aims, who beat into us the one idea of
Moorish conquest?"

"No."

"The Cid!—the Cid! All honour to the
Cid! Let me give you in rude recitation,
with here and there a twang of the guitar-strings,
my vision of the Cid's sally from
his beseiged castle  of Alcocer—the first outburst,
of that Spanish deluge that never
receded till il rose over the dead body of the
last Moor.

"'The fourth watch had begun, the third
was scarcely past, when the Cid, looking
round on the faces lean aghast, said, "The
water is cut off, the bread is well nigh spent,
escape by night we cannot, for many a Moorish
tent is round these walls, thick as the morning
dew. Now, gentlemen, I pray you speak,
and say what is to do: we are too stout to
starve, to grapple we're too few." Then
Alvar Fanez stood erect, a lion man was he;
he said, "I count six hundred—six hundred
barring three. It is by fighting with the
Moors we earned our blood-stained bread: in
the name of God that made us let nothing
more be said: let us sally out upon the
Moors let what will happen may, let us sally
out upon the Moors at the breaking of
the day." (Twang-twang-tillo-dillo-twang.)
The Cid approved, they all consent, they had
no fear or doubt; the Moors that were
within the town they took and turned them
out. They hammered at the helmet band,
they worked the livelong night, and long
before the sun was up they were ready for
the fight. (Twang-twang.) Two footmen
only there were left to keep ward at the
gate, to bury all the Christian dead if such
should be their fate. Unto Pedro Bermudez
the Cid the banner gave, and bade him bear
it evenly, erect and stout and brave; but
not to venture rashly forth until he gave
command. Bermudez never spoke a word,
but ran and kissed his hand. (Twang-dillo-
trillo-twang. Hurrah!) They broke and split
the unbarred gales, no covert more for them,
they were all steel—no silver, gold, no
spangle, spark, or gem. With spur and
shout the lusty knights all close together
rushed; the outposts of the craven Moors
back to the camp were pushed. The camp
was stirring like a hive or autumn leaves in
wind; the cymbals beat their stormy brass,
the drums roared far behind. The Moors by
thousands ran to horse, they spurred and
stormed and raced: the two main battles
gathered quick, in anger and in haste. The
horse and foot were rolling mixed, the spears
came like a sea. "The Moors are moving
forward,'' the Cid cried joyfullie; "my men
stand firm in order, ranged hedge-hog close
in line; let not a man move from his rank
before I give the sign." Bermudez heard
the warning word, but he could not refrain;
lie let the banner struggle out, and gave
his horse the rein. Then Garcia and
Munoz spurred forth to keep him back. "I
cannot hold," he fiercely cried, and broke
into the rack. O, where the Moors were
black and thick—the heart of all the host—
he drove a thunderbolt of war where spears
and swords were most; and cried, "My
noble Campeador, God be your precious aid,
for I bear your banner where I hope to meet
with many a blade." They saw the flag
entangled among the Moorish men, the Cid
cried out, "Saint James's name! 'tis time to
rouse us; then." (Twang-twang-dillo-trillo-twang.)
Their blazoned shields upon their
hearts, their vizors barr'd and down, their
lances levelled firm and low, upon their lips
a frown. Their banners and their knightly
crests, all waving in a row; their sturdy
heads, bull-like, bent grim towards their
saddle-bow. The Cid upon his gilded seat
rode first and cried afar, "I am Don Ruy
Diaz, the Champion of Bivar."
(Twang-twang-dillo-trillo-twang.)—'"

"What, is that all?"

"O no, that is only the beginning; but I
must get back and look after that devil's
limb of a boy. I dare say he is pelting my
casts with lumps of modelling clay, or
drawing caricatures of me ballad-singing, or
some nonsense."

"That sally from Alcocer is by Fulano, of
course?"

"O no!"

"Who then?"

"By myself."

Here we reached the studio.

Don Balthazar, looking through the keyhole,
suddenly burst open the door, crying,
"Why, I'll be hanged if that rascal of a boy
is not painting at my Princess! I'll give it
him."

At the table d'hôte dinner, an English,
Colonel from Gibraltar asked me to tell him
candidly what I thought of the Spanish
guitar. I, still sore from Don Balthazar and
his interminable playing, replied candidly,
"Well, Colonel, I must say, I think it's a
tinkling business, after all."

THE CURE OF SICK MINDS.

THERE are few household calamities so
utterly deplorable as loss of reason in a
husband, wife, or child; and there is, perhaps,
no household calamity for the lightening of
which so much can be done or left undone
by the friends of the afflicted, according to
their knowledge or their ignorance of certain
leading truths.

The development of this kind of knowledge
has been the work of science in our own
day, and its diffusion is the duty of all
journals such as ours. For that reason we
have, from time to time, dwelt upon points
relating to insanity in England, and we
now found, upon the latest reports of our
county Lunatic Asylums, a few more notes of
profitable information.

Of the last quarterly number "of the Journal