University of Virginia Library

THE
STUDENT OF SALAMANCA.

Lilly's Gallathea.

Once upon a time, in the ancient city of Granada,
there sojourned a young student of Salamanca,
of the name of Antonio de Castros. He
was pursuing a course of reading in the library
of the university; and at the same time indulging
his curiosity by examining those remains of
Moorish magnificence, for which Granada is renowned.
While occupied in his studies he frequently
noticed an old man of singular appearance,
who was likewise a visiter at the library,

He was lean and withered, apparently more from
study than age. His eyes, though bright and
visionary, were sunk in his head and thrown into
shade by overhanging eyebrows. His dress was
always the same: a black doublet; a short
black cloak, very rusty and threadbare ; red
stockings, a small ruff, and a large overshadowing
hat.

His appetite for knowledge seemed insatiable.
He would pass whole days in the library, absorbed
in study; consulting a multiplicity of authors
; as though he were pursuing some interesting
subject through all its ramifications; so
that, in general, when evening came, he was
almost buried among books and manuscripts.

The curiosity of Antonio was excited, and he
inquired of the attendants concerning the stranger.
No one could give him any information,
excepting that he had been for some time past a
casual frequenter of the library; that his reading
lay chiefly among works treating of the occult
sciences, and that he was particularly curious
in his inquiries after Arabian manuscripts. They
aided, that he never held communication with

any one, excepting to ask for particular works;
that after a fit of studious application he would
disappear for several days, and even weeks, and
when he revisited the library he would look more
withered and haggard than ever.

The student felt interested by this account;
he was leading rather a desultory life, and had
all that capricious curiosity which springs up in
idleness. He determined to make himself acquainted
with this book-worm, and find out who
and what he was.

The next time that he saw the old man at the
library, he commenced his approaches, by requesting
permission to peruse one of the volumes with
which the unknown appeared to have finished.
The latter merely bowed his head in token of
assent. After pretending to look through the
volume with great attention, he returned it with
many acknowledgments. The stranger made
no reply.

“May I ask, Senor,” said Antonio, with some
hesitation, “may I ask what you are searching
after in all these books?”

The old man raised his head, with an expression
of surprise at having his studies interrupted
for the first time, and by so intrusive a question.
He surveyed the student with a side glance from
head to foot. “Wisdom, my son,” said he calmly;
“and the search requires every moment of
my attention.” He then cast his eyes upon his
book, and resumed his studies. “But, father,”
said Antonio, “cannot you spare a moment to
point out the road to others. It is to experienced
travellers, like you, that we strangers in the paths
of knowledge must look for directions on our
journey.”

The stranger looked disturbed. “I have not
time enough, my son, to learn,” said he; “much
less to teach. I am ignorant myself of the path
of true knowledge; how then can I show it to
others?”

“Well, but, father—”

“Senor,” said the old man mildly, but earnestly,
“you must see that I have but few steps
more to the grave. In that short space have I
to accomplish the whole business of my existence.

I have no time for words; every word is as one
grain of sand of my glass wasted. Suffer me to
be alone.”

There was no replying to so complete a closing
of the door of intimacy. The student found
himself calmly, but totally repulsed. Though
curious and inquisitive, yet he was naturally
modest, and on after thoughts he blushed at his
own intrusion. His mind soon became occupied
by other objects. He passed several days wandering
among the mouldering piles of Moorish
architecture, those melancholy monuments of an
elegant and voluptuous people. He paced the
deserted halls of the Alhambra, the paradise of
the Moorish kings. He visited the great court
of the Lions, famous for the perfidious massacre
of the gallant Abencerrages. He gazed with
admiration at its Mosaic cupolas, gorgeously
painted in gold and azure; its basins of marble;
its alabaster vase, supported by lions and storied
with inscriptions.

His imagination kindled as he wandered
among these scenes. They were calculated to
awaken all the enthusiasm of a youthful mind.

Most of the halls have anciently been beautified
by fountains. The fine taste of the Arabs delighted
in the sparkling purity and reviving
freshness of water, and they erected, as it was,
altars on every side, to that delicate element.
Poetry mingles with architecture in the Alhambra.
It breathes along the very walls. Whereever
Antonio turned his eye, he beheld inscriptions
in Arabic wherein the perpetuity of Moorish
power and splendour within these walls was
confidently predicted. Alas! how had the prophecy
been falsified! many of the basins where
the fountains had once thrown up their sparkling
showers, were dry and dusty. Some of the
palaces were turned into gloomy convents, and
the barefoot monk paced through those courts
which had once glittered with the array, and
echoed to the music of Moorish chivalry.

In the course of his rambles the student more
than once encountered the old man of the library.
He was always alone; and so full of
thought as not to notice any one about him.
He appeared to be intent upon studying those

half buried inscriptions which are found here
and there among the Moorish ruins; and seem
to murmur from the earth the tale of former
greatness. The greater part of these have since
been translated; but they were supposed by
many, at the time, to contain symbolical revelations,
and golden maxims of the Arabian sages
and astrologers.

As Antonio saw the stranger apparently decyphering
these inscriptions, he felt an eager longing
to make his acquaintance, and to participate
in his curious researches; but the repulse he had
met with at the library deterred him from making
any farther advances.

He had directed his steps one evening to the
sacred mount which overlooks the beautiful valley
watered by the Darro; the fertile plain of the
Vega, and all that rich diversity of vale and
mountain that surrounds Granada with an earthly
paradise. It was twilight when he found himself
at the place where, at the present day, are
situated the chapels known by the name of the
Sacred Furnaces. They are so called from

grottoes in which some of the primitive saints
are said to have been burnt. At the time of Antonio's
visit the place was an object of much
curiosity. In an excavation of these grottoes,
several manuscripts had recently been discovered,
engraved on plates of lead; they were written
in the Arabian language, excepting one, which
was in unknown characters. The pope had
issued a bull, forbidding any one, under pain of
excommunication, to speak of these manuscripts.
The prohibition had only excited the greater
curiosity; and many reports were whispered
about, that these manuscripts contained treasures
of dark and forbidden knowledge.

As Antonio was examining the place from
whence these mysterious manuscripts had been
drawn, he again observed the old man of the
library, wandering among the ruins. His curiosity
was now fully awakened; the time and
place served to stimulate it; he resolved to watch
this unknown groper after secret and forgotten
lore, and to trace him to his habitation. There
was something like adventure in the thing, that

charmed his romantic disposition. He followed
the stranger, therefore, at a little distance; at
first cautiously; but he soon observed him to be
so wrapped in his own thoughts as to take little
heed of external objects. They passed along
the skirts of the mountain, and then by the shady
banks of the Darro. They pursued their way
for some distance from Granada, along a lonely
road that led among the hills. The gloom of
evening was gathering, and it was quite dark
when the stranger stopped at the portal of a solitary
mansion.

It appeared to be a mere wing, or ruined fragment
of what had once been a pile of some consequence.
The walls were of great thickness.
The windows narrow, and generally secured by
iron bars. The door was of planks, studded
with iron spikes, and had been of great strength,
though at present it was much decayed. At
one end of the mansion was a ruinous tower, in
the Moorish style of architecture. The edifice
had probably been a country retreat, or castle of
pleasure, during the occupation of Granada by

the Moors; and rendered sufficiently strong to
withstand any casual assault in those warlike
times.

The old man knocked at the portal, a light appeared
at a small window just above it, and a
female head looked out. It might have served
as a model for one of Raphael's saints. The
hair was beautifully braided and gathered in a
silken net; and the complexion, as well as could
be judged from the light, was that soft rich brunette,
so becoming in southern beauty.

“It is I, my child,” said the old man. The
face instantly disappeared, and soon after a
wicket door in the large portal opened. Antonio,
who had ventured near to the building, caught a
transient sight of a delicate female form. A pair
of fine black eyes darted a look of surprise at
seeing a stranger hovering near, and the door
was precipitately closed.

There was something in this sudden gleam of
beauty that wonderfully struck the imagination
of the student. It was like a brilliant flashing
from its dark casket. He sauntered about, regarding

the gloomy pile with increasing interest.
A few simple wild notes from among some rocks
and trees at a little distance, attracted his attention.
He found there a group of Gitanas; a
vagabond gipsy race that at that time abounded
in Spain, and lived in hovels and caves of the
hills, about the neighbourhood of Granada. Some
were busy about a fire, others were listening to
the uncouth music which one of their companions,
seated on a ledge of the rock, was making
with a split reed.

Antonio endeavoured to obtain some information
of them concerning the old building and its
inhabitants.

The one who appeared to be their spokesman
was a gaunt fellow with a subtle gait, a whispering
voice, and a sinister roll of the eye. He
shrugged his shoulders on the student's inquiries,
and said that all was not right in that building.
An old man inhabited it, whom nobody knew,
and whose family appeared to be only his daughter
and a female servant. He and his companions,
he added, lived up among the neighbouring

hills; and as they had been about at night, they
had often seen strange lights and heard strange
sounds from the tower. Some of the country
people, who worked in the vineyards among the
hills, believed the old man to be one that dealt in
the black art; and were not over fond of passing
near the tower at night; “but for our parts,”
said the Gitano, “we are not a people that trouble
ourselves much with fears of that kind.”

The student endeavoured to gain more precise
information, but they had none to furnish
him. They began to be solicitous for a compensation
for what they had already imparted; and,
recollecting the loneliness of the place and the
vagabond character of his companions, he was
glad to give them a gratuity and to hasten homewards.

He sat down to his studies; but his brain was
too full of what he had seen and heard; his eye
was upon the page, but his fancy still returned to
the tower, and he was continually picturing the
little window, with the beautiful head peeping
out, or the door half open, and the nymph-like
form within.

He retired to bed; but the same objects
haunted his dreams. He was young and susceptible;
and the excited state of his feelings, from
wandering among the abodes of departed grace
and gallantry, had predisposed him for a sudden
impression from female beauty.

The next morning he strolled again in the direction
of the tower. It was still more forlorn
by the broad glare of day, than in the gloom of
evening. The walls were crumbling, and weeds
and moss were growing in every crevice. It
had the look of a prison, rather than a dwelling
house. In one angle, however, he remarked a
window which seemed an exception to the surrounding
squalidness. There was a curtain
drawn within it, and flowers standing on the
window stone. Whilst he was looking at it the
curtain was partially withdrawn, and a delicate
white arm of the most beautiful roundness was
put forth to water the flowers.

The student made a noise to attract the attention
of the fair florist. He succeeded. The
curtain was farther drawn, and he had a glance

of the same face he had seen the evening before;
it was but a mere glance; the curtain
again fell, and the casement closed. All this
was calculated to excite the feelings of a romantic
youth. Had he seen the unknown under
other circumstances, it is probable that he would
not have been struck with her beauty; but this
appearance of being shut up and kept apart,
gave her the value of a treasured gem. He passed
and repassed before the house several times
in the course of the day, but saw nothing more.
He was there again in the evening. The whole
aspect of the house was dreary. The narrow
windows emitted no rays of cheerful light to indicate
that there was social life within. Antonio
listened at the portal; but no sound of voices
reached his ear. Just then he heard the clapping
to of a distant door, and fearing to be detected
in the unworthy act of eavesdropping,
he precipitately drew off to the opposite side of
the road and stood in the shadow of a ruined
arch-way.

He now remarked a light from a window in

the tower. It was fitful and changeable; commonly
feeble and yellowish as if from a lamp,
with an occasional glare of some vivid metallic
colour, followed by a dusky glow. A column
of dense smoke would now and then rise in the
air, and hang, like a canopy, over the tower.
There was altogether such a loneliness and
seeming mystery about the building and its inhabitants,
that Antonio was half inclined to indulge
the country people's notions, and to fancy it the
den of some powerful sorcerer, and the fair damsel
he had seen some spell-bound beauty.

After some time had elapsed a light appeared
in the window where he had seen the beautiful
arm. The curtain was down; but it was so
thin that he could perceive the shadow of some
one passing and repassing between it and the
light. He fancied that he could distinguish
that the form was delicate; and from the alacrity
of its movements it was evidently youthful.
He had not a doubt but this was the bed chamber
of his beautiful unknown.

Presently he heard the sound of a guitar, and

a female voice singing. He drew near cautiously,
and listened. It was a plaintive Moorish
ballad, and he recognized in it the lamentations
of one of the Abencerrages on leaving the
walls of lovely Granada. It was full of passion
and tenderness. It spoke of the delights
of early life; the hours of love it had enjoyed
on the banks of the Darro, and among the
blissful abodes of the Alhambra. It bewailed
the fallen honours of the Abencerrages, and imprecated
vengeance on their oppressors. Antonio
was affected by the music. It singularly
coincided with the place. It was like the voice
of past times echoed in the present, and breathing
among the monuments of its departed glories.

