_ lE (Th t .
:SAMUEL IP/BIGHT, Editor and Proprietor
VOLUME XXX, NUMBER 8.1
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[We have been permitted to copy the following linen
from the "Crystal Fountain," u manuscript monthly
produced by the mem`ters of !lope Lodge of Good
Tempters, of this place:]
Parting Words.
0, must we sever?
No truer friends on earth can ea' be 1 . 0111111,
None who indeed have been more clocely bound
lii love together.,
Our joys the same,
Each sorrow mutually we have borne;
And when the heart would' POleeliMeS feel forlorn,
The yoke of.eotnfort came
Come 31‘heit my fOlll
Iluth but u few dm hours tolinger here,
Oh, let me feel thy presence! be but near,
When I approach the goal!
•
Come in that day—
The one—the Fevered from:ult dayv;—ols friend,
11Iy soul with thine .111111 yet rejoice to blend,
If thought may then have sway.
Nor then nor there :done,
1 ask my heart Wall indeed mast
If all must fade with each endearilig tie,
All ho!ieut feelings known.
N. 1): must the answer Le;
Though kindred hearts here often soy farewell,
There is 'a piece where happy spirits dwell,
A blest Eternity,
krtErtillito.
Eleven O'Clock
The story is about a beautiful lady that I
once lived with—first, when she was a young
lady, as her maid, and afterwards, when she
was married and a mother, as her baby's
nurse. She was alwayS very fond of me,
and lof her. She lived in a large town be
fore she married, and her father and mother,
being company-keepin' people, and she be
ing so very pretty, there was a great many
gentlemen admired her, and she might have
married well, as they call it, at least a dozen
times. I'm an old woman, and an old maid,
but I think there is only one way of marry
in' well, and that is when a woman, or a
lady, marries a man, or a gentleman, really
suited to her, and when there is real true
Love on both sides. I told you, Miss Alice,
the other night, that I had seen mistakes in
marriage made in my time, and the marriage
this young lady made was no doubt one of
them.
Well, I never could tell how my young
lady came to marry the gentleman she did
choose after all. lie was older a good deal
than she. She was gay and sprightly like
—he was still and grave. She liked life,
and stir and change—he liked nothin' but
rea.din' and sittin' still. She was as fund
of music as a bird—he couldn't tell one tune
from another. Often and often I halo seen
her sittin', singin' and pinyin', song after
song and piece after piece, at the piano in
the drawiu'-room, and him sittin' over a
book by the lamp, never listenin' to a sin
gle note. She had been used to praise and
company, and every one to love and listen
to her, and she must have felt it n..great
change.
She did feel it a great change—as you
shall presently hear—though she tried not
to show it, or even to think about it, for a
length of time.
When they first married her husband used
/mostly to sit in the same room with her,
though he never hardly noticed what she
was doin'; but after a while he took to
keepite in another, by himself, and only
momin' in to meals with her; and at night
die sat up hours poring over his learning and
'his books. Well, pen was the first day of
.my lady's showing herself Cast down and
melancholy. One day3k I passed my Inas
ter'istudy door, which 4s half open, I saw
dher, all in tears, knoelin' down by hilt chair,
and sayin' sornethin' to hinrwhich I could
not hear. % But I heakd him answer in his
. grave, even voice, "Well, my dear, if you
feel dull, send for your mother and sister,
and any one else you like, to make the place
gayer to you."
I was nearer guessin' what they had been
talkie' about, I thought, than he was what
was grieVin' her aching heart. lie was a
good sort of a. man, but he couldn't under
stand it.
In a week or two's time after that, how
,over, the house was full of company. My
lady's mother,•her sister, her brother, come
of her cousins, and others besides. The
house seemed almost turned upside down
after the still life we'd led; but loekin' at
my lady's pale face—which was like a June
.rose once, but, at this time, only flushed
with excitement now and then—l didn't be
lieve she was much the happier for all the
company.
