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the royal presence, the nobles of the court, many of them in complete armour, were, despite the hardy habits of the times, almost sinking with fatigue, as they forcedly made pretence of watching THE CHESSE going on between the monarch and Don Ramirez, count of Biscay, a fine, tall figure, but whose courtly and varnished smile at the present moment was hardly in keeping with the general aspect. De Tarraxas, with half-closed eyes, stood still as the rock of Calpe; resembling rather one of those gigantic suits of steel one sees in Gothic halls, than a man of real bone and blood.

The youthful Alonzo d'Ossuna, wanting the iron frame of the lord high constable, and palsied with heart-sickness at the cruel fate of him he had loved so well-his leader in war, his model of every great quality which may adorn a man D'Ossuna (my legend runs) leaned against a marble pillar in a most pitiable state of depression, like a flower-stalk snapped by the cutting tempest of the east. Suddenly Philip started up, and began to pace the floor again with unequal steps, as at the commencement of our chapter, at times pausing to catch the most distant echo of sound, at others turning and watching the sand-glass, which marked the passing flight of day. All was silent as the chamber of Azrael, the angel of death; for none present, however high in rank, dared break in upon their ruler's iron command. In accordance with the gloomy superstition of the age, Philip would occasionally address a brief and muttered prayer to the jewelled figure of Mary-mother, which stood forth in ostentatious relief upon a pedestal of porphyry taken from the ruins of the Alhambra. Bowing his head to the dust, and crossing repeatedly brow and breast, did Spain's king thus humble himself, as if to deprecate the anger of the Virgin, and to bid her bless his deed of blood. Neither bread nor meat were broken, neither wine nor water were borne to the lip; but the stillness of the great desert of Zahara reigned over and upon the hour, even until the last grain of sand in the glass had run out its race, and the cruel measure of time was full. Philip was then satisfied. He threw himself

VOL. XXIV. NO. CXL.

"The traitor dies!"

upon a couch. ejaculated the king. An audible murmur ran around in response. "The time has expired some minutes!" continued the king; "and your enemy, Count of Biscay, has passed with it away, like the leaves of the olive before the blast of the sirocco !"

"My enemy, sire!" replied Don Ramirez, with some affectation of surprise.

"Yes, man!" said Philip, almost maliciously. "Why echo our words? Were you not his rival in the affections of the Lady Estella; and can two claim the same bride, and be friends? True, hitherto we have not spoken in council upon this matter; but our royal word is pledged, and the maid and her vast possessions are yours. Oh, count! men may talk of the ingratitude of kings, but never can we forget the services of that real friend to Spain, who first discovered the treasonable correspondence with France of this our pampered minion, the ingrate Guzman !"

It seemed that Biscay's count could have spared this premature declaration of his devotedness. Shame is ever the informer's portion, gild it as he may.

"With deep reluctance was my sad duty to your majesty performed," was the answer of Don Ramirez; but he faltered in accent as he spoke, feeling that although he looked not in the faces of the chiefs around, their general expression was aught but friendly. A pause ensued. Tarraxas coughed audibly, while the hot blood of D'Ossuna rekindled in his veins at the words just spoken. The sensation was unbearable. Alonzo struck his sheathed sword with his gauntlet, as he sought in vain to catch the eye of Don Ramirez.

"Before the betrothed of my murdered friend shall be the bride of this proud man,” thought the youth, "will I also lie in the Guzman tomb! To-morrow be my day of reckoning." The conversation was resumed by Spain:

"Your zeal, Don Ramirez, shall not pass unrequited. The saviour of a throne, and it may be of our dynasty, must be rewarded in no vulgar manner. At early morn we bade you arrange with our heraldsin-chief the patent of creation to

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the rank of Duke and Governor of fair Valencia. Is the parchment yet ready for signature ?"

