it would be easier to obtain a cedula, and with this his
way in the national University would be made smoother. He enrolled in
two courses, medicine, and literature and philosophy; besides these
he studied sculpture, drawing and art in San Carlos, and took private
lessons in languages from Mr. Hughes, a well-known instructor of the
city. With all these labors it is not strange that he did not mingle
largely in social life, and lack of funds and want of clothes, which
have been suggested as reasons for this, seem hardly adequate. Jose had
left Manila with some seven hundred pesos and a diamond ring. Besides,
he received funds from his father monthly, which were sent through
his cousin, Antonio Rivera, of Manila, for fear that the landlords
might revenge themselves upon their tenant for the slight which his
son had cast upon their university in deserting it for a Peninsular
institution. It was no easy task in those days for a lad from the
provinces to get out of the Islands for study abroad.
Rizal frequently attended the theater, choosing especially the higher
class dramas, occasionally went to a masked ball, played the lotteries
in small amounts but regularly, and for the rest devoted most of
his money to the purchase of books. The greater part of these were
second-hand, but he bought several standard works in good editions,
many with bindings de luxe. Among the books first purchased figure
a Spanish translation of the "Lives of the Presidents of the United
States," from Washington to Johnson, morocco bound, gilt-edged,
and illustrated with steel engravings--certainly an expensive book;
a "History of the English Revolution;" a comparison of the Romans
and the Teutons, and several other books which indicated interest in
the freer system of the Anglo-Saxons. Later, another "History of the
Presidents," to Cleveland, was added to his library.
The following lines, said to be addressed to his mother, were written
about this time, evidently during an attack of homesickness:
"You Ask Me for Verses"
(Translated by Charles Derbyshire)
You bid me now to strike the lyre,
That mute and torn so long has lain;
And yet I cannot wake the strain,
Nor will the Muse one note inspire!
Coldly it shakes in accents dire,
As if my soul itself to wring,
And when its sound seems but to fling
A jest at its own low lament;
So in sad isolation pent,
My soul can neither feel nor sing.
There was a time--ah,
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