However, amongst them there was a great
'friend of my lady's brother, who was thought
, to be thinkint,of her sister, and who was
one of the cleverest, handsomest, and most
accomplished gentlemen I ever saw. There
didn't seem to be anything that he couldn't
d,, or didn't know. Ito was as much a fa
vorite with all the servants in the house as
he was with the ladies and gentlemen, and
appeared as amiable as ho was clever and
handsome. Even my master would some
times' leave his books and talk to him, but
not very often.
He was a beautiful rider on horseback,
and broke in a horse for my lady which no
body else could manage. My lady was very
fond of ridin', and had gone out in a dull
way with the groom, because my master
didn't use himself to horses, very often, for
the mere pleaQure she had in the exercise.
This handsome gentleman and her brother,
however, rode with her now, and the hand
some gentleman always helped her to her
saddle. Of an evenin' he sung duets with
her, or read aloud fur the benefit of the
whole company, except my master, who
would slip away to his study and his books.
When he left, the house seemed very dull,
and my mistress too, but especially her sis
ter, though that was for another reason
which I didn't think of then, bat she found
out something, long before any one else
would have done. It was only natural, for•
she loved him very much, and had hoped
he loved her. She died, poor thing! in a
deep decline, two or three years afterwards.
Well, the-handsome gentleman knew some
of the families in the neighborhood, and
from our house he went to stay with ono of
them, and so, occasionally, we saw him still;
but at last he went away altogether, and so
did all our company, and were very quiet
again for some months.
One day, some time after this, something
came to my mistress, which I hoped would
make her happy after all; a dear little baby,
and I was its nurse; but it did not. Some
thing else had come to her, I suppose. We
are all weak creatures, my dears, and the
best of us cannot stand in our own strength,
and if we let wrong wishes and thoughts
come into our minds without strivin' against
them with more than our poor might, they
mostly will come, and make sure prey of us.
Something of that sort had warped my poor
dear lady's mind, I fear. She was very
young—had been praised, petted, and al
most spoiled, from her childhood—and her
husband, though not unkind, neglected of
her.
el5O
4 : 1 1:= 0 Yr -
EMI
I=
Not, but what she loved her baby. She
loved it dearly—but with a poisoned mind.
L saw how it all was, when the handsome
gentleman I had once liked so much, com
ing to stay again with that family in the
neighborhood, rode over so often to call upon
my master, but stayed so long with my lady
in the drawin'-room.
It night have been only fancy, but I
thought hint not nearly so handsome as he
=
Well, he came and went in the neighbor
hood for some time, and my lady grew sad
der and sadder, and her husband saw noth
ing, or said nothing all the while, but ap
peared to grow more busy and quiet-like
every day. Except for the baby, then a
year old, and able to talk a little, lispingly,
her life was very lonely. Sometimes, fur
days. she would scarcely leave the nursery.
At others, she seemed to enter it with a fal
tering step, and a tremble :amnia' through
her figure, and then, with a frightened face
kissing the little innocent, she would hasten
away to hide the tears in her eyes, and the
aching at her heart.
Though I never saw them together—l
mean my lady and the handsome gentle
man—about this time, I knew by instinct,
(fur I loved her, and had done so from a
child) that they sometimes met. At last I
knew it for certain, and I never was so un
happy in my life! No, not even when I had
a great sorrow of my own.
It was a. beautiful autumn evening. My
master was gone from home to a meeting of
some society connected with what he was
always reading about, and there was no
soul about the house, so far as I knew, ex
cept the servants and my mistress, who was,
I thought in the drawin'-room. Having a
very bad headache, after I bad put my babe
to bed and left the household in the nursery
to watch it, I went out to get a breath of air
in the kitchen garden and about the back
ways behind the shrubberies. Everything
was very still, except that a soft breeze went
soughing and and whispering through the
great fir plantations, and I, quite alone, and
feeling my head grow lighter and better as
I walked, kept listenin' to the sound think
in', I remember, at the time, what a nice
sound it would be to send a baby to sleep
with. As I listened, presently I heard
voices. At first they wore hardly louder
than the fir whispers, but, gradually, I
heard my own dear lady's voice answer
some low words, too low lot me to catch,
aloud, in a tone of agony:
"Oh, no!" she cried; "Gerald.do not tempt
.me!—for Heaven's sake do not tempt me to
leave my little ebild!" Ller voice, though
not a high one, rang through the stillness
with such an cello that I trembled lest any
one should hear it beside myself. He seem
ed to hush her, and to try to soothe her, as
I gatherered from the few words I could
overhear.
