The New England Weekly Review

THE MAGIC ROCK
BY PARK BENJAMIN.

The glory of old Spain has not yet departed. A thousand associations of green and undecayed beauty still twine around the relics of her fallen grandeur, and every cloud-wrapt mountain and vine-nursing valley is enriched with oft-repeated legends of the olden time. The traveller, in the region of Cordova, when, way-worn and wearied, he turns aside into the cottage of a pobrea aldeano, is hospitably entertained, not only with an abundance of good cheer, but, if he be favorably disposed, with stories about accidents and disasters, terrible thunder-claps and super-natural visitations. It is also not unfrequent to hear some of these story-tellers, with that love of the strange and wonderful for which the Spanish people are so remarkable, relate certain auto-biographies, which, while they stagger belief, cause the warm blood to recoil, and the current of feeling to rush back upon the heart and stagnate, coldly and heavily, there.

I have a pleasant friend who has journeyed through the mountainous region of Cordova, and he has often lightened for me the burthen of a sombre evening by his vivid descriptions of the wild and picturesque scenery, which lay every where spread before his path, and by his glowing recitals of the legendary tales which flow like fountains from the lips of the Spanish peasant.

There occurred one day a severe thunder-storm, among the mountains. Near the close of the sultry afternoon, an enormous black cloud rose slowly from the verge of the horizon, and gradually unrolled its immense volumes over the western sky. Only a few rays of sunlight struggled through the gloom of the tempest, and it seemed as if the firmament were about to be rent asunder like a scroll. There had been no rain for several days, and though thunder-showers were the frequent precursors of the setting sun, yet the heavens had long worn the silvery veil of a summer mist, and no sound of the elements had been heard louder than the whisper of a gentle breeze. Storms, whose coming we should have regarded with terror, are gazed upon by the Spanish peasant with little apprehension, but when this immense cloud rolled upward, so fearfully dark, every eye quailed, and every form trembled, and men looked one upon another, as if expecting to hear, with the first crash of thunder, the shrill blast of the arch-angel's trumpet.

The trees upon the mountains were dry and withered—yet no drop fell! The sultriness was insupportable. The slightest shrub stood motionless; and the tall cedars lifted up their noble forms, unmoved and majestic, like proud victims awaiting the sentence of their destruction. Suddenly the lightning leaped gloriously from the firmament, and the cloud seemed a heaving mass of fire. A moment—and the live thunder burst from its prison house, and the echoes among the mountains sent it back, in a continuous roar, like the voices of a thousand unchained lions. Another burst succeeded, and another—yet no rain fell. One more—and a noise was heard like the crash of an unsphered planet. A huge mass of rock was hurled from the side of a mountain into the ravine below. Then the flood rushed from "the windows of Heaven," and the waters poured unremittingly down for the space of half an hour accompanied with the gleams of the lightning and the constant reverberations of the thunder.

In ten minutes more—“the sky seemed never to have borne a cloud,” and softly flowed in the beautiful drapery of its Eden hours. And upon those wild, gray rocks, which so lately seemed "altars burning with fire," the richest incense of Heaven descended. The cool breeze sprang up delightfully and wafted a delicious fragrance, sweet as that which lingers amid

"The flowery gardens of enchanted Gul."

The morning subsequent to this storm. news came to the village where my friend had remained during the night, that a huge fragment of rock, celebrated among the peasantry by the name of "The Magic Rock," had been thrown down by a thunderbolt. My friend (unlike our own travelling countrymen, who convert their pleasure into toil, and hurry onward, turning neither to the right hand or to the left, as if fiends were pursuing them) hesitated not to delay his journey, for a season, if such delay gratified his curiosity with the sight of any extraordinary lusus, or wonderful passage in the great book of Nature.

"If the Señor," said Pedro de Ceballo, an old man, with silvery hairs, who was my friend's host "if the Señor would like to go and see the work of the storm, and will take an old man for his guide, I shall be well pleased to lead the way—for I am told the Magic Rock has been torn down."

"Well, make ready, good host," said my friend, "and suffer this little curly-headed grandson to procure from my baggage, some bottles of Tintilla, for a walk of two hours this warm day, will doubtless make them acceptable."

The mountain was at the distance of about five miles; and after making the necessary preparations, the trio set forth—the old man and his grandson leading the way and carrying the wine in a basket, and my friend following with a fowling piece over his shoulder.

