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"Good Sir," replied Don Julian, " I should be extremely loth to offend you; but permit me to say, that in spite of the knowledge of causes and effects which I have acquired, all that my experience teaches me of the heart of man is not only vague and indistinct, but for the most part unfavourable. I only guess, I cannot read their thoughts, nor pry into the recesses of their minds. As for yourself, I am sure you are a rising man and likely to obtain the first dignities of the church. But whether, when you find yourself in places of high honour and patronage, you will remember the humble personage of whom you now ask a hazardous and important service, it is impossible for me to ascertain."—" Nay, nay," exclaimed the Dean, " but I know myself, if you do not, Don Julian. "Generosity and friendship (since you force me to speak in my own praise) have been the delight of my soul even from childhood. Doubt not, my dear friend, (for by that name I wish you would allow me to call you,) doubt not, from this moment, to command my services. Whatever interest I may possess, it will he my highest gratification to see it redound in favour of you and yours."— "My hearty thanks for all, worthy Sir," said Don Julian. "But let us now proceed to business: the sun is set, and, if you please, we will retire to my private study."

Lights being called for, Don Julian led the way to the lower part of the house; and dismissing the Moorish maid near a small door, of which he held the key in his hand, desired her to get two partridges for supper, but not to dress them till he should order it: then unlocking the door, he began to descend by a winding staircase. The Dean followed with a certain degree of trepidation, which the length of the stairs greatly tended to increase: for, to all appearance, they reached below the bed of the Tagus. At this depth a comfortable neat room was found, the walls completely covered with shelves, where Don Julian kept his works on Magic; globes, planispheres, and strange drawings, occupied the top of the bookcases. Fresh air was admitted, though it would be difficult to guess by what means, since the sound of gliding water, such as is heard at the lower part of a ship when sailing with a gentle breeze, indicated but a thin partition between the subterraneous cabinet and the river.—" Here, then," said Don Julian, offering a chair to the Dean, and drawing another for himself towards a small round table, " we have only to choose among the elementary works of the science for which you long. Suppose,we begin to read this small volume."

The volume was laid on the table, and opened at the first page, containing circles, concentric and eccentric, triangles with unintelligible characters, and the well-known signs of the planets.—" This," said Don Julian, "is the alphabet of the whole science. Hermes, called

Trismegistus "The sound of a small bell within the chamber

made the Dean almost leap out of his chair. "Be not alarmed," said Don Julian; "it is the bell by which my servants let me know that they want to speak to me." Saying thus, he pulled a silk string, and soon after a servant appeared with a packet of letters. It was addressed to the Dean. A courier had closely followed him on the road, and was that moment arrived at Toledo. "Good Heavens!" exclaimed the Dean, having read, the contents of the letters; "my great uncle, the Archbishop of Santiago, is dangerously ill. This is, however, what the secretary says, from his Lordship's dictation. But here is another letter from the Archdeacon of the diocese, who assures me that the old man was not expected to live. I can hardly repeat what he adds—Poor dear uncle! may Heaven lengthen his days! The Chapter seem to have turned their eyes towards me, and—pugh' it cannot be—but the Electors, according to the Archdeacon, are quite decided in my favour.”—“Well,” said Don Julian, “all I regret is the interruption of our studies; but I doubt not that you will soon wear the mitre. In the mean time I would advise you to pretend that illness does not allow you to return directly. A few days will surely give a decided turn to the whole affair; and, at all events, your absence, in case of an election, will be construed into modesty. Write, therefore, your despatches, my dear Sir, and we will prosecute our studies at another time.” Two days had elapsed since the arrival of the messenger, when the Verger of the church of Santiago, attended by servants in splendid liveries, alighted at Don Julian's door with letters for the Dean. The old prelate was dead, and his nephew had been elected to the see, by the unanimous vote of the Chapter, The elected dignitary seemed overcome by contending feelings; but, having wiped away some decent tears, he assumed an air of gravity, which almost touched on superciliousness. Don Julian addressed his congratulations, and was the first to kiss the new Archbishop's hand. “I hope,” he added, “I may also congratulate my son, the young man who is now at the University of Paris; for I flatter myself your Lordship will give him the Deanery, which is vacant by your promotion.”—“My worthy friend Don Julian,” replied the Archbishop elect, “my obligations to you I can never sufficiently repay. You have heard my character; I hold a friend as another self. But why would you take the lad away from his studies? An Archbishop of Santiago cannot want preferment at any time. Follow me to my diocese: I will not for all the mitres in Chistendom forego the benefit of your instruction. The deanery, to tell you the truth, must be given to my uncle, my father's own brother, who has had but a small living for many years; he is much liked in Santiago, and I should lose my character if, to place such a young man as your son at the head of the Chapter, I neglected an exemplary priest, so nearly related to me.”—“Just as you please, my Lord,” said Don Julian; and began to prepare for the journey. The acclamations which greeted the new Archbishop on his arrival at the capital of Galicia were, not long after, succeeded by an universal regret at his translation to the see of the recently conquered town of Seville. “I will not leave you behind,” said the Archbishop to Don Julian, who, with more timidity than he shewed at Toledo, approached to kiss the sacred ring in the Archbishop's right hand", and to offer his humble congratulations, “but do not fret about your son. He is too young. I have my mother's relations to provide for; but Seville

