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, Where the myrtle and woodbine together entwine, 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, But in England the law has the scale cut and dry, Of the East, my Lord Byron, an old friend of mine, 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 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 ; 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, There were horrible stories about her of old, Says her sins and her tresses were both dyed in scarlet. Her lovely smile, and her face so fair; There you'll see Sappho, the true Sappho there, 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; Aphrodite's bloom in her cheek was found; Like the bee she hovered from flower to flower, She dreamt not of sorrow, she thought not of care; The Lesbian maids and youths would throng, 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, A sad, roué, thoughtless, gay, handsome young man, *The Treasury," from which Wolf borrowed his effigy of the poetess. + σ ω Ζοῦ Βασιλεῦ, τοῦ φθέγματος τουρνιθίου διον κατεμελίτωσε τὴν λόχμην ὅλην.”—ARISTOPH. Aves. 223. And lived on his credit, and vain expectations But somehow the women all made him their idol, And of light and of gladness there seem'd cast a ray on Till be burns his wings in the treacherous light, 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"— No! no! 'tis in youth, when rejoicingly The blood through the veins rushes ruddy and free, And so thought Sappho, as she stray'd Love on! love on! alas, poor maid! Love on! love on! love while you may, 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 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. Well, a day was fixed for their bridal sweet, And all was ready in order meet, The priest was appointed, the dress was made, ; Her brother Charaxus, a "young man of spirit," This Greek Mrs. Milwood soon got every stiver, The night before the day, When she was to the youth she loved "My little foot page! my little foot page! 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 !" 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 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, And his comrades look'd on with rage and spite, And they filled up their goblets, and drank to him thrice |