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I have no space for the general remarks which I would gladly subjoin, but I cannot omit an apology for the minuteness of detail, into which my love of historical accuracy has occasionally led me.* I expressed a hope at the outset, that my readers would not love Shakspeare the less, but study history the more."+ If I have shown that those who have ascribed to the dramatist the merits of the historian have spoken heedlessly, surely I have not thereby depreciated his poetical merit. It is sadly unfair to impute to me the opinion, that Shakspeare ought to have sacrificed poetry to truth. Habitually engaged in historical researches, I have been delighted to connect them with the plays of Shakspeare. I shall have done no harm, if I have induced those who can devote more time to the perusal of these splendid dramas, to unite with it the study of the history of England.

An anonymous correspondent has informed me, in reference to No. ccxviii., p. 255, that the Guildfords were settled at Hempstead in Kent. Sir Richard was K. G. under Henry VII., and Sir Edward, his son, was father-in-law to John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland. 1 presume that Sir Henry, who appears in this play, was of this family."

it No. ccx., p. 265.

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See the Pictorial Shakspeare, part 2.

THE CANON WITH TWO CONSCIENCES.

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BY EDWARD HOWARD, ESQ.

AUTHOR OF RATTLIN THE REEFER," ‚” “OUTWARD BOUND," &c.

HERE comes the Canon of Canaleja-the priest of two consciences. Blessed was his little flock, and three or four times blessed those neighbours who dwelt the nearest to him. Happy flock-happy neighbours ! Look out of your own little pastoral circle, and observe how many shepherds there be who have no conscience at all: you are distinguished among the fortunate, in having among you the Canon of Canaleja with two; and here he comes!

He is sixty years of age, yet time has omitted to trace at least twenty of them upon his white and ample brow; his eyes are large and serene, and the upper part of his head grand and full: if you look more attentively, you will pronounce it to be beatified with an apostolic beauty.

The lower part of the face does not, however, correspond with the mental expansion of the upper: the extremity of his aquiline nose is sharp and pinched, his lips are very thin, and compressed inwards, and his chin and the skin about his jaws, intersected with deep and numerous lines. He is tall and stately of stature, his motion solemn and sedate, and would have been grand, were it not for a convulsive twitching of his hand, as if, in his imagination, he were grasping eagerly something exceedingly precious. In these times of universal travel, every one knows the habiliments of a Spanish canon- we are, therefore, spared the trouble of describing them, or the misery of attempting to be merry with his immensely-brimmed hat.

Now, the income of this worthy canon amounted to about two hundred pounds sterling-a large revenue in the rural district in which he resided, and much too large for his wants. His domestic establishment was upon a limited scale; and it certainly is not true that he kept his niece as his housekeeper. I will-for I am jealous of the reputation of the dear old man-explain by and by, the few and transient appearances of a little handsome brunette, with the darkest yet brightest eyes, in the seclusion of the venerable ecclesiastic. There certainly was a female attached to his establishment; but if she was any relation, she must either have been his grandmother or his grandaunt.

Besides his regular income, the Canon enjoyed, or rather possessed, another source of emolument, more precarious, but often greater than the former. There was on his glebe, and under a broken mass of red and gray rock, a bubbling spring of the freshest and coolest water in all Spain. Forcing its gentle way through a ferruginous soil, or from some other natural cause, a vein of this water was slightly tinted with a sanguineous colour; of course, it was holy and miraculous, and had its saint, its legend, and its power of working miracles. All this would have done our Canon but little good, had it not possessed also its chapel and its altar, both of which were in the prettiest rustical taste imaginable. Wherever there is an altar, there must be offerings, and a priest also.

It was in this manner that the Canaleja fountain acquired its miraculous efficacy-good for almost every disorder, but best for rheumatic affections. Every Spaniard knows exactly how Saint Iago travelled from Jerusalem into Egypt; but the Canalejans, and those in the adjacent parts, are blest in the exclusive knowledge, that he took Canaleja in his way, and that he become sorefooted from the no very creditable state of the roads about those parts, having cut the sole of his foot with a sharp flint. No one can doubt this portion of the legend, for the flint, with the blessed stain of the Saint's blood still upon it, is shown as a precious relic in the chapel; and if seeing is not believing, surely tasting must be, for thousands have been the pious lips

that have kissed it.

