not refused, I could not obtain it. When I say how inconvenient the delay is, and how urgently you have recalled me, the one, only, and daily answer from his majesty is, " You shall go to-morrow." But in all the days of the year, I have never yet found that to-morrow. When it is looked for, it is not forthcoming, and perhaps it will turn up when no one is looking for it. But I am much distressed, and you have made me pine away like a spider, for "mine enemies reproach me while they say unto me daily,' Where is now thy Lord? Where is he hiding? Where is he slumbering? How long will his lazy slumber last? It is full time for him to awake and attend to the flock committed to him, and to remember what a predecessor he had! Has he received the grace of God in vain, so as to make of none effect the grace given to himself and the glory of his predecessor? He has already done so in great part, and we see no signs of his doing better." In short, they think that it is your fault that the ark of the Lord is seized by foreigners, that the church is trodden down by the laity, that rust is eating Peter's sword, that the Sacraments are despised, God's name taken in vain, and lawful marriages dissolved on pretext of forgery. When I praise your innocence and humility, they say, "It is not enough for a man in such a station to do no harm, unless he does good too. Your archbishop," they say, "found the church in the best state. But he deserts it, and has pulled it down. The glories of the church of Canterbury, which the illustrious martyr had marked in red with his blood, and had left as a perpetual legacy by the dashing out of his brains, your archbishop's cowardice has lost, and he has reduced to the old and disgraceful slavery that church which had vindicated its right to full liberty. Why does he occupy the earth? When will he die, and his name perish? Why, at least, does he not awake?" Thus tears are my food day and night. I expected to gain great glory under the shadow of your name, but have found reproach and misery instead. For you are a fable in men's mouths, and the study of all is to let loose their insolent tongues, and utter odious slanders of you. If I try to praise your industry in the improving of buildings, in the cultivation of farms, and other outward cares of this kind, relating to matters always required by human necessity, they pervert everything to evil. "What credit is it," they say, "to him to construct fish-ponds, and contrive inclosures for game, when the doors of monastic cloisters are set open for general license? What use is it that the arable fields are fattened with dung and chalk, if in the culture of the Lord's harvest no thorn is plucked out, nor thistle plucked up, nor the word sown? Does God care for oxen and asses, that the archbishop is so anxious about them? Why does not he attend to his office as legate?"†...... What annoys me most is, that our lord the

This is alluded to in Peter's Canon Episcopalis, p. 538, where he says, that in these days some think that a bishop's business is in improving land with chalk and dung, making many fish-ponds and parks, increasing their land, building palaces, mills, and ovens.

+ Several plays upon words here follow, which are quite untranslateable; e.g. "The archbishop is ligatus rather than legatus,' &c. &c.

king, who loves you from his heart, as I find constantly by experience, and who has been a wall of defence to you at Rome against those who attacked you, often finds fault with your sloth and carelessness, though secretly and with moderation. He often seeks to stir you up by letters and messengers, as he is greatly grieved at your tempting the evil doers of his realm to greater crimes by allowing them to go unpunished. You must remember his late friendly letter and message. As I was party to it, I must remind you of one remarkable expression: "Let my lord archbishop know," said the king, "that if my son, or any bishop or count, or any one should presume to oppose his will or plans, so that he cannot discharge his duties as legate, he shall find that I will avenge insulted dignity as much as if an attack had been made on my own crown." I know, my father, that the king has long had, and still has it very much at heart, that you should give him aid and assistance in reproving the guilty; that your hand should lay hold on judgment, and should plead for the meek of the earth.'

his

In another letter (Ep. 100) Peter defends the archbishop for his line of conduct, says that those who urged him to strong measures wished to break the link between Church and State, and that the archbishop's proceedings were entirely the effect of policy, and not of base subservience, to all suspicion of which his character was quite opposed. He afterwards mentions, incidentally, that this policy had had good effects. In writing to the prior and convent at Evesham, who were in distress, he expresses his surprise that they had not consulted the archbishop, a man of great prudence and eminent wisdom, who was in the habit of controlling desperate quarrels, and reconciling the most furious enmities of the great' (Ep. 142).

Of the light which these letters throw on the religious notions and practices of this period, it is not our purpose to speak. We need hardly say, that they abound with the most curious information. Anselm's fame as a divine stands on the highest ground, and, of course, many of his letters relate to points of belief or practice. Our friend Peter is accused of being the first person who used the word transubstantiation, and he was, at least, as strong in divinity as in other points. But it would require a separate paper to point out the curious lights which may be derived from these sources for church history.

ART.

ART. VI.-Rhymes. By William Stewart Rose. Brighton : 12mo. 1837.

WE

E are glad to see that Mr. Rose has condescended to take the hint which we offered a year ago in a short article on his Epistle to Mr. Frere, and collected that elegant piece and some others not unworthy of being classed with it into a volume. The new Rhymes, as he modestly, or Italianly, calls them, are, with few exceptions, in the same style with the Epistle from which we quoted ample specimens; so that any critical remarks on the present occasion would be superfluous. We are not willing, however, to allow a volume which contains so much of what is both new and good, to pass entirely without notice in these pages; and we therefore select for the entertainment of our readers a single tale, which in our opinion is of itself sufficient to prove that, had this author pleased, he might have given us a body of comic narratives in verse, quite as valuable as any that our literature possesses. The exquisite skill of the composition will, however, speak for itself. No writer knows better how to unite the quaint and the graceful.