The voice ceased; after a time the light disappeared,
and all was still. “She sleeps,” said
Antonio fondly. He lingered about the building
with the devotion with which a lover lingers
about the bower of sleeping beauty. The rising
moon threw its silver beams on the gray
walls, and glittered on the casement. The

late gloomy landscape gradually became flooded
with its radiance. Finding therefore that he
could no longer move about in obscurity, and
fearful that his loiterings might be observed, he
reluctantly retired.

The curiosity which had at first drawn the
young man to the tower, was now seconded by
feelings of a more romantic kind. His studies
were almost entirely abandoned. He maintained
a kind of blockade of the old mansion. He
would take a book with him and pass a great
part of the day under the trees in its vicinity;
keeping a vigilant eye upon it, and endeavouring
to ascertain what were the walks of his mysterious
charmer. He found, however, that she
never went out except to mass; when she was
accompanied by her father. He waited at the
door of the church, and offered her the holy
water, in the hopes of touching her hand; a little
office of gallantry common in catholic countries.
She, however, modestly declined without raising
her eyes to see who made the offer, and always
took it herself from the font. She was attentive

in her devotion; her eyes were never taken from
the altar or the priest, and on returning home,
her countenance was almost entirely concealed
by her mantilla.

Antonio had now carried on the pursuit for
several days, and was hourly getting more and
more interested in the pursuit, but never a step
nearer to the game. His lurkings about the
house had probably been noticed; for he no longer
saw the fair face at the window, nor the white
arm put forth to water the flowers.

His only consolation was to repair nightly to
his post of observation, listen to her warbling,
and if by chance he could catch a sight of her
shadow passing and repassing before the window,
he thought himself most fortunate.

As he was indulging in one of these evening
vigils, which were complete revels of the imagination,
the sound of approaching footsteps made
him withdraw into the deep shadow of the ruined
archway, opposite to the tower. A cavalier
approached, wrapped in a large Spanish cloak.

He paused under the window of the tower,

and after a little while began a serenade, accompanied
by his guitar, in the usual style of Spanish
gallantry. His voice was rich and manly; he
touched the instrument with skill, and sang
with amorous and impassioned eloquence.

The plume of his hat was buckled by jewels
that sparkled in the moon beams; and as he
played on the guitar, his cloak falling off from
one shoulder, showed him to be richly dressed.
It was evident that he was a person of rank.

The idea now flashed across Antonio's mind
that the affections of his unknown beauty might
be engaged. She was young, and doubtless susceptible,
and it was not in the nature of Spanish
females to be deaf and insensible to music and
admiration. The surmise brought with it a
feeling of dreariness. There was a pleasant
dream of several days suddenly dispelled. He
had never before experienced any thing of the
tender passion, and, as its morning dreams are
always delightful, he would fain have continued
in the delusion.

“But what have I to do with her attachments?”

thought he. “I have no claim on her
heart, nor even on her acquaintance. How do
I know that she is worthy of affection? or if
she is, must not so gallant a lover as this, with
his jewels, his rank, and his detestable music,
have completely captivated her? What idle
humour is this that I have fallen into? I must
again to my books. Study, study, will soon
chase away all these idle fancies.”

The more he thought, however, the more he
became entangled in the spell which his lively
imagination had woven round him; and now
that a rival had appeared, in addition to the
other obstacles that environed this enchanted
beauty, she appeared ten times more lovely and
desirable. It was some slight consolation to
him to perceive that the gallantry of the unknown
met with no apparent return from the
tower. The light at the window was extinguished;
the curtain remained undrawn, and
none of the customary signals were given to
intimate that the serenade was accepted.

The cavalier lingered for some time about the

place, and sang several other tender airs, with a
taste and feeling that made Antonio's heart
ache; at length he slowly retired. The student
remained with folded arms leaning against the
ruined arch; endeavouring to summon up resolution
enough to depart, but there was a romantic
fascination that still enchained him to the
place. “It is the last time,” said he, willing to
compromise between his feelings and his judgment,
“it is the last time; then let me enjoy
the dream a few moments longer.”

As his eye ranged about the old building to
take a farewell look, he observed the strange
light in the tower, which he had noticed on a
former occasion. It kept beaming up, and declining
as before. A pillar of smoke rose in the
air, and hung in sable volumes. It was evident
the old man was busied in some of those operations
that had gained him the reputation of a
sorcerer throughout the neighbourhood.

Suddenly an intense and brilliant glare shone
through the casement, followed by a loud report,
and then a fierce and ruddy glow. A figure appeared

at the window uttering cries of agony or
alarm, but immediately disappeared, and a body
of smoke and flame whirled out of the narrow
aperture. Antonio rushed to the portal and
knocked at it with vehemence. He was only
answered by loud shrieks, and found that the
females were already in helpless consternation.
With an exertion of desperate strength he forced
the wicket from its hinges and rushed into the
house.

He found himself in a small vaulted hall, and
by the light of the moon which entered at the
door he saw a stairs to the left. He hurried up
it to a narrow corridor, through which was roling
a volume of smoke. He found here the
two females in a frantic state of alarm; one of
them clasped her hands, and implored him to save
her father.

The corridor terminated in a small spiral staircase
leading up to the tower. He sprang up it,
to a small door through the chinks of which
came a glow of light, and smoke was spuming
out. He burst it open, and found himself in an

antique vaulted chamber, furnished with furnace
and various chemical apparatus. A shattered
retort lay on the stone floor; a quantity of combustibles,
nearly consumed, with various half
burnt books and papers, were sending up an expiring
flame, and filling the chamber with stifling
smoke. Just within the threshold lay the reputed
conjurer. He was bleeding; his clothes
were scorched, and he appeared lifeless. Antonio
caught him up, and bore him down the
stairs to a chamber in which there was a light,
and laid him on a bed.

The female domestic was despatched for such
appliances as the house afforded; but the daughter
threw herself frantically beside her parent,
and could not be reasoned out of her alarm. Her
dress was all in disorder; her dishevelled hair
hung in rich confusion about her neck and bosom;
and never was there beheld a lovelier picture
of terror and affliction.

The skilful assiduities of the scholar soon produced
signs of returning animation in his patient.
The old man's wounds, though severe,

were not dangerous. They had evidently been
produced by the bursting of the retort; in his
bewilderment he had been enveloped in the stifling
metallic vapours, which had overpowered
his feeble frame, and had not Antonio arrived to
his assistance, it is probable he would never have
recovered.

By slow degrees he came to his senses. He
looked about, with a bewildered air, at the chamber—the
agitated group around—and the student
who was leaning over him.

“Where am I?” said he wildly. At the
sound of his voice his daughter uttered a faint
exclamation of delight. “My poor Inez!” said
he, embracing her; then putting his hand to his
head, and taking it away stained with blood, he
seemed suddenly to recollect himself, and to be
overcome with emotion.

“Aye!” cried he, “all is over with me! all
gone! all vanished! gone in a moment! the
labour of a lifetime lost!”

His daughter attempted to soothe him, but he
became slightly delirious, and raved incoherently

about malignant demons, and about the habitation
of the green lion being destroyed. His
wounds being dressed, and such other remedies
administered as his situation required, he sank
into a state of quiet. Antonio now turned his
attention to the daughter, whose sufferings had
been little inferior to those of her father. Having
with great difficulty succeeded in tranquillizing
her fears, he endeavoured to prevail upon
her to retire, and seek the repose so necessary to
her frame; proffering to remain by her father
until morning. “I am a stranger,” said he, “it is
true, and my offer may appear intrusive; but
I see you are lonely and helpless, and I cannot
help venturing over the limits of mere ceremony.
Should you feel any scruple or doubt, however,
say but a word and I will instantly retire.”

There was a frankness, a kindness, and a
modesty mingled in Antonio's deportment that
inspired instant confidence; and his simple scholar's
garb was a recommendation in the house
of poverty. The females consented to resign the
sufferer to his care, as they would be the better
able to attend to him on the morrow.

On retiring, the old domestic was profuse in
her benedictions; the daughter only looked her
thanks; but as they shone through the tears
that filled her fine black eyes, the student
thought them a thousand times the most eloquent.

Here then he was, by a singular turn of
chance, completely housed within this mysterious
mansion. When left to himself, and the bustle
of the scene was over, his heart throbbed as he
looked round the chamber in which he was sitting.
It was the daughter's room; the promised
land towards which he had cast so many a longing
gaze. The furniture was old, and had probably
belonged to the building in its prosperous
days; but every thing was arranged with propriety.
The flowers that he had seen her attend stood
in the window; a guitar leaned against a table,
on which stood a crucifix, and before it lay a
missal and a rosary. There reigned an air of
purity and serenity about this little nestling place
of innocence; it was the emblem of a chaste
and quiet mind. Some few articles of female

dress lay on the chairs; and there was the very
bed on which she had slept; the pillow on which
her soft cheek had reclined! The poor scholar
was treading enchanted ground; for what fairy
land has more of magic in it, than the bed chamber
of innocence and beauty?

From various expressions of the old man in
his ravings, and from what he had noticed on a
subsequent visit to the tower to see that the fire
was extinguished, Antonio had gathered that
his patient was an alchymist. The philosopher's
stone was an object eagerly sought after by visionaries
in those days; but in consequence of
the superstitious prejudices of the times, and the
frequent persecutions of its votaries, they were
apt to pursue their experiments in secret; in
lonely houses, in caverns, and ruins, or in the
privacy of cloistered cells.

In the course of the night the old man had
several fits of restlessness and delirium; he would
call out upon Theophrastus, and Geber, and
Albertus Magnus, and other sages of his art;
and anon would murmur about fermentation

and projection; until towards daylight he once
more sank into a salutary sleep.

When the morning sun darted his rays into
the casement, the fair Inez, attended by the female
domestic, came blushing into the chamber.
The student now took his leave, having himself
need of repose, but obtained ready permission to
return and inquire after the sufferer. When he
called again, he found the alchymist languid
and in pain, but apparently suffering more in
mind than in body. His delirium had left him,
and he had been informed of the particulars of
his deliverance, and of the subsequent attentions
of the scholar. He could do little more than
look his thanks; but Antonio did not require
them; his own heart repaid him for all that he
had done; and he almost rejoiced in the disaster
that had gained him an entrance into this mysterious
habitation.

The alchymist was so helpless as to need
much assistance; Antonio remained with him
therefore the greater part of the day. He repeated
his visit the next day, and the next.

Every day his company seemed more pleasing
to the invalid; and every day he felt his interest
in the latter increasing. Perhaps the presence
of the daughter might have been at the
bottom of this solicitude.

He had frequent and long conversations with
the alchymist. He found him, as men of his
pursuits were apt to be, a mixture of enthusiasm
and simplicity; of curious and extensive
reading on points of little utility; with great
inattention to the every day occurrences of life,
and profound ignorance of the world. He was
deeply versed in singular and obscure branches
of knowledge, and much given to visionary
speculations. Antonio, whose mind was of a
romantic cast, had himself given some attention
to the occult sciences, and entered upon
those themes with an ardour that delighted the
philosopher. Their conversations frequently
turned upon astrology, divination, and the great
secret. The old man would forget his aches
and wounds, rise up like a spectre in his bed,
and kindle into eloquence on his favourite topics.

When gently admonished of his situation,
it would but prompt him to another sally
of thought. “Alas, my son!” he would say,
“is not this very decrepitude and suffering
another proof of the importance of those secrets
with which we are surrounded? Why
are we trammelled by disease; withered by old
age, and our spirits quenched as it were within
us, but because we have lost those secrets of
life and youth which were known to our parents
before their fall? To regain these have philosophers
been ever since aspiring; but just as
they are on the point of securing the precious
secrets for ever, the brief period of life is at an
end; they die, and with them, all their wisdom
and experience. “Nothing,” as De Nuysment
observes, “nothing is wanting for man's perfection
but a longer life, less crost with sorrows
and maladies; to the attaining of the full
and perfect knowledge of things.”

At length Antonio so far gained on the heart
of his patient as to draw from him the outlines
of his story.

Felix de Vasquez, the alchymist, was a native
of Castile, and of an ancient and honourable
line. Early in life he had married a beautiful
female, the descendant of one of the Moorish
families. The marriage displeased his father,
who considered the pure Spanish blood contaminated
by this foreign mixture. It is true,
the lady traced her descent from one of the
Abencerrages, the most gallant of Moorish cavaliers,
who had embraced the Christian faith
on being exiled from the walls of Granada.
The injured pride of the father, however, was
not to be appeased. He never saw his son
afterwards; and on dying left him but a scanty
portion of his estate, bequeathing the residue,
in the piety and bitterness of his heart, to the
erection of convents and the performance of
masses for souls in purgatory. Don Felix resided
for a long time in the neighbourhood of
Valladolid in a state of embarrassment and obscurity.
He devoted himself to intense study;
having, while at the university of Salamanca,
imbibed a taste for the secret sciences. He was

enthusiastic and speculative; he went on from
one branch of knowledge to another until he
became zealous in the search after the grand
arcanum.

