hat Spain produces and retains in her bosom
such vipers as the Moriscoes, will, with God's help, provide a sure and
prompt remedy for so great an evil. Go on.

_Berg._ My master being a stingy hunks, like all his caste, I lived
like himself chiefly on maize bread and buckwheat porridge; but this
penury helped me to gain paradise, in the strange manner you shall hear.
Every morning, by daybreak, a young man used to seat himself at the foot
of one of the many pomegranate trees. He had the look of a student,
being dressed in a rusty suit of threadbare baize, and was occupied in
writing in a note book, slapping his forehead from time to time, biting
his nails, and gazing up at the sky. Sometimes he was so immersed in
reverie, that he neither moved hand nor foot, nor even winked his eyes.
One day I drew near him unperceived, and heard him muttering between
his teeth. At last, after a long silence, he cried out aloud, "Glorious!
The very best verse I ever composed in my life!" and down went something
in his note book. From all this, it was plain that the luckless wight
was a poet. I approached him with my ordinary courtesies, and when I had
convinced him of my gentleness, he let me lie down at his feet, and
resumed the course of his thoughts, scratching his head, falling into
ecstacies, and then writing as before.

Meanwhile there came into the garden another young man, handsome and
well dressed, with papers in his hand, at which he glanced from time to
time. The new comer walked up to the pomegranate tree, and said to the
poet, "Have you finished the first act?"

"I have just this moment finished it in the happiest manner possible,"
was the reply.

"How is that?"

"I will tell you! His Holiness the Pope comes forth in his pontificals,
with twelve cardinals in purple canonicals--for the action of my comedy
is supposed to take place at the season of _mutatio caparum_, when their
eminences are not dressed in scarlet but in purple--therefore propriety
absolutely requires that my cardinals should wear purple. This is a
capital point, and one on which your common run of writers would be sure
to blunder; but as for me I could not go wrong, for I have read the
whole Roman ceremonial through, merely that I might be exact as to these
dresses."

"But where do you suppose," said the other, "that our manager is to find
purple robes for twelve cardinals?"

"If a single one is wanting," cried the poet, "I would as soon think of
fl