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her admirers; and after, as before her mutilation, she was a constant bone of contention amongst the soldiers. I was leaning one starlight night over the wooden balcony of my quarters in a small town in Castile, when I saw two figures coming down the street whom on nearer approach I recognised to be the Morena and one of the batidores, or pioneers, of the hussars of Luchana. The latter was a magnificent-looking fellow with a beard reaching half way down to his waist, and I recollected having heard that he was a great favourite of the Morena's. The couple had arrived within a few yards of my billet, when, at the angle of a street, they encountered a soldier of the guides, a regiment of light infantry, composed of picked men, and decidedly the finest corps of foot-soldiers in the Spanish army since the breaking-up of the royal guards. Whether the fickle Morena had given encouragement to the guide, or what the cause of quarrel was, I cannot say, but after a few sentences exchanged in a low angry tone by the two men, the foot-soldier stepped back a pace or two, and the hussar laid his hand on his sabre. The guide was standing exactly in a faint ray of light that came from a lamp in a neighbouring window, and I observed something glittering in his hand. He uttered a few words, either a taunt or a question; to which his adversary replied by a fierce oath, stepping smartly forward as if bent upon cutting down the unlucky guide. I was just about to call out to warn them that they were observed, and if possible prevent the bloodshed which appeared likely to ensue, when I saw the guide swing his right hand once or twice by his side, pretty much in the manner of a man who is about to throw a quoit or a skittle-ball. Something gleamed in the air; and the hussar, who had been advancing with uplifted sabre, clapped his hand to his breast, and, with a loud imprecation, staggered to the wall of a house, against which he leant for support. The guide had thrown his knife at him, and inflicted a tolerably severe, although not a dangerous wound. Many Spaniards, especially those of the south, and Spanish Americans, are very expert in this way of using the knife. They lay it flat in the palm of the hand, and by a union of strength and knack will drive it through a door of moderate thickness. I have heard it said that a man skilled in the use of the knife is a match for any opponent, however armed (firearms of course excepted); and, from some instances I have seen, I am not far from being of the same opinion. If not confident in his skill in throwing the cuchillo, the knife-player twists his cloak or jacket round his left arm, parries his adversary's first blow, and then, rushing in, makes fatal use of his own formidable weapon.

The next morning the batidor was on the doctor's list, unable to appear on parade. An inquiry was instituted, and it was elicited that the Morena was in some way or other at the bottom of the affair. She had already been the cause of several quarrels and fights among the soldiery; and, this affair being considered a sort of climax to her transgressions, she was sent away from the division. I afterwards heard she had joined the army of the left, with which she probably saw the war out.

SAPPHO AND PHAON.

A LEGEND OF LOVE AND LESBOS,

THERE's an isle in the beautiful Grecian sea,
An island as fair as fair may be,

Where the myrtle and woodbine together entwine,
And the gay cactus glows in the clasp of the vine,
And the sweet honeysuckle casts odours around,
And fresh flowers ever spring from the gay spangled ground,
And the murmurous lute is heard all day long,
And the glee, and the gladness of harp and song,
And feasting, and fun, and larks, and laughter,
And no sermons or soda at all the day after,
For there wasn't a headache in Lesbos' wine,
(For that was the name of this island divine.)
Alas! that in London

You 're sure to get undone;

If you get on the spree any night by mistake,

You wake in the morn with a dreadful headache;

And you 're not in your bed-oh! where can you be?

"In the station-house, brought there by Thirty-one B." But to go out to dine,

And drink Lesbian wine,

Would ne'er make a man pay a five-shilling fine,
Or purchase the freedom, so cruel and inhuman,
Of beating, and bruising, and wounding a woman!
"An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth,"
Such are the words of Sacred Truth ;

But in England the law has the scale cut and dry,
Two pound ten for a tooth, and five pounds for an eye.
But, bless me you'll say that my brain 's in a maze,
For all I've been writing is en parenthèse ;
However, I think that I've made out my case
That Lesbos was really a heavenly place.

Of the East, my Lord Byron, an old friend of mine,
Says, "All but the spirit of man is divine;"

And Lesbos, I fear, no exception at all,

In heart-rending stories may lead off the ball,

And ladies and ladies' maids weep and sigh may, on
Hearing this sad tale of Sappho and Phaon.

Scamandronymus (there's a rum name !) was her father, Had credit in Lesbos-respectable rather;

Though not worth a plum, he gave good Sunday dinners, And was bowed to on 'Change both by saints and by sinners; One of those whom we meet both in swarms and in hives, Who never did evil or good in their lives.