On arriving at the foot of the mountain, they halted to rest awhile, and to gaze on the effects of the last night's storm. In the bed of a torrent, which rushed along beneath their feet, lay the shattered masses of the fallen rock, and the torn and ragged appearance of the mountain's side, displayed the path of the destructive fluid. The smaller rocks were gashed and blackened—and the tall trees of larch and cedar were thrown from their lofty heights and lay scattered around, stripped of their foliage, and blasted and scorched with fire.

"'Twas a fearful storm!" exclaimed the old man, with a visible shudder.

"Does the remembrance of it make you tremble then, good host?" asked my friend.

"Indeed, Señor, yes. Five years ago there was a tempest like last night's, and from that time till now, no storm has been heard half so terrible; and, Señor, in that dreadful night, this boy's father, my son, was standing on the rock which now lays beneath our feet, torn from the wide gap yonder, up the mountain."

"How was it possible?" exclaimed my friend, in a tone of evident surprise.

"It was truly so," replied Pedro, "and it was an awful thing for human feet to approach that rock after the shadows of night had fallen: for horrible tales are told about it—and it is said a magician drew near it, and cursed it with his magic—and none of our peasants dared even to touch it. How does the hand of Providence overthrow every wicked thing! Heaven be praised! If the Señor will honor my poor house till to-morrow, he shall hear what befell my son, when he stood upon that rock, in the night of that fearful storm."

"I will gladly wait and hear your story," replied my friend, "for I shall not willingly leave such game as I see rustling among the bushes yonder." And the report of the fowling-piece echoed among the hills.

After a successful hunt of three hours, Pedro de Ceballo thought it expedient to broach the Tintilla. My friend was content with one bottle, while Pedro consumed the other three. They then replenished the basket with the excellent mountain game, (pheasants, rare aves in terra among us, but abounding in Cordova, though not the less prized on that account,) and proceeded on their return homeward—my friend being particularly careful to pocket, as a memento, a bit of the "Magic Rock."

"We shall have a dinner fit for a prince, Señor," said Pedro de Ceballo, as they set out, "with the birds you have killed, and the Tintilla you have brought!" And Pedro said nothing more on the way, doubtless employed with delightful reflections on the delicacies of the forth-coming dinner; for he was totally undisturbed by the occasional crack of the fowling piece, and the consequent absence of the little boy, in pursuit of the fallen victim.

Before my friend's departure, he was regaled with a recital of the following adventure, which we shall take the liberty to relate in our own way.

Mariano de Ceballo, the son of Pedro de Ceballo, my friend's host, was, at the age of twenty, a wild youth, who could never brook opposition, and therefore, contrary to the wishes of his father, he fell in love with a beautiful girl, whose station in life was inferior to his own. He had two motives for doing this—the first was, that he delighted in thwarting "the old gentleman," who had betrothed him some sixteen years before to his neighbor's daughter, the second was, that he delighted above all earthly blessings in Doloris d'Allendgin taking stolen walks with her, in writing verses to her, and in standing under her window with his guitar, and singing her to sleep of a moonlight night.

One delicious evening as Mariano was strolling with Doloris, he said softly to her,

"Dear Doloris, I love you better than life!"

"Well Mariano," replied the sweet maiden, "is that any thing strange?" and I love you with my whole soul,”—and she turned up her full, dark, swimming eyes, and gazed into his. Oh, that gaze! that look of unutterable affection! when the soul's music is beaming from the eye, to call forth an answering tone—and two blended hearts melt in a delirium of transport and joy!

"And, Doloris," continued her lover, "how beautiful you are! you are more lovely than yonder star, which is alone and apart in the firmament."

"You have told me so a thousand times, dear Mariano, and every girl says you are the handsomest fellow in the province."

"Lovely Doloris, will you marry me?"

"Certainly; tell your father I am ready any day.

"Alas! dearest, he will never consent; he has betrothed me to another."

"Oh dear!" cried the affectionate girl. and she burst into tears at the thought of such an unexpected barrier to her happiness.

"What shall we do, Mariano?"

"My best love, we must run away."

"Run away!" oh well—very well—we will run away then; but when shall we go —whither shall we run?"

"To-morrow night, sweetest. I will come for you at this hour—be prepared!"

"Oh yes—certainly I will—good night dear Mariano!"

"Good night, my blessing!"

And he printed a kiss on her pretty lips, (pray do not be shocked, ladies, you know they are engaged) and they parted. Run-away matches are got up with a wonderful facility in Spain; you have only to escape to the house of some priest, three miles distant, and the business is ended.

