Pedrillo slowly raised his head,
Not heeding what the priest had said,
But slightly startled by the sound:
And then he turn'd himself half round,
And saw, with supernatural fear,
A black-rob'd priest standing near.
In fact, he thought the figure must be
His most Satanic Majesty !

And so he cried-" What shall I do?
I've not quite done your worship's shoe;
I'm hard at work, sir-this is it-
Perhaps you'll try how it will fit
Your worship's hoof-that is-I mean—
Your worship's foot-I'd never seen
One like it till your worship came-
So, if I've fail'd, you musn't blame !"

Thus saying, he held out the cloven-hoof'd boot,
And gravely laid hold of his reverence's foot.

Then-oh for the pen of old Homer to trace
The passion that darken'd the holy man's face!
His eyes were half-red and his cheeks were half-black,
And he rush'd at the cobbler, and caught him a whack
With his toe on the nethermost point of his back,
That sent him a summerset, tumbling and sprawling,
Into the street, and with agony bawling.

And before he could rise,

Or had finish'd his cries,

Before the whole truth could have enter'd his mind,
Before he could rub where he smarted behind-
He was seiz'd on the spot, and with smart expedition,
Clapp'd into the jail of the fell Inquisition !

Fair Spain, sweet Spain, the brightest gem
In all Europa's diadem!

Land of the sun, the flow'r, the vine—
Land of a race once half-divine:

Land of fair scenes, and fairer ladies,
Whose forms, from Pyrenees to Cadiz,
May match with all the world can boast,
From Ind to Russia's ice-bound coast!
Land of romance-the rich, deep, store
Of poet's lay and monkish lore!
Birth-place of men whose ev'ry name,
Writ in the muster-roll of Fame,
To ev'ry age, 'neath ev'ry zone,
Attest their glory and thine own!

How art thou favor'd, glorious land!
What gifts thou hast at Nature's hand-
Climate and soil, and hills and vales,
And flowing streams-all that avails

To charm the eye or glad the heart,
Or sense of gratitude impart

To God above, whose hand benign
Hath bless'd thee thus-all, all are thine!

And yet, what art thou ?-lost, debased-
Thine annals past in glory traced-
Thy present but a wretched blank,

Or viler stain! Where shalt thou rank
Among the nations of the earth? Ay-thou,
Once crown'd with honour-sunken now
Below the meanest state enslaved

Where once thy flag victorious waved!

And why is this? what spell hath wrought
A change so fatal to thy fame?
What sad reverse, with ruin fraught,
Hath swept away thine ancient fame?

Alas! within thy bosom cherish'd,

The deadly canker-worm hath grown,
And day by day thy weal hath perish'd
'Neath his corroding sting alone.

Yes! History's impartial page,

Thy glory and thy fall that tells,

Shall point to ev'ry future age

"The land is cursed where Priestcraft dwells."

In a dark dismal dungeon, where never a ray

Of sunlight has ever been tempted to stray;

Where the walls are all damp and all mildew'd, and where An uncommonly scanty supply of fresh air

Is deem'd quite enough to supply the vitality

Of any imprison'd remains of mortality;

Where a heap of foul straw is to serve as a bed,
While the rats, by the dozen, run over your head,
And tickle your visage with tail and with claw,

Or vary the pleasure by taking a gnaw

At your toes, when they're hungry; where lizards and toads Crawl out from the chinks of the pavement by loads

In this highly-delectable tenement, all

That remains of Pedrillo lies chain'd to the wall.

Poor fellow a visage so hollow and wan,
Scarce ever belonged to the form of a man.
His eyeballs so glazed, and his eyelids so blue,
And his skin of a greenish and yellowish hue;
His hands were so bony, so long and so thin,
So grizzled the beard that hung down from his chin;
So wasted his limbs, and his round little nose
So completely deprived of its couleur de rose-
That no eye could have ever detected, at all,
The poor little cobbler who lived in the stall,

Except that one hand, to its "cunning" yet true,
Still grasp'd the remains of an odd-looking shoe.

66

Pedrillo 'd been tried for the wicked pretence
Of mistaking a priest for Old Nick-an offence
Pronounced, with veracity, quite " diabolical"
By the holy Inquisitors-meek Apostolical
Lambs, who 've been famed, in all countries and ages,
As patterns of Christians and virtuous sages.

The verdict was Guilty," of course-'t would n't "pay "
To let a man off when they 'd bagg'd him-to say
That they'd made a mistake: and besides, just of late
They'd been scarce of offenders in Church or in State,
And wanted a Jew or a heretic sadly-

And so poor Pedrillo was pounced upon gladly.

A little discussion between them took place,
Regarding the punishment due to his case.
Some voted for roasting-some hinted at flaying-
Which others declared to be trifling and playing.
The President would n't agree to the roasting,
And seized the occasion for modestly boasting
How mild and how gentle his sentiments were.
The fact is, his house stood just facing the square
Where the stake was erected when sinners were burnt,
And from many a past sad example he 'd learnt
That the smell of a roast was so highly unpleasant-
He'd the strongest objection to try one at present.

