dungeon, and his arrest not registered, while Don Manuel, under the name of Cosmo Blanco, is brought Chapter the Forty-First."I'll see if his head will stand steadier on a pole or no:—Take him away, and behead him."—King Henry VI. Don Penafil, alcalde of the right worshipful cabildo or town-council of Mexico, was in the act of raising a glass of sangaree to his lips, when the chief alguazil entered the vault and informed him that his excellency the Oidor of the Audiencia wished to speak with him. Setting down his glass, he looked searchingly at the messenger. "His excellency wishes to speak with us? Shall be at his service as soon as we have finished with this rabble. Will cut it short; Don Ferro," added he to his coadjutor, who was busily writing, "how far have we got?" "No. 4," answered the escribano. "Bring up No. 4," growled a voice at the further end of the vault, and a hoarse laugh was heard, although the person who uttered it still remained invisible. The lower part of the vault was gloomy, being only lighted by glimmering lamps that hung on either side of a pillar, and shed a misty imperfect gleam over surrounding objects. In various recesses, dark figures might be seen lurking in the gloom, as if they shrank from observation. Some of them were lying stretched upon stone benches, wrapped in sheep-skin garments, and snoring loudly. Here and there, iron hooks protruded from the massive walls, over which the damp was trickling in thick heavy drops. The whole aspect of the place was dismal and terrible. On the upper portion of the vault, which was raised a couple of steps above the lower part, from which it was separated by a bar, more care had been expended. It was wainscoted, the floor was covered with mats, and furnished with cushioned chairs. Its appearance, however, was still rude enough, but by no means out of keeping with that of the two hard-featured and surly officials by whom it was occupied. During the pause that ensued after No. 4 had been called out, the chief alguazil held a brief conversation with the alcalde, the effect of which seemed to be greatly to increase the impatience of the latter. "Muerte y infiernos!" exclaimed he violently. "Vengo! vengo!" replied a voice, accompanied by the rattle of chains, "Your name is Andres Pachuca?" asked the alcalde sharply. The prisoner, a youth some twenty years of age, gave no answer. "Is it so, or have you lost your tongue, perchance?" demanded the alcalde in an angry tone. "He had tongue enough in the fonda of Trespana," snarled a voice from the background, "when he proposed the health of the accursed Morellos." "You hear the charge," said the alcalde, too lazy to repeat it himself, and converting the words of the police spy into a formal accusation. "SeÑor, for the sake of God's mother, have mercy!" cried the culprit beseechingly. "I was misled." "So were eighty thousand others," was the surly answer. "Write down his confession, and away with him to the Acordada." "Above or under ground?" asked the escribano. "Wherever the maestro has room," replied the alcalde. "No. 5." The knees of the unfortunate youth smote together, and he fell down as if he had received a sudden and stunning blow. "Do not be a fool," growled one of the executioner's assistants with a horrid laugh. "You drank Morellos' health in sherry and sangaree; you can drink it now, for a change, in fresh Tezcuco water; it is a trifle saltish as you know, but there is soft lying in it, at least if the snakes and lizards will leave you alone. That is to say, if you get into one of the lower cells, where many people have lasted half a year. If you give the maestro fair words—gold and silver words, mind ye—he will only put you the fifty pound chains on, and it will be nearly a fortnight before they begin to cut into your flesh." With such consolations was the wretched prisoner dragged out of the vault, while another, designated as No. 5, took his place. He was also a young man, apparently not much over twenty. "Elmo Hernandez," resumed the alcalde, "you are accused of having cursed his excellency the viceroy, and of having uttered cries of 'Maldito Gobierno,' and 'Maldito Gachupin,' and of 'Mueran los Gachupinos,' in the quarter of the Trespana. You also shouted, 'Abajo con la Virgen de los Remedios.'