Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 57, No. 355, May 1845

The executioner disappeared in the inferniello; the clank of chains was heard, and he again emerged from the den, bringing with him the unfortunate prisoner.

"Por el amor de Dios!" implored the latter. "Cosmo will do any thing, confess every thing" —

"He raves," interrupted the alcalde.

"Jesus Maria," groaned Cosmo again. "We begged, we entreated him not to fire at Major Ulloa. Never in my life will I again take a trabuco in my hand."

"That voice!" – exclaimed the cloaked figure —

"Is altered," hastily interposed the alcalde. "The poor fellow has lost voice, reason, and courage. But it is always so."

"There," muttered the hangman; "these bracelets might have been made for your Excellency; they just fit on over the fur cuffs." And so saying, he pushed the prisoner against the wall, and placed both his arms in rings.

"Santissima Madre, ora pro nobis!" prayed poor Cosmo between his teeth, which chattered as he spoke. Then suddenly he raised his voice, and broke out into the beautiful hymn, "Madre dolorosa, dulcissima y hermosa," which he sang, in this his moment of extreme anguish, with such expression and melody, that even the executioner suspended his proceedings, and listened for a moment, visibly moved. A sign from the alguazil recalled him to his duty.

"A little farther back, Señoria. The legs asunder, on either side of this stone. We want you to sit comfortably."

"It is cold, bitter cold!" whined the poor fellow. "Oh, my poor mother!"

"The head higher," resumed the hangman, "or the springs might catch your skull. So – that is right. Don't be afraid. We are not going to hurt you."

The prisoner now stood with his legs straddled out, a large stone, that projected from the wall, between them, his neck in a huge iron collar, his arms spread out and hanging in the rings.

"Remain standing, Señoria, till we have fastened your cravat. Don't tremble. We are doing nothing to you. In two minutes you will be as you should be."

While uttering these words of consolation, the executioner had fastened a thinner chain, of which the end was secured to the stone above mentioned, round the neck of the victim, who stood shaking and trembling, and allowing himself to be thus dealt with as unresistingly as a lamb. The poor fellow had left off sobbing, and was now repeating Ave Marias in a low hurried voice, with all the agonized eagerness of one who in his last moments would fain make up for former omissions.

"Would you, Señoria, wish to have the sentence read?" enquired the alcalde of the man in the blue cloak, who stood observing the proceedings in deep silence, and now made no answer to the question.

"Would Don Ruy Gomez be pleased to hear the sentence read?" repeated the alcalde in a hoarse whisper.

Still no reply.

The alguazil made a sign to the executioner. The latter pressed the prisoner down upon the stone – the snap of a spring was heard – the stone fell out of the wall.

"Jesus Maria! Todos Santos!" shrieked Cosmo. "Madre mi" —

The last syllable was not uttered; in its place there was the noise of crushed and breaking bones; and then the tongue protruded from the mouth, and the eyes from their sockets, the face became of a deep purple colour, and the victim hung a corpse in his manacles.

"El ultimo suspiro!" said the executioner, in an unusually solemn tone.

The viceroy's secretary shuddered, and gazed fixedly and in silence upon the corpse.

"The finest youth in Mexico!" he murmured. And then, as if devils had been goading him, he hurried to the door.

"Show his Señoria a light," cried the alguazil gravely; "and may his dying hour be as easy as that of this unfortunate. By my soul," continued he to the alcalde, "these great men are delicate. They take us for tongs, made to pull their chestnuts out of the fire."

The alcalde nodded.

"Do not forget the prisoner," said he. And with an abrupt "Adios," he left the vault.

"Come, and that quickly," cried the alguazil anxiously; "in a quarter of an hour it might be too late. An alcalde and an alguazil cannot be always blind."

His summons, which had been uttered in a loud tone, was replied to by the appearance of the original occupant of the No. 3 cell, who now re-entered the vault, supported by the two strangers with whom he had quitted it a short time previously.

"Where am I?" he exclaimed.

"In a place which few ever leave alive, Don Manuel," was the answer; "but he that has the Pope for his cousin, as the proverb says, need not fear hell-fire. Nevertheless, let your Señoria beware! Another time it might not be so easy to rob the tiger of his prey."

And with these words the chief alguazil led the way out of the vault.

With this rescue of Don Manuel, and sacrifice of his unfortunate servant, the plot of the book may in great measure be said to terminate, although there are still several lively and interesting chapters. Count San Jago next comes upon the scene, and has an interview with the viceroy, who at first is disposed to carry matters with a high hand; but the count exhibits such an accurate and dangerous knowledge of the viceroy's secrets, and, amongst others, of some treasonable negotiations the latter had been carrying on with the French – proofs of which, the count assures him, are deposited out of the country in the hands of friends of his own, ready to be used should aught happen to him – that the satrap is completely cowed. The count has no wish to have Vanegas deposed, considering his continuance on the viceregal throne more favourable to the prospects of Mexican freedom, than would be his replacement by Calleja, who has a strong party in his favour amongst the Spaniards. The matter is therefore compromised; Don Manuel receives a passport for England or the United States; the Conde Carlos is promoted to an important command in the army; and in return Count San Jago gives the viceroy his support against the cabal that is for pulling him down and elevating Calleja. The book, to be complete, should have a continuation dated ten or twelve years later, showing the successful issue of the struggle of which these volumes narrate the commencement, and terminating the various intrigues, both private and political, which are here commenced, but not carried to a close.

