208 
to have been to make it a more effective 
medium for advertising his intentions rela- 
tive to his writings. It was written 
twenty years ago, on his visit to the Al- 
hambra. Why was it not published at the 
time? Because. he tells us, “ the censor- 
ship would never have sanctioned the pub- 
lication of eulogiums, in which it would 
haye discovered, rightly enough, a con- 
cealed interest for the victims of the still- 
smoking ruins of Saragossa.’’ We do not 
pretend to compare eyes with the censor, 
but Ais must surely have surpassed the 
snake of Epidaurus, to discover any thing 
of the kind. “It will be readily seen 
too,’ says he, “ that this romance was 
written by one who had felt the pangs of 
exile, and whose heart was entirely wrapped 
up in his country.” Not doubting the 
Viscount’s vexations at his own exile, or 
his admiration for his own country, we 
must say all indications of these matters 
are of the most ordinary ‘‘common-place ;”” 
and conceivable enough, by one who had 
never quitted his fire-side, or read the 
maunderings of Cicero. The “ Last of 
the Abencerages”’ is the last survivor of the 
splendid famiiy of that name, who had 
withdrawn to Tunis and the ruins of Car- 
thage on the expulsion of the Moors from 
Grenada. The young Moor, of the third 
generation, had a passionate desire to re- 
visit the seats of his ancestors, and, if pos- 
sible, to sheath his dagger in the heart of 
a Bivar, in retaliation of the injuries in- 
flicted by that family on his own. He 
reaches Grenada in disguise, and while 
wandering in the streets a lady suddenly 
presents herself, and instinctively discover- 
ing that he was a stranger and had Jost his 
way, very obligingly and frankly conducts 
him to his inn, though attended by ser- 
vants, and on her way to morning prayers. 
** Senor Moor,” said she to him, “ you 
appear to have recently arrived at Grenada, 
have you lost your way ?”—“ Sultana of 
Flowers,”’ replied the Abencerage, “ de- 
light of men’s eyes, Christian slave, more 
beautiful than the virgins of Georgia, thou 
hast rightly guessed,”’ &c. She isan angel ; 
an houri; Aben-Hamet himself, an Ado- 
nis. The impression is mutually sudden 
and decisive. Speedily come they together 
again, and as speedily to an understand- 
ing too. She is the heiress of immense 
wealth; he a perfect stranger, apparently 
an itinerant botanist. Religion, however, 
is at first the sole impediment to imme- 
diate union—she is a Christian; he a 
Mussulman—both inflexible. ‘‘ Become 
a Christian, and you are my husband,” 
says the lady. ‘“‘ Become a Mussulman, 
and you are my wife,” says the gentleman. 
Nothing can be more explicit, and no- 
thing less lover-like ; no yieldings; no me- 
diums ; no compromisings. The Moor 
now leaves Spain, to give himself and the 
lady the benefit of time, under a pledge of 
returning year after year. The first year, 
Monthly Review of Literature, 
[Ave. 
he finds her on the beach waiting his land- 
ing; still faithful, still devoted, but. still 
firm. ‘The second year, instead of herself 
in person, he finds a letter, excusing her 
absence ; and when’ he reaches’ Grenada, 
he sees the lady, in the présence of a 
brother, and a lover at her feet. ‘There 
is no infidelity, however. It is agreeable 
and usual for heroines and heiresses’ to 
have admirers at their feet, despite the in- 
convenience of such a position, and the 
sensitiveness of most people’s knees. This 
brother, as might be expected, disapproves 
of the terms on which the Moor and” his 
sister appear to be. He has all the hau 
teur and insolence of a Spaniard of ro- 
mance. He is a knight of Calatrava, de- 
voted, of course, to celibacy, and just 
returned from Pizarro’s holy and knightly 
expedition. He fights the Moor, who de- 
feats him, but spares his life. Nothing, 
however touches the Spaniard. He hates 
still ; 
Moor. 
Little jealousies also, of course, arise, 
with respect to the lady’s new admirer— 
her brother’s friend; but these are pre- 
sently dismissed, by something like a repri- 
mand from the lady, who observes: “ If 
I loved you no longer, I should tell you 
so.”’ ‘To such assurance no reasonable ob- 
jection could be made, and he and the new 
admirer are forthwith sworn friends. 
Things continue thus im the same un- 
changed state, we know not how long, till 
at last the hapless and puzzled Moor, be- 
thinking himself that the god of such 
excellent persons, of so charming a woman, 
of so mighty and megnificent a knight, and 
of so true and preux a friend, may, or per- 
haps must be, the right God, is on the 
point of embracing © Christianity,” when, 
luckily or unluckily, he discovers that the 
lady and her friends are themselves the Bi- 
vars, the representatives of the very family 
who are stained with the blood of his own, 
and actually in possession of the very pro- 
perty they once so proudly held. To unite 
with the murderers of his aneestors—the 
thought is not to be endured.. He is torn 
in pieces by conflicting feelings; revenge 
unsatisfied; love still glowing, burning, 
sparkling with a radiance of more than 
heavenly effulgence. ‘Fhe sweet object 
before him—willing to be his, willing to be 
his on the terms of apostacy, but of apos- 
tacy to the faith of those who murdered 
his ancestors ! What shall he do? Confess 
his birth; make the lady his confidant, his 
judge, the decider of his fate. To her the 
discovery is delightful; her vanity and her 
discernment are equally gratified). She ~ 
could love none but the noble: she is of © 
the highest order, not only of fine forms, 
but of sublime souls; and her fat accords, — 
“ Return to the desert?” says Bianea, 
and faints beneath the energy of her own 
decision. ‘The Moor er aR 2 ers = ' 
heard of in no ) more.” P neo? = 
it is the duty of his order to hate a 
at Me 