[19] Crimes both against the state and the holy Catholic church. What can you say in reply to these accusations?" "Lieutenant Garcia is a Spaniard, a viejo Cristiano; and if your sister—but enough, you are a Creole and a malecontent." The young man ground his teeth, but said nothing. "You are a malecontent," repeated the alcalde. "A malecontent has a discontented disposition, and a discontented disposition is a rebellious one, and he who has a rebellious disposition is a rebel. Write it down, Don Ferro." After coming to this just and logical conclusion, the alcalde took a draught of sangaree, and then again turned to the escribano. "In the Cordelada—under ground—chains of the second class." "You have thirty pounds more to carry," whispered a jailer to this new victim. "Eighty pounds at the least. You may say your prayers, for an inferniello will be your portion." The prisoner gnashed his teeth, and shook his fetters with impotent rage. He was instantly led away. "Cursed rebel!" growled the alcalde after him. "The rest are all gente irracionale," observed the escribano. "So much the better—Nos. 12 to 21," cried the alcalde. For about a minute there was a deep silence, only broken by the scratch of Don Ferro's pen, and the snoring of the sleepers; then a rattle of chains was heard approaching, accompanied by a hollow murmur, that resounded strangely through the extensive vault; and at last several dark figures emerged from the gloom, their coal-black and fiery eyes glittering out of the darkness like ignes fatui. They were ten in number; desperate-looking men, who appeared neither bowed down by the sufferings they had already endured, nor concerned about their future fate. Some were of gigantic frame, and the form and materials of the rags which clothed them betokened Indians from the Baxio. With indomitable resolution and defiance depicted on their countenances, and an expression of desperate cunning in their widely parted eyes, they approached the bar. "Accused of causing disturbances, and exciting the LÉperos to rebellion," said the escribano. "One, also, of having torn down the proclamation issued by the Audiencia." "Which is he?" enquired the alcalde. "That one," replied a voice, and the Zambo called Cassio Isidro stepped forward, and pointed to the old Indian whose acquaintance we have already made under the name of Tatli Ixtla. "So the Gachupins are the piques that have laid their eggs in the flesh of Mexico?" asked the judge, reading from the police-spy's report, which he held in his hand. "Ixtla did not say that," replied the old Indian. "This dog of a negro said that." "You lie," screamed the Zambo furiously. "And the Gachupins, who are the sons of Jago, have despoiled the sons of Esau, that is to say, the gente irracionale, of their birthright?" continued the alcalde. The Indian made no answer. The judge was silent for a moment, and then uttered the word "Verdugo." A man of lofty stature and great strength, with a bushy beard of an iron-grey colour, and in a dress consisting entirely of white and blue "Nos. 13 to 21," cried the alcalde. "Accused of gritos, and of stirring up the LÉperos, and being in correspondence with the Gavecillas. They are from Zitacuaco and Guanaxato, and therefore rebels." "The nine Indians, who were of various ages, were now standing in a row at the bar. The alcalde addressed them. "What if you were to say, just once, and for the joke's sake, 'Death to the traitor VicÉnte GuerÉro!'" The prisoners gazed at their interlocutor with a fixed and stolid look. "Are ye all tongue-tied?" resumed the judge. "We will put it in another shape. Cry 'Muera el traidor Morellos!' Perhaps that will suit ye better." None of the Indians made any reply. "Would you object to cry, 'Viva el Rey?'" asked the alcalde with a sneer. "They will not answer," he added, shaking his head. "Away with them all." And at the word, half a dozen familiars sprang from the stone benches and out of the recesses, passed lassos through the iron collars of the prisoners' fetters, and dragged them away, like calves to the slaughter. "Cut it short, Don Ferro," said the alcalde abruptly. "The shorter the better; his excellency is waiting for us. You know they do not pay much attention to the writing part of the business, and right enough too, seeing that the sentence is generally executed before it is signed." The escribano took the hint, and handed the paper to the Alcalde, who signed it, as did also the chief alguazil. "Caramba!" exclaimed the magistrate, yawning and stretching himself. "We have done for to-night, but it is only to begin again to-morrow. Well—oremos, SeÑores!" And so saying, the man rose from his seat, approached a sideboard, on which was a basin and can of water, and after he and his two companions had washed their hands, they took from the table the candles, a crucifix, and an image of the Virgin de los Remedios, placed them upon a stool that stood against the wall, knelt down, and prayed audibly, "Ave Maria, regina coeli, audi nos peccatores!" Those of the verdugos and jailers who still remained in the vault, joined in the supplication with that solemn fervor which Spaniards are wont to blend with their devotions. When the prayer was ended, the alcalde rose, took up his papers, and left the vault, accompanied by the escribano and chief alguazil, and followed by the inferior officials, with the exception of one, whose blue and white dress indicated an executioner. To this man the alguazil, in going out, had whispered something which made him start. Recovering, however, from his surprise, he extinguished the candles, wrapped himself in a sheep-skin, and lay down upon one of the benches. Chapter the Forty-Second.