I knew it was the handsome gentleman,
for Gerald was kis name; and ohl what a
horror I felt of him!
I bad never played the listener on pur
pose before in ray life, and now I was de
tormined to bear all I could, and I stood as
still as death almost, in my place behind the
"NO ENTERTAINMENT IS SO CHEAP AS READING, NOR ANY PLEASURE SO LASTING."
COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER 17, 1859.
shrubberies; for was I not her maid when
she was little more than a child? Didn't
she love me, and might I not try to save
her? Desides, I was her own baby's nurse.
Anyhow, I stopped.
I heard but very little more, except just
at the last. They appeared about to part,
and then, in his voice, I beard these words:
"To-morrow night, then, my own, whether
you come or not, at eleven o'clock I shall be
here." And, after that, only the sound of
stealthy footsteps carefully going over the
fallen leaves, and of a low weeping that
broke out between whiles when the foot
steps. were gone.
I wai`ed perhaps half an hour, perhaps
not quite so long. I hardly knew, I was in
such a tremor. Then I went in by the
kitchen passage door, and up the back stair
case round to my darling's nursery, in the
front of the house, nest to my lady's dress
in'-room. There was a door through it into
the nursery, and, in about nn hour nr so, I
heard my mistress come np there, and, as it
was bed-time, I knocked, and went in to
help her to undress, as I was always used
to do.
She was sitting before her glass, washing
her face with some rose-water, and she
started as I opened the door. She didn't
need to try to deceive me, poor thing, into
thinking that she hadn't been crying.
"Ifow you startled me, nurse!" she said.
I answered, "But I knocked, ma'am—
didn't you hear me knock?"
suppose I was not thinking about you,
Mary," she said, hurriedly.
I said, "I don't think you arc in spirits
this evening, ma'am. You'll find it lone
some to-night without master. Shall I leave
the doors open to the nursery, so as you can
hear me and the baby?"
I wanted her think about the baby. But
she said, sorrowfully:
"No, thank you, Mary. I'm used to being
lonely."
I still wanted her to think about the baby;
and, -pretending that I heard it stirring. I
went back through the open door into the
nursery for a moment, and, after pretending
to soothe it, called her to look at it.
"0 dear, ma'am," I said, "do come and
look at the dear child. I don't know that I
ever saw it look so pretty in its innocent
sleep!"
She came in her white dressing-gown,
which she had loosely put on, but her face,
that had flushed to a deep red as she first
looked at the child, grew almost whiter than
Inr gown, while she stood silent by its little
bed.
"Dear me, ma'am," I said, "what is so
innocent and beautiful to look at as a little
sleeping babe! J can't think how any one
can ever hurt a child through cruelty or
passion, I couldn't never say my prayers
again, hardly."
My lady stooped over the child until her
long hair, which was all hangin' loose, fell
over its face and her own, and quite hid
them both from my sight, as she answered
something I couldn't hear.
Looking at the nursery clock, I said:
"But, dear me, ma'am, you must he
tired! It is now upon the stroke of eleven."
At the mention of the hour she half
started from her low posture, no doubt re
membering when she had last heard a men
tion of eleven o'clock, and, in the start she
gave, she awoke the baby from its sleep.
Throwing out its little arm, the child caught
at some of her bright long hair as it floated
away from her, and began to cry.
I wouldn't quiet it. I left it all to her.
And oh! how I hoped the child's voice
might call her back to what she used to be
before that dark handsome face had been
seen in our house! She might not 'have
'been happy, but she was innocent then!
"The baby will always leave oft' crying
best for you, ma'am," I said. "I will just
go and put out some water fur you into the
basin, and unfold your night-dress ready."