Trembling with the full tide of emotions consequent upon the complete success of long-cherished aspirations-agitated with the natural feelings of gratified ambition-eagerly grasping at the prizes of beauty, wealth, and rank, now poured around him-Don Ramirez hurriedly drew from his vest a vellum scroll, and presented it reverentially to the king. "To sign this," said Philip, taking the roll with an air of mingled grace and majesty "to subscribe this patent be our first public act to-day. The headsman has long since dealt the traitor his meed, and no other moment of time can be so fitting in which to reward the faithful saviour of our crown and life;" and the king displayed the parchment. "Ha!" cried Philip, suddenly and impetuously; "Mother of Jesus! what have we here?"

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Again the legend carries us to the cell of the doomed. That fearful chess game is over at last. Don Guzman has checkmated Ruy Lopez, and his awful triumph is perfected. The duke rises from his seat.

"I am once more the devoted servant of my king," said the condemned prince to Calavar, in accents of dignity, and it might be pride.

The executioners prepared rapidly to work forth their calling. Billet and blade were speedily made ready. The preparations were completed. The duke advanced to the altar of sacrifice, with that profound air of tranquillity only to be based on conscious innocence within.

"Let not this act of rashness be visited as guilt upon my king, O God!" prayed the Guzman, audibly. Ruy Lopez prostrated himself in a corner of the chamber, and with his face wrapped in his robes, poured forth almost hysterically the service of the church for the dying and the dead. The unhappy bishop could not bear to look upon innocent blood poured forth as water.

Calavar laid his rough hand upon the duke's shoulder, in order to remove the ruff from his neck. Don Guzman drew back gravely.

"No part of thee or thine may touch a Guzman, saving that steel!"

said the duke, as he himself tore off the impediment, and bared his finelymoulded throat for the blow.

Don Guzman, we say, reclined his head upon the billet, and gave the word to strike; but a shout like the coming of a mighty band of warriors rang through the distant halls, and the door was dashed open, ere the thirsty axe could drink its draught. At the head of many nobles, D'Ossuna rushed in and threw himself upon the rescued duke, while the narrow cell thrilled with the loud hurrah of Don Tarraxas.

"The noble and the innocent!"

cried the young Alonzo. "He lives, and he is saved! My own loved cousin! I durst not hope to find thy spirit yet on earth!"

"But just in time, dear boy," whispered the duke, as he swooned away upon the block. Death could be better borne by that bold heart than the stunning consciousness of life and honourable acquittal!

Ruy Lopez lifted the noble Guzman exultingly in his arms, and the duke recovered sense but to find himself in the hall of majesty, his friends warmly crowding around, and Philip himself hanging over the couch with an eager expression of delight and satisfaction.

To dwell on the close of this scene were tedious as unnecessary. Don Ramirez, in his agitated triumph, had given a wrong parchment to the king, and its contents proved the forgeries and treasons of its owner. The whole exposed a plot to remove the Guzman; and thereby not only weaken the chief defences of the throne, but extinguish for ever a most hated rival. Sickening were it in the moment of joy to dwell on this in more minute detail. The duke's innocence was completely proved, and formally proclaimed in loudest tones by the high constable. Calavar and his gloomy band were first recalled from their stunning sense of stupefaction and bewilderment, to consign the black-hearted Count of Biscay to the Guzman's late keep of stone, and three days afterwards Madrid witnessed the traitor's well-deserved death on the public scaffold.

The joy of the court, meanwhile, knew no bounds. The noble Guzman was overwhelmed with embraces and congratulations; and the passages of

the critical chess-game were minutely and even superstitiously dwelt upon. "My friend once more!" cried Philip. "How could I be so blind,

so hasty, so ungrateful to thy long and tried services? Never may my folly be expiated!"

"Sire," replied the duke," name it not again. Such words of kindness from my sovereign outweigh a thousand lives!"

The king took the arm of Don Guzman.

"Friend," said Philip, "be thou very sure we may not be thus twice unjust. The finger of God is marked in this matter, and his interposition has been indeed miraculous. To offer thee additional rank or wealth were vain, and would be an insult to thy pure soul of honour. To hand down to thy posterity this providential escape, it is our royal will that the Guzman shield do henceforth bear a bright axe argent, on a chess-field azure; and be it our duty to provide that thy nuptials with the fair Donna Estella be held with fitting pomp and splendour, within the month, in the halls of our own Escurial here. Jesu Maria, assoilzie our soul from the sin of blood so nearly laid upon us!"

