He is paying her back in her own coin with interest, when the footsteps of Babieca are heard. Away he flies like the wind and the Cid after him, until they come to a river, which the Moor crosses hastily in a boat. The Cid coming up to the bank, hurls his javelin at his foeman-addressing him at the same time in these words: recoged yerno, Recoged aquessa lanza, Que quizà tiempo vendrà Que os serà bien demandada. Pick up, my son-in-law, pick up this lance-for perhaps the time will come, when it shall be demanded at your hands. The rest of these Ballads all relate to Charlemagne and his Peers. The first of them is the famous romance of Calainos, which Ritson thinks (and with good reason) one of the most ancient among them. It is mentioned in Don Quixote, and is so well known in Spain, that it is said to be a proverbial expression of contempt there, no vale las coplas de Calainos. With the most profound deference, however, for the Señor Sarmiento, upon whose authority this is affirmed, we presume to suggest that this saying may mean nothing more than, that that venerable old ballad is in every body's mouth, like the Children of the Wood and Johnny Armstrong, and so it may be with it, as the wife of Bath sagely teaches of conjugal endearments, that "a glutted market makes provision cheap." But it must be owned that this romance of Calainos falls very far short of the merits of some of the other pieces in this collection. One of the best of them is the ballad of Gayferos, to which we have already had occasion to allude. Another remarkable one is that of Count Claròs of Montalban, the son of the famous Paladin Rinaldo. The story relates an anecdote of one of Charlemagne's daughters, who are all of them known to have been very far above the vulgar prejudices of mankind in relation to their sex. Perhaps it is founded, as the translator conjectures, upon the well-known story of his secretary and historian, Eginhart. Those who read Spanish, may be edified with the unceremonious gallantry of the following colloquy sublime. Count Claros has past a sleepless night for love of Doña Clara. So at the first peep of dawn, he leaps out of bed, and calling up his chamberlain, puts on a dress, all glittering with scarlet, and gold, and precious stones. His steed is caparisoned in the same gorgeous style, and is, in particular, tricked off with three hundred morris-bells jingling about his poitrail with a most delectable din. Thus equipped, he burries to the imperial palace, and is presently upon his knees before his mistress. She returns his salutation, and goes on to address him— He then swears, as Doña Urraca did to the Moorish king who lost Valencia, that he has been for seven years desperately in love with her, with other the like approved fleurettes. She tells him he is a gay deceiver, and so forth; but the result is, that the Emperor, who is not quite as much pleased with Count Claros and his way of making love, as the princess had been, has him arrested, put in irons, and seated upon a mule; and not satisfied with thus disgracing him, though the Paladins all intercede for him, orders him to be sentenced to death by a jury of his peers-which is accordingly done. In this extremity, the Archbishop obtains leave to visit the unfortunate youth in prison, for the purpose of administering to him the usual ghostly consolations. The first words which he addresses to the Count are very characteristic of the times and manners. These words were most pathetic, says the book-they are as follows: Pesame de vos el Conde, Dignos son de perdonar." I feel as deeply for you, Count, For the sins of lovers Deserve to be pardoned. of He repeats this wise saw again soon after, and tells him he ought to meet death very cheerfully, considering in how good a cause he is to suffer. His Page is so much of the same way thinking, that he tells the Count he would rather change places with him than with the crabbed, old Emperor, who has condemned him to this honourable martyrdom. The Count, however, Count Claros had probably heard the same thing from his own father, if we may believe what Messer Lodovico says on the authority of the "good Turpin." Pensò Rinaldo alquanto e poi rispose: Una donzella dunque de' morire, Perchè lasciò sfogar nell' amorose Sue braccia al suo amator tanto desire? Sià maladetto che tal legge pose, E maladetto che la puo patire. Debitamente muore una crudele, Non chì da vita al su 'amator fedele. [Orlando Fur. Cant. iv. 63. calls upon his young friend for a much lighter service than to act as his substitute on the scaffold-he only sends by him a request to his mistress to place herself so that his last looks may be turned upon her, assuring her that her presence would disarm death of its terrors and its sting. The Infanta, as she is called in the ballad, is in despair, and her sorrow is extremely well-painted. She rushes forth with the eloquent abandon of a woman made desperate by a conflict of high passions, and at length prevails upon her stern father to spare the Count's life on condition of his marrying her, and atoning for the lover's indiscretion by the virtues and fidelity of the husband. Charlemagne is represented in a still more trying situation in by far the longest, and, perhaps, the most celebrated of these ballads, we mean that of the Marquis of Mantua. He is there made to act the part of the elder Brutus, and to pass sentence upon his own son, Carloto. This is the story which takes possession of the knight's imagination, after he had undergone that unmerciful drubbing from the mule-driver, mentioned in the fourth chapter of Don Quixote. At the beginning of the next chapter, we see him sprawling upon the ground, from which he was utterly