Never did hours pass so sluggishly to Mariano de Ceballo and Doloris d'Allende, as those whose sands were running slowly out before the appointed time of their departure. The joyful period at length arrived—but, sorrowful to tell, the heavens gave sad presage of an approaching storm. The clouds lay along the sky, in darkened volumes, and the sun sank down among them with a lurid blaze. Yet did the lovers prefer to brave the anger of the tempest, than to endure the agony of a longer suspense.

Mariano had provided two proved and trusty steeds, and as he was familiarly acquainted with every mountain defile which it was necessary for them to traverse, they set out under no great apprehension of danger from the storm, that every moment grew blacker and blacker before them. But away they bounded, and thoughts of fear were banished by the syren spells of Hope and Joy and Love.

They soon came in safety to the base of a lofty mountain, which they proposed to pass over for the double purpose of avoiding pursuit on the morrow, and of arriving quicker at the residence of the padre, who was to bind them together in bands that Earth may not sunder. They had ascended half way up the mountain, when the storm, whose nearer approach, Mariano had for some time been regarding with emotions he dared not communicate to his companion, burst with unrestrained fury upon their heads. Their horses, though accustomed to travel through severe tempests, became restive and frightened at the incessant flashes of lightning and continued bursts of thunder. At last, a tall tree, a short distance from them, was shivered to atoms.

Mariano, on perceiving that their steeds would soon become unmanageable, assisted Doloris to alight, and released the foaming animal, who very deliberately turned round and ran furiously down the mountain, in the direction of their own comfortable dwelling.

"Alas! dear Mariano, what will become of the beautiful ribbons you gave me! and my new embroidered petticoat, too, that will be totally ruined!" exclaimed Doloris in an agony of grief. Oh woman! woman! thy vanity is coeval with thy fortitude.— 'Thou art like the cypress-tree, which sways unbroken to the storm, and seems only to regret that it cannot behold its graceful figure in the perturbed streamlet gliding beneath its feet!

The first care of the lovers was to find shelter from the rain, which now began to pour down in torrents. It was almost certain death for them to remain among the trees, numbers of which were constantly falling beneath the lifted arm of the tempest—and, guided by the broad glare of the lightning, they attained shelter in the wide cleft of a protruding rock. Here they remained perched, like twin eagles, till the storm rolled away and Night walked forth, majestic and serene, robed in silvery lustre, with the crescent upon her brow and heralded by all

"her gorgeous blazonry of stars!"

"I will descend first, dear Doloris," said Mariano, "and then assist you to come down:"—but Mariano could not descend! he attempted to raise his feet—but in vain. There he stood, fastened!—yet his hands were free—his body was free—but his feet he could not stir. He gazed around him with astonishment; but imagine his horror when he found that he was standing on "the Magic Rock." He expected every moment to see some terrible vision rise before him. He told Doloris that he was bewitched—that heaven had inflicted its revenge upon him, because he had deserted his old father and had stolen money from him to provide for their flight. He counted his rosary—he signed the cross—he repeated the Ave Maria, the Pater Noster and all the Latin prayers he had ever learned from his boyhood—but to no purpose. What increased his terror was, that Doloris descended with perfect ease, while he could not move an inch. At last, emboldened by the sight of his beloved, and encouraged by her entreaties, he made one more desperate attempt to extricate himself from the rock. The strife was effectual. He gave one mighty spring, and fell headlong, fifteen feet upon the green sward at the feet of Doloris—sustaining no injury save the loss of his boots, which still remained standing on the fatal spot.

"My own dear Doloris," said Mariano, when he had recovered from his trance of fear, "let us return home. I will go to my father and beg his forgiveness." The disconsolate youth was confirmed in his praise-worthy resolution, by the reflection that they had no means of proceeding further. The horses were gone, and with them the baggage. Their flight would soon be discovered at any rate—and, moreover, he did not relish the idea of walking barefoot over the mountain road—for there stood his boots as firmly as if they had become a part of the rock itself.

The pair (of lovers, not of boots,)—forthwith descended the mountain and plodded their uneasy way back to their native dwelling. Doloris had read in Novels, how naughty lovers always threw themselves at their father's feet—and she suggested the expediency of doing so at the present juncture. Mariano acceded to this—and they arrived at their father's house, just as the old man was in the midst of a violent burst of sorrow on learning that his son had eloped, and that his horses had returned without a rider, during the storm.

Pedro de Ceballo, heaving a deep sigh of resignation, raised his