the hidalgo impatiently walking up and down, and fears he shall have a scolding for staying so long; but the squire merely asks where he has been, and receives the account with an irrepressible air of delight. "I sate down," says Lazarillo, "upon the end of the stone seat, and began to eat, that he might fancy I was feasting; and observed, without seeming to take notice, that his eye was fixed upon my skirt, which was all the plate and table that I had.

May God pity me as I had compassion on that poor squire! Daily experience made me sensible of his trouble. I did not know whether I should invite him, for, since he had told me he had dined, I thought he would make a point of honour to refuse to eat; but, in short, being very desirous to supply his necessity, as I had done the day before, and which I was then much better in a condition to do, having already sufficiently stuffed my own guts it was not long before an opportunity fairly offered itself; for he, taking occasion to come near me in his walks, 'Lazarillo,' quoth he (as soon as he observed me begin to eat), 'I never saw anybody eat so handsomely as thee; a body can scarce see thee fall to work without desiring to bear thee company let their stomachs be never so full, or their mouth be never so much out of taste.' 'Faith,' thought I to myself, 'with such an empty belly as yours, my own mouth would water at a great deal less.'

But, finding he was come where I wished him, 'Sir,' said I, 'good stuff makes a good workman. This is admirable bread, and here's an ox-foot so nicely dressed and so well-seasoned, that any body would delight to taste of it.'

"How!' cried the squire, interrupting me, 'an ox-foot?' 'Yes, sir,' said I, 'an ox-foot.' 'Ah! then,' quoth he, 'thou hast in my opinion the delicatest bit in Spain; there being neither partridge, pheasant, nor any other thing, that I like nearly so well as that.'

"Will you please to try, sir?' said I (putting the ox-foot in his hand, with two good morsels of bread); ' when you have tasted

it, you will be convinced that it is a treat for a king, 'tis so well dressed and seasoned.'

"Upon that, sitting down by my side, he began to eat, or rather to devour, what I had given him, so that the bones could hardly escape. 'Oh! the excellent bit,' did he cry, 'that this would be with a little garlic!' 'Ha!' thought I to myself, 'how hastily thou eatest it without sauce!' 'Gad!' said the squire, 'I have eaten this as heartily as if I had not tasted a bit of victuals to-day;' which I did very readily believe.

"He then called for the pitcher with the water, which was as full as I had brought it home; so you may guess whether he had ate any. When his squireship had drank, he civilly invited me to do the like; and thus ended our feast."

We hope the reader is as much amused with this prolongation of the subject as ourselves, for we are led on insensibly by these amusing thieves, and find we shall have yet another paper to write upon them, before we have done. We will therefore conclude the present one by giving another specimen or two of the sharping Spaniard out of Quevedo. The Adventures, by the way, of Lazarillo de Tormes, were written in the sixteenth century by a Spanish gentleman, apparently of illustrious family, Don Diego de Mendoza, who was some time ambassador at Venice. This renders the story of the hidalgo still more curious. Not that the author, perhaps, ever felt the proud but condescending pangs which he describes; this is not necessary for a man of imagination. He merely meant to give a hint to the poorer gentry not to overdo the matter on the side of loftiness, for their own sakes ; and hunger, whether among the proud or the humble, was too national a thing not to be entered into by his statistic apprehension.

The most popular work connected with sharping adventures is "Gil Blas," which, though known to us as a French production, seems unquestionably to have originated in the country where the scene is laid. It is a work exquisitely easy and true; but somehow we have no fancy for the knaves in it. They are of

too smooth, sneaking, and safe a cast. They neither bespeak one's sympathy by necessity, nor one's admiration by daring. We except, of course, the robbers before mentioned, who are a picturesque patch in the work, like a piece of rough poetry.

Of the illustrious Guzman d'Alfarache, the most popular book of the kind, we believe, in Spain, and admired, we know, in this country by some excellent judges, we cannot with propriety speak, for we have only read a few pages at the beginning; though we read those twice over, at two different times, and each time with the same intention of going on. In truth, as Guzman is called by way of eminence the Spanish Rogue, we must say for him, as far as our slight acquaintance warrants it, that he is also " as tedious as a king." They say, however, he has excellent stuff in him.