All was now still in the spacious vault, with the exception of a distant clank of chains and murmur of voices, which echoed dismally along the massive walls and under the gloomy arches. Suddenly, rapid but cautious footsteps were heard, and three persons, the foremost of whom was the chief alguazil, entered, looked cautiously around them, and then beckoned to Upon entering this vault, two of the four persons, who were wrapped in ample cloaks, paused behind one of the pillars, while the other two hastened to a cell and crept into it. It was one of those dungeons devised by the ingenious cruelty of Mexico's tyrannical rulers, and which had received the appropriate name of inferniellos—five feet high, six feet long, and as many broad. No superfluity of furniture—a stone bench, rings and chains. Upon the former a young man now sat, or rather hung, his neck encircled by a massive iron ring, his hands stretched out and maintained by chains in the attitude of one upon the cross, his head drooping forward over the iron collar. A cap that covered his head was drawn down over eyes and face, allowing little more than the mouth and chin to be visible. From time to time the unfortunate captive uttered deep moans, like those of some vanquished and expiring lion, and which for an instant startled his two visitors. Recovering himself, however, the chief alguazil, for he was one of them, approached the prisoner, and endeavoured to open the neck-iron. His companion, the executioner, hastily seized his arm. "Beware, SeÑor," cried he; "if you touch a wrong spring, his neck is snapped as though it were a maize stalk; and, by San Lorenzo! I think it would almost be a kindness to do it. The caballero is the first whom ever heard beg for death, and call upon God and devil to send it him. But, nevertheless, may the lowermost hell catch me, if I had not a notion that this manga would never see the inside of old Lorenzo's wallet." While thus discoursing, this wild executer of the laws had unfettered the prisoner. "Silencio!" said the alguazil. "You were mistaken. The manga shall be yours." "He is to change his clothes then? Will your worship be pleased to give a helping hand, for it will be a full hour before he gets the use of his limbs. A damnable shower-bath it is, this inferniello; and for that matter, so are they all." It was with no small difficulty that the alguazil accomplished his task of undressing the prisoner, who seemed more dead than alive, and lay passive and motionless while he was stripped, first of his manga, then of his embroidered jacket, and finally of his hose. He seemed to have lost nearly all sensation; only at times an agonized sigh burst from his over-charged breast, and was accompanied by a convulsive quivering of the whole body. His sufferings had evidently been dreadful. "We will leave him his under garments," said the alcalde, who had experienced, on trying to remove them, that kind of unconscious resistance which even persons in a swoon will sometimes make when their instinctive sense of modesty is wounded. Then, throwing his cloak round the prisoner, he took him in his arms, and partly bore, partly dragged him out of the inferniello. "Is it he?" asked one of the two figures who had remained near the pillar, raising the cap a little as he spoke. "It is," muttered the other. "It is," repeated the alguazil. "De pregonero a verdugo," The party now disappeared in the windings of a corridor, whence, after a short absence, the executioner and alguazil again emerged, bringing with them a young man whose stature, hair, and general appearance, coincided strongly with those of the prisoner they had just carried away. Like the latter, the newcomer had a cap drawn over his face, but he appeared much less exhausted and suffering. "Jesus Maria! Where am I, SeÑores? For the mother of God's sake, where am I?" "Silencio!" growled the hangman, placing him against the wall, and beginning to undress him. The manga as soon stripped off, and the jacket followed. "Lift your foot," said the executioner, pulling at his trousers. "Now the other! So. The shirt is not worth much—you can take that with you. The botines and shoes tolerable. But don't be frightened, SeÑoria; it is only an exchange." "Jesus Maria! Mercy, gracious SeÑor!" stammered the unfortunate wretch. "Ah! if my poor