She could not but take the crying baby,
and I left her hushing it to rest. When I
came back the child was asleep in her arms,
but the tears were raining down from my
lady's eyes upon its little night-dress. I
thought I heard her crying.
Taking the child from her, I laid it on the
bed, and then said, as my lady tried in vain
to stop her tears:
"0, my dear mistress, I am sure you
can't bewell. What can Ido for you?"
"Nothing, Mary, dear," she answered.
"Nothing,"
"Shall I send for my master?" I asked.
"I am sure he would grieve dreadfully if
you were ill."
"Mary!" she exclaimed, reproachfully.
"Yes, ma'am, you may not think so, be
cause master is so quiet like, but I know
he would feel it very much, in his way, if
anything happened to you. Ile is fond of
the baby. too," I said, "though he seldom
slotioes it, for when I took it to the study
wisp:low the other day, when I was out with
it in the garden, he took it in his arms and
played with it a long time."
She took upon leer to'seem quite haughty
all at once, as she rose and told me I need
not say any more; butt didn't mind, I only
said:
"Dear mistress, you surely won't be
offended with me, who hare waited on you so
long?"
"I am tired, Macy," she answered, "and
shall go to bed now." And she shut her
dressin'-room door, saying that I need not
come in again to help her in undressing, for
that the baby was not quite sound.
I never went to sleep that night, and I
got out of bed several times to listen at ber
door, which, when I heard her go through
her bed room, I had set ajar. She was al
ways stirring, never still. And in the mid
dle of the night I heard her crying as she
had done among the fir•trees in the shrub
bery. She seemed to sleep once for a short
time, but awoke herself in calling out,
"Gerald, do not tempt me!" in a nightmare
dream.
In the morning I rose with a feeling as
if a gretit weight were upon me which I
must remove by some great endeavor before
the night and eleven o'clock came. I
wanted- if possible, that my dear mistress
should take it off herself, without my har
ing to show herithat I knew what had passed
in the shrubbery the night before. I said
to myself, "Surely she will think many
times before she will go out from these
doors to-night. Perhaps she will think bet
ter of it. Perhaps she has never meant to
gn. Anyhow, I know the time appointed,
and I can watch, and, at the last, I can but
speak."
The day wore on. My mistress, who had
breakfasted up-stairs, only went down to
dinner at five o'clock, and she remained in
the drawing room afterwards, instead of
coming, as she most times did, to bid the
baby good night, and see me undress and
put it into bed. We were a very regular
household, and, by ten o'clock, all the ser
vants were settled for the night. My lady,
looking into the nursery with her dressin'-
gown on (for she had been in her room for
some little time,) told me that I might go
to bed, for that she had something she
wished to read, and might, perhaps, sit up
late. I made answer, "Very well, ma'am,"
and, that was all. My lady never looked
towards the little bed where the baby was
sleeping. I didn't undress, but I got into
bed with my clothes on, and lay waiting and
listening,
My mistress, to seem quite careless like,
had left the door of the dressin'-room partly
open, and as she sat there I could hear the
leaves of a book turned over and over for a
length of time. The hour seemed forever
long. Nothing to listen to but the ticking
of the nursery clock, and the turning of the
pages of my lady's book. Nothing to look
at but the shadow of nightshade on the ceil
ing. I guessed that my mistress had left
her own bedroom door open to the staircase
and that she would leave a light burning in
the dressin'-room, and go down and out by
way of the garden passage, as we called it,
at the end of which was a side door, very
easy to open, and almost out of hearing of
any one in the house.
The nursery clock struck eleven, and still
I heard my mistress in the dressing-room;
but I knew she mush be going soon now.
Presently there was a sound as if she had
risen from her chair, and I fancied she was
listening to hear if all was still. Then I
heard the door from the dressin'- room into
the bedroom shut very gently.
' That was the moment for me to get up.
I did get up; and taking the sleeping child
in my arms, I went softly, without my shoes,
out into the landing, (for I had left my door
ajar as my mistress had done hers,) and
down the broad staircase, along the hall,
and into the garden passage before she had
' left her room. The baby still slept, and I
stood quite still, close by the garden door.