He had at first engaged in the pursuit with the
hopes of raising himself from his present obscurity,
and resuming the rank and dignity to which
his birth entitled him; but, as usual, it ended in
absorbing every thought, and becoming the business
of his existence. He was at length aroused
from this mental abstraction by the calamities of
his household. A malignant fever swept off his
wife and all his children, excepting an infant
daughter. These losses for a time overwhelmed
and stupified him. His home had in a manner
died away from around him, and he felt lonely
and forlorn. When his spirit revived within him
he determined to abandon the scene of his humiliation
and disaster; to bear away the child
that was still left him, beyond the scene of contagion;
and never to return to Castile until he
should be enabled to reclaim the honour of his
line.

He had ever since been wandering and unsettled
in his abode; sometimes the resident of populous
cities, at other times of absolute solitudes.
He had searched libraries; meditated on inscriptions;
visited adepts of different countries; and
sought to gather and concentrate the rays which
had been thrown by various minds upon the secrets
of alchymy. He had at one time travelled
quite to Padua to search for the manuscripts of
Pietro D'Abano, and to inspect an urn which
had been dug up near Este; supposed to have
been buried by Maximus Olibius, and to have
contained the great elixir.[1]

While at Padua, he had met with an adept,
versed in Arabian lore, who talked of the invaluable

manuscripts that must remain in the Spanish
libraries preserved from the spoils of the
Moorish academies and universities; of the probability
of meeting with precious unpublished
writings of Geber, and Alfarabius, and Avicenna,
the great physicians of the Arabian schools, who
it was well known had treated much of alchymy;
but above all, he spoke of the Arabian
tablets of lead which had recently been dug up
in the neighbourhood of Granada, and which
contained the lost secrets of the art.

The indefatigable alchymist once more bent
his steps for Spain, full of renovated hope. He
had made his way to Granada; he had wearied
himself in the study of Arabic; in decyphering
inscriptions; in rummaging libraries, and exploring
every possible trace left by the Arabian
sages.

In all his wanderings he had been accompanied
by Inez; through the rough and the smooth; the
pleasant and the adverse; never complaining, but
rather seeking to sooth his cares by her innocent
and playful caresses. Her instruction had been

the employment and the delight of his hours of
relaxation.—She had grown up while they were
wandering, and had scarcely ever known any
home but by his side. He was family, friends,
home, every thing to her. He had carried her
in his arms when they first began their wayfaring;
had nestled her, as an eagle does its young,
among the rocky heights of the Sierra Morena.
She had sported about him in childhood in the
solitudes of the Bateucas; had followed him, as
a lamb does the shepherd, over the rugged Pyrenees,
and into the fair plains of Languedoc; and
now she was grown up to support his feeble steps
among the ruined abodes of her maternal ancestors.

His property had gradually wasted away in
the course of his travels and his experiments.
Still hope, the constant attendant of the alchymist,
led him on; ever on the point of reaping
the reward of his labours, and ever disappointed.

With the credulity that often attended his art,
he attributed many of his disappointments to the
machinations of the malignant spirits that beset

the path of the alchymist, and torment him in his
solitary labours.

It is their constant endeavour, he observed, to
close up every avenue to those sublime truths
which would enable man to rise above the abject
state into which he had fallen, and to return to
his original perfection. To the evil offices of
these demons he attributed his late disaster. He
had been on the very verge of the glorious discovery;
never were the indications more completely
auspicious; all was going on prosperously,
when, at the critical moment which should
have crowned all his labours with success, and
have placed him at the very summit of human
power and felicity, the bursting of a retort had
reduced his laboratory and himself to ruin.

“I must now,” said he, “give up at the very
threshold of success. My books and papers are
burnt; my apparatus is broken. I am too old
to bear up against these evils. The ardour that
once inspired me is gone; my poor frame is exhausted
by study and watchfulness, and this last
misfortune has hurried me towards the grave.”

He concluded in a tone of deep dejection.
Antonio endeavoured to comfort and reassure
him; but the poor alchymist had for once
awakened to a consciousness of the worldly ills
that were gathering around him, and had sunk
into despondency. After a pause, and some
thoughtfulness and perplexity of brow, Antonio
ventured to make a proposal.

“I have long,” said he, “been filled with a
love for the secret sciences, but have felt too ignorant
and diffident to give myself up to them.
You have acquired experience; you have amassed
the knowledge of a lifetime; it were a pity
it should be thrown away. You say you are too
old to renew the toils of the laboratory; suffer
me to undertake them. Add your knowledge
to my youth and activity, and what shall we not
accomplish? As a probationary fee, and a fund
on which to proceed, I will bring into the common
stock a sum of gold, the residue of a legacy,
which has enabled me to complete my education.
A poor scholar cannot boast much, but I
trust we shall soon put ourselves beyond the

reach of want; and if we should fail, why, I
must depend, like other scholars, upon my brains
to carry me through the world.”

The philosopher's spirits were, however,
more depressed than the student had imagined.
This last shock, following in the rear of so
many disappointments, had almost destroyed
the reaction of his mind; the fire of an enthusiast,
however, is never so low but that it may
be blown again into a flame. By degrees the
old man was cheered and reanimated by the
buoyancy and ardour of his sanguine companion.
He at length agreed to accept of the services of
the student, and once more to renew his experiments.
He objected, however, to using the
student's gold, notwithstanding that his own
was nearly exhausted; but this objection was
soon overcome; the student insisted on making
it a common stock and common cause; and
then how absurd was any delicacy about such
a trifle, with men who looked forward to discovering
the philosopher's stone.

While, therefore, the alchymist was slowly

recovering, the student busied himself in getting
the laboratory once more in order. It was
strewed with the wrecks of retorts and alembics;
with old crucibles; boxes and phials of
powders, and tinctures, and half burnt books
and manscripts.

As soon as the old man was sufficiently recovered,
the studies and experiments were renewed.
The student became a privileged and
frequent visiter, and was indefatigable in his
toils in the laboratory. The philosopher daily
derived new zeal and spirits from the animation
of his disciple. He was now enabled to prosecute
the enterprize with continued exertion,
having so active a coadjutor to divide the toil.
While he was poring over the writings of Sandivogius,
and Philalethes and Dominus de Nuysment,
and endeavouring to comprehend the symbolical
language in which they have locked up
their inscrutable mysteries, Antonio would occupy
himself among the retorts and crucibles,
and keep the furnace in a perpetual glow.

With all his zeal, however, for the discovery

of the golden art, the feelings of the student had
not cooled, as to the object that first drew him
to this ruinous mansion. During the old man's
illness, he had frequent opportunities of being
near the daughter; and every day made him
more sensible to her charms. There was a pure
simplicity, and an almost passive gentleness in
her manners, yet with all this was mingled something,
whether mere maiden shyness, or a consciousness
of high descent, or a dash of Castilian
pride, or perhaps all united, which prevented
undue familiarity, and made her difficult of approach.

The danger of her father, and the measures to
be taken for his relief, had at first overcome this
coyness and reserve; but as he recovered, and her
alarm subsided, she seemed to shrink from the
familiarity she had indulged with the youthful
stranger, and to become every day more shy
and silent.

Antonio had read many books, but this was
the first volume of woman kind that he had
ever studied. He had been captivated with the

very title page; but the farther he read the
more he was delighted. She seemed formed to
love; her soft black eye rolled languidly under
its long silken lashes, and wherever it turned, it
would linger and repose; there was tenderness
in every beam. To him alone she was reserved
and distant. Now that the common cares of
the sick room were at an end, he saw little
more of her than before his admission to the
house. Sometimes he met her on his way to
and from the laboratory, and at such times there
was ever a smile and a blush; but after a simple
salutation, she glided on and disappeared.

“'Tis plain,” thought Antonio, “my presence
is indifferent if not irksome to her. She
has noticed my admiration, and is determined to
discourage it; nothing but a feeling of gratitude
prevents her treating me with marked distaste:
and then, has she not another lover; rich,
gallant, splendid, musical; how can I suppose
she would turn her eyes from so brilliant a cavalier,
to a poor obscure student, raking among the
cinders of her father's laboratory?”

Indeed, the idea of the amorous serenader
continually haunted his mind. He felt convinced
that he was a favoured lover; yet, if so,
why did he not frequent the tower? why did
he not make his approaches by noon-day?
There was mystery in this eavesdropping and
musical courtship. Surely Inez could not be
encouraging a secret intrigue. Oh no! she was
too artless, too pure, too ingenuous. But then
the Spanish females were so prone to love and
intrigue; and music and moonlight were so seductive;
and Inez had such a tender soul, languishing
in every look.—“Oh!” would the
poor scholar exclaim, clasping his hands, “if I
could but once behold those lovely eyes beaming
on me with affection!”

It is incredible to those who have not experienced
it, on what scanty aliment human life and
human love may be supported. A dry crust,
thrown now and then to a starving man, will
give him a new lease of existence; and a faint
smile, or a kind look, bestowed at casual intervals,
will keep a lover loving on, when a man in
his sober senses would despair.

When Antonio found himself alone in the laboratory,
his mind would be haunted by one of
these looks, or smiles, which he had received in
passing. He would set it in every possible light,
and argue on it with all the self-pleasing self-teasing
logic of a lover.

The country around him was enough to
awaken that voluptuousness of feeling so favourable
to the growth of passion. The window
of the tower rose above the trees of the romantic
valley of the Darro, and looked down
upon some of the loveliest scenery of the Vega;
where the groves of citrons and orange were refreshed
by cool springs and brooks of the purest
water. The Xenel and the Darro wound their
shining streams along the plain, and gleamed
from among its bowers. The surrounding hills
were covered with vineyards, and the mountains
crowned with snow seemed to melt into the blue
sky. The delicate airs that played about the
tower were perfumed by the fragrance of myrtle
and orange blossoms, and the ear was charmed
with the fond warbling of the nightingale, which,

in these happy regions, sings the whole day
long. Sometimes, too, there was the idle song
of the muleteer, sauntering along the solitary
road; or the notes of the guitar from some
group of peasants dancing in the shade. All
these were enough to fill the head of a young
lover with poetic fancies; and Antonio would
picture to himself how he could live among those
happy groves, and wander by those gentle rivers,
and love away his life with Inez.

He felt at times impatient at his own weakness,
and would endeavour to brush away these
cobwebs of the mind. He would turn his
thoughts with sudden effort, to his occult studies;
or occupy himself in some perplexing process;
but often when he had partially succeeded
in fixing his attention, the sound of Inez' lute,
or the soft notes of her voice would come stealing
upon the stillness of the chamber, and, as it
were, floating round the tower. There was no
great art in her performance; but Antonio thought
he had never heard music comparable to this.
It was perfect witchcraft to hear her warble forth

some of her national melodies; those little Spanish
romances and Moorish ballads that transport
the hearer, in idea, to the banks of the
Guadalquiver or the walls of Alhambra, and
make him dream of beauties, and balconies, and
moonlight serenades.

Never was poor student more sadly beset than
Antonio. Love is a troublesome companion in
a study at the best of times; but in the laboratory
of an alchymist his intrusion is terribly disastrous.
Instead of attending to the retorts and
crucibles, and watching the process of some experiment
entrusted to his charge, the student
would get entranced in one of these love dreams,
from which he would often be aroused by some
fatal catastrophe. The philosopher, on returning
from his researches in the libraries, would
find every thing gone wrong, and Antonio in despair
over the ruins of the whole day's work.
The old man, however, took all quietly; for his
had been a life of experiments and failure.

“We must have patience, my son,” would he
say, “as all the great masters that have gone before

us have had. Errors, and accidents, and
delays, are what we have to contend with. Did
not Pontanus err two hundred times before he
could obtain even the matter on which to found
his experiments? The great Flamel too, did
he not labour four and twenty years, before he
ascertained the first agent? What difficulties
and hardships did not Cartilaceus encounter
at the very threshold of his discoveries? And
Bernard de Treves; even after he had attained
a knowledge of all the requisites, was he not
delayed full three years? What you consider
accidents, my son, are the machinations of our
invisible enemies. The treasures and golden
secrets of nature are surrounded by spirits hostile
to man. The air about us teems with them.
They lurk in the fire of the furnace, in the bottom
of the crucible and the alembic, and are
ever on the alert to take advantage of those
moments when our minds are wandering from
the intense meditation on the great truths that
we are seeking. We must only strive the more
to purify ourselves from those gross and earthly
feelings which becloud the soul, and prevent
her from piercing into nature's arcana.”—
“Alas,” thought Antonio, “if to be purified
from all earthly feeling requires that I should
cease to love Inez, I fear I shall never discover
the philosopher's stone!”

In this way matters went on for some time at
the alchymist's. Day after day was sending the
student's gold in vapour up the chimney; every
blast of the furnace made him a ducat the
poorer, without apparently helping him a jot
nearer the golden secret. Still the young man
stood by, and saw piece after piece disappearing
without a murmur; he had daily an opportunity
of seeing Inez; he felt as if her favour would
be better than silver or gold, and that every smile
was worth a ducat.

