by Señor Gayangos in the Spanish translation of Mr. Ticknor's work, Madrid, 1856. It was not then suspected that a more complete version of this poem, extending to 136 stanzas, and introducing many variations in the text, as well as different personages in the action had been printed at Seville in 1520. The distinguished Spanish scholar and historian, Señor Amador de los Rios, having been led to believe from a quotation that he had met with while pursuing some_other researches, that a copy of this poem existed in some shape at Rome, had diligent inquiries into the subject made, which were rewarded by the discovery of the volume in the Library of the Sapienza. From the transcript made by his friend, the distinguished painter, Don Isidro Lozano, Señor de los Rios has published the poem in the seventh volume of his "Historia Critica de la Literatura Espanola,” p. 507. The colophon at the end of the original volume says that it was "imprinted in the very noble and very loyal city of Sevilla by Juan Varela de Salamanca, the XXth day of the month of January, M.CCCCC.XX."

This volume, the existence of which, as we have said, was unknown to all previous writers on Spanish literature, probably suggested to Juan de Pedraza the subject of his Farsa or Auto of the "Dance of Death." It was published, as we have seen, in 1551, but in what place is uncertain. The only copy known to exist is that in the Royal Library of Munich, from which it was reprinted by Wolf in his interesting pamphlet, "Ein Spanisches Frohnleichnamsspiel von Todtentanz," Wien, 1852. Nothing more is known of the author, except that it has been surmised that he was the same person as "Juan de Rodrigo Alonso," who by another name is called "De Pedrosa," a play by whom, published in 1551, entitled, "Santa Susana," is highly praised by Moratin in his "Origines del Teatro Español."

The persons or characters in the auto of Pedraza, "The Dance of Death," which was played during the festival of Corpus Christi, A.D, 1551, at Segovia, are eight in number. They are-Death, the Pope, the King, the Lady, the Shepherd, and the three allegorical figures of Reason, Anger, and the Understanding. Amador de los Rios in mentioning the auto says, that it differs principally from the poem of "The Dance of Death" in the introduction of the thoroughly comic character of the Shepherd. In the poem the characters, after expressing their horror and reluctance to join their grisly partner in the dance of Death, are, however, obliged to yield to his persuasions and submit to fate. Not so with the sturdy Shepherd. After Death has invited and compelled the Pope, the King, and the Lady to follow him visiting the first in the Vatican, the second in his palace, and the third in her luxurious dressing-room, the turn of the Shepherd comes. He is represented toiling over a mountain, with a wellfilled wallet by his side. Being fatigued, he sits down by the wild path in the shadow of a projecting rock, and examines the contents of his wallet with evident satisfaction. He then takes out a bottle of wine, some rye-bread, and a head of garlic. The whole scene, the language and manner of the Shepherd, and his hearty enjoyment of the good things before him, remind one of his immortal successor, Sancho Panza. After drinking so freely that he says he will not be '

able to make his way home or know the difference between Pascuales and Agejas (two villages, it appears, near Segovia) he falls asleep. At this moment Death enters, and after moralising on the carelessness and forgetfulness of mankind in general, and of the Shepherd in particular, as to the approach of Death, he awakens the slumberer from his comfortable nap. The Shepherd opens his eyes in terror, but still has courage enough to ask his disturber who he is. "I am Death, my brother," says the skeleton, "who never rests. I am he who makes the least of human kind equal with the greatest, and who has now come to put you in the same category with the Pope, the King, and the Nobleman." The Shepherd tells Death not to trouble himself, but to lie down under the shelter of the rock and take a good sleep, and he'll find himself all the better of it. Death, who is unaccustomed to such language, endeavours to explain to the Shepherd the nature of the dread summons that all must obey, telling him at the same time, by way of encouragement, of all the great people who like him must submit to the same destiny. The Shepherd replies that dying might do very well for the Pope, or the Emperor, but it would not suit him at all, as there would be no one to look after his sheep or take care of his wife. Death tells him to make his mind easy, on the latter point at least; says they are losing precious time, and bids him get ready. The Shepherd, as a last resource, is determined to have a struggle for his life, and challenges Death to wrestle. The allegorical figure of Reason is then introduced, and subsequently that of Anger and the Understanding, and between them the Shepherd is brought into a better frame of mind. His life is spared for this occasion, and, being truly penitent, he is invited by Reason, as it is the day of Corpus Christi, to be present at the exposition of the Blessed Sacrament and to throw himself in humble adoration before it. The auto concludes with a prayer in three octave stanzas, recited by the Shepherd, of two of which the following is a translation :—

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SHEPHERD:

O precious Bread, high Heaven's celestial store,
Changed to the flesh of God's eternal Son!

O sacred mystery, by Reason won,
Hither I'm led, to wander now no more,
Lord, Thee to see, and seeing Thee adore;
Thee, who beneath the form of bread dost lie
For those of humankind who seek and sigh
With Thee to rise and reign when life is o'er.

O Divine Word! who dost the infinite fill,
Before Thee hidden here I bend the knee,
And, though unworthy, ask thy Majesty
To save us, Lord, from sin, the only ill;

Grant us, O Lord, thy strengthening grace until
We reach, upborne by it, thy realm above,

The kingdom of thy glory and thy love,

Which Thou hast promised those who do thy will.

LAUS DEO.

In further illustration of this curious subject, a translation of two "Villancicos," taken from Spanish autos of perhaps a still earlier

date, may be attempted. The first is given at p. 10 of Pedroso's col lection of "Autos Sacramentales." Madrid, 1865.

VILLANCICO.

From the "Aucto del Magna." Anonymous.