One Sunday he had a small party to dine,

And was just asking Alderman Gibskos to wine,

And praising the Scarus, a thirty-two pounder,

When he fell on the carpet as flat as a flounder,

The guests, every one,

And his daughter and son,

To chafe his hands and his feet begun ;
But 'twas all in vain,

For it seemed very plain

He'd never drink wine, or eat Scarus again.

So the guests put their cloaks on, and went back to town,

Like the fish, they were all done uncommonly brown;

And, says Alderman Gibskos, " Why, hang the old sinner!

He might just as well have died after the dinner."

Now we've put the old governor out of the way,
Of Sappho the daughter we 'll say out our say.

There were horrible stories about her of old,
That she was a maiden both ugly and bold;
Ovid calls her "a little brunette," but, oh bother!
Did you ever hear poets speak well of each other?
And Maximus Tyrius, a sad lying varlet,

Says her sins and her tresses were both dyed in scarlet.
Galen, too, in his treatise young sawbones to teach meant,
Quotes lines, which imply the same horrid impeachment.
But since Diccon the Third, in these chivalrous days,
Has found ingenuity his form to praise;
To leave the fair Sappho without a defence,
Would be lèse majesté-ay, with malice prepense.
Alcaeus sings of her raven hair,

Her lovely smile, and her face so fair;
Plato and Plutarch, good men and true,
Athenaeus, Themistius, and Julian too,
And Anna Comnena along with them,
Who twined the bays round her anadem,
Hail her as "xan," the beautiful fair,
With the lovely smile and the raven hair.
No! Ovid told lies-go, quickly look
Into Gronovius' ponderous book;*

There you'll see Sappho, the true Sappho there,
With the lovely face and the raven hair,

She was a fair and a beautiful thing,

With a smile ever gay, and an eye ever light,

The centre of Lesbos' beautiful ring,

All that was joyous, and brilliant, and bright;
Poetry breathed from her cherry mouth,

Aphrodite's bloom in her cheek was found;
And her words, like the breath of the balmy South,
Honeyed the air with their gentle sound.+

Like the bee she hovered from flower to flower,

She dreamt not of sorrow, she thought not of care;
To have danced the Polka with her half an hour,
Would have been bliss too great to bear.
In fact, Miss Fairbrother, Cerito, and Fleury,
Are nothing at all to this Lesbian Houri.
And hers were the gifts of the gentle lyre,
And the passionate strain of young desire;
And all night long to list to her song

The Lesbian maids and youths would throng,
And drink in the sounds so soft and clear,

They seemed too sweet for mortal ear ;

In the light of the moonbeams you might have dream'd

An angel was there-so fair she seemed!

And she sang of Love, and his mighty power,
How he enters the palace, and lowly bower;
And the subtle flame that burns the brain,
Of Love she sang still again and again;
And a short-hand writer took down her rhymes,
To be published next day in the Lesbian Times.
I'm sure it's enough to give one the vapours,
To think that they didn't then file their papers;
For of Sappho's songs there remain but few,
"Tis true, 'tis pity, and pity 'tis 'tis true,
In short nothing else but a regular do.
There was one Captain Phaon, a youth spruce and tight,
Who attended these sub dio concerts each night,

A sad, roué, thoughtless, gay, handsome young man,
Who through every doit of his fortune had ran,

*The Treasury," from which Wolf borrowed his effigy of the poetess. + σ ω Ζοῦ Βασιλεῦ, τοῦ φθέγματος τουρνιθίου

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διον κατεμελίτωσε τὴν λόχμην ὅλην.”—ARISTOPH. Aves. 223.

And lived on his credit, and vain expectations
From an uncle, and other old crusty relations.
He was known to be vicious, and dreadfully idle,

But somehow the women all made him their idol,

And of light and of gladness there seem'd cast a ray on
Their boudoirs, when enter'd "that dear Captain Phaon.”
So the moth flutters round the taper bright,

Till be burns his wings in the treacherous light,
And finds that he 's diddled, and done for, quite.

Now, I think I said before, Sappho's father had a store of money in the Lesbian bank,

Which, when his life was done, was left to his son and daughter to keep up their rank,

So Phaon 'gan devise how to make the tin his prize, by making fair Sappho his wife,

“And won't I cut a dash, when I finger the cash! what a four-in-hand I 'll have, on my life!"

So he wrote a billet-doux, and some verses added too, (but they only made Sappho

laugh,)

But still her thoughts ran on the handsome young man, for she loved him too

well by half.