* Catholic bishops wear a consecrated ring, which is kissed, with a bending of the knee, by those who approach them.

is a rich see; the blessed King Ferdinand, who rescued it from the Moors, endowed its church so as to make it rival the first cathedrals in Christendom. Do but follow me, and all will be well in the end." Don Julian .bowed with a suppressed sigh, and was soon after on the banks of the Guadalquivir, in the suite of the new Archbishop.

Scarcely had Don Julian's pupil been at Seville one year, when his far extended fame moved the Pope to send him a cardinal's hat, desiring his presence at the Court of Rome. The crowd of visitors who came to congratulate the prelate, kept Don Julian away for many days. He at length obtained a private audience, and, with tears in his eyes, entreated his Eminence not to oblige him to quit Spain. "I am growing old, my Lord," he said: "I quitted my house at Toledo only for your sake, and in hopes of raising my son to some place of honour and emolument in the church; I even gave up my favourite studies, except as far as they were of service to your Eminence. My son—" "No more of that, if you please, Don Julian," interrupted the Cardinal. "Follow me, you must; who can tell what may happen at Rome? The Pope is old, you know. But do not tease me about preferment. A public man has duties of a description which those in the lower ranks of life cannot either weigh or comprehend. I confess I am under obligations to you, and feel quite disposed to reward your services; yet I must not have my creditors knocking every day at my door : you understand, Don Julian. In a week we set out for Rome."

With such a strong tide of good fortune as had hitherto buoyed up Don Julian's pupil, the reader cannot be surprised to find him, in a short time, wearing the papal crown. He was now arrived at the highest place of honour on earth; but in the bustle of the election and subsequent coronation, the man to whose wonderful science he owed this rapid ascent, had completely slipped off his memory. Fatigued with the exhibition of himself through the streets of Rome, which he had been obliged to make in a solemn procession, the new Pope sat alone in one of the chambers of the Vatican. It was early in the night. By the light of two wax lapers which scarcely illuminated the farthest end of the grand saloon, his Holiness was enjoying that reverie of mixed pain and pleasure which follows the complete attainment of ardent wishes, when Don Julian advanced in visible perturbation, conscious of the intrusion on which he ventured. "Holy Father!"exclaimed the old man, and cast himself at his pupil's feet: "Holy Father, in pity to these grey hairs do not consign an old servant— might I not say an old friend?—to utter neglect and forgetfulness. My son—" "By Saint Peter!" ejaculated his Holiness, rising from the chair, " your insolence shall be checked—You my friend! A magician the friend of Heaven's vicegerent! — Away, wretched man! When I pretended to learn of thee, it was only to sound the abyss of crime into which thou hadst plunged; I did it with a view of bringing thee to condign punishment. Yet, in compassion to thy age, I will not make an example of thee, provided thou avoidest my eyes. Hide thy crime and shame where thou canst. This moment thou must quit the palace, or the next closes the gates of the Inquisition upon thee."

Trembling, and his wrinkled face bedewed with tears, Don Julian begged to be allowed but one word more. "I am very poor, Holy Father," said he: "trusting in your patronage I relinquished ray all, and have not left wherewith to pay my journey."—" Away, I say," answered the Pope; "if my excessive bounty has made you neglect your patrimony, I will no farther encourage your waste and improvidence. Poverty is but a slight punishment for your crimes."—" But, Father," rejoined Don Julian, " my wants are instant; I am hungry: give me but a trifle to procure a supper to-night. To-morrow I shall beg my way out of Rome."—" Heaven forbid," said the Pope, " that I should be guilty of feeding the ally of the Prince of Darkness. Away, away from my presence, or I instantly call for the guard."—" Well then," replied Don Julian, rising from the ground, and looking on the Pope with a boldness which began to throw his Holiness into a paroxysm of rage, "if I am to starve at Rome, I had better return to the supper which I ordered at Toledo." Thus saying, he rang a gold bell which stood on a table next the Pope.

