mettlesome withal, that poor Lucas skulked doggedly about his own premises, with his head down, and his tail between his legs. In this little village my occupations were few and simple. My morning's walk was to the Cross of Espalmado, a large wooden crucifix in the fields; the day was passed with books, or with any idle companion I was lucky enough to catch by the button and bribe with a cigar into a long story, or a little village gossip; and I whiled away the evening in peeping round among the cottagers, studying the beautiful landscape that spread before me, and watching the occasional gathering of a storm about the blue peaks of the Guardarama Mountains. My favourite haunt was a secluded spot in a little woodland valley, through which a crystal brook ran brawling along its pebbly channel: there, stretched in the shadow of a tree, I often passed the hours of noontide heat, now reading the magic numbers of Garcilaso, and anon listening to the song of the nightingale overhead; or watching the toil of a patient ant as he rolled his stone, like Sisyphus, up-hill, or the flight of a bee darting from flower to flower, and "hiding his murmurs in the rose." Blame me not, thou studious moralist,-blame me not unheard for this idle dreaming; such mo ments are not wholly thrown away. In the language of Goëthe, "I lie down in the grass near a falling brook, and close to the earth a thousand varieties of grasses become perceptible. When I listen to the hum of the little world between the stubble, and see the countless indescribable forms of insects, I feel the presence of the Almighty who has created us,-the breath of the All-benevolent who supports us in perpetual enjoyment." The village church, too, was a spot around which I occasionally lingered of an evening when in pensive or melancholy mood: and here, gentle reader, thy imagination will straightway conjure up a scene of ideal beauty,-a village church with decent white-washed walls, and modest spire just peeping forth from a clump of trees!-no; I will not deceive thee: the church of El Pardillo resembles not this picture of thy well-tutored fancy; it is a gloomy little edifice, standing upon the outskirts of the village, and built of dark and unhewn stone, with a spire like a sugar-loaf. There is no grassplot in front, but a little esplanade beaten hard by the footsteps of the church-going peasantry. The tombstone of one of the patriarchs of the village serves as a door-step, and a single solitary tree throws its friendly shade upon the portals of the little sanctuary. One evening, as I loitered around this spot, the sound of an organ and the chant of youthful voices from within struck my ear; the churchdoor was ajar, and I entered. There stood the priest surrounded by a group of children, who were chanting a hymn to the Virgin : Ave, Regina cœlorum, Ave, Domina angelorum. There is something exceedingly thrilling in the voices of children singing: though their music be unskilful, yet it finds its way to the heart with wonderful celerity. Voices of cherubs are they, for they breathe of paradise; clear liquid tones that flow from pure lips and innocent hearts like the sweetest notes of a flute, or the falling of water from a fountain! When the chant was finished, the priest opened a little book which he held in his hand, and began, with a voice as solemn as a funeral bell, to question this class of roguish little catechumens, whom he was initiating into the mysterious doctrines of the mother church. Some of the questions and answers were so curious that I cannot refrain from repeating them here; and should any one doubt their authenticity, he will find them in the Spanish catechisms. "In what consists the mystery of the Holy Trinity?" "In one God, who is three persons; and three persons, who are but one God." “But tell me,—three human persons, are they not three men ?" "Then why are not three divine persons three Gods?" "Because three human persons have three hu man natures; but the three divine persons have only one divine nature." "Can you explain this by an example?” "Yes, father; as a tree which has three branches is still but one tree, since all the three branches spring from one trunk, so the three divine persons are but one God, because they all have the same divine nature." "Where were these three divine persons before the heavens and the earth were created?” "In themselves." "Which of them was made man?" "The Son." "And after the Son was made man was he still God?" "Yes, father; for in becoming man he did not cease to be God, any more than a man when he becomes a monk ceases to be a man.” "How was the Son of God made flesh." "He was born of the most holy Virgin Mary." "And can we still call her a Virgin?". "Yes, father: for as a ray of the sun may pass through a pane of glass, and the glass remain 'unbroken, so the Virgin Mary, after the birth of her son, was a pure and holy virgin as before.”* "Who died to save and redeem us?" "The Son of God: as man, and not as God." 'How could he suffer and die as man only, being both God and man, and yet but one person?" "As in a heated bar of iron upon which water is thrown, the heat only is affected and not the iron, so the Son of God suffered in his human nature and not in his divine." *This illustration was also made use of during the dark ages. Pierre de Corbiac, a troubadour of the thirteenth century, thus introduces it in a poem entitled Prayer to the Virgin Domna, verges pur' e fina Ans que fos l'enfantamens De vos trais sa carn humana Intra'l bel rais quan solelha VOL. II.-D |