Heavenly Bread, Celestial Meat,
Sweet as honey, white as snow,
Sinful men, approach and eat,
'Tis the solace of our woe.

'Tis the manna falling thus,
God unto our souls hath sent,
'Tis the Bread that gives to us
God Himself, th' Omnipotent.

'Tis the sacred bread and sweet,
Sweet as honey, white as snow,
Sinful man, approach and eat,
'Tis the solace of our woe.

VILLANCICO TO THE SACRAMENT.

From the "Aucto de la Paciencia de Job." Anonymous.
(Pedroso's Collection, p. 35.)

God, from his throne above,
Under this veil doth lie;
If it were not for love,

Why should He leave the sky?
Under this outward sign,
Under this white veil pure,
God, as the sick soul's cure,
Comes in the Host divine-
Comes lest our souls should die,
Comes from his throne above,
If it were not for love,
Why should He leave the sky?
God, as this banquet's fare,
Gives Himself as thy food,
If thou art pure and good,
Thou in the feast mayst share ;
Come, no danger is nigh,
Come, fond soul, like the dove,
If it were not for love,
Why should He leave the sky?

Eat, for the food is sweet,
The bread the Godhead conceals,
Faith his presence reveals,
And teaches us what we eat.

For thee, 'neath a veil, He is nigh,
A veil that faith may remove;

If it were not for love,

Why should He leave the sky?

God from his throne above,
Under this veil doth lie;
If it were not for love,

Why should He leave the sky?

OVERCOME by the varied feelings of the moment, MacDermott stood over the corpse of his humble friend, forgetful of everything but the self-devotion that had saved his life.

"There is no time for useless regrets," said the Parliamentarian officer, again addressing him; "you are not yet safe. Take charge of this lady, to whom you owe more than you are aware of. I will be with you again when the work I have on hands is finished."

So speaking, he consigned to MacDermott's care the rather embarrassing burden which he carried before him on his saddle.

The prisoner, with a heedless air, received these injunctions; there was no indication that he recognised his benefactor, or interested himself to discover the motives which prompted the kindness shown him.

"You do not recognise me, MacDermott," said the Parliamentarian, half reproachfully.

The prisoner shook his head.

"And yet, when we parted at Benburb, I bade you remember Arthur Montgomery."

A look of glad surprise lit up the dejected features of the captive. "You are too generous," he answered; "you risk too much for me. Let things take their course. I have seen friends enough sacrificed to-day."

"Talk not so," returned the Parliamentarian; "while one of yonder troopers, who are your sworn foes, can hold a sword, you are safe. But I must not stay longer. Look to the lady. You seem to have the art of making friends wherever you go. Expect me again in a few minutes."

He turned his horse away, and passing slowly along the line of his followers, advanced towards the spot where Ormsby and his comrade officers were standing engaged in vehement discussion.

MacDermott was not a little embarrassed by the charge entrusted to him. With his uninjured arm he supported the trembling form which leaned upon him, and to which consciousness now began to return. The hood of the cloak concealed the features of this benefactress, whose services to himself he could not clearly understand.

One dark lock of hair, escaping from beneath the head-dress, rested on the white, upturned throat, and MacDermott observed with a start how much it resembled the dark tresses of which his memory preserved a faithful picture since his last visit to Lough Ree. He might

have satisfied his curiosity had his disengaged arm not been powerless. As it was, he watched with impatience the signs of reviving consciousness in the slender figure he supported. At length, a delicate hand was raised from beneath the folds of the mantle, the hood was pushed aside, and Mary Dillon looked up into the soldier's face. She started to her feet in surprise, as she met his gaze. One glance about her served to remind her of her position, and she hastily drew the covering again over her face.

"You are saved! Thank heaven!" she said, in her low, sweet voice, to the wounded soldier. "I could never have been consoled, had I arrived too late."

"I have no words to express my indebtedness. I fear the life you have saved is not worth all it has cost to-day."

His eye, as he spoke, sought the corpse at his feet. The lady's glance followed his till it rested on the motionless though still bleeding body of the dead trooper.

"Good God!" she whispered, shuddering with horror. "What a death you have escaped!"

"Thanks to the self-devotion of my poor trumpeter," he answered; "he stepped before me at the moment they fired, and received in his breast the bullets that were intended for mine. Miss Dillon, may I beg a favour ?”

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Any it is in my power to grant.”

"O'Neill will take speedy vengeance for the trick these demons have played us to-day. They know him too well to doubt it. They will be wise enough not to delay here beyond a few hours. When we are gone cause decent burial to be given to the body of my poor comrade."

A tear glistened in her eye as she answered, with trembling voice: "I would willingly render you the sad service you ask, but I must probably quit this place almost as soon as yourself."

MacDermott looked down into her face with half curious, half alarmed look.

"They do not mean to carry you away with them ?"

"No. I am not their prisoner. I almost wish I were. I am now under the guardianship of my cousin, Mr. Plunkett, and he has resolved to take us to-morrow to his home in Louth."

A deep flush of anger overspread MacDermott's face.

"And you would not go ?" he asked.

"I should almost prefer to die."

She made no attempt to conceal her dislike for her cousin, and this display of feeling was far from being disagreeable to MacDermott. "You are wise in doubting him," he whispered; "we owe him all the misfortunes of this unlucky day. In removing you thus, he is acting contrary to your father's last wishes. I heard Mr. Dillon with his latest breath implore him to see you safe to your mother's relatives in Limerick."

"And it was by the use of my father's name that he silenced our protests against this journey. Captain MacDermott, you have conferred on me one favour more by telling me this."