The door opened without delay, and the Moorish servant came in. The Pope looked round, and found himself in the subterraneous study under the Tagus. "Desire the cook," said Don Julian to the maid, '• to put but one partridge to roast; for I will not throw away the other on the Dean of Santiago."

The supernatural machinery employed in the preceding tale, or the supposition that by some means unknown the human mind may be subjected to a complete delusion, during which it exists in a world of her own creation, perfectly independent of time and space, has a strong hold on what might be called man's natural prejudices. Far from there being any thing revolting or palpably absurd in such an admission, the obscurity itself of the nature of time and space, and the phenomena of the dreaming and delirious mind, are ready to give it a colouring of truth. The success, indeed, of the tales which have been composed upon that basis, proves how readily men of all ages and nations have acknowledged, what we might call, its poetical truth. The hint followed by Don Juan Manuel, in the Dean of Santiago, is found in the Turkish Tales, from which Addison took the story of Chahabeddin, in No. 94 of the Spectator. It is very probable that the Spanish author received it through the Arabs, his countrymen, and was the first who adapted it to European customs. The imitations of the Spanish tale are numerous. The learned antiquary Mr. Douce has, with his usual kindness, given us a list of seven works, where it is found in a variety of dress and costume. We subjoin their titles in a note.*

B. W.

• Scot'* "Mensa Philasophica," a very rare book. Blanchet's " Apologues." In Terse, from Blanchct, by Mr. Andrieux, in L'Esprit cies Journaux, for 1799. Id English prose, in Vol. VII. of Anderson's " Bee," probably from the French, by Mr. Johncs. Tales from the French, 2 vols. 12mo. 1786. Boyer's "Wise and Ingenious Companion." Twine's " Schoolmaster." 1576.

THE BACHELOR OUTWITTED J
Or the Potccr of Association and Sculpture.
It was a bright and lovely afternoon,

Some years ago—such as we see in May,
Given in our northern climate like a boon,

And dearly cherish'd for its rarity—
That entering in my garden 1 was soon

1 .I'd in a meditative mood away,
Thinking how art might best improve on nature,
Or both m union show a fairer feature.
I Ml make, thought I, a scene of beauty here,

Joining with garden, orchard, shrubbery, field,
Flowers of all hues, all fruits the clime will bear,

And every shrub and tree the earth will yield:
I '11 tread upon a living carpet, clear

Of weeds and rankness, and my walks 1 Ml shield
From summer heats with foliage cool and green,
And sparry grots shall variegate the scene.
And then I Ml build a mossy hermitage

With Gothic door, and all things a propos;
And there beneath those elms, grotesque from age,

I Ml place an urn to Friendship, so and so;
A Brown or Repton I Ml at once engage

To wind my walks, direct the water's flow,
Plan out the whole, revise, and execute.
Scoop the ha-ha, and make the cascades shoot.
Art shall with error be so temper'd too,

That order shall be mingled with confusion,
Appearing ever in an aspect new,

Or a fresh shape, or scene of sweet delusion;
And here I Ml have a basin clear to view

Shaking its crystal waves in bright profusion,
Reflecting sunbeams, painting earth and sky,
And foliage rich, in its transparency.
] Ml have a kiosk there; a fountain nigh

Shall murmur music all the summer day,
In that I Ml take my books and read, or ply

The pinions of my fancy far away Among dim scenes of eld, delightedly,

Mid classic lore or the romantic lay; Steeping the soul in the unearthly bliss Of time long past, or any time but this. As I design'd, 1 did—all was complete;

No spot in Britain, garden of the earth, Could equal mine, where art precise and neat

Was temper'd by rude nature, and the birth Of flowers in seas of odour did create

Voluptuous inebriety—dancing mirth Laugh'd round in lightness: heaven's own tenants there Secure from man poured gladness on the air. Now with my books, and home, and competence,

1 had no more to wish; and so 1 thought My life would smoothly travel—no expense,

For I had riches, barr'd me out from aught
That reason might desire—then, reader, hence

Scorn not by my experience to be taught—
I was a bachelor in middle life,
And the last thing I dream'd of was a wife:

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