In less than ten minutes my mistress, with
a candle in her hand, came down the pas
sage, too. She was dressed completely with
a bonnet on. She came so hurriedly, so
fearfully, and so often looking back, and I '
stood so much in shadow, in a corner of the 1
doorway, that she did'nt see me until she
was within a yard or two of me. But when
she did see me, and saw in my face that I
knew or guessed all; and when, above
everything, I held the little sleeping baby '
towards her in my outstretched arms, as
though it were the real bar, the real chain,
which was to hold her back, she stopped,
and, with a strong shiver, sank down pow
erless on the stone floor of the passage at
my feet. I had seized the candle as it fell
from out her trembling hand, and set it
on a bracket fastened to the wall. Then I
kissed her, and cried over her, and said I
was sure she would not go. She would let
me take a letter out to him—we never spoke
his name then, nor afterwards—but she
would never go and leave the dear, dear ba
by! Down in that stone passage, in the !
dead of night; (for it was long past the ap
pointed hour,) when all the house were
dreaming and at rest, my dear lady and I !
wept and sobbed together; and all the time
the tempter waited in the moonlight, among
the fir-trees, for her who would never come!
My dears, I can never tell you all that
passed between my lady and me that night.
The whole thing has always been a secret
ever since, from all the world; and even
now, when the chief actors in it aro dead,
I have named no names.
I only tell you that, by God's mercy
working on her heart, and by the unexpec
ted sight of her little child at the last mo
ment, before the awful step would have
been taken, she was saved. She loved the
tempter, and, by that bitterness, found out,
too late, that she bad never loved her hus
band. But I thank God she was eared from
a bitterness greater still; known alone to a
wretched mother who forsakes her inno
cent baby, and leaves for it only the mem
ory of her name ruined and disgraced!
She lived, after that terrible night and the
r!ineee.t cost her were passed, to be cheer
ful in trying to do her duty, and in time,
after a sort, even happy; for she had more
children, and loved them as only a dreary,
wife, with a neglectful, unsuitable husband,
can. But she died yOung, after all—no
doubt it was for the best—and no ono but I
ever knew what a great struggle her life
had been.
That is my story, my dears. I pray that
you may never have to experience what
that poor lady had.
The Storming of Galera
On the sixth of February the engineer
who had charge of the mines gave notice
that their work was completed. The follow
ing morning was named fur the assault.—
The order of the day prescribed that a gen
eral cannonade should open on the town at
six in the morning. It was to continue an
hour, when the mines were to be sprung.—
The artillery would then play for another
hour; after which the signal for the attack
would be given. The signal was to be the
firing of one gun from each of the batteries,
to be followed by a simultaneous discharge
from all. Tho orders directed the troops to
show no quarter to man, or woman, or child.
On the seventh of February, the last day
of the Carnival, the besiegers were under
arms at the earliest dawn. Their young
commander attracted every eye by the splen
dor of his person and appointments. He
was armed cap-a-pie, and wore a suit of bur
nished s teel richly inlaid with gold. His
casque, overshadowed by brilliant plumes,
was ornamented with a medallion display.
ing the image of the Virgin. In his hand
he carried the baton of command; and as he
rode along the lines, addressing a few words
of encouragetrient to the soldiers, his perfect
horsemanship, his princely bearing, and the
courtesy of his manners, reminded the vet
erans of the happier days of his father, the
emperor. The cavaliers by whom he was
surrounded emulated their chief in the rich
ness of their appointments; and the Mur
clan chronicler, present on that day, dwells
with complacency on the beautiful array of
Southern chivalry gathered together for the
final assault upon Galera.
From six o'clock till seven, a furious can
oonade was kept up from the whole circle of
batteries on the devoted town. Then came
the order to fire the mines. The deafening
roar of ordnance was at once hushed into
a silence profound as that of death, while
every soldier in the trenches waited, with
nervous suspense fur the explosion. At
length it came, overturning houses, shaking
down a fragment of the castle, rending
wider the breach in the perpendicular side
of the rock, and throwing off the fragments
with the force of a volcano. Only one mine,
however, exploded. It was soon followed
by the other, which, though it did less dam
age, spread such consternation among the
garrison, that, fearing there might still be a
third in reserve, the men abandoned their
works, and took refuge in the town.