The monarch crossed himself in silence, and turned to Ruy Lopez. Gloomy and bad as was unhappily Philip's general deportment, there were not wanting moments through life in which the virtuous principle strove successfully for the ascendancy. None are all good, and surely of men none are altogether wicked. We are fearfully fashioned.

"Ruy Lopez," said Philip, with a smile," methinks the church of Spain has gained a stalwart defender in her new bishop. Thou shalt be consecrated lord-prelate in a jewelled robe, for the chess-game thou hast this day played!"

"May it please your majesty," replied Ruy Lopez, "never before felt I joy at receiving checkmate."

The king laughed, and of course the courtiers all laughed too. The humour of the moment was to make mirth at but little. Their hearts were full.

"And now, gentlemen, we bid ye forthwith to the banquet," resumed the monarch. "Of all Spain's kings, never had she one so famished for food as Philip at this present happy moment. Let the cover for our noble friend, Don Guzman, be placed at our own right hand, and be the trusty Bishop of Segovia seated on our left. To dinner, to dinner, and that right speedily! Your arm, my Guzman!"

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And thus did chess save an innocent man, and thus did Ruy Lopez get his bishoprick. Doubtless was it meant as a retrospect of this event, that Ruy Lopez, subsequently, in his Treatise on Chess, printed in Alcala, 1561, heads his second chapter with these words: “ En que se tracta el juego e ocio loable, no solo permitirse, pero ser necessario para la conservaciò dela vida humana." Can enthusiasm go farther? and are not all real chess-players enthusiasts, from the very nature and constitution of our noble and bewitching pastime?

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No. XVIII.

R. A. WILLMOTT TO OLIVER YORKE, ESQ.

DEAR MR. YORKE,─Do you remember-but what do you not remember?— By every muse and every grace adorn'd"—

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a story told in Croker's Boswell (iii. 340). I must be pardoned for repeating it: Having talked of Grainger's Sugar Cane, I mentioned to him Mr. Langton's having told me that this poem, when read in MS. at Sir Joshua Reynolds's, had made all the assembled wits burst into a laugh, when, after much blank-verse pomp, the poet began a new paragraph thus,—

"Now, Muse, let's sing of rats.'

I fear, when you learn the subject of my epistle, that you will think my theme as humble as Dr. Grainger's,-it is a very minute critique in the Spectator newspaper. The displeasure of the reviewer was provoked in the following manner :-Having published a little volume of verses, chiefly with a view of giving it to some college friends, I sent a copy to the Spectator. My verses detained that accomplished journalist a very short time from his Radical labours,—while giving me credit for some elegance and harmony, he doubted whether my rhymes required any notice, or deserved the honour of being included in a volume. In glancing over this moderate testimonial to poetical character, I recollected the words of warm and unsolicited praise in which Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer had mentioned some of those poems in the New Monthly Magazine. I immediately made the two passages into a parallel, and enclosed them to the editor of the Spectator as a slight contribution to the philosophy of criticism; he printed my communication, with a commentary of his own, in which, among other polite allusions, he bestows upon me the appellation of a Poetaster. I have not forgotten, dear Mr. Yorke, the wise aphorism of Fuseli (which he borrowed, as he says, from Michael Angelo), that if we wish to give consequence to our inferiors, or our critics, we must answer their attacks. I assure you, with perfect sincerity, that I write this letter upon principle. A favourable or an unfavourable opinion of seventy pages of rhyme can be of little benefit or injury to any person.

The Spectator possesses, I am informed, some reputation among persons of moderate education, and I am desirous of shewing that it has no indisputable claim to that influence. The cause of its success is sufficiently obvious, and may be stated in the words of a scholar and critic, Richard Payne Knight (Inquiry into the Principles of Taste, p. 249): "Others have assumed the office without any better apparent qualification than a sort of flippant confidence, which, while it dazzles and overawes the ignorant, enables them to pronounce the most peremptory decisions on the most abstruse points of learning, without understanding even its first elements."