Sometimes in the cool of the evening, when
the toils of the laboratory happened to be suspended,
he would walk with the alchymist, in
what had once been a garden, belonging to the
mansion. There were still the remains of terraces
and ballustrades; and here and there a

marble urn or mutilated statue overturned, and
buried among weeds and flowers run wild.

It was the favourite resort of the alchymist in
his hours of relaxation; where he would give full
scope to his visionary flights. His mind was
tinctured with the Rosycrucian doctrines. He
believed in elementary beings; some favourable,
others adverse to his pursuits; and in the exaltation
of his fancy, had often imagined that he
held communion with them in his solitary walks
about the whispering groves and echoing walls
of this old garden. When accompanied by Antonio,
he would prolong these evening recreations.
Indeed, he sometimes did it out of consideration
for his disciple, for he feared his too close application,
and his incessant seclusion in the tower,
would be injurious to his health. He was delighted
and surprised by this extraordinary zeal
and perseverance in so young a tyro, and looked
upon him as destined to be one of the great luminaries
of the art. Lest the student should
repine at the time lost in these relaxations, the
good alchymist would fill them up with wholesome

knowledge in matters connected with their
pursuit, and would walk up and down the alleys
with his disciple, imparting oral instruction, like
an ancient philosopher.

In all his visionary schemes there breathed a
spirit of lofty though chimerical philanthropy
that won the admiration of the scholar
Nothing sordid, nothing sensual, nothing petty
or selfish seemed to enter into his views, in respect
to the grand discoveries he was anticipating.
On the contrary, his imagination kindled
with conceptions of widely dispensated happiness.
He looked forward to the time when he
should be able to go about the earth relieving the
indigent, comforting the distressed, and, by his
unlimited means, devising and executing plans
for the complete extirpation of poverty, and all its
attendant sufferings and crimes. Never were
grander schemes for universal good, for the distribution
of boundless wealth and universal competence
devised, than by this poor indigent alchymist
in his ruined tower.

Antonio would attend these peripatetic lectures

with all the ardour of a devotee; but there
was another circumstance which may have given
a secret charm to them. The garden was the
resort also of Inez, where she took her walks of
recreation; the only exercise that her secluded
life permitted.

As Antonio was duteously pacing by the side
of his instructor, he would often catch a glimpse
of the daughter walking pensively about the alleys,
in the soft twilight. Sometimes they would
meet her unexpectedly; and the heart of the
student would throb with agitation. A blush
too would crimson the cheek of Inez; but still
she passed on, and never joined them.

He had remained one evening until rather a
late hour, with the alchymist in this favourite
resort. It was a delightful night, after a sultry
day; and the balmy air of the garden was peculiarly
reviving. The old man was seated on a
fragment of a pedestal; looking like a part of
the ruin on which he sat. He was edifying his
pupil by reading long lessons of wisdom from
the stars, as they shone out with brilliant lustre

in the dark blue vault of a southern sky; and
by quoting by memory from Behmen and other
of the Rosycrucians, concerning the signature of
earthly things and passing events, which may be
discerned in the heavens; of the power of the
stars over corporeal beings, and their influence
in the fortunes of the sons of men.

By degrees the moon arose, and shed her
gleaming light among the chequered groves.
Antonio apparently listened with fixed attention
to the sage, but his ear was drinking in the melody
of Inez' voice, who was singing to her lute
in one of the moonlight glades of the garden.
The old man having exhausted his theme, sat
gazing in silent reverie at the heavens. Antonio
could not resist an inclination to steal a look at
this coy beauty that was playing the part of the
nightingale, so sequestered and musical. Leaving
the alchymist in his celestial reverie, he stole
gently along one of the alleys. The music had
ceased, and he thought he heard the sound of
voices. He came to an angle of a copse that
had screened a kind of green recess, ornamented

by a marble fountain. The moon shone full
upon the place, and by its light he beheld his unknown
serenading rival at the feet of Inez. He
was detaining her by the hand, which he covered
with kisses; but at the sight of Antonio he started
up, and half drew his sword, while Inez, disengaged,
fled back to the house.

All the jealous doubts and fears of Antonio
were now confirmed. He did not remain to encounter
the resentment of his happy rival, at
being thus interrupted; but turned from the place
with sudden wretchedness of heart. That Inez
should love another would have been misery
enough; but that she should be capable of a
dishonourable amour, shocked him in the extreme.
The idea of deception in so young and
apparently artless a being, brought with it that
sudden distrust in human nature, so sickening to
a youthful and ingenuous mind; but when he
thought of the kind simple parent she was deceiving,
whose affections all centered in her, he
felt for a moment a sentiment of indignation.
and almost of aversion.

He found the alchymist still seated in visionary
contemplation of the moon; “come hither,
my son,” said he, with his usual enthusiasm,
“come read with me this vast volume of wisdom,
thus nightly unfolded before us. Wisely
did the Chaldean sages affirm that the heaven
is as a mystic page, uttering speech to those
who can rightly understand; warning them of
good and evil, and instructing them in the
secret decrees of fate.”

The student's heart ached for his venerable
master, and for a time he felt the futility of all
his occult wisdom. “Alas! poor old man,”
thought he, “little dost thou dream, while busied
in airy speculations among the stars, what a
treason against thy happiness is going on under
thine eye; as it were in thy very bosom.—Oh
Inez! Inez! where shall we look for truth and
innocence; where shall we repose in confidence
in woman, if even you can deceive?”

It was a trite apostrophe, such as every lover
makes when he finds his mistress not quite
such a goddess as he had painted her. With

the student, however, it sprang from honest
anguish of heart. He returned to his lodgings
in pitiable confusion of mind. He now deplored
the infatuation that had led him on until
his feelings were so thoroughly engaged. He
resolved to abandon his pursuits at the tower,
and trust to absence to dispel the fascination by
which he had been spell bound. He no longer
thirsted after the discovery of the grand elixir;
the dream of Alchymy was over; for without
Inez, what was the value of the philosopher's
stone?

He rose after a sleepless night, with the determination
of taking his leave of the alchymist,
and tearing himself from Granada. For
several days did he rise with the same resolution,
and every night saw him come back
to his pillow, to repine at his want of resolution,
and to make fresh determinations for the
morrow. In the meanwhile he saw less of Inez
than ever. She no longer walked in the garden,
but remained almost entirely in her apartment.
When she met him she blushed more

than usual; and once hesitated, as if she would
have spoken; but after a temporary embarrassment,
and still deeper blushes, she made some
casual observation, and retired. Antonio read
in this confusion a consciousness of fault, and
of that fault's being discovered. “What could
she have wished to communicate? Perhaps to
account for the scene in the garden; but how
can she account for it—or why should she account
for it to me? What am I to her?—or,
rather, what is she to me?”—exclaimed he impatiently,
with a new resolution to break through
these entanglements of the heart, and fly from
this enchanted spot for ever.

He was returning that very night to his lodgings,
full of these excellent determinations,
when, in a shadowy part of the road, he
passed a person whom he recognized, by his
height and form, for his rival. He was going
in the direction of the tower. If any lingering
doubts remained, here was an opportunity of
settling them completely. He determined to
follow this unknown cavalier, and, under favour

of the darkness, observe his movements.
If he obtained access to the tower, or in any
way a favourable reception, Antonio felt as if it
would be a relief to his mind, and would enable
him to fix his wavering resolution.

The unknown, as he came near the tower,
was more cautious and stealthy in his approaches.
He was joined under a clump of trees by
another person, and they had much whispering
together. A light was burning in the chamber
of Inez, the curtain was drawn, but the casement
was left open, as the night was warm. After
some time the light was extinguished. A considerable
interval elapsed. The cavalier and his
companion remained under covert of the trees,
as if keeping watch. At length they approached
the tower with silent and cautious steps. The
cavalier received a dark lanthorn from his companion,
and threw off his cloak. The other then
softly brought something from the clump of trees,
which Antonio perceived to be a light ladder.
He placed it against the wall, and the serenader
gently ascended. A sickening sensation came
over Antonio. Here was, indeed, a confirmation

of every fear. He was about to leave the
place, never to return, when he heard a stifled
shriek from Inez' chamber.

In an instant the fellow that stood at the foot
of the ladder lay prostrate on the ground. Antonio
wrested a stiletto from his nerveless hand,
and hurried up the ladder. He sprang in at the
window and found Inez struggling in the grasp
of his fancied rival. The latter, disturbed from
his prey, caught up his lanthorn, turned its light
full upon Antonio, and drawing his sword, made
a furious assault; luckily the student saw the
light gleam along the blade, and parried the
thrust with the stiletto. A fierce but unequal
combat ensued. Antonio fought exposed to the
full glare of the light, while his antagonist was
in shadow. His stiletto too was but a poor defence
against a rapier; he saw that nothing
would save him but closing with his adversary
and getting within his weapon; he rushed furiously
upon him, and gave him a severe blow with
the stiletto; but received a wound in return from
the shortened sword. At the same moment a

blow was inflicted from behind by the confederate,
who had ascended the ladder. It felled
him to the floor; and his antagonists made their
escape.

By this time the cries of Inez had brought
her father and the domestic to the room. Antonio
was found weltering in his blood, and
senseless. He was conveyed to the chamber
of the alchymist, who now repaid, in kind,
the attentions which the student had once bestowed
upon him. Among his varied knowledge
he possessed some skill in surgery, which at
this moment was of more value than even his
chymical lore. He stanched and dressed the
wounds of his disciple; which on examination
proved less desperate than he had at first apprehended.

For a few days, however, his case was anxious,
and attended with danger. The old man
watched over him with the affection of a parent.
He felt a double debt of gratitude towards
him on account of his daughter and himself;
he loved him too as a faithful and zealous

disciple; and he dreaded lest the world should
be deprived of the promising talents of so aspiring
an alchymist.

An excellent constitution soon medicined his
wounds; and there was a balsam in the looks
and words of Inez that had a healing effect on
still severer wounds, which he carried in his
heart. She displayed the strongest interest in
his safety; she called him her deliverer—her
preserver. It seemed as if her grateful disposition
sought in the warmth of its acknowledgments
to repay him for past coldness.

But what most contributed to Antonio's recovery,
was her explanation concerning his supposed
rival. It was some time since he had
first beheld her at church; and he had ever since
persecuted her with his attentions.

He had beset her in her walks until she had
been obliged to confine herself to the house, except
when accompanied by her father. He had
besieged her with letters, serenades, and every
art by which he could urge a vehement but
clandestine and dishonourable suit. The scene

in the garden was as much a surprise to her as
to Antonio. Her persecutor had been attracted
by her voice, and had found his way over a
ruined part of the wall. He had come upon her
unawares; was detaining her by force, and pleading
his insulting passion, when the appearance
of the student interrupted him, and enabled her
to make her escape. She had forborne to mention
to her father the persecution which she
suffered; she wished to spare him unavailing
anxiety and distress, and had determined to confine
herself more rigorously to the house; though
it appeared that even here she had not been
safe from his daring enterprize.

Antonio inquired whether she knew the name
of this impetuous admirer. She replied that he
had made his advances under a fictitious name,
but that she had heard him once called by the
name of Don Ambrosio de Loxa.

Antonio knew him by report for one of the
most determined and dangerous libertines in all
Granada. Artful, accomplished, and if he chose
to be so, insinuating; but daring and headlong

in the pursuit of his pleasures; violent and implacable
in his resentments. He rejoiced to find
that Inez had been proof against his seductions,
and had been inspired with loathing by his splendid
profligacy; but he trembled to think of the
dangers she had run; and he felt solicitude about
the dangers that must yet environ her.

At present, however, it was probable the enemy
had a temporary quietus. The traces of blood
had been found for some distance from the ladder,
until they were lost among thickets; and as
nothing had been heard or seen of him since,
it was concluded that he had been seriously
wounded.

As the student recovered from his wounds, he
was enabled to join Inez and her father in their
domestic intercourse. The chamber in which
they usually met had probably been a saloon of
state in former times. The floor was of marble;
the walls partially covered with the remains
of tapestry; the chairs richly carved, and covered
with tarnished and tattered brocade. Against
the wall hung a long rusty rapier, the only relique

that the old man retained of the chivalry of
his ancestors. There might have been something
to provoke a smile in the contrast between the
mansion and its inhabitants; between present
poverty and the traces of departed grandeur;
but the fancy of the student had thrown so
much romance about the edifice and its inmates,
that every thing was clothed with charms. The
philosopher, with his broken down pride, and his
strange pursuits, seemed to comport with the
melancholy ruin he inhabited; and there was a
native elegance of spirit about the daughter, that
showed she would have graced the mansion in
its happier days.