When the smoke and dust hail cleared
I away, an officer with a few soldiers was sent
I to reconnoitre the breach, They soon re
turned with the tidings that the garrison
jhad fled, and left the works wholly unpro
tected. On hearing this, the troops, with
furious shouts, called out to be led at once
to the assault. It was in vain that the offi
cers remonstrated, enforcing their remon•
strances, in some instances, by blows with
j the flat of their satires. The blood of the
soldiery was up; and, like an ill-disciplined
rabble, they sprang from their trenches, in
wild disorder, and, hurrying their officers
along with them, soon scaled the perilous
ascent, and crowned the heights without op
position from the enemy. Hurrying over
the debris that strewed the ground, they
speedily made themselves masters of the
' deserted fortress and its outworks—filling
the air with shouts of victory.
The fugitives saw their mistake, as they
beheld the enemy occupying the position
i they had abandoned. There was no more
apprehension of mines. Eager to retrieve
their error, they rushed back as by a corn
mon impulse, to dispute the possession of
the ground with the Spaniards. It was too
late. The guns were turned on them from
their own battery. The arquebusiers who
; lined the raveliu showered down on their
heads missiles more formidable than stones
and arrows. But though their powder was
nearly gone, the Moriscoes could still make
j fight with sword and dagger, and they bold
ly closed, in a hand-to-band contest with
their enemy. It was a deadly struggle,
calling out—as close personal contest is sure
to do—the fiercest passions of the combat
. ants. No quarter was given; nono was
asked. The Spaniard was nerved by the
confidence of victory, the Morisco by the
energy of despair. Both fought like men
who knew that on the issue of this conflict
depended the fate of Galena. Again the
war-cry of the two religions rose above the
din of battle; as the one party invoked their
military apostle, and the other called on
Mehemet. It was the same war-cry which
for mere than eight centuries had sounded
over hill and valley in unhappy Spain.-- I
These were its dying notes, soon to expire
with the exile or extermination of the con
quered
race.
The conflict was at length terminated by
the arrival of a fresh 'body of troops on the ;
field with Padilla. The chief had attacked
the town by the same avenue as before;
everywhere he had met with the same spirit
of resistance. But the means of successful
resistance were gone. Many of the houses
on the streets had been laid in ruins by I
the fire of the artillery. Such as still held
out were defended by men armed with no
$1,50 PER YEAR IN ADVANCE; $2,00 IF NOT IN ADVANCE
better weapons than stones and arrows.
One after another, most of them were
stormed and fired by the Spaniards; and
those within were put to the - sword, or per
ished in the flames.
It fared no better with the defenders of
the barricades. Galled by the volleys of
the Christians, against whom their own
rude missiles did comparatively little ex
ecution, they were driven from one position 1 ,
to another; as each redoubt was successfully
carried, a shout of triumph went up from
the victors, which fell cheerily on the ears
of their countrymen on the heights; and
when Padilla and his veterans burst on
the scene of action, it decided the fortunes
of the day.
There was still a detachment of Turks, l i
whose ammunition had not been exhausted,
and who were maintaining a desperate
struggle with a body of Spanish infantry,
in which the latter had been driven back of
the very verge of the precipice. But the
appearance of their friends under Padilla
gave the Spaniards new heart; and Turk and
Morisco, overwhelmed alike by the superi
ority of the numbers and of the weapons of
their antagonists, gave way in all dii ections.
Some fled down the long avenues which led
from the summit of the rock. They were
hotly pursued by the Spaniards. Others
threw themselves into the houses, and pre
prepared to make a last defence. The
Spaniards scrambled along the terraces,
letting themselves down from one level to
another by means of the Moorish ladders
used for that purpose. They hewed open
ings in the wooden roofs of the buildings,
through which they fired on those within.