So, in the evening calm and cool,

To hear the rippling tide,

Young Sappho walked along the beach,

And Phaon walked beside,

The late Mr. Praed,

In a poem he made,

Says, "There's nothing like young love at last"—
I suppose he meant, when young days are past.
But surely he's wrong,-when the hair turns grey,
Love on his pinions flies quickly away.

No! no! 'tis in youth, when rejoicingly

The blood through the veins rushes ruddy and free,
And the heart in its gladness seems ready to burst-
No! there's nothing like young love at first!

And so thought Sappho, as she stray'd
With Phaon whispering in her ear;

Love on! love on! alas, poor maid!
Thy love is only too sincere.

Love on! love on! love while you may,
Short, short, is sunny Summer's stay;
And soon comes Winter cold and keen,
And frost and snow, where flowers have been.

Now these walks by the sea very soon got about,

And in a short time the whole matter came out.

Oh! wasn't there scandal, and brandies and waters!

'Twas a treat for the mothers, 'twas death to the daughters!

The very next Times that appeared bore upon its

Front thirty-six elegies, thirty-six sonnets,

Thirty-six threnes, despairing and stupid,
And one Galliambic to "conquering Cupid;"

And trochaics and strophes, with epodes behind,

So many came in from girls out of their mind,

They'd have gone the whole length of the course called the Ditch In.
But the editor's cook used them up in the kitchen.

Well, a day was fixed for their bridal sweet,

And all was ready in order meet,

The priest was appointed, the dress was made,
Trimm'd with pale orange-flowers, soon to fade,
And Phaon gave such a jovial party,
To eleven young roués, roaring and hearty,
Till at five in the morning to bed they were carried,
All vowing, like Phaon, to go and get married
And all things went like a real marriage bell,
When oh what a dreadful misfortune befel!

;

Her brother Charaxus, a "young man of spirit,"
(Which generally means a young man of no merit,)
Resolved to see life, had been some years abroad,
And no one exactly knew which was his road.
He went the grand tour of the isles, I suppose;
Though what that was then, I'm sure nobody knows.
I'm afraid he went on in a but-so-so way,
And was fond of the ladies the world calls gay.
In the course of his wanderings to Egypt he came,
And soon there his heart was fill'd full of love's flame;
For there lived the beauteous Rhodopis, and she
Looked slyly and leered on Charaxus, and he
Looked slyly and leered on Rhodopis, and so
His money was very soon fast on the go.

This Greek Mrs. Milwood soon got every stiver,
And he thought about drowning himself in the river;
And well, too, he might-for, besides his own cash,
He had spent every rap of his sister's, slap-dash.
He was forced to confess, so he wrote her a letter,
Then took to the sea line for worse or for better;
And with losses and griefs being fierce grown and irate,
In a very short time came out strong as a pirate.
And Sappho sat within her bower,

The night before the day,

When she was to the youth she loved
Her hand to give away.

"My little foot page! my little foot page!
Why dost thou look so pale?

But thou art young, and tender of age,

I fear thy strength doth fail."

"Oh, no! sweet dame, I'm still the same,

That ever I was of yore;

But a Syrian's hand, from Egypt's land,

This letter has brought ashore,

And I'm sure, from the drunken-like look of the fist,

That it comes from my lord, whom you so long have miss'd." "Oh! give it me here, and there's a sweet dear."

She cut the strings in haste,

Then fainted away, without stop or stay

'Twas a mercy she wasn't tight-laced; But Grecian ladies wore no stays,

I wish 'twas the same in the present days!

The page, as all gentle domestics should,

(Honest faith is but for the coarse and rude,)

Picked up the letter, and read it all through,

Then whistled, and mutter'd " My eye! here's a do !"
Then went into the house, and summon'd her maid,

And told her with sal volatile to aid

Her mistress, who lay very ill in the garden,

And also, that now she warn't worth one brass farden.
I gladly pass her misery by,

"I cannot whine, or pule, or cry,"

One thing remain'd to place her stay on,

And that was, "that dear Captain Phaon."

Captain Phaon sat at the mess that night,
In a synthesis new of spotless white,
Clasped with a fibula, made of red gold,
As costly a jewel as e'er was sold,
All got on tick on account of his marriage,
As well as a Bigae, and open carriage;

And his comrades look'd on with rage and spite,
And swallow'd their choler as well as they might.
They drank him once, and they drank him twice,

And they filled up their goblets, and drank to him thrice

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