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was both sorry and ashamed it was not in his power to grant a thing which appeared so very a trifle; but, in fact, Don Ferdinand de Lara, constable of Castile, had asked the bishopric for his son; and though he had never seen that nobleman, he had, he said, some secret, important, and what was more, very ancient obligations to him. It was therefore an indispensable duty to prefer an old benefactor to a new one. But Don Torribio ought not to be discouraged at this proof of his justice; as he might learn from that what he might expect when his turn arrived, which should certainly be on the first opportunity. This statement concerning the ancient obligations of the archbishop, the magician had the goodness to believe; and rejoiced, as much as he was able, that his interests were sacrificed to those of Don Ferdinand.

Nothing was now thought of but preparations for their departure to Compostella, where they were to reside. These, however, were scarcely worth the trouble, considering the short time they were destined to remain there; for at the end of a few months one of the pope's chamberlains arrived, who brought the archbishop a cardinal's cap, with an epistle conceived in the most respectful terms, in which his holiness invited him to assist by his counsel in the government of the Christian world; permitting him at the same time to dispose of his mitre in favor of whom he pleased. Don Torribio was not at Compostella when the courier of the holy father arrived. He had been to see his son, who still continued a priest in a small parish at Toledo. But he soon returned, and was not put to the trouble of asking for the vacant archbishopric. The prelate ran to meet him with open arms. "My dear master," said he, "I have two pieces of good news to relate at once. Your disciple is created a cardinal, and your son shall shortly De advanced to the same dignity. I had intended in the mean time to bestow on him the archbishopric of Compostella; but, unfortunately for him and me, my mother, whom we left at Badajos, has, during your absence, written me a cruel letter,

by which all my measures have been disconcerted. She will not be pacified unless I appoint for my successor the archdeacon of my former church, her intimate friend and confessor. She tells me it will'occasion her death,' if she should be unable to obtain preferment for her dear father in God. Shall I be the death of my mother?"

Don Torribio was not a person who could incite or urge his friend to be guilty of parricide, nor did he indulge himself in the least resentment against the mother of the prelate. To say the truth, however, this mother was a good kind of woman, nearly superannuated. She lived quietly with her cat and her maid servant, and scarcely knew the name of her confessor. Was it likely, then, that she had obtained him his archbishopric? Be this as it may, Don Torribio followed his eminence to Rome. Scarcely had he arrived at that city ere the pope died. The conclave met; all the voices of the sacred college were in favor of the Spanish cardinal. Behold him, therefore, pope.

Immediately after the ceremony of his exaltation, Don Torribio, admitted to a secret audience, wept with joy while he kissed the feet of his dear pupil. He modestly represented his long and faithful services, reminded his holiness of those inviolable promises which he had renewed before he entered the conclave, and instead of demanding the vacant hat for Don Benjamin, finished with most exemplary moderation by renouncing every ambitious hope. He and his son, he said, would both esteem themselves too happy, if his holiness would bestow on them, together with his benediction, the smallest temporal benefice; such as an annuity for life, sufficient for the few wants of an ecclesiastic and philosopher.

During this harangue the sovereign pontiff considered within himself how to dispose of his preceptor. He reflected he was no longer necessary; that he already knew as much of magic as was necessary for a pope. After weighing every circumstance, his holiness concluded that Don Torribio was not only a

useless, but a troublesome pedant; and, this point determined, he replied in the following words: "We have learned, with concern, that under pretext of cultivating the occult sciences, you maintain a horrible intercourse with the spirit of darkness and deceit; we therefore exhort you, as a father, to expiate your crime by a repentance proportionable to its enormity. Moreover, we enjoin you to depart from the territories of the church within three days, under penalty of being delivered over to the secular arm and its merciless flames."

Don Torribio, without being alarmed, immediately repeated the three mysterious words which he had before uttered, and going to a window, cried out with all his force, "Jacinta, you need spit but one partridge; for my friend the dean will not sup here to-night."

This was a thunderbolt to the imaginary pope. He immediately recovered from the trance into which he had been thrown by the three mysterious words. He perceived that, instead of being in the Vatican, he was still at Toledo, in the closet of Don Torribio; and he saw by the clock it was not 2 complete hour since he entered that fatal cabinet, where he had been entertained by such pleasant dreams.