mother, who lives at the corner of the Plateria, could"—— "We will tell her of it, SeÑoria," interrupted the hangman, in almost a feeling tone; "and she will perhaps be able to get you an indulgencia plenaria—for we have no confessors here. It is short work with us, particularly since the rack is done away with. But for twenty dollars she can get the best of indulgencias. They are cheap since the rebellion." The poor fellow listened to this speech, his head bent towards the speaker in an attitude of attention; but he did not seem to understand. He slivered like an aspen leaf; for he now stood nearly naked upon the cold, damp stones. "Jesus Maria!" whimpered the lad, "what is it you want with me? I only went to accompany my young master. How could poor Cosmo help it? We begged and prayed of him—Maestro Alonzo, Pedro, and I—that he would not interfere when Major Ulloa charged the gente irracionale. Jesus! how cold it is!" "You will soon be warm, SeÑor," quoth the executioner. "In our hands, the coldest grows warm. There—take that!" And he handed him, one after the other, the garments which the alguazil had taken off the other prisoner. The unfortunate creature caught at them, and slipped them on with a haste that had something shocking in it. On a sudden, he left off dressing himself, passed his hands over the fur trimmings and gold embroidery of the jacket, and exclaimed, in a trembling voice—"Holy Virgin! they are my master's clothes!" For a moment he stood shivering, with the jacket in his hand. "Quick, SeÑor!" cried the executioner; "time is short." The prisoner put his arm mechanically into the sleeve of the jacket. The hangman helped him on with it, threw the short cloak over him, and placed him hastily in the cell which had been so recently vacated. He had scarcely done so, when the sound of a bell was heard from the adjacent vault. Alguazil and executioner listened for a moment, and then hurried through a corridor, in the direction whence the summons proceeded. After a couple of minutes, they returned, accompanied by the alcalde, and by a person muffled in a blue cloak.[21] The two latter carried dark lanterns. "Executioner, do your duty!" said the alcalde. "No. 3." The executioner disappeared in the inferniello; the clank of chains was heard, and he again emerged from the den, bringing with him the unfortunate prisoner. "Por el amor de Dios!" implored the latter. "Cosmo will do any thing, confess every thing"— "He raves," interrupted the alcalde. "Jesus Maria," groaned Cosmo "That voice!"——exclaimed the cloaked figure— "Is altered," hastily interposed the alcalde. "The poor fellow has lost voice, reason, and courage. But it is always so." "There," muttered the hangman; "these bracelets might have been made for your Excellency; they just fit on over the fur cuffs." And so saying, he pushed the prisoner against the wall, and placed both his arms in rings. "Santissima Madre, ora pro nobis!" prayed poor Cosmo between his teeth, which chattered as he spoke. Then suddenly he raised his voice, and broke out into the beautiful hymn, "Madre dolorosa, dulcissima y hermosa," which he sang, in this his moment of extreme anguish, with such expression and melody, that even the executioner suspended his proceedings, and listened for a moment, visibly moved. A sign from the alguazil recalled him to his duty. "A little farther back, SeÑoria. The legs asunder, on either side of this stone. We want you to sit comfortably." "It is cold, bitter cold!" whined the poor fellow. "Oh, my poor mother!" "The head higher," resumed the hangman, "or the springs might catch your skull. So—that is right. Don't be afraid. We are not going to hurt you." The prisoner now stood with his legs straddled out, a large stone, that projected from the wall, between them, his neck in a huge iron collar, his arms spread out and hanging in the rings. "Remain standing, SeÑoria, till we have fastened your cravat. Don't tremble. We are doing nothing to you. In two minutes you will be as you should be." While uttering these words of consolation, the executioner had fastened a thinner chain, of which the end was secured to the stone above mentioned, round the neck of the victim, who stood shaking and trembling, and allowing himself to be thus dealt with as unresistingly as a lamb. The poor fellow had left off sobbing, and was now repeating Ave Marias in a low hurried voice, with all the agonized eagerness of one who in his last moments would fain make up for former omissions. "Would you, SeÑoria, wish to have the sentence read?" enquired the alcalde of the man in the blue cloak, who stood observing the proceedings in deep silence, and now made no answer to the question. "Would Don Ruy Gomez be pleased to hear the sentence read?" repeated the