What delicious moments were these to the
student. Inez was no longer coy and reserved.
She was naturally artless and confiding: though
the kind of persecution she had experienced,
from one admirer, had rendered her for a time
suspicious and circumspect. She now felt an
entire confidence in the sincerity and worth of
Antonio, mingled with an overflowing gratitude.
When her eyes met his they beamed with sym

pathy and kindness; and Antonio, no longer
haunted by the idea of a favoured rival, once
more aspired to success.

At these domestic meetings, however, he had
little opportunity of paying his court except by
looks: The alchymist, supposing him, like himself,
absorbed in the study of alchymy, endeavoured
to cheer the tediousness of his recovery
by long conversations on the art. He even
brought several of his half burnt volumes, that
the student had once rescued from the flames,
and entertained him by the hour by reading copious
chapters. The old man delighted in the
mystic phrases and symbolical jargon in which
the writers that have treated of alchymy have
wrapped their communications, rendering them
unintelligible except to the initiated. With
what rapture would he elevate his voice at a
triumphant passage announcing the grand discovery.
“Thou shalt see,” would he exclaim in
the words of Henry Kuhnrade,[2] “the stone of the
philosophers (our king) go forth of the bed-chamber

of his glassy sepulchre into the theatre of this
world; that is to say, regenerated and made perfect,
a shining carbuncle, a most temperate splendour,
whose most subtle and depurated parts
are inseparable, united into one with a concordial
mixture, exceeding equal, transparent as
chrystal, shining red like a ruby, permanently
colouring or ringing, fixt in all temptations or
tryals; yea, in the examination of the burning
sulphur itself, and the devouring waters, and in
the most vehement persecution of the fire always
incombustible and permanent, as a salamander!”

The student had a high veneration for the
fathers of alchymy, and a profound respect for
his instructor; but what was Henry Kuhnrade,
Geber, Lully, or even Albertus Magnus himself,
compared to the countenance of Inez,
which presented such a page of beauty to his
perusal? While, therefore, the good alchymist
was doling out knowledge by the hour, his disciple
would forget books, alchymy, every thing
but the lovely object before him.

Inez, too, unpractised in the science of the
heart, was gradually becoming fascinated by
the silent attentions of her lover. Day by day
she seemed more and more perplexed by the
kindling and strangely pleasing emotions of her
bosom. Her eye was often cast down in
thought. Blushes stole to her cheek without
any apparent cause; and light, half suppressed
sighs would follow these short fits of musing.
Her little ballads, though the same that she had
always sung, yet breathed a more tender spirit.
Either the tones of her voice were most soft and
touching; or some passages were delivered with
a feeling which she had never before given them.
Antonio, beside his love for the abstruse sciences,
had a pretty turn for music; and never did philosopher
touch the guitar more tastefully. As
by degrees he conquered the mutual embarrassment
that kept them asunder, he ventured to
accompany her in some of her songs. He had
a voice full of fire and tenderness; as he sang
one would have thought, from the kindling
blushes of his companion, that he had been

pleading his own passion in her ear. Let those
who would keep two youthful hearts asunder
beware of music—Oh! this leaning over chairs,
and conning the same music book, and entwining
of voices, and melting away in harmonies;
the German waltz is nothing to it. The worthy
alchymist saw nothing of all this. His mind
could admit of no idea that was not connected
with the discovery of the grand Arcanum; and
he supposed his youthful coadjutor equally devoted.
He was a mere child as to human nature;
and, as to the passion of love, whatever
he might once have felt of it, he had long since
forgotten that there was such an idle passion
in existence. But while he dreamed, the silent
amour went on. The very quiet and seclusion
of the place was favourable to the growth of
romatic passion. The opening bud of love
was able to put forth leaf by leaf, without an
adverse wind to check its growth. There was
neither officious friendship to chill by its advice,
nor insidious envy to wither by its sneers, nor
an observing world to look on and stare it out
of countenance. There was neither declaration,
nor vow, nor any other form of Cupid's canting
school. Their hearts mingled together, and understood
each other without the aid of language.
They lapsed into the full current of affection,
unconscious of its depth, and thoughtless of the
rocks that might lurk beneath its surface. Happy
lovers! who wanted nothing to make their
felicity complete, but the discovery of the philosopher's
stone!

At length Antonio's health was sufficiently restored
to enable him to return to his lodgings in
Granada. He felt uneasy, however, at leaving
the tower, while lurking danger might surround
its almost defenceless inmates. He dreaded lest
Don Ambrosio, recovered from his wounds,
might plot some new attempt, by secret art or
open violence. From all that he had heard, he
knew him to be too implacable to suffer his defeat
to pass unrevenged, and too rash and fearless,
when his arts were unavailing, to stop at
any daring deed in the accomplishment of his
purposes. He urged his apprehensions to the

alchymist and his daughter, and proposed that
they should abandon the dangerous vicinity of
Granada.

“I have relations,” said he, “in Valentia,
poor indeed, but worthy and affectionate. Among
them you will find friendship and quiet; and we
may there pursue our labours unmolested.” He
went on to paint the beauties and delights of Valentia
with all the eloquence with which a lover
paints the fields and groves which he is picturing
as the future scenes of his happiness. His eloquence,
backed by the apprehensions of Inez,
was successful with the alchymist; who, indeed,
had led too unsettled a life to be particular about
the place of his residence, and it was determined,
that as soon as Antonio's health was perfectly
restored, they should abandon the tower and
seek the neighbourhood of Valentia.

To recruit his strength the student suspended
his toils in the laboratory, and spent the few remaining
days before departure, in taking a farewell
look at the enchanting environs of Granada.
He felt returning health and vigour as he inhaled

the pure temperate breezes that play
about its hills; and the happy state of his mind
contributed to his rapid recovery. Inez was often
the companion of his walks. Her descent by the
mother's side, from one of the ancient Moorish
families, gave her an interest in this once favourite
seat of Arabian power. She gazed
with enthusiasm upon its magnificent monuments,
and her memory was filled with the traditional
tales and ballads of Moorish chivalry.
Indeed, the solitary life she had led, and the
visionary turn of her father's mind had produced
an effect upon her character, and given it a tinge
of what in modern days would be called romance.
All this was called into full force by
this new passion; for when a woman first begins
to love, life is all romance to her.

In one of their evening strolls they had ascended
to the mountain of the sun, where is
situated the Generaliffe, the palace of pleasure
in the days of Moorish dominion, but now,
a gloomy convent of Capuchins. They had
wandered about its garden, among groves of

orange, citron, and cypresses; where the waters,
leaping in torrents, or gushing in fountains,
or tossed aloft in sparkling jets, fill the
air with music and freshness. Still there is a
melancholy mingled with all the beauties of this
garden, that gradually stole over the feelings
of the lovers. The place is full of the sad
story of past times. It was the favourite abode
of the lovely Queen of Granada, where she
was surrounded by the delights of a gay and
voluptuous court. It was here, too, amidst her
own bowers of roses, that her slanderers laid
the base story of her dishonour, and struck a
fatal blow to the line of the gallant Abencerrages.

The whole garden has a look of ruin and neglect.
Many of the fountains are dry and
broken; the streams have wandered from their
marble channels, and are choked by weeds and
yellow leaves; the reed whistles to the wind
where it had once sported among roses and
shaken perfume from the orange blossom; the
convent bell flings its sullen sound; or the drow-She

sy vesper hymn floats along these solitudes,
which once resounded with the song and the
dance and the lover's serenade. Well may
the Moors lament over the loss of this earthly
paradise ; well may they remember it in their
prayers, and beseech heaven to restore it to the
faithful ; well may their ambassadors smite their
breasts when they wander among these monuments
of their race, and sit down and weep
among the fading glories of Granada!

It is impossible to wander among these scenes
of departed love and gayety and not feel the
tenderness of the heart awakened. It was then
that Antonio first ventured to breathe his passion,
and to express by words what his eyes had
long since so eloquently revealed. He made
his avowal with fervour, but with frankness.
He had no gay prospects to hold out; he was a
poor scholar, dependent on his "good spirits to
feed and clothe him." But a woman in love is
no interested calculator. Inez listened to him
with downcast eyes, but in them was a humid
gleam, that showed her heart was with him.

had no prudery in her nature; and she had
not been sufficiently in society to acquire it.
She loved him with all the absence of worldliness
of a genuine woman; and amidst timid
smiles and blushes he drew from her a modest
acknowledgment of her affection. They wandered
about the garden with sweet intoxication
of the soul, which none but happy lovers know.
The world about them was all fairy land, and
indeed it spread forth one of its fairest scenes
before their eyes, as if to fulfil their dream of
earthly happiness. They looked out from between
groves of orange upon the towers of Granada
below them; the magnificent plain of the
Vega beyond, streaked with evening sunshine,
and the distant hills tinted with rosy and purple
hues; it seemed an emblem of the happy future
that love and hope was decking out for them.

As if to make the scene complete, a group of
Andalusians struck up a dance in one of the
vistas of the garden, to the notes of the guitars
of two wandering musicians. The Spanish
music is wild and plaintive, yet the people dance

to it with enthusiasm. The picturesque figures
of the dancers; the girls with their hair in silken
nets, that hung in knots and tassels down their
backs; their mantillas floating round their airy
figures; their slender feet and ankles peeping
from under their basquines; their arms thrown
up in the air to play the castanets; had a beautiful
effect on this airy height, with the rich
evening landscape spreading out below them.

In a little while the dance ceased; two of the
parties approached Antonio and Inez, and began
a soft and tender Moorish ballad, accompanied
by the lute. It alluded to the story of the garden;
the wrongs of the fair Queen of Granada,
and the misfortunes of the Abencerrages. It
was one of those old ballads that abound in
Andalusia, and seem to live like echoes about
the ruins of Moorish greatness. The tears rose
into the eyes of Inez as she listened to the tale;
her heart was open to every tender impression.

The singer approached her, and suddenly
varying her manner, sang of impending danger
and treachery; the manner, the look, the gesticulation

of the singer was such as to make it
pointed and startling. She was about to ask
the meaning of this evidently personal application
of the song, when she was interrupted by
Antonio, who gently drew her from the place.
While she had been lost in attention to the music,
he had remarked a group of men in the
shadow of the trees, whispering together. They
were enveloped in the broad hats and great
cloaks so much worn by the Spanish, and while
they were regarding himself and Inez attentively,
seemed anxious to avoid observation.
Not knowing what might be their character or
intention, he hastened to quit a place where the
gathering shadows of evening might expose
them to intrusion and insult. On their way
down the hill, as they passed through the woods
of elms, mingled with poplars and oleanders,
that skirt the road leading from the Alhambra,
he again saw these men, apparently following
at a distance; and he afterwards caught sight of
them among the trees on the banks of the Darro.
He said nothing on the subject to Inez nor
her father; for he would not awaken unnecessary
alarm; but he felt at a loss how to ascertain
or to avert any machinations that might
be devising againt the helpless inhabitants of the
tower.

He took his leave of them at night, full of this
perplexity. As he left the dreary old pile, he
saw some one lurking in the shadow of the wall,
apparently watching his movements. He hastened
after the figure, but it glided away, and
disappeared among some ruins. Shortly after he
heard a low whistle, which was answered from a
little distance. He had no longer a doubt but
that some mischief was on foot, and turned to
hasten back to the tower and put its inmates on
their guard. He had scarcely turned, however,
before he found himself suddenly seized from
behind by some one of Herculean strength. His
struggles were in vain; he was surrounded by
armed men. One threw a mantle over him, that
stifled his cries and enveloped him in its folds,
and he was hurried off with irresistible rapidity.

The next day passed without the appearance

of Antonio at the alchymist's. Another, and
another day succeeded, and yet he did not come,
nor had any thing been heard of him at his lodgings.
His absence caused, at first, surprise and
conjecture, and at length alarm. Inez recollected
the singular intimations of the ballad
singer upon the mountain, which seemed to warn
her of impending danger, and her mind was full
of vague forebodings. She sat listening to every
sound at the gate, or tread on the stairs. She
would take up her guitar and strike a few notes,
but it would not do, her heart was sickening with
suspense and anxiety. She had never before
felt what it was to be really lonely. She now
was conscious of the force of that attachment
which had taken possession of her breast; for
never do we know how much we love; never do
we know how necessary the object of our love
is to our happiness, until we experience the
weary void of separation.

The philosopher, too, felt the absence of his
disciple, almost as sensibly as did his daughter.
The animating buoyancy of the youth had inspired

him with new ardour; and had given to
his labours the charm of full companionship.
However, he had resources and consolations of
which his daughter was destitute. His pursuits
were of a nature to occupy every thought, and
keep the spirits in a state of continual excitement.
Certain indications, too, had lately manifested
themselves, of the most favourable nature.
Forty days and forty nights had the process gone
on successfully; the old man's hopes were constantly
rising, and he now considered the glorious
moment once more at hand, when he should
obtain not merely the Major Lunaria, but likewise
the Tinctura Solaris, the means of multiplying
gold, and of prolonging existence. He
remained, therefore, continually shut up in his
laboratory, watching his furnace; for a moment's
inadvertency might once more defeat all his expectations.