In that short time the dean of Badajos had imagined himself a magician, a bishop, a cardinal, and a pope; and he found at last that he was only a dupe and a knave. All was illusion, except the proofs he had given of his deceitful and evil heart. He instantly departed, without speaking a single word, and finding his mule where he had left her, returned to Badajos.

LXXV.-EXTRACT FROM THE PRISONER OF CHILLON

BYRON.

[GEORGE GORDON BYRON, LORD BYRON, was born in London, January 22, 1788, and died at Missolonghi, in Greece, April 19, 1824. In March, 1812, he published the first two cantos of his splendid poem, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, which produced an impression upon the public almost without precedent in English literature, and gained him the very highest place among the poets of the day. He said of himself, on this occasion, with as much truth as point, that he went to bed one night, and on waking next morn ing found himself famous. From that time till his death he poured forth a rapid succession of brilliant and striking productions, varying in degrees of merit, but all contributing to maintain him in his lofty literary position, and keeping his name ever fresh upon men's lips. The interest which he awakened as a poet was further enhanced by a wayward and irregular life, by an unhappy marriage, a separation from his wife, and by his finally joining the Greeks in their struggle against the Turks. Hardly any man of letters was ever so much talked about, written about, attacked and defended, in his own life, as he.

Lord Byron's fame with posterity will not equal the prodigious popularity he enjoyed among his contemporaries. And yet his poetry has, in an intellectual point of view, some great and enduring excellences. In description and in the expression of passion he is unrivalled. His power over the resources of the language is great, though he is not a careful or accurate writer. His poetry abounds with passages of melting tenderness and exquisite sweetness, which take captive and bear away the susceptible heart. His wit, too, is playful and brilliant, and his sarcasm venomous and blistering. His leading characteristic is energy: he is never languid or tame; and in his highest moods, his words flash and burn like lightning from the cloud, and hurry the reader along with the breathless speed of the tempest.

Much of Lord Byron's poetry is objectionable in a moral point of view. Some of it ministers undisguisedly to the evil passions, and confounds the distinctions between right and wrong; and still more of it is false and morbid in its tone, and teaches, directly or indirectly, the mischievous and irreligious doctrine, that the unhappiness of men is just in proportion to their intellectual superiority. Some excellent remarks on this subject may be found in an article by Lord Jeffrey, contributed to the Edinburgh Review, and now published among his collected essays.

There was little that was respectable or estimable in Lord Byron's life. He had no fixed principles, and was the sport of every whim or passion that assailed him. For many years, he lived an outcast from his home and country, in open defiance of the laws of God and man; not without spasms of self-reproach and half purposes of reform. His joining the Greeks showed that his profligate and self-indulgent habits had not destroyed in him the power of vigorous action and generous sacrifice.

His Life and Correspondence were published, after his death, by his friend Thomas Moore. His letters are full of point and brilliancy, and his prose style is vigorous and animated.

The following extract is taken from The Prisoner of Chillon, one of the most pleasing and natural of his poems. Chillon is a castle on the Lake of Geneva, near Vevay. The speaker is one of three brothers, who are represented as having been imprisoned there on account of their religious opinions.]

THERE are seven pillars of Gothic mould
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old,

There are seven columns, massy and
Dim with a dull, imprisoned ray,
A sunbeam which hath lost its way,
And through the crevice and the cleft
Of the thick wall is fallen and left,
Creeping o'er the floor so damp,
Like a marsh's meteor lamp:
And in each pillar there is a ring,

And in each ring there is a chain;
That iron is a cankering thing,

gray,

For in these limbs its teeth remain, With marks that will not wear away, Till I have done with this new day, Which now is painful to these eyes, Which have not seen the sun so rise For years I cannot count them o'er; I lost their long and heavy score When my last brother drooped and died, And I lay living by his side.

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They chained us each to a column stone,
And we were three yet each alone :
We could not move a single pace,
We could not see each other's face,
But with that pale and livid light
That made us strangers in our sight.
And thus together, yet apart,

Fettered in hand, but pined in heart:
'Twas still some solace, in the dearth
Of the pure elements of earth,
To hearken to each other's speech,
And each turn comforter to each
With some new hope, or legend old,
Or song heroically bold;

But even these at length grew cold.

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