Sick.
My brother, o my brother! how my heart,
Uncertain, sad, doth yearn for thee to-day!
And my deep soul her earnest prayer doth say,
That God not yet will loose the fearful dart;
Not yet, sweet mercy, call on thee to part,
Prepared so scantily for the long, long way;
Nor till his lamp lights with her blessed ray
The narrow line along the shadowy chart.
Dear Lord, a stranger, far away he lies,
Where fevered pestilence about him leers;
His breath the yellow death! And yet my cries
Are not for that loved body whose weak sighs
First warmed her breast—'tis nine and twenty years—
The soul, poor soul 'tis needs these prayers and tears.
Translated From The Spanish.
How Matanzas came to be called Matanzas.
Or, Uncle Curro And His Club.
[Footnote 200]
[Footnote 200: Matanzas signifies murders or slaughters.]
Fernan Caballero. Here I am, Aunt Sebastiana, with a fixed intention to make you tell me a story.
Aunt Sebastiana. Say that to my Juan, señor; he can tell no end of stories, and when he don't remember them, he makes them to suit himself.
Fernan. Here comes Uncle Romance, who, if he wants a cigar and desires to give me pleasure, will tell me the story you have promised me in his name.
Uncle Romance. You must know then, señor, that there was once a man who lived gayly, without thinking of to-morrow; and, since to spend, to owe, and not to pay, is the way to the poorhouse, our man soon found himself without hacienda, and with but thirty days to the month for possessions, and nothing to eat but his finger-nails. He grew so spiritless that his wife used to beat him, and his children insult him, and say impertinent things to him when he came home bringing no provisions for the house.
He got so desperate at last that he borrowed a rope of his gossip, and went away to a field to hang himself. He had fastened the rope to an olive-tree; but just as he was going to put it around his neck, a little fairy-man appeared to him, dressed like a friar. "What are you doing, man?" said the friar. "Hanging myself, as your worship sees." "So, then, Christian, you are going to do like Judas. Go away from there. It wouldn't be well for you. Take this purse, which is never empty, and mend your fortune."
Our man took the purse, and drew out a dollar, then another, then another, and saw that it was like a woman's mouth, that pours out to all eternity words, and words, and still words, and its words are never exhausted. Seeing this, he untied the rope, wound it up, and started for home. There was an inn on the road; he entered it and began to ask for whatever they had to eat and drink, paying when it was brought; for the innkeeper, seeing him so greedy, would not trust him for all he wanted. He ate so much and drank so much that he fell under the table, and lay there more sound asleep than the dead in Holyfield.
The innkeeper, who had perceived that the purse was none the lighter, told his wife to make one just like it, and while Uncle Curro slept, went and stole the enchanted purse out of his pocket and put the other in its place.
When Uncle Curro woke up, he took the road again, and reached his house more jolly than a sunshiny day.
"Hurrah!" he shouted to his wife and children, "here's money and to spare; our troubles are over."
He put his hand into the purse and drew it out empty; put it in again; but what was there to take out? When his wife saw that, she flew at him and beat him into a new shape.
More desperate than ever, he snatched the rope and went back to hang himself. He went to the same place, and tied the rope to a branch of the olive. "What are you going to do, Christian?" said the little fairy-man, appearing in the form of a cavalier, in the crotch of the tree. "Hang myself like a string of garlics from a kitchen ceiling," answered Uncle Curro quite composedly. "So you have lost patience, again?" "And if I have nothing to eat, señor?" "' It is your own fault, your fault; but—go away. Take this table-cloth, and while you keep it you will never find yourself without something to eat." Then the little fairy-man gave him a table-cloth, and disappeared among the branches.
Uncle Curro unfolded the cloth upon the ground. The minute it was spread out, it covered itself with dishes, some of them good and the rest better than the king's cook could have made them, if he had tried his best.
After Uncle Curro had stuffed himself till he could hold no more, he gathered up the cloth and set out for his house. When he got as far as the inn, he felt sleepy and lay down to take a nap. The innkeeper knew him, and guessed that he had something valuable; so, as cool as you please, he pulled the cloth away from him, and put another in its place.
Uncle Curro reached home, and shouted to his wife and children, "Come, come to dinner; I'll take it upon me to see that you get your fill this time." Thereupon he undid the cloth, but only to behold it covered with stains of all sorts and sizes.