We can speak as little of Marcos de Obregon, of which a translation appeared a little while ago. We have read it, and, if we remember rightly, were pleased; but want of memory on these occasions is not a good symptom. Quevedo, no ordinary person, is very amusing. His "Visions of Hell," in particular, though of a very different kind from Dante's, are more edifying. But our business at present is with his "History of Paul the Spanish Sharper, the Pattern of Rogues and Mirror of Vagabonds." We do not know that he deserves these appellations so much as some others; but they are to be looked upon as titular ornaments, common to the Spanish Kleptocracy. He is extremely pleasant, especially in his younger days. His mother, who is no better than the progenitor of such a personage ought to be, happens to have the misfortune one day of being carted. Paul, who was then school-boy, was elected king on some boyish holiday; and riding out upon a half-starved horse, it picked up a small cabbage as they went through the market. The market-women began pelting the king with rotten oranges and turnip-tops; upon which, having feathers in his cap, and getting a notion in his head that they mistook him for his mother, who, agreeably to a Spanish custom, was tricked out in the same

manner when she was carted, he hallooed out, "Good women, though I wear feathers in my cap, I am none of Alonza Saturno de Rebillo. She is my mother."

Paul used to be set upon unlucky tricks by the son of a man of rank, who preferred enjoying a joke to getting punished for it. Among others, one Christmas, a counsellor happening to go by of the name of Pontio de Auguirre, the little Don told his companion to call Pontius Pilate, and then to run away. He did so, and the angry counsellor followed after him with a knife in his hand, so that he was forced to take refuge in the house of the schoolmaster. The lawyer laid his indictment, and Paul got a hearty flogging, during which he was enjoined never to call Pontius Pilate again; to which he heartily agreed. The consequence was, that next day, when the boys were at prayers, Paul, coming to the belief, and thinking that he was never again to name Pontius Pilate, gravely said, " Suffered under Pontio de Auguirre ;" which evidence of his horror of the scourge so interested the pedagogue, that by a Catholic mode of dispensation, he absolved him from the next two whippings he should incur.

But we forget that our little picaro was a thief. One specimen of his talents this way, and we have done with the Spaniards. He went with young Don Diego to the university; and here getting applause for some tricks he played people, and dandling, as it were, his growing propensity to theft, he invited his companions one evening to see him steal a box of comfits from a confectioner's. He accordingly draws his rapier, which was stiff and well-pointed; runs violently into the shop; and exclaiming, "You 're a dead man!" makes a fierce lunge at the confectioner between the body and arm. Down drops the man, half dead with fear the others rush out. But what of the box of comfits? "Where is the box of comfits, Paul?" said the rogues: "we do not see what you have done after all, except frighten the fellow." "Look here, my boys!" answered Paul. They looked, and at the end of his rapier beheld, with shouts of laughter, the vanquished

box. He had marked it out on the shelf, and, under pretence of lounging at the confectioner, pinked it away like a muffin.

Upon turning to Quevedo, we find that the story has grown a little upon our memory, as to detail; but this is the spirit of it. The prize here, it is to be observed, is something eatable; and the same yearning is a predominant property of Quevedo's sharpers, as well as the others.

Adieu, ye pleasant rogues of Spain! ye surmounters of bad government, hunger, and misery, by the mere force of a light climate and fingers! The dinner calls ;—and to talk about you before it, is as good as taking a ride on horseback.

THIRD PAPER..

We must return a moment to the Italian thieves, to relate a couple of stories related of Ariosto and Tasso, The former was for a short period governor of Grafagnana, a disturbed district in the Apennines, which his prudent and gentle policy brought back from its disaffection. Among its other troubles were numerous bands of robbers, two of the names of whose leaders, Domenico Maroco, and Filippo Pacchione, have come down to posterity. Ariosto, during the first days of his government, was riding out with a small retinue, when he had to pass through a number of suspicious-looking armed men. The two parties had scarcely cleared each other, when the chief of the strangers asked a servant, who happened to be at some distance behind the others, who that person was. "It is the captain of the citadel here," said the man, "Lodovico Ariosto." The stranger no sooner heard the name, than he went running back to overtake the governor, who, stopping his horse, waited with some anxiety for the event. "I beg your