He was sitting one evening at one of his solitary
vigils, wrapped up in meditation; the hour
was late, and his neighbour, the owl, was hooting
from the battlements of the tower, when he

heard the door open behind him. Supposing
it to be his daughter coming to take her leave of
him for the night, as was her frequent practice,
he called her by name, but a harsh voice met his
ear in reply; he was grasped by the arms, and
looking up, perceived three strange men in the
chamber. He attemped to shake them off, but
in vain. He called for help, but they scoffed
at his cries.

“Peace, dotard!” cried one, “think'st thou
the servants of the most holy inquisition are to
be daunted by thy clamours! comrades, away
with him!”

Without heeding his remonstrances and entreaties,
they seized upon his books and papers,
took some note of the apartment and the utensils,
and then bore him off a prisoner.

Inez, left to herself, had passed a sad and
lonely evening; by a casement which looked into
a garden, she had pensively watched star after
star sparkle out of the blue depths of the sky,
and was indulging a crowd of anxious thoughts
about her lover, until the rising tears began to

flow. She was suddenly alarmed by the sound
of voices that seemed to come from a distant
part of the mansion. There was, not long after,
a noise of several persons descending the stairs;
surprised at these unusual sounds in their lonely
habitation, she remained for a few moments in a
state of trembling, yet indistinct apprehension;
when the servant rushed into the room with terror
in her countenance, and informed her that
her father was carried off by armed men. Inez
did not stop to hear farther, but flew down stairs
to overtake them. She had scarcely passed the
threshold when she found herself in the grasp of
strangers.

“Away! away!” cried she wildly; “do not
stop me; let me follow my father.”

“We are come to conduct you to him, Senora,”
said one of the men, respectfully.

“Where is he then?”

“He is gone to Granada,” replied the man,
“an unexpected circumstance requires his presence
there immediately; but he is among
friends.”

“We have no friends in Granada,” said Inez,
drawing back; but then the idea of Antonio
rushed to her mind; something relating to him
might have called her father thither. “Is Senor
Antonio de Castros with him?” demanded she
with agitation.

“I know not, Senora,” replied the man, “it is
very possible. I only know that he is among
friends, and is anxious for you to follow him.”
“Let us go then,” cried she eagerly; the men
led her a little distance to where a mule was
waiting; and assisting her to mount, they conducted
her slowly towards the city.

Granada was on that evening a scene of fanciful
revel. It was one of the festivals of the
Maestranza—an association of the nobility to
keep up some of the gallant customs of ancient
chivalry. There had been a representation of
a tournament in one of the squares; the streets
would still occasionally resound with the beat
of a solitary drum, or the bray of a trumpet,
from some straggling party of revellers. Sometimes
they were met by cavaliers richly dressed
in ancient costumes, attended by their squires,

and at one time they passed in sight of a
palace brilliantly illuminated, from whence
came the mingled sounds of music and the
dance. Shortly after they came to the square,
where the mock tournament had been held. It
was thronged by the populace, recreating themselves
among booths and stalls where refreshments
were sold; and the glare of torches
showed the temporary galleries, and gay coloured
awnings and armorial trophies, and other
paraphernalia of the show. The conductors of
Inez endeavoured to keep out of observation, and
to traverse a gloomy part of the square; but they
were detained at one place by the pressure of a
crowd surrounding a party of wandering musicians,
singing one of those ballads of which the
Spanish populace are so passionately fond. The
torches which were held by some of the crowd
threw a strong mass of light upon Inez, and the
sight of so beautiful a being, without mantilla
or veil, looking so bewildered, and conducted
by men who seemed to take no gratification in
the surrounding gayety, occasioned expressions
of curiosity. One of the ballad singers approached,
and striking her guitar with peculiar
earnestness, began to sing a doleful air, full of
sinister forebodings. Inez started with surprise.
It was the same ballad singer that had addressed
her in the gardens of Generaliffe. She was
young and beautiful, with an air of wildness and
melancholy.

It was the same air that she had then sung.
It spoke of impending dangers. They seemed
indeed to be thickening around her. She was
anxious to speak with this girl, and to ascertain
whether indeed she had a knowledge of any definite
evil that was threatening her; but as she
attempted to address her, the mule on which she
rode was suddenly seized and led forcibly through
the throng by one of her conductors, while she
saw another addressing menacing words to the
ballad singer. The latter raised her hand with
a warning gesture as Inez lost sight of her.

While Inez was yet lost in perplexity, caused
by this singular occurrence, they stopped at the
gate of a large mansion. One of her attendants

knocked, the door was opened, and they entered
a paved court. “Where are we?” demanded
Inez with anxiety.” “At the house of a friend,
Senora,” replied the man. “Ascend this staircase
with me, and in a moment you will meet
your father.” They ascended the staircase that
led to a suite of splendid apartments. They
passed through several until they came to an
inner chamber. The door opened; some one
approached; but what was her terror at perceiving,
not her father, but Don Ambrosio. The
men who had seized upon the alchymist had at
least been more honest in their professions. They
were, indeed, familiars of the inquisition. He
was conducted in silence to the gloomy prison of
that terrible tribunal. It was a mansion whose
every aspect withered joy, and almost shut out
hope. It was one of those hideous abodes which
the bad passions of men conjure up in this fair
world to rival the fancied dens of demons and
the accursed.

Day after day went heavily by without any
thing to mark the lapse of time but the decline

and reappearance of the light that feebly glimmered
through the narrow window of the dungeon
in which the unfortunate alchymist was
buried, rather than confined. His mind was harassed
with uncertainties and fears about his
daughter, so helpless and inexperienced. He
endeavoured to gather tidings of her from the
man who brought his daily portion of food. The
fellow stared, as if astonished at being asked a
question in that mansion of silence and mystery;
but departed without saying a word. Every
succeeding attempt was equally fruitless.

The poor alchymist was oppressed by many
griefs, and it was not the least that he had been
again interrupted in his labours on the very point
of success. Never was alchymist so near attaining
the golden secret; a little longer, and all his
hopes would have been realized. The thoughts
of these disappointments afflicted him more even
than the fear of all that he might suffer from the
merciless inquisition. His waking thoughts
would follow him into his dreams. He would be
transported in fancy to his laboratory, busied

again among retorts and alembics, and surrounded
by Lully, by D'Abano, by Olibius, and the other
masters of the sublime art. The moment of
projection would arrive; a seraphic form would
arise out of the furnace, holding forth a vessel
containing the precious elixir; but before he
could grasp the prize, he would awake, and find
himself in a dungeon.

All the devices of inquisitorial ingenuity were
employed to ensnare the old man, and to draw
from him evidence that might be brought against
himself, and might corroborate certain secret information
that had been given against him. He
had been accused of practising necromancy, and
judicial astrology, and a cloud of evidence had
been secretly brought forward to substantiate
the charge. It would be tedious to enumerate
all the circumstances, apparently corroborative,
which had been industriously cited by the secret
accuser. The silence which prevailed about the
tower; its desolateness; the very quiet of its inhabitants
had been adduced as proofs that something
sinister was perpetrated within.

The alchymist's conversations and soliloquies
in the garden had been overheard and misrepresented.
The lights and strange appearances at
night in the tower were given with violent exaggerations.
Shrieks and yells were said to have
been heard from thence at midnight, when, it
was confidently asserted, the old man raised
familiar spirits by his incantations; and even
compelled the dead to rise from their graves and
answer to his questionings.

The alchymist, according to the custom of the
inquisition, was kept in complete ignorance of
his accuser; of the witnesses produced against
him; even of the crimes of which he was accused.
He was examined generally; whether he knew
why he was arrested; and was conscious of any
guilt that might deserve the notice of the holy
office? He was examimed as to his country;
his life; his habits; his pursuits; his actions and
opinions.

The old man was frank and simple in his replies;
he was conscious of no guilt; capable of no
art, practised in no dissimulation. After receiving

a general admonition to bethink himself whether
he had not committed any act deserving of punishment,
and to prepare by confession to secure the
well-known mercy of the tribunal, he was remanded
to his cell.

He was now visited in his dungeon by crafty
familiars of the inquisition, who under pretence
of sympathy and kindness came to beguile the
tediousness of his imprisonment with friendly
conversation. They casually introduced the
subject of alchymy, on which they touched with
great caution and pretended indifference. There
was no need of such craftiness. The honest enthusiast
had no suspicion in his nature; the moment
they touched upon his favourite theme, he
forgot his misfortunes and imprisonment, and
broke forth into rhapsodies about the divine
science.

The conversation was artfully turned to the
discussion of elementary beings. The alchymist
readily avowed his belief in them, and
that there had been instances of their attending
upon philosophers, and administering to their

wishes. He related many miracles said to
have been performed by Apollonius Thianeus
through the aid of spirits or demons; insomuch
that he was set up by the heathens in opposition
to the Messiah; and was even regarded with
reverence by many Christians. The familiars
eagerly demanded whether he believed Apollonius
to be a true and worthy philosopher. The
unaffected piety of the alchymist protected him
even in the midst of his simplicity, for he condemned
Apollonius as a sorcerer and an impostor.
No art could ever draw from him an admission
that he had ever employed or invoked
spiritual agencies in the prosecution of his pursuits;
though he believed himself to have been
frequently impeded by them.

The inquisitors were baffled and disappointed
in not being able to inveigle him into a confession
of a criminal nature; they attributed it to
craft; to obstinacy; to every cause but the right
one, namely, that the harmless visionary had
nothing guilty to confess.

They had abundant proof of a secret nature

against him; but it was the practice of the inquisition
to endeavour to procure confession
from the prisoners.

An auto-da-fé was at hand; the worthy fathers
were eager for his conviction, for they were always
anxious to have a good number of culprits
condemned to the stake, to grace their
solemn triumphs. He was at length brought
to a final examination.

The chamber of trial was spacious and
gloomy. At one end was a huge crucifix, the
standard of the inquisition. A long table extended
through the centre of the room, at which
sat the inquisitors and their secretary; at the
other end a stool was placed for the prisoner.
He was brought in, according to custom, bare
headed and bare legged. He was enfeebled by
confinement and affliction, by constantly brooding
over the unknown fate of his child, and the
disastrous interruption of his experiments. He
sat bowed down and listless; his head sunk
upon his breast: his whole appearance that of
one “past hope, abandoned, and by himself
given over.”

The accusation alleged against him was now
brought forward in a specific form; he was
called upon by name, Felix de Vasquez, formerly
of Castile, to answer to the charges of
necromancy and demonology; he was told that
the charges were amply substantiated, and
was asked whether he was ready, by ample confession,
to throw himself upon the well-known
mercy of the holy inquisition.

The philosopher testified some slight surprise
at the accusation, but simply replied, “I am
innocent.”

What proof have you to give of your innocence?”
“It rather remains for you to prove
your charges,” cried the old man; “I am a
stranger and a sojourner in the land, and know
no one out of the doors of my dwelling. I can
give nothing in my vindication but the word of
a nobleman and a Castilian.”

The inquisitor shook his head, and went on
to repeat the various inquiries that had before
been made as to his mode of life and pursuit.
The poor alchymist was too feeble and weary
at heart to make any but brief replies. He requested

that some man of science might examine
his laboratory and all his books and papers;
by which it would be made abundantly evident
that he was merely engaged in the study of alchymy.

To this the inquisitor observed that alchymy
had become a mere covert for secret and deadly
sins. That the practisers of it were known to
scruple at no means to satisfy their inordinate
greediness of gold. Some had been known to
use spells and impious ceremonies; to conjure
the aid of evil spirits; nay even to sell their souls
to the enemy of mankind, so that they might
riot in boundless wealth while living.

The poor alchymist had heard all patiently, or
at least passively. He had disdained to vindicate
his name otherwise than by his word; he
had smiled at the accusations of sorcery, when
applied merely to himself; but, when the sublime
art which had been the study and passion of his
life was assailed, he could no longer listen in
silence. His head gradually rose from his bosom.
A hectic colour came in faint streaks to his

cheeks; played about there; disappeared; returned;
and at length kindled into a burning glow.
The clammy dampness dried from his forehead;
his eyes, which had been nearly extinguished,
lighted up again, and burned with their wonted
and visionary fires.