incapable of rising, so dreadfully belaboured had he been by that rascally churl. In this uncomfortable situation, he bethinks him, as usual, of his books, and "his anger recalled to his memory the story of Valdovinos and the Marquis of Mantua, when Carloto left him wounded in the mountain-a story known by children, not forgotten by youth, celebrated and even believed by the old, and for all that, as apocryphal as the miracles of Mahomet." The outline of this interesting tale is as follows:-The Marquis of Mantua-Danes Urgèl el Léal-is engaged in a stag chase, when a violent thunder storm arising, his company is scattered, and he finds himself alone in the midst of the forest. At a loss whither to direct his course, he gives the rein to his gallant steed, who presses forward with such incredible expedition, that Danes Urgèl is presently at the distance of more than ten leagues. Here he enters a wood of pines, and thence descending into a valley-his attention is suddenly arrested by a fearful cry of distress. Dismounting from his steed, he advances on foot a few steps, and sees the carcase of a war-horse, caparisoned as for battle, and horribly maimed in almost every part of his body. A little further onward, he hears a voice uttering a devout and doleful prayer to the Virgin. His curiosity is now worked up to a painful pitch of excitement-he makes an opening by cutting down the thick bushes and foliage, and sees the ground all stained with gore-immediately after, he espies a knight seated under an oak, cased in armour from head to foot, but without any offensive weapon. The Marquis pauses, and listens in breathless silence. The first words uttered by the wounded cavalier, are those quoted in the chapter of Don Quixote just referred to. It is, therefore, impossible to repeat them with any gravity, much less in that deeply pathetic tone with which they were, no doubt, uttered by a dying lover. Donde estàs, Señora mia 'Alas! where are you, lady dear That for my pains you do not moan? Thou little know'st what ails me here. Or art to me disloyal grown.' Ozell. This address, to his lady fair, becomes gradually more affectionate and confiding as it proceeds, and is followed by an apostrophe to all and singular the Twelve Peers, whom he reproaches, for not knowing that he stands in need of their assistance to the Emperor in whose justice he relies, even when it is invoked against his own son-to God, whose mercy he supplicates-to his assassin Don Carloto-to his own mother, and last of all, to the Marquis of Mantua himself. The Marquis now approaches him, and without disclosing who he is, inquires into the story of his calamity. Baldwin (for it was he) states that he is the son of the King of Dacia, one of the Doseperes-that the Marquis of Mantua is his uncle-and that he was married to the beautiful "Infanta Sevilla or Sybilla," whose fatal charms had been the source of all his woe. For the Prince Don Carloto, being desperately enamoured of her, and having hitherto failed in his attempts upon her virtue, had determined to make away with her unfortunate husband, for the purpose of succeeding him in that relation to Sevilla. That, with this design, he had upon some fair pretext, decoyed his victim into the forest, where the unhappy young man was set upon by three assassins, and left in his present deplorable situation. He beseeches the stranger Knight to bear these tidings to his friends. Here the feelings of the Marquis of Mantua become uncontrollable-and he gives vent to them in a truly pathetic manner; for, after losing all his own children, he had adopted this young man as his heir, and centered his affections in him. But he was now a desolate old man, and would not be comforted. This scene is interrupted by the arrival of Baldwin's squire, bringing with him a Hermit, who dwelt hard by in the forest. The holy recluse was a priest, and he was come to shrive the dying cavalier. After this melancholy office is performed, and Baldwin has breathed his last, the Marquis asks what wood that was and who was its lord. Tal respuesta le fue à dàr: Esta tierra es del Marquès Thus the ancient Hermit answer'd, You shall soon hear what he said"Know, my Lord, from this wild country "All the people long have fled. "Once a region fair and fertile, "Till a sad mischance befel; "Fatal wars throughout prevailing, "Their disastrous horrors tell. "Of distress and lamentation "Is this gloomy forest call'd; Never Knight its bounds hath enter'd "But some dire mishap enthrall'd. "To fair Mantua's noble Marquis "Does this country appertain; "Tis a hundred miles to Mantua, "Yet between no souls remain, "Six leagues hence, amidst the forest, "Stands a lonely Hermit's cell; In it, from the world secluded, "There in gentle peace I dwell." Vol. ii. pp. 100-103. The Marquis now questions the squire, who gives him a detailed account of the treachery of Carloto. He then binds himself by the vow so pleasantly ridiculed by Cervantes in that pas age (c. xii. b. 2) where the knight, after his combat with the Biscayan, finding his helmet quite demolished, laying his hand upon his sword, and lifting up his eyes to heaven, pronounces the following oath, "I swear by the creator of all things, and by all that is written in the four Evangelists, to lead the life which the Marquis of Mantua led when he made a vow to revenge the death of Baldwin; not to eat food upon a table cloth, nor— with many other things which though I do not remember I here consider as expressed,* until I have taken vengeance upon him who has done me this injury. * This vow being quite a curiosity, we publish it here for the readers of Spanish. Puso la mano en el ara, De nunca entrar en poblado, De no comer en manteles, |