The story of the Dean of Badajos has been, time out of mind, a special favourite with the Spaniards. Like most of the many admirable inventions of its class, familiar to all who have any acquaintance with the comic romance of the Peninsula, we have no doubt its original was oriental. There is nothing wittier in the Arabian Nights, and it is a fiction entirely in their taste. We rather think the story was first told in our own language by Richard Cumberland—his prose edition of it is, at all events, the one best known to English readers—and it is a very lively and humorous edition; but still, we are inclined to think that no one, who considers attentively the structure and execution of Mr. Rose's rifacimento, will accuse him of having wasted his powers in painting the lily and adding perfume to the violet.

THE DEAN OF BADAJOS.

'Dear Rogers, at your hint I have been fain
To versify this pithy tale of Spain,
Perhaps the growth of a more Southern shore,
Transplanted thither by invading moor;
Which, being graffed where it has taken root,
Hath changed the form and colour of the fruit.
Yet stringing rhymes upon a tale which flows
So neatly and so naturally in prose,

May seem to some (and some who know what's what)
Akin to tying bladders to a cat:

Since-wind and wings to boot-when all is done,
She cannot fly so well as she can run :

But

But you (I find) are backed by La Fontaine :
He in a preface says, "that stories gain

By being versed," and-what might make me bold,
And them, whose stories, like my own, are old—
"That stories gain by being often told."
His word and yours should justify my deed;
But, as few now his pleasant pages read,
Your warranty must keep my bark afloat;
And victualled for short venture is the boat.

'The Dean of Badajos was (report hath said)
A scholar and a ripe one, and well read
In all the arts and sciences which rank a
Man highest in the schools of Salamanca,
Coimbra or Alcala; nor was to seek
In Law or Logic, Latin or in Greek:
In schoolmen versed, in poets, epic, tragic,
And comic-he knew every thing but Magic.
To lack such knowledge was a source of pain,
For none (he deemed) could show that secret vein,
Of all the learned men that lived in Spain.
At last, and when least hoped, within his reach,
He heard of one that could the science teach,
Who at Toledo lived, of little fame;
And Don Torribio was his style and name.

( Scarce of his name assured and his abode, The Dean was on his mule and on his road. He lighting at Toledo, to a lone,

Mean dwelling by his muleteer was shown;
And, as if all was moulded on one plan,
Such as his modest mansion found the man;
To whom, due congees made, he thus began
"I am the Dean of Badajos. Is none
In Seville, the Castilles, or Aragon,
Nay-not from Cadiz to the Pyrenees,
(Whatever are his honours, or degrees)
But calls me Master; yet were I by thee
Called scholar, it a higher praise would be:-
Instruct me but in Magic, I entreat,
And bind me to thy service, hands and feet."

-

Although he piqued himself, as he might well,
On keeping the best company in hell,
Torribio dealt not (as my story teaches)
In candid courtesies and flowery speeches;
But bluntly said, "he had met such ill return
From all that had repaired to him to learn,
It was his firm resolve, that never more
Would he reveal his prostituted lore."

"And

-" And has the great Torribio been repaid
In such base coin?" the dean of Badajos said,
And- -as if such a thought had fired his blood-
Poured forth so loud, so long and large a flood
Of saws and sentences against the crime
Of foul ingratitude, in prose and rhyme,
All on a foam with honest hate and scorn,
That by the furious torrent overborne,

The

sage confessed," he could no more repel
The advances of a man, who spoke so well:
He would instruct him; he would be his host;"
And from his window cried-" Jacintha, roast
A brace of partridges ;" (this window looked
Upon the kitchen where Jacintha cooked;
His cook and faithful housekeeper was she :)
Adding," the dean of Badajos sups with me."
Next touched his pupil's brow, and said, (let not
The words by thee, good reader, be forgot)
"Ortobolan, Pistrafier, Ornagriouf:"
Then of his zeal and art gave present proof;
Opened his books; and with his pupil fell
To work on sign and sigil, spirit and spell.

'Master and scholar little time had read
Before a knock, strange voice, and heavy tread
Were heard; and lo! Jacintha, and with her
A squat, square man, that seemed a messenger
Breathless he was, and fiery hot with haste,
Splashed to the eyes, and booted to the waist.
This courier was postilion to my lord
Bishop of Badajos; and he brought word,
"The bishop "-(who had for a long time been
Ailing, and who was uncle to the dean)-
"Had had an apoplectic stroke, and lay
Upon his death-bed when he came away."
The dean, intent upon his long-sought art,
Cursed messenger and uncle-but apart-
And gravely bade the man return;
he would
Follow (he added) with what haste he could:"
But hardly was he gone before the twain,
Wizard and dean, were at their work again.

'Vainly, for lo! new messengers! but more
Worth hearing were the tidings which they bore.
This new arrival was a deputation,
Sent by the Chapter, who, in convocation,
Since the dean's uncle, their right reverend lord,
The bishop, had been called to his reward,
Had chosen him-as fittest found-to keep

And feed and fold his houseless, hungry sheep.

Upon