He entered into a vindication of his favourite
art. His voice at first was feeble and broken,
but it gathered strength as he proceeded until
it rolled in a deep and sonorous volume. He
gradually rose from his seat as he rose with his
subject; he threw back the scanty black mantle
which had hitherto wrapped his limbs; the very
uncouthness of his form and looks gave an impressive
effect to what he uttered; it was as
though a corpse had become suddenly animated.
He repelled with scorn the aspersions cast upon
alchymy by the ignorant and vulgar. He assumed
it to be the mother of all art and science, citing
the opinions of Paracelsus, Sandivogius,
Raymond Lully, and others, in support of his
assertions. He maintained that it was pure, and
innocent, and honourable, both in its purposes

and means. What were its objects? The perpetuation
of life and youth, and the production of
gold. “The Elixir Vitæ,” said he “is no
charmed potion, but merely a concentration of
those elements of vitality which nature has scattered
through her works. The philosopher's
stone, or tincture, or powder, as it is variously
called, is no necromantic talisman, but consists
simply of those particles which gold contains
within itself, for its reproduction; for gold, like
other things, has its seed within itself, though
bound up with inconceivable firmness, from the
vigour of innate fixed salts and sulphurs.

“In seeking to discover the elixir of life, then,”
continued he, “we seek only to apply some of
nature's own specifics against the disease and
decay to which our bodies are subjected; and
what else does the physician, when he tasks his
art and uses subtle compounds and cunning distillations
to revive our languishing powers, and
avert the stroke of death for a season?

“In seeking to multiply the precious metals,
also, we seek but to germinate and multiply, by

natural means, a particular species of nature's
productions; and what else does the husbandman,
who consults times and seasons, and, by
what might be deemed a natural magic, from the
mere scattering of his hand, covers a whole
plain with golden vegetation? The mysteries of
our art, it is true, are deeply and darkly hidden;
but it requires so much the more innocence and
purity of thought to penetrate unto them. No,
father, the true alchymist must be pure in mind
and body; he must be temperate, patient, chaste,
watchful, meek, humble, devout. `My son,'
says Hermes Trismegestes, the great master of
our art, `My son, I recommend you above all
things to fear God.' And, indeed, it is only by
devout castigation of the senses, and purification
of the soul, that he is enabled to enter into the
sacred chambers of truth. `Labour, pray, and
read,' is the motto of our science. As De
Nuysment well observes, `these high and singular
favours are granted unto none save only
unto the sons of God, (that is to say, the virtuous
and devout,) who, under his paternal benediction,
have obtained the opening of the same,
by the helping hand of the queen of arts, profound
philosophy.' Indeed, so sacred has the
nature of this knowledge been considered, that
we are told it has four times been expressly communicated
by God to man; having made a part
of that cabalistical wisdom, which was revealed
to Adam to console him for the loss of paradise,
and to Moses in the bush, and to Solomon in a
dream, and to Esdras by the angel.

“So far from demons and malignant spirits
being the friends and abettors of the alchymist,
they are the continual foes with which he has to
contend. It is their constant endeavour to shut
up the avenues to those truths, which would
enable him to rise above the abject state into
which he has fallen, and to return to that excellence
which was his original birth-right. For
what would be the effect of this length of days,
and this abundant wealth, but to enable the possessor
to go on from art to art, from science to
science, with energies unimpaired by sickness,
uninterrupted by death. For this have philosophers

shut themselves up in cells and solitudes;
buried themselves in caves and dens of the earth;
turning from the joys of life and the pleasance of
the world; enduring scorn, poverty, persecution.
For this was Raymond Lully stoned to death
in Mauritania; for this did the immortal Pietro
D'Abano suffer persecution at Padua; and when
he escaped from his oppressors by death, was
pitifully burnt in effigy. For this have illustrious
men of all nations intrepidly suffered martyrdom.
For this, if unmolested, have they assiduously
employed the latest hour of their life,
the last throb of existence. Hoping, that even
with the last gasp of expiring life, they might
seize upon the prize for which they struggled,
and pluck themselves back even from the
jaws of the grave. For, when once the alchymist
shall have attained the object of his toils;
when the sublime secret shall be revealed to his
gaze, what a glorious reverse will there be in
his condition. How will he emerge from his
solitary retreat, like the sun breaking forth from
the darksome chamber of the night, and darting
his beams throughout the earth. Gifted with
perpetual youth and boundless riches, to what
heights of wisdom may he attain. How may
he carry on, uninterrupted, the thread of knowledge
which has hitherto been snapped at the
death of each philosopher. And as the increase
of wisdom is the increase of virtue, how will
he become the benefactor of his fellow men;
dispensing with liberal, but cautious and discriminating
hand, that inexhaustible wealth which
is at his disposal. Banishing poverty, which is
the cause of so much sorrow and wickedness;
encouraging the arts; promoting discoveries,
and enlarging the means of enjoyment. His
life will be the connecting band of generations.
History will live in his recollection; distant ages
will speak with his tongue. The nations of the
earth will look to him as their preceptor, and
kings will sit at his feet and learn wisdom. Oh
glorious! Oh celestial alchymy!”

Here he was interrupted by the inquisitor,
who had suffered him to go on thus far, in hopes of
gathering something from his unguarded enthusiasm.

“Senor,” said he, “this is all rambling,
visionary talk. You are charged with sorcery,
and in defence you give us a rhapsody about alchymy.
Have you nothing better than this to
offer in your defence?”

The old man slowly resumed his seat, but did
not deign a reply. The fire that had beamed
in his eye gradually expired. His cheek resumed
its wonted paleness; but he did not relapse
into inanity. He sat with a serene, steady, patient
look, like one prepared not to contend, but
to suffer.

His trial continued for a long time, with cruel
mockery of justice, for no witnesses were ever in
this court confronted with the accused, and the
latter had continually to defend himself in the
dark. Some unknown and powerful enemy
had alleged charges against the unfortunate alchymist,
but who he could not imagine. Stranger
and sojourner as he was in the land, solitary
and harmless in his pursuits, how could he have
provoked such hostility! The tide of secret testimony,
however, was too strong against him; he

was convicted of the crime of magic, and condemned
to expiate his sins at the stake, at the
approaching auto-da fé.

While the alchymist was undergoing his trial
at the inquisition, his unhappy daughter was
exposed to trials no less severe. Don Ambrosio,
into whose hands she had fallen, was, as has
before been intimated, one of the most daring and
lawless profligates in all Granada. He was a
man of hot blood and headlong passions, that
stopped at nothing in pursuit of his desires; yet
with all these he possessed manners, address, and
accomplishments, that had made him eminently
successful with the sex. He was sated, however,
with easy conquests, and wearied with a life of
continual and prompt gratification. There had
been a degree of difficulty and enterprize in the
pursuit of Inez that he had never before experienced.
It had aroused him from the monotony
of mere sensual life, and stimulated him
with all the charm of adventure. Now that he
had her in his power he was determined to protract
the pleasure of pursuit. He was vain of

his person and address, and it was a kind of trial
of skill to endeavour to gain by art and ingenuity
what he could at any time obtain by violence.

He affected to treat her with respect and
kindness. He endeavoured to soothe her alarms
concerning her father by assurances of his safety,
and that she should soon be restored to him.
Every means was lavished to calm and soften
her; and, if possible, to dispose her mind to favourable
impressions. The house resounded
with soft music; the apartments breathed perfumes;
all about her enticed to pleasure and voluptuousness;
but the heart of Inez turned with
distaste from the cruel mockery; and if ever
Don Ambrosio, deceived by the mute dejection
into which she would sometimes sink, would attempt
to plead his passion, she recoiled from
him with loathing and detestation.

The vanity of Don Ambrosio was at length
incensed at this inflexible scorn from one whom
he considered so far beneath him; and who
ought to have felt honoured by his admiration.
Still he was determined that his triumph should

be by artifice, and that she should be in a manner
accessary to her own dishonour. Since all
his arts of seduction were of no avail, he endeavoured
to conquer her through her fears.
He now informed her of her father's confinement
in the prison of the inquisition; that his
case was desperate; that it depended upon the
evidence of Don Ambrosio, and others who were
at his beck, either to save or destroy him; “but
I am wrong,” added he, “it is with you, beautiful
Inez, to say the word of life or death.
One kind word, and you will behold me at your
feet; your father at liberty and in affluence, and
we shall all be happy.”

Inez listened to him with scorn and disbelief;
she looked upon it as another of his deceptions.
“My father,” exclaimed she, “is too inoffensive
to attract persecution; he is too innocent and
good to be suspected of crime; 'tis a base, a
cruel artifice!” Don Ambrosio repeated what he
had said, with solemn protestations of its truth,
but she turned from him with indignation; and
he felt awed and surprised at the pride and

loftiness of her demeanour. He had now gone
too far to retrace his steps and resume the affectation
of kindness. A few days after he brought
her the proclamation of the approaching auto-da-fé,
in which the prisoners were enumerated.
She glanced her eye over it, and saw her father's
name, condemned to the stake for sorcery.
For a moment her brain reeled; she stood transfixed
with horror. The artful Ambrosio seized
upon the transient calm. “Think now, beautiful
Inez,” said he, with a tone of affected tenderness;
“his life is yet in your hands; one word
from you, and I can save him.”

“Monster! wretch! murderer!” exclaimed
she, recoiling with shuddering abhorrence.
Then clasping her hands with frantic violence,
“Oh my father! my father!” cried she, in a
tone of frantic agony.

The perfidious Ambrosio saw the torture of
her soul, and anticipated from it a triumph. He
saw she was in no mood, during her present paroxysm,
to listen to his words; but he trusted
that a night of agony would subdue her stubborn
resolution.

“To-morrow,” said he, as he left the room,
“is to be the auto-da-fé. One night more have
you to reflect. To-morrow you will hear the
very tumult of the procession that carries your
father to his death; you will almost hear the
groans from his funeral pile. I leave you to
yourself; think whether you can stand all this
without shrinking. Think whether you can
endure the reflection that you were the cause of
his death, and that merely from a perversity in
refusing proffered happiness.”

What a night was it to Inez! Her heart
already harassed, and almost broken by repeated
and protracted anxieties and terrors; her form
wasted, and nearly exhausted. On every side
horrors surrounded her; there seemed to be no
escape from misery and perdition. “Is there no
relief from man! no pity in heaven!” exclaimed
she. “What—what have we done that we should
be thus wretched?” All night long she paced
her chamber, her mind in a whirl of anguish and
dismay. As the dawn approached, she heard
the distant tread of footsteps in the street, and the

confused murmur of voices. She fancied it the
early stir of the populace, always eager in Spain
for this horrid ceremony. At sunrise the great
bell of the cathedral began to toll its awful notes
of funeral preparation. Every stroke seemed to
beat upon her heart, and inflict an absolute corporeal
pang. Her blood grew hot in her veins;
her tongue was parched; she panted and gasped
rather than breathed. “Blessed virgin!” exclaimed
she, clasping her hands, and turning up
her strained eyes, “look down with pity, and
support me in this hour of agony!”

All Granada was in agitation on the morning
of this dismal day. The heavy bell of the cathedral
continued to utter its clanging tones, that
pervaded every part of the city, summoning all
persons to the tremendous spectacle that was
about to be exhibited. The streets through
which the procession was to pass were crowded
with the populace. The windows, the roofs,
every place that would admit a face or a foot-hold,
was alive with spectators. In the great
square a spacious scaffolding, like an amphitheatre,

was erected, where the sentences of the prisoners
were to be read, and the sermon of faith
to be preached; and close by were the stakes
prepared, where the condemned were to be
burnt to death. Seats were arranged for the
great, the gay, the beautiful; for such is the
horrible curiosity of human nature, that this
cruel sacrifice was attended with more eagerness
than a theatre, or even a ball feast.

As the day advanced, the scaffolds and balconies
were filled with expecting multitudes; the
sun shone brightly upon fair faces and gallant
dresses; one would have thought it some scene
of elegant festivity, instead of an exhibition of
human agony and death. But what a different
spectacle and ceremony was this, from those
which Granada exhibited in the days of her
Moorish splendour. “Her galas, her tournaments,
her sports of the ring, her fêtes of St.
John, her music, her Zambras, and admirable
tilts with canes! Her serenades, her concerts,
her songs in Generaliffe! The costly liveries
of the Abencerrages; their exquisite inventions;

the skill and valour of the Alabeces; the superb
dresses of the Zegries, Mazas, and Gomelez!”[3]
All these were at an end. The days of chivalry
were over. Instead of the prancing cavalcade,
with neighing steed and lively trumpet; with
burnished lance, and helm, and buckler; with
rich confusion of plume, and scarf, and banner,
where purple, and scarlet, and green, and orange,
and every gay colour were mingled with cloth
of gold and fair embroidery; instead of this
crept on the gloomy pageant of superstition, in
cowl and sackcloth, with cross and coffin, and
frightful symbols of human suffering. In place
of the frank, hardy knight, open and brave, with
his lady's favour in his casque, and amorous
motto on his shield, looking by gallant deeds to
the smile of beauty, came the shaven, unmanly
monk, with down-cast eyes, and head and heart
bleached in the cold cloister, secretly exulting
in this bigot triumph.