At him she went. Mother and children all fell upon the poor man at once, and an object of charity they left him.
Uncle Curro seized the rope once more and went off to hang himself. He was determined to do it this time, and the fairy-man was determined he shouldn't. He gave Uncle Curro a little club, and told him that with it he would be able to possess his soul in comfort; for that he had nothing to do but say, "Bestir yourself, little club!" to make all the world run away and leave him in peace, with a wide berth.
Uncle Curro set out for home with the club, as happy as an alcalde with his stick. As soon as he saw the young ones coming toward him demanding bread with insults and impertinences, he said to the club, "Bestir yourself, little club!" and before the words were fairly out of his mouth, it began to deal about it in a way that speedily routed the children. Their mother ran out to help them, but, "At her!" cries Curro, "at her with all your might!" and with one rap the club killed her.
They gave notice to the magistrate, and presently the alcalde made his appearance with his officers. "Bestir yourself, little club!" ordered Curro, and the club came down on them as if it had been paid at the rate of a dollar a thump. It killed the alcalde, and the others ran away with such might that not one of them had a sole left to his foot. Then they sent a messenger to let the king know what was going on, and the king sent a regiment of grenadiers to take Uncle Curro of the little club.
But, "Bestir yourself, club!" bawled Uncle Curro, as soon as they came in sight, and threw the club in the midst of the files. The club begun its dance upon the ribs of the grenadiers, with a sound like a fulling-mill. It crippled this one's leg, and that one's arm; knocked out one of the captain's eyes, and, in short, the grenadiers threw away their muskets and knapsacks, and took to their heels, in the full belief that the devil was running loose.
Free from care, Uncle Curro lay down to sleep, with his club hidden in his bosom, for fear that somebody might steal it.
When he awoke, he found himself tied hand and foot, and on the way to prison. They sentenced him to ignominious death. The next morning they took him out of the dungeon, and, when they had caused him to ascend the scaffold, untied his hands. Out he drew his little club, and as he said, "Bestir yourself!" threw it at the executioner, who speedily yielded up the ghost under its blows. "Free that man," commanded the king, "or he'll finish with every one of our subjects. Tell him that he shall have an estate in America if he will leave the country."
Uncle Curro consented, and the king made him lord of lands in the island of Cuba, where he built himself a city, and killed so many people in it with his club that its name was called, and has remained, Matanzas.
Correction Of A Mistake.
The writer of the article on "Spiritualism and Materialism," in the Magazine for August, page 627, says, "The Holy See says the immateriality, not spirituality, of the soul is to be proved by reason." This is a mistake. The language of the Holy See is, "Ratiocionatio Dei existentiam, animae spiritualitatem, hominis libertatem cum certitudine probare potest—Reasoning can prove with certainty the existence of God, the spirituality of the soul, and the liberty of man." The writer wishes us to say that he is wholly unable to account for his blunder; for in writing, he had the words of the Holy See before his eyes, and certainly thought he read immaterialitatem; but in re-reading the words since a friend called his attention to the mistake, he finds that the word is plainly printed spiritualitatem. Of course the misstatement was wholly unintentional, and whatever in the article rests on it must be withdrawn, and the writer fully and explicitly retracts it.
Yet the writer requests us to say that he thinks the doctrine maintained in the article is not affected by this mistake, blunder, or misstatement. The writer does not question the spirituality of the soul, but maintains that the soul's spirituality, save in the sense of its immateriality, is not provable by reason without revelation. He thinks immateriality, in the sense he explains it, covers all that is really meant by spiritualiy in the decision of the Holy See. We certainly do not, by reason alone, know what either spirit or matter is in its essence. We can prove by reason the substantiality, activity, unity, simplicity, indissolubility, and immateriality of the soul, or that it is not matter. Does the Holy See decide that we can do more, or go further? Does the spirituality of the soul, as provable by reason, mean any thing more? If not—and the writer, till better informed, must think it does not—he has erred only in using one word when he should have used another, and mistaking the word actually used by the Holy See. So much the writer of the article wishes us to say for him, which we do cheerfully; for we are well assured of his devotion to the Holy See and his loyalty to the Holy Father.