The helpless Moriscoes, driven out by the
pitiless volleys, sought refuge in the street.
But the fierce hunters were there; waiting
for their miserable game, which they shot
down without mercy—men, women children;
none were spared. Yet they did not fall
unavenged; and the corpse of many a
Spaniard might be seen stretched on the
bloody pavement, laying side - by side with
that of his Moslem enemy.
More than one instance is recorded of the
desperate courage to which the women as
well as the men were roused in their extrem
ity. A Morisco girl, whose father had per
ished in the first assault in the Gardens, af
ter firing her dwelling, is said to have
dragged her two little brothers along with
one hand, and wielding a scymitar with the
other, to have rushed against the foe, by
whom they were all speedily cut to pieces.
Another instance is told, of a man who, af
ter killing his wife and his two daughters;
sallied forth, and called out, "There is noth
ing more to lose; let us die.together!" threw
himself madly into the thick of the enemy.
Some fell by their own weapons, others by
those of their friends, preferring to receive
death from any hands but those of the
Spaniards.
Some two thousand .Moriscoes_vvere hud
dled together in a square not far from the
gate, where a strong body of the Castilian
infantry, cut off the means of escape.—
Spent with toil and loss of blood, without
amunition, without arms, or with such only
as were too much battered or broken for ser
vice,the wretched fugitives would gladly have
made some terms with their pursuers, who
now closed darkly around them. But the
stag at bay might as easily have made terms .
with his hunters and the fierce hounds that
were already on his haunches: Their pray
ers were answered by volley after volley,
until not a man was left alive..
More than four hundred women and chil
dren were gathered together without the
walls, and the soldiers., mindful of the value
of such a booty, were willing to spare their
lives. This was remarked by Don John,
and no sooner did he observe the symptoms
of lenity in the troops, than the flinty
hearted chief rebuked their remissness and
sternly reminded them of the order of the
day. Ile even sent the halberdiers of his
guard and the cavaliers about his person
to assist the soldiers in their bloody work;
while he sat, a calm spectator on his horse,
as immovable as a marble statue, and as in
sensible to the agonizing screavis of his
victims and their heart-breaking prayers
for mercy.
While this was going on without the town
the work of death was no less active within.
Every square and enclosure that had af
forded a temporary refuge to the fugitives
was heaped with the bodies of the slain;—
Blood -ran down the kennels like water af
ter a heavy shower. The dwellings were
fired, some by the conquerors, others by the
inmates, who threw threw themselves madly
into the flames rather than fall into the
hands of their enemies. The gathering
shadows of the evening—for the fight had
lasted nearly nine hours—were dispelled by
the light of the conflagration, which threw
an ominous glare for many a league over
the country, proclaiming far and wide the
downfall of Galera.
At length Don John was so far moved
from his original purpose as to consent that
the women, and the children under twelve
years of age, should be spared. This be
did, not from any feeling of compunction,
but from deference to the murmurs of his
followers, whose discontent at seeing their
customary booty snatched from them began
to show itself ie a way not to be disregarded.
Some fifteen hundred women and children,
in consequence of this, are said to have es
caped the general doom of their countrymen.
All the rest, soldiers and citizens, Turks,
Africans and Moriseoes, were mercilessly
butchered. Not one man, if we may trust
[WHOLE NUMBER 1,517.
the Spaniards themselves, escaped rave—
n would not -be easy, even in that age or
blood, to Sod a parallel to so wholesale and.
indiscriminate a massacre.
Yet, to borrow the words of the Castilitm
proverb, "If Africa hadeause to weep, Spain
had little reason to rejoice!' No succets
during the war was purchased at so high a
price as the capture of Calera. The loss
fell as heavily on the officers and men of
rant as on the common file. We have scat
the eagerness with which they had floeltcd
to the standard of John of Austria. Thep
showed the same eagerness to distinguish
themselves under the eye of their leader.—
The Spanish chivalry were sure to be found
in the post of danger. Dearly did they pay
for that preeminence; and many a noble
house in Spain wept bitter tears when the
tidings came of the conquest of Calera.