alcalde in a hoarse whisper. Still no reply. The alguazil made a sign to the executioner. The latter pressed the prisoner down upon the stone—the snap of a spring was heard—the stone fell out of the wall. "Jesus Maria! Todos Santos!" shrieked Cosmo. "Madre mi"—— The last syllable was not uttered; in its place there was the noise of crushed and breaking bones; and then the tongue protruded from the mouth, and the eyes from their sockets, the face became of a deep purple colour, and the victim hung a corpse in his manacles. "El ultimo suspiro!" said the executioner, in an unusually solemn tone. The viceroy's secretary shuddered, and gazed fixedly and in silence upon the corpse. "The finest youth in Mexico!" he murmured. And then, as if devils had been goading him, he hurried to the door. "Show his SeÑoria a light," cried the alguazil gravely; "and may his dying hour be as easy as that of this unfortunate. By my soul," continued he to the alcalde, "these great men are delicate. They take us for tongs, made to pull their chestnuts out of the fire." The alcalde nodded. "Do not forget the prisoner," said he. And with an abrupt "Adios," he left the vault. "Come, and that quickly," cried the alguazil anxiously; "in a quarter of an hour it might be too late. An alcalde and an alguazil cannot be always blind." His summons, which had been uttered in a loud tone, was replied to by the appearance of the original "Where am I?" he exclaimed. "In a place which few ever leave alive, Don Manuel," was the answer; "but he that has the Pope for his cousin, as the proverb says, need not fear hell-fire. Nevertheless, let your SeÑoria beware! Another time it might not be so easy to rob the tiger of his prey." And with these words the chief alguazil led the way out of the vault. With this rescue of Don Manuel, and sacrifice of his unfortunate servant, the plot of the book may in great measure be said to terminate, although there are still several lively and interesting chapters. Count San Jago next comes upon the scene, and has an interview with the viceroy, who at first is disposed to carry matters with a high hand; but the count exhibits such an accurate and dangerous knowledge of the viceroy's secrets, and, amongst others, of some treasonable negotiations the latter had been carrying on with the French—proofs of which, the count assures him, are deposited out of the country in the hands of friends of his own, ready to be used should aught happen to him—that the satrap is completely cowed. The count has no wish to have Vanegas deposed, considering his continuance on the viceregal throne more favourable to the prospects of Mexican freedom, than would be his replacement by Calleja, who has a strong party in his favour amongst the Spaniards. The matter is therefore compromised; Don Manuel receives a passport for England or the United States; the Conde Carlos is promoted to an important command in the army; and in return Count San Jago gives the viceroy his support against the cabal that is for pulling him down and elevating Calleja. The book, to be complete, should have a continuation dated ten or twelve years later, showing the successful issue of the struggle of which these volumes narrate the commencement, and terminating the various intrigues, both private and political, which are here commenced, but not carried to a close. Our limits have prevented us from giving more than brief glimpses of work which, if translated as a whole, would fill three or four comely post octavos. We trust that it will be worthily done into English, without greater abridgement than may be rendered indispensable by the epithets and expletives so abundant in the German language; many of which are unnecessary, and some without equivalent in ours:—done, however, not as translations usually are, but in a manner worthy of the admirable original. Out of the numerous translations of clever German books that have recently appeared, it is lamentable to observe how few have been done, we will not say well, but decently, and how little justice has been rendered to the talent of the authors; the translators having been for the most part incompetent drudges, working by the square foot, or persons of some ability, who apparently deemed it beneath them to bestow upon translations even a small portion of the pains they devote to original productions. We are aware of very few instances where this description of labour, which to do well is not altogether so easy as is usually supposed, has fallen into hands alike competent and conscientious. We trust that whenever the works of our German Unknown are translated, they will be undertaken by persons at once sensible of their merits, and able to do them justice. |
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