If I were inclined to follow the example of the Spectator, and to substitute names for argument, the reviewer of Mr. Bell, in a recent number of your Magazine, would supply me with the necessary weapons. I might address the Spectator in words like these:-" Mr. Spectator, you call me a Poetaster ; I call you a false critic; and if my epithet be harsher, it is juster than yours. Your opinion of my rhymes being supported by your own principles of taste alone, can, under the most favourable aspect, approach only to a probability; my opinion of your criticism, being founded upon evidence which can be produced, assumes the weight and dignity of a demonstration. I am willing to rest my accusation upon your remarks on Collins, already noticed by a writer in this Magazine. When you have answered that charge, I will forward to you another." In such plain and unaffected language I might address this anonymous gentleman; but I have done. And to shew the kindliness of my feeling towards the Spectator, I earnestly wish that, when he is ferried over to the Elysium of essayists, he may not meet the shade of Addison.

Believe me to be, dear Mr. YORKE.

ANECDOTES OF ACTORS.

"What players are they?

Even those you were wont to take such delight in."—Hamlet.

A VERY high authority* has pronounced that to be a laudable curiosity which leads men to seek out the private histories and characters of those persons who have astonished the world by their exploits, or enlightened it by their genius. Their manners, habits, and even their foibles, are admitted to be objects of a natural justifiable interest and inquiry to the world. Under such liberal admission of the popular right, its influence over dramatic genius must necessarily be included.

Actors are indubitably the legitimate property of the public. Their talents,-nay, their very persons, when labouring in their vocation, are no more their own than are the various characters which they of necessity assume upon the stage, where each man has in effect made over to his audience a lease of his personal tenement, which is at once mortgaged for a con-si-der-a-tion, and unredeemable until the fall of the green curtain. While upon the boards, actors are not only "her majesty's servants," but the vassals of all those who, for the time, possess the purchased right not only to a taste of their quality, but to pronounce upon its flavour according to the particular relish imbibed by their various palates, humours, and tastes, from that very gentlemanlike personage without a coat in the one-shilling gallery, whose stentorian lungs from time to time enforce the general "Silence!" and the little ragamuffin boy who comes in at half-price, with a chartered privilege of disturbing the whole house with his shrill pennytrumpet voice, and his vociferous "Hencore!" down to the grave gentleman in black who is seated in critical majesty in the front row of the pit. All, from the ceiling to the basement of the building, sit invested in the brief authority of the hour, and exercise it accordingly to the very extent of their immunity, either

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to hiss or applaud, approve or condemn, to laugh at the actor or weep with him (as the case may be), in full impunity of power, at the small cost of from one shilling to seven per night. At such low price John Bull claims-in commercial phrase—the indisputable privilege of using up the "article" for which he has paid "cash," according to his own peculiar fancy and humour, rigorously exacting his money's worth. Nor is he satisfied with fair and full measure of the commodity, but demands a "something in," an overplus," in an encore of his favourite song, or a blessing," in the reproduction of a chosen performer upon the stage-counter, whereon he is required to appear au naturel when his work is done, and bend with due humility to his patrons, the aforesaid coatless gentleman and sixpenny-boy, in acknowledgment and thanks for their "sweet voices" vouchsafed to him. But with the last exacted bow ends the tyranny of the powers that be-the "royalties and rights" of the gallery-gods and other presiding dominations of the night are at an end the serf is enfranchised!--and nothing then remains for unsceptred majesty, "the people," but to crawl languidly out of the gorgeous temple of their late triumphs, and creep back to their dull homes, and dream of lost dominion. Haply, a portion of them lagging behind to cumber the stage-door entrance, for the extraover-and-above gratification of witnessing, "free gratis for nothing," the final exit of their chief favourites, the going out of the brightest stars of the night, catch the outline of their enveloped figures as they hurriedly ascend with muffled faces their attendant carriage, and see them pull down the mystic blinds, and drive off rapidly home. Home! ay, there's the rub! Not one of the spectators can follow them there! no money can purchase a key to the blue chamber of

• Dr. Johnson.

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