Don John himself was so much exaspera
ted, says the chronicler, by the thought of
the grievous loss which he had sustained
through the obstinate resistance of the her
etics, that he resolved to carry into effect
his menace of' demolishing the town, so that
no one stone should be left on another.—
Every house was accordingly burnt or lev
elled to the ground, which was then strewn
with salt, as an accursed Fpot, on which no
man was to build thereafter. A royal de
cree to that effect was soon afterwards pub
lished; and the village of straggling houses
which, undefended by a wall, still clusters
around the base of the hill, in the gardens
occupied by Padilla, is all that now servos
to remind the traveler of the once flourish
ing and strongly fortified city of Calera,—
Prescott's Philip IL.
The Black Cat
[Translated from the Gazette des Tram
naux for the instruction and benefit of note
sharers, money-lenders, usurers, brokers,
&e.]
In the village of Carnot, in the neighbor
hood of Loricnt, there lived a few years ago
a poor widow by the name of Roperch. She
cultivated a small farm, for which she paid
a yearly rent of 225 francs, and the proceeds
of which afforded her a scanty living. At
that time she was in want of 10 franci, and
borrowed them and repaid them ponettially.
Some weeks later she borrowed again 60
francs, in order to purchase a cow. When
those GO francs became due she found it nut
of her power to repay them out of her earn
ings, and borrowed the money of somebody
else, who charged her a very high rate of
interest. The heavy obligation which she in
curred by this transaction did not trouble
her mind much; she took it easy, having
discovered that in order to get along, and
perpetuate this situation, it was sufficient to
borrow larger and larger sums, and to repay
capital and interest by the proceeds of new
loans. She took this course with a will,
and continued in it for ten years with un
common success.
Her very nei,gliiierP, who had been her
first lenders, commenced soon to build up a
strange reputation for her. As they always
and regularly received back the sums they
had lent her, with big interest, they offered
new loans on their own own accord, and
spread the report that the widow Roperch
borrowed of everybody, never refused an
offer of money, settled promptly, and paid
large interest. It did not take long before
the widow Roperch was spared the neces
sity of making a step across her threshold.
in order to obtain money; the accommoda
tors flocked in spontaneously, uncalled for,
and brought sums, which grew larger and
larger. At that time the interest charged
was 5 per cent, a month; at a later period.
lenders took as much as 10 per cent. a month .
Now, you ask, how could this poor vroman
inspire her numerous clients with any confi
&nee? It is really hard to tell. A part of
them seem to have been seduced by a ridicu
i ions superstition. They believed that the
1 , women was in possession of the black cal.
' The common people in France believe that
the black cat i 3 the money-devil, and a full
cousin of the supreme devil himself, and
that he who owns it can command as much
money as he pleases, and has it in his
power to make his friends as rich as be
wishes them to be. So the few words,
"She has the black cat," were a sufficient
explanation of the loans she made, and the
interest she paid, and quieted every misgiv
ing. It appears that the widow carefully
nursed this stupid credulity. It is true,
that her cat was white and not black; but on
the other hand, when interrogated, she
never denied its magic powers, and did not
even object to being called "the black - eat"
herself. Whenever she received a loan,
she made it a point to pay a month's inter
est in advance at the rate of from 60 to 120
per cent. a year; but she always took care
to take this interest-money out of a particu
lar bag, which lay invaribly under .the
cover at the foot of her bed, and this
manoeuvre, of course, confirmed the belief
that she drew money from a secret source.
Other lenders, strong-minded free-think
ers, who had no faith in the black eat story,
believed firmly that the widow was con
nected with a powerfal company, or that
the money borrowed by her went to the
Government, and was used in the public
works. The widow never contradicted
these reports; she even spoke several times
of "her partners," but, on being asked what
line of husin r egs she was engaged in, she,
constantly answered, "That is my secret."
The excitement of the lenders was kept
agoing, prineirodly by the interest; it was
natural for them not to insist upon the dis
covery of the secret of .a borrower, who