And so, in the end, they decided on 66 mercy
Or, rather, what I should call just vice versá
That is" out of care for his poor sinful soul,"

They left him to die, like a rat, in a hole.

And thus our poor Pedrillo lay,
Wasting his wretched life away:
Dying by inches-dying slowly-
Condemn'd by wretches self-styled "holy."

Oh, God! and can thy lightnings spare
The impious creatures who profane

The sacred livery they wear,

And take Thy holy name in vain,

To sanctify a deed of blood,

And name that deed "Religious, good!"

How vain the question! look, weak man,
Beyond thy frail life's little span-
See Retribution's work begun—
God's name avenged-and Justice done!

In a dark little street is a dark little stall,
And a plump little cobbler at work with his awl.

VOL, XXX.

H

Who is it? Pedrillo? by Jove it's the same!
How on earth did he get there? What influence came
To set him at liberty? see him at work,

Sitting just as before on his board à la Turk!

And he's stitching with vigour, he's making a boot-
Not a cloven hoof'd thing, but one fit for a foot.

And how happy he looks! and how plump and how red!
How punchy his body, how shiny his head!

And he sticks to his trade like an honest Castilian-
Making highlows and mending the soles of the million.

Now touching his freedom :-it chanced one fine day
That some two dozen Jews were all sentenced to pay
A very large sum for some very bad deed,
Regarding some matter of conscience and creed;
And finding the prison was rather too small
(In addition to those it contain'd) for them all,

A " weeding" took place-and 'mongst others, Pedrillo
To a Hebrew in trouble relinquish'd his pillow.

And such-without varnish, invention, or mystery-
Is the true, undeniable, record and history

Of the "little old cobbler who liv'd in a stall
Which served him for kitchen and parlour and all."

Moral.

There's a saying so stale that it's grown to an epigram-
Of course you all know it well-“ Ne sutor crepidam
Ultra:" And some sleepy folks may opine

That such is the moral of this tale of mine.

They 're mistaken: such "morals" belong to the past-
They wont do for these days-we 're a great deal too fast

For such slow-coach old maxims. What! "stick to our last?"
Nail the doctor to physic, the lawyer to law,

The parson to preaching !-a pretty fine saw

For this age of progression!-when ev'ry man's head
Is so full of the things he has heard, seen, and read—
It's not easy to say where our knowledge can stop
When our brain is as full as a pawnbroker's shop.

No, no-I've got something much better-much truer—
Much more to the purpose--and certainly newer
To tell you. It's this:-if you ever give way
To an evil-born thought-if you let your mind stray

In a naughty direction, don't think me uncivil

If I say that you're making a boot for the devil.

And that very same boot-when your virtue 's clean goneYou'll see him some day when he's " trying it on."

RECENT TRAVELLERS.

WE must request the reader to pack up his portmanteau without delay, and prepare for a grand tour we are about to take him upon; as little luggage as possible, clothing light, a mind at ease, and plenty of bankers' circulars in his pocket. No lingering to take leave, for, although it is not improbable that we shall pass through every description of climate under the sun before we return, we promise to drop him safely back again at home in three quarters of an hour.

These are wonderful times for travelling! The arm-chair now-adays is as marvellous an agent of locomotion as steam. You have only to sit in your arm-chair, heap up a few books on the little round table on your right hand, adjust your lamp, and settle yourself in an easy position, and you may cross the Line, broil in the Tropics, get locked up in the Arctic ice, sail over Tahitian lakes on a raft of stems tied together with long grass, ascend the Yungfrau, climb up the beard of the "Giant of the Western Star," or lose yourself on the odorous shores of "Araby the Blest," in the course of a single evening. No steamer or express train can do this. It will take you at least some ten or eleven hours to get to Paris in the ordinary way. This is slow work; in half the time the arm-chair will carry you over half the globe.

There, step on board! we mean, sit down. You feel a motion in the chair? We are not surprised at that. A moment ago you were in London; you are now landing on the quay of Palma, in the island of Majorca, the chief of that group in the Mediterranean, called the Balearic Archipelago, which not a great many people on this side of St. George's Channel are familiar with even in books, and still fewer have ever visited.

On this occasion we are indebted to the Rev. Henry Christmas* for the opportunity of peeping into these far-off sunny places, and for being able to prolong our trip into Italy, and Greece, and the sites of the Seven Churches in Asia Minor.

The character of these Balearic Islands, people, and scenery may be described as half African, half European. The old blood still leaves its tinge behind, and the old costume helps out the complexion of the peasantry. A woman in her long dress of blue cotton, and a man with the loose blue cotton drawers tied under the knee, bare legs, and head covered with a twisted handkerchief, might at first sight be readily mistaken for Africans. On holidays there is a touch of Spain in them that carries out the mixture on the other side; such as a hat of greater sweep and circumference than an umbrella, which the wearer is obliged to insinuate sideways even into the widest church-door; the corset, the short petticoat, and the rebozille - a head-dress which sets the features of the native beauty in a charming frame of white plaits. It is pleasant to

The Shores and Islands of the Mediterranean, including a Visit to the Seven Churches of Asia. By the Rev. H. Christmas, M.A., &c. 3 vols. R. Bentley.