56 ANDALITSIAN SKETCHES. 



the death-wound, but not before she had stabbed to the heart the 

 villain ravisher ! 



" I was no longer able to serve : my wounds utterly incapacitated 

 me, and my heart was nearly broken. With my helpless com- 

 panions I reached the town of Manilba, where we were assisted and 

 supported by the charitable inhabitants. We crawled daily to these 

 springs, drinking and bathing. The virtues of these waters are 

 great. We all of us recovered. Observe how little of my lameness 

 remains ! 



" When peace was re-established, and Ferdinand, our rightful sove- 

 reign, returned to his country, I endeavoured to recover my pro- 

 perty, but in vain. It had all been sold by the Juslicia, during the 

 ' troubled times/ and they tendered me, as balance of the proceeds, 

 two doubloons, thirty-two dollars ! The remainder, it was averred, 

 had gone to defray the unavoidable law expenses ; amongst which 

 the charge of my old acquaintance Don Pablo Espana, of Estepona, 

 was no small item. 



" After a time, a speculator from Gibraltar built these houses and 

 bath-rooms ; and, as no one could testify to the wonderful cures per- 

 formed by the waters better than myself, I was appointed adminiy- 

 trador, an office I have now held for many years. I enjoy perfect 

 health. I attribute this entirely to the waters. ' Nunca bebo otra 

 cosa' (I never drink any other liquid]" concluded the old man, en- 

 tirely forgetting the nightly jorums of toddy in which he had in- 

 dulged himself since I had been favoured with his acquaintance. 



I remained a month at Manilba ; and if I could not say, with Tio 

 Juan, that I was completely restored to health, yet I certainly had 

 very much recovered. I can safely recommend to any traveller in 

 the south of Spain, or brother officer stationed at Gibraltar, an oc- 

 casional visit to these baths. The " Tio " is still there. When the 

 baggage-mule is loading, let not a small supply ofjerintosh be for- 

 gotten, and the chatter of the old guerilla will wile away many an 

 hour of, perhaps, an otherwise dull evening. 



J. W. 



THE SLAVE MOTHER. 



On ! many a weary hundred years thy sires that fetter wore, 

 And he has worn it since the day that him his mother bore ; 

 And now, my son, it waits on you, the moment you are born, 

 The old hereditary badge of suffering and scorn ! 



Alas, my boy so beautiful ! alas, my love so brave ! 

 Alas, and must your gallant limbs still drag it to the grave ! 

 And you, my son, yet have a son, fore-doom'd a slave to be, 

 Whose mother still must weep o'er him the tears I weep o'er thee ! 