Our limits have prevented us from giving more than brief glimpses of work which, if translated as a whole, would fill three or four comely post octavos. We trust that it will be worthily done into English, without greater abridgement than may be rendered indispensable by the epithets and expletives so abundant in the German language; many of which are unnecessary, and some without equivalent in ours: – done, however, not as translations usually are, but in a manner worthy of the admirable original. Out of the numerous translations of clever German books that have recently appeared, it is lamentable to observe how few have been done, we will not say well, but decently, and how little justice has been rendered to the talent of the authors; the translators having been for the most part incompetent drudges, working by the square foot, or persons of some ability, who apparently deemed it beneath them to bestow upon translations even a small portion of the pains they devote to original productions. We are aware of very few instances where this description of labour, which to do well is not altogether so easy as is usually supposed, has fallen into hands alike competent and conscientious. We trust that whenever the works of our German Unknown are translated, they will be undertaken by persons at once sensible of their merits, and able to do them justice.

THE RECTOR'S DAUGHTER

Chapter I

The rapid shade of an October evening, borrowing deeper gloom from the wildness of the adjacent Tipperary mountains, was falling over the lonely town of Clogheen, within whose classic precincts took place that important meeting between Sergeant Snap and Paddy Carey, which has been recorded immortally in song. Forty years ago, (of which period we are about to write,) when roads were not as good, travellers as adventurous, and markets as abundant as at present, Clogheen was a smart, or, as the Itinerary of that day has it, "a thriving place with a decent church," boasting a comfortable inn and several hucksters' shops, where every variety of merchandise, from brandy and bandle-linen to hand-saws and halfpenny whistles, was procurable.

In a double-countered shop (for the appliances for the inward creature were sold at one side, and those for the outward man at another) in one of the handsomest houses of the town – where a double-story, slated roof, and a sign-board with a red splash in the middle, and the characters, "General Hutchinson," underneath, was the standard of excellence – on the evening in question stood Curly Cahill,[22 - Curly– diminutive of Cornelius.] spirit retailer, and, according to the signboard just quoted, "dealer in soft goods, butter, leather, iron, eggs, and tobacco," busily engaged in serving a customer.

"Beautyful baffety, Miss," said Curly, a dapper middle-aged worthy, his short black hair combed sleek over his low forehead, with a face half smooth, half smirking, and – for the little fellow pretended to no small degree of sanctimony – his person dressed neatly in black, as closely as possible to resemble the fashion just imported by the new Co'juther from Maynooth.

"Beautyful baffety, Miss Katey, fit for any lady from this to Knocklofty, let alone for servants' wear, an' only tenpence-halfpenny a yard. It's giving it away I am."

"It does not seem a very good colour," said the purchaser in a musical voice.

"Is it the colour! Take your hand ov it, take your hand ov it, astore," cried the dextrous merchant; "a bleachground would look yallow an' that purty hand to the fore. An' here, Padeen, bring a candle – an' turn out them pigs, you sir, an' boult the half-dure, till Miss Tyrrel sees the goods. – Now, Miss," he said, when the light was brought and his behests obeyed, slapping his hand in fond emphasis on the bale as he unrolled it wider along the counter, "there's an article! – that I may be happy if I'd wish finer for my windin' sheet; only, to be sure, a body would like that to be linnen, an' go to the grave decent. Yeh! what need you be so very particular for servants?"

"I really do not like the calico, Mr Cahill," hesitated the lady, "and, papa" —

"You don't see it, Miss," interrupted Curly; "push back them darlin' locks o' yours that's sweepin' the counther, an' I'll be bound the goods 'll be at the Glebe afore an hour;" and as he spoke he playfully, but with great respect and tender fingers, lifted aside some of the masses of golden hair that drooped above, and, as he truly insinuated, in some measure overshadowed the good qualities of his merchandise.

"Curly, you are a sad old flatterer," said the young lady, and she impatiently raised her head, and shaking back its weight of ringlets, exposed a fair high forehead and beautifully oval face to view. "I find it always difficult to deal with you; however," she added with a smile, "the better way, perhaps, is to send up the whole piece to the Glebe to-morrow, and I shall then be able to judge of it."

"Ah, then, that I may be soon sellin' you the weddin' sheets, Miss Katey," said the successful shop-keeper, as he rolled up the bale and pushed it to the end of the counter; "and," he added, in a very different tone, modulated to the lowest key of suppleness and deference, "shure that 'ould be to-morrow, if you take my advice, an' were kind en' thrue-hearted to the one you know" —

"Yes, indeed!" half ironically half regretfully murmured the young lady, as she drew down her veil and prepared to depart, but was stayed by a prognostication from Curly, who pledged nothing less than his "hand an' word to her," that she'd break the heart of the anonymous individual alluded to, "afore long, if she didn't take care!"

"'Twas when the men wor goin' to work at broad daylight this mornin', Miss, I hear him in the next room to me, stealin' to bed afther sittin' up the night readin' them books, an' songs, an' things, that you're deludin' the poor fellow's senses with – ach" —

"Oh! that reminds me," said the listener, producing a small volume from the folds of her cloak; "I will just leave this book with my compliments. He is, of course," she carelessly observed, "not now at home?"

"Jest took a short stick in his hand and went out for a solithary walk; by himself, poor fellow, down by the Shuire. 'Tis the only time o' the day he likes for walkin'."

"The time of the night, you mean, Curly," said the girl with a laugh, glad to shake off a certain air of embarrassment she felt, by affected gaiety. "Tell him he should keep better hours; though, upon my word," as she prepared to face the darkening twilight, "I don't set him a very good example myself. Good evening."