The intelligent need not be told, that, in this spring, the sainted foot was laved, which was not only instantly healed, but it imparted to the waters the power of healing sinners to all eternity, under certain conditions-the two principle of which were, firstly, faith; and, secondly, a tendency in the wound itself to get well. The Canon, who was a well read man, certainly had some geographical doubts on this subject-a religious one never entered into his mind for a moment.

Blessed simplicity! that puttest the pure and shining robes of innocence and religion upon the form of superstition! who shall, in the pride and darkness of his own sinful heart, dare to revile thee?

That many cures of suffering feet as well as hands at this spring and shrine, were effected, the most rigid reformist, or the most violent iconoclast, would vainly deny. The cool wave, and the consequent cleanliness of the repeated immersion succeeding closely upon the use of a heavy and not over clean flannel, could not but have good effects upon the patients; and this, with the purity of the air, and the quiet to be found in the simple habitations-to say nothing of the unction of the good Canon, and the sanctity of the shrine and relic, worked wonders; and

when the people within forty miles round were troubled with crippled feet, his hands were full, in the best of all senses-full of money.

When this good man saw a very afflicted subject, or a very desperate case approach, he always had some doubts of the purity of the faith of the sufferer. If the swelling were gout-for gout was often the companion of rheumatism, and the foot looked angry, so did the pious Canon, as he felt assured some latent heresy lurked in the system, and which would defeat the holy efficacy of the blessed waters: he would then dissuade from their application. If the man approached on crutches, the ecclesiastic knew that the heresy was already developed in the system, and a return home and penance were the best restoratives; but should an unhappy patient approach, borne upon a litter, he was pronounced in such a state of lapse from the church, that the relic and waters would, instead of promoting a cure, surely become the means of aggravating the torment, and inflict a physical mortification in place of the mental one that the sinuer ought to undergo.

It was upon this plan the Canon acted; consequently, as the incurable could never be cured for want of faith, the spring was certain to restore those who were suffered to approach it. Thus, the reputation of the waters was preserved, and every body was satisfied, excepting those who, when they only thought that their limbs were unsound, found that their opinions on theology were still more so.

We knew this priest well; and we firmly believe, that in this religious deceit that he thus successfully practised, he was, of all persons, the most deceived. He had plunged into the depths of books profound in speculative theology, and he had at length become so deeply involved in Romish niceties, that he did not himself know the extent of his belief; for he believed every thing that tended to the advancement of the interests of his church-and of his own.

And the man was honest. From his severe and unremitting habit of familiarizing himself with one grand idea only, it had become a part and parcel of his being, so that he conscientiously thought, that any act which could promote the interests of what he believed to be the only true religion, however ambidexterous and casuistical, was in itself good, as promoting the interests of man in magnifying the glory of Heaven.

Now, in addition to his antiquated housekeeper, of whom just now no more need be said, than that she was cunningly tyrannical, as most antiquated housekeepers are, the Canon Camposello had in his service a merry Arragonian factotum; very dark, and yet very handsome-a little bit of a rogue, yet much attached to his master—a little bit of a rover, yet still more attached to a sprightly little Margarrita, who would talk with, or tease-laugh at, or love him; in fact, do every thing to delight or tantalize him, excepting perpetrating the climax of both-wed him. She was very much in the right, for she had nothing to bestow upon him but her pretty person and high spirits; and he had still less to bring into the stock of what ought to be connubial happiness-for he had some qualities worse than negative-positively of a deteriorating nature, as he was passionately fond of pleasure in all its varieties; among which was the excitement to be found in the wineskin, and in the induced luxury of the indolence of the siesta, prolonged through the best part of the day, in order that he might do the

more justice to the best part of the night. He had a great, a very great reverence for the holy advice and sage animadversions of his master; indeed, his respect for them was so great, that he followed them at a distance so humble, that he lost sight of them continually; and then you might hear him snoring through the greater part of the day, and singing some foolish love-song over his cups during the night.

Camposello bore all this meekly enough: when the housekeeper showed him his faithful valet asleep, he would remark that he had but little rest last night; and when his boisterous mirth annoyed her at night, his answer to her complaint would be, that the poor lad had overslept himself during the day.

But, with all his piety, and all his abandonment to holy mother Church, the good Canon Camposello was not, by much, so happy as his careless and not too correct servant. With very little care on his part he had grown rich, and latterly, with his increase of wealth, he found his love for it increase also. Riches with him were not that abstract idea represented by a flimsy bit of paper, nor in old parchments with massive lumps of wax attached to them-but they came to him palpably and tangibly-in shapes that had substance and weight. The round and glittering Spanish dollar, and the heavy and noble-looking doubloon, have an intrinsic value in themselves, totally distinct from the property which they represent-at least, so thought the Canon, and every day this thought became dearer and more cherished. He had begun by hoarding carelessly, and for mere want of emplovment for his treasures. He finished by heaping up his wealth with all the keen relish of the most inveterate of misers.