The sound of the bells gave notice that the

dismal procession was advancing. It passed
slowly through the principal streets of the city,
bearing in advance the awful banner of the holy
office. The prisoners walked singly, attended
by confessors, and guarded by familiars of the
inquisition. They were clad in different garments,
according to the nature of their punishments;
those who were to suffer death wore
the hideous samarra, painted with flames and
demons. The procession was swelled by choirs
of boys, by different religious orders and public
dignitaries, and above all, by the fathers of
the faith, moving “with slow pace and profound
gravity, truly triumphing, as becomes the
principal generals of that great victory.”[4]

As the much dreaded banner of the inquisition
advanced, the countless throng sunk on
their knees before it; they bowed their faces to
the very earth as it passed, and then slowly rose
again, like a great undulating billow. A murmur
of tongues prevailed as the prisoners approached;
and eager eyes were strained, and

fingers pointed, to distinguish the different orders
of penitents whose habits denoted the degree
of punishment they were to undergo. But
as those drew near whose frightful garb marked
them as destined to the flames, the noise of the
rabble subsided; they seemed almost to hold in
their breaths; filled with that strange and dismal
interest with which we contemplate a human
being on the verge of suffering and death.

It is an awful thing, a voiceless, noiseless,
multitude. The hushed and gazing stillness of
the surrounding thousands, heaped on walls,
and gates, and roofs, and hanging as it were in
clusters, heightened the effect of the pageant that
moved drearily on. The low murmuring of the
priests could now be heard in prayer and exhortation,
with the faint responses of the prisoners,
and now and then the voices of the choir at a
distance chanting the litanies of the saints.

The faces of the prisoners were ghastly and
disconsolate. Even those who had been pardoned,
and wore the sanbenito or penitential garment,
bare traces of the horrors they had under-gone.

Some were feeble and tottering from long
confinement; some crippled and distorted by various
tortures; every countenance was a dismal
page on which might be read the secrets of their
prison house. But in the looks of those condemned
to death, there was something fierce and
eager. They seemed men harrowed up by
the past, and desperate as to the future. They
were anticipating, with spirits fevered by despair
and fixed and clenched determination, the
vehement struggle with agony and death which
they were shortly to undergo. Some cast now
and then a wild and anguished look about them,
upon the shining day; “the sunbright palaces;”
the gay, the beautiful world which they were
soon to quit for ever; or a glance of sudden indignation
at the thronging thousands, happy in
liberty and life, who seemed, in contemplating
their frightful situation, to exult in their own
comparative security.

One among the condemned, however, was
an exception to these remarks. He was an
aged man somewhat bowed down, with a serene

though dejected countenance, and a beaming
melancholy eye. It was the alchymist. The
populace looked upon him with a degree of compassion,
which they were not prone to feel towards
criminals condemned by the inquisition;
but when they were told he was convicted of the
crime of magic, they drew back with awe and
abhorrence.

The procession had reached the grand square.
The first part had already mounted the scaffold,
and the condemned were approaching. The
press of the populace became excessive, and was
repelled, as it were in billows, by the guards.
Just as the condemned were entering the square,
a shrieking was heard among the crowd. A
female, pale, frantic, dishevelled, was seen struggling
through the multitude. “My father! my
father!” was all the cry she uttered; but it
thrilled through every heart. The crowd instinctively
drew back, and made way for her as she
advanced.

The poor alchymist had made his peace with
Heaven, and by hard struggle had closed his

heart upon the world, when the voice of his
child called him once more back to worldly
thought and agony. He turned towards the
well-known voice; his knees smote together; he
endeavoured to stretch forth his pinioned arms,
and felt himself clasped in the embraces of his
child. The emotions of both were too agonizing
for utterance; convulsive sobs and broken exclamations,
and embraces more of anguish than
tenderness, were all that passed between them.
The procession was interrupted for a moment.
The astonished monks and familiars were filled
with involuntary respect at this agony of natural
affection. Ejaculations of pity broke from the
crowd, touched by the filial piety, the extraordinary
and hopeless anguish, of so young and
beautiful a being.

Every attempt to soothe her, and prevail on
her to retire, was unheeded; at length they endeavoured
to separate her from her father by
force. The movement roused her from her temporary
abandonment.

With a sudden paroxysm of fury she snatched

a sword from one of the familiars. Her late
pale countenance was flushed with rage, and fire
flashed from her once soft and languishing eyes.
The guards shrunk back with awe. There
was something in this filial frenzy, this feminine
tenderness wrought up to desperation, that
touched even their hardened hearts. They endeavoured
to pacify her, but in vain. Her eye
was eager and quick as the she wolf's guarding
her young; with one arm she pressed her father
to her bosom, with the other she menaced every
one that approached.

The patience of the guards was very soon exhausted.
They had held back in awe, but not
in fear. With all her desperation, the weapon
was soon wrested from her feeble hand, and she
was borne shrieking and struggling among the
crowd. The rabble murmured compassion; but
such was the dread inspired by the inquisition,
that no one attempted to interfere.

The procession again resumed its march. Inez
was ineffectually struggling to release herself
from the hands of the familiars that detained

her, when suddenly she saw Don Ambrosio before
her. “Wretched girl,” exclaimed he with
fury, “why have you fled from your friends?
Deliver her,” said he to the familiars, “to my
domestics; she is under my protection.”

His creatures advanced to seize her. “Oh
no! Oh no!” cried she with new terrors, and
clinging to the familiars, “I have fled from no
friends. He is not my protector! He is the
murderer of my father!”

The familiars were perplexed; the crowd
pressed on with eager curiosity. “Stand off!”
cried the fiery Ambrosio, dashing the throng
from around him. Then turning to the familiars
with sudden moderation—“my friends,”
said he, “deliver this poor girl to me. Her distress
has turned her brain; she has escaped from
her friends and protectors this morning, during
the confusion of the house as the procession
went by. A little quiet and kind treatment
will restore her to tranquillity.”

“I am not mad! I am not mad!” cried she
vehemently. “Oh save me, save me, from

these men; I have no protector on earth but my
father, and him they are murdering!”

The familiars shook their heads; her wildness
corroborated the assertions of Don Ambrosio,
and his apparent rank commanded respect and
belief. They relinquished their charge to him,
and he was consigning the struggling Inez to
his creatures. “Let go your hold, villain!”
cried a voice from among the crowd, and Antonio
was seen eagerly tearing his way through
the press of people.

“Seize him! seize him!” cried Don Ambrosio
to the familiars. “'Tis an accomplice of
the sorcerer.”

“Liar!” retorted Antonio, as he thrust the
mob to the right and left, and forced himself to
the spot.

The sword of Don Ambrosio flashed in an
instant from the scabbard; the student was
armed, and equally alert. There was a fierce
clash of weapons; the crowd made way for
them as they fought, and closed again, so as
to hide them from the view of Inez. All was

tumult and confusion for a moment; when there
was a kind of shout from the spectators, and
the mob again opening, she beheld, as she
thought, Antonio weltering in his blood.

This new shock was too great for her already
overstrained intellects. A giddiness seized
upon her; every thing seemed to whirl before
her eyes; she gasped some incoherent words,
and sunk senseless upon the ground.

Days, weeks, elapsed before Inez returned to
consciousness. At length she opened her eyes
as if out of a troubled sleep. She was lying
upon a magnificent bed, in a chamber richly
furnished with pier glasses and massive tables
inlaid with silver of exquisite workmanship.
The walls were covered with tapestry; the cornices
richly gilded; through the door, which
stood open, she perceived a superb saloon, with
statues and chrystal lustres, and a magnificent
suite of apartments beyond. The casements of
the room were open to admit the soft breath of
summer, which stole in laden with perfumes
from a neighbouring garden; from whence,

also, the refreshing sounds of fountains, and the
sweet notes of birds came in mingled music to
her ears. Female attendants were moving with
noiseless step about the apartment; but as she
gazed around in silent wonder, her eye rested
upon a new object of interest. In a chair at
the head of her bed, sat a venerable form,
watching over her with a look of fond anxiety.
It was her father. I will not attempt to describe
the scene that ensued, nor the moments
of rapture which more than repaid all the sufferings
her affectionate heart had undergone. As
soon as their feelings had become more calm,
the alchymist stepped out of the room to introduce
a stranger to whom they were indebted
for their lives and liberties. He returned leading
in Antonio, no longer in his poor scholar's
garb, but in the rich dress of a nobleman.

The feelings of Inez were nearly overpowered
by the sudden reverses; and it was some time
before she was sufficiently calm to comprehend
the explanation of this seeming romance.
It appeared that the lover who had sought her

affections in the lowly guise of a student, was
only son and heir of a powerful grandee of Valentia.
Some youthful irregularities had drawn
on him the displeasure of his father. He had
absented himself from home and remained incognito
at Granada; with a full resolve by study
and self regulation to reinstate himself in his
father's favour. How hard he had studied
does not remain on record. All that we know
is his romantic adventure of the tower.

It was at first a mere youthful caprice, excited
by a glimpse of a beautiful face. In becoming a
disciple of the alchymist he probably thought of
nothing more than pursuing a light love adventure.
Farther acquaintance, however, completely
fixed his affections. In the mean time
he had been traced to his concealment. His
father had recieved intelligence, doubtless from
Don Ambrosio, of his being entangled in the
snares of a mysterious adventurer and his daughter.
Trusty emissaries had been sent to seize
upon him and convey him by force to the paternal
home.

What eloquence he used with his father to
convince him of the perfect innocence and noble
descent of the alchymist and of the exalted worth
of his daughter, does not appear. All that we
know is that the father, though a very passionate,
was a very reasonable man, as appears by
his consenting that his son should return to Granada,
and conduct Inez, as his affianced bride, to
Valentia. On his arrival he had been shocked
at finding the tower deserted, and reading the
alchymist's name on the list of the condemned
at the auto-da-fé. He arrived just in time to
save him from the flames. It was Don Ambrosio
that had fallen in their contest. Being
severely wounded, and thinking his end approaching,
he had confessed to one of the fathers
of the inquisition that he was the sole cause of
the alchymist's condemnation, and that the evidence
on which it was founded was altogether
false. The testimony of Don Antonio came
in corroboration of his innocence, and as he was
a relation of the grand inquisitor's, it perhaps had
more than usual weight. Thus the poor alchymist

was in a manner snatched from the very
flames, and so great had been the sympathy excited
in his case, that for once the populace
rejoiced in being disappointed of an execution.

The residue of this story may readily be imagined
by any one versed in this valuable kind of
history. Don Antonio married the lovely Inez,
and took her and her father with him to Valentia.
As she had been a loving and dutiful daughter,
so she proved a true and tender wife. It was
not long before he succeeded to his father's titles
and estates, and he and his fair spouse were renowned
for being the handsomest and happiest
couple in all Valentia.

As to Don Ambrosio, he partially recovered
to the enjoyment of a broken constitution and a
blasted name, and hid his remorse and disgraces
in a convent.

The worthy alchymist took up his abode with
his children. A pavilion in their garden was
assigned to him as a laboratory, where he resumed
his researches after the grand secret. He
was now and then assisted by his son-in-law,

but the latter slackened grievously in his zeal and
diligence, after marriage; still he would listen
with profound gravity and attention to the old
man's quotations from Paracelsus, Sandivogius,
and Peter D'Abano, which daily grew longer
and longer. In this way the good alchymist
lived on quietly and comfortably, to what is called
a good old age, that is to say, an age that is
good for nothing; and, unfortunately for mankind,
was hurried out of life in his ninetieth
year, just as he was on the point of discovering
the philosopher's stone.

Such was the story of the captain's friend;
which whiled away the whole morning very
tolerably. The captain was every now and then
interrupted by questions and remarks, which I
have not mentioned lest I should break the continuity
of the tale.

He was also a little disturbed once or twice
by the general, who fell asleep and breathed

rather hard, to the great horror and annoyance
of Lady Lillycraft. In a long and tender love
passage, also, which was particularly to her
ladyship's taste, the unlucky general having his
head a little sunk upon his breast, kept making
a sound at regular intervals, very much like the
word pish, long drawn out. At length he made
an odd guttural sound that suddenly woke him;
he hemmed, looked about with a slight degree
of consternation, and then began to play with
her ladyship's work bag, which, however, she
rather pettishly withdrew. The steady sound
of the captain's voice, however, was too potent
a soporific for the poor general; he kept gleaming
up, and sinking in the socket, until the cessation
of the tale again roused him, when he
started awake, put his foot down upon Lady
Lillycraft's cur, the sleeping Beauty, which yelled
and seized him by the leg, and in a moment
the whole library resounded with yelpings and
exclamations. Never did a man more completely
mar his fortunes while he was asleep.
Silence was at length restored, all the company
expressed their thanks to the captain, and gave
various opinions of the story. The parson said
he should have liked to have heard more of the
leaden manuscript dug up at Granada. The general
said he could not well make out the drift
of the story; he thought it a little confused. I
am glad, however, said he, that they burnt the
old chap of the tower, for I have no doubt he
was a notorious impostor.

END OF VOL. I.