He knew the sinfulness of the growing infatuation, and stoutly and perseveringly he strove to resist it. But, alas! for one of the consciences of the Canon, his mental resources were but few-his aims were narrowed-most of his passions had become torpid through age, and his celibacy and delusion had mortified most of those generous feelings that keep old hearts warm, and make the decline of life not only endurable, but delightful.

But the spring was fast advancing, and the pilgrimages of the devoutly lame became more numerous than ever. The gold flowed into the Canon's coffers almost as rapidly and continuously as the spring gushed forth from its source, to which he owed his wealth. The ecclesiastic began to doubt he felt another and a new conscience to be born within him-he admitted the conviction, but slowly and with pain, he even struggled against it, but, at length he stood himself confessed -a miser and yet, he had not then the courage to part with his hoards or to discontinue hoarding. For one little moment the thought crossed him-it was a benevolent one-of ceasing to take the customary tribute and oblations offered at the shrine in his little chapel. He even entertained slightly, very slightly, the idea that it would be a good and praiseworthy act in a Christian minister to dispense alms also as well as cures, and to set the poor upon their legs in more senses than one. But the interests of his nursing mother, the church, was opposed to this-and as this consideration assisted the lurking covetousness of his heart, it was listened to attentively, and its dictates implicitly followed.

Now, whilst the heart of the Canon was torn by his conflicting consciences-that little repository of desires, appetites, and selfishness that March.-VOL. LV. NO. CCXIX.

2. B

served the purposes of a heart to Scipio, was equally in a turmoil as regarded his affection for Maguaritta, and the hopelessness of ever being able to make the little handsome imp his wife, without some considerable portion of that money which was making so much ferment in the bosom of his master Camposello. He might very easily have taken any portion, or all of it if he had chosen; but he had not been brought up in a strict catholic country without some mental fructification. The Canon had told him that the money that he saw lying so carelessly in unguarded places, was actually and veritably the property of the Virgin, and Scipio never could bring himself to be such a child of wrath, as to defraud a being so respectable; though the thought would cross his mind, that it was a pity she did not make use of it. But the actual sight of the treasure was no longer a temptation to him. Since the Canon Camposello had discovered that he had two consciences, he discovered also that there was much virtue in strong coffers, and that intricate locks and well warded keys possessed some very amiable qualities.

Let us now suppose that the Canon had amassed, terribly against one of his consciences, nearly three thousand doubloons-that he had grown anxious, irritable, and dispirited-that he flew to his breviary and missal in vain; and that the peace and consolation that they failed to give him, he found, or a base substitute for them, in the handling, and caressing, and weighing, and counting in tens, and in fives, and in units his beloved gold. But even in the midst of some of his sweetest transports of acquisition, he would start from his sinful employment, utter cries of remorse and despair, and inflict upon himself the penance of reciting an exorbitant number of masses, thus innocently procuring for himself, several hours of very delightful and refreshing slumbers. His misery increased daily with his mountain of Mammon-yet he kept it, or both, Mammon and misery.

How long this internal struggle would have continued, none but the Saint, who had taken his spring under their patronage could tell, had it not been that erysipelas attacked the right leg of the good father. It was a severe access. As he was laid up with it, he was obliged eventually to lie down; he became helpless and requiring continual nursing, he thus materially interfered with the noonday siestas, and the nocturnal carousings of his very faithful Scipio. The valet swore in whispers, and dosed alternately-the old housekeeper scolded every body else, and blessed herself, whilst Camposello thought of his treasure, and prayed. They were a comfortless trio, and as the duties of watching and nursing became hourly more intolerable, they came to the conclusion, that something most important and decisive must be done, and they finally resolved, that either the doctor of the neighbouring town, ten good leagues off, should be sent for, or the lively little Marguaritia.

The Canon most wisely decided for the latter.

She made her appearance, and with her vivacity, again entered the habitation.

"I am glad to see you," said Scipio. "I get neither rest nor drink;" so he kissed her, emptied down his throat a huge earthen jug of the Canon's best wine, and considering himself an ill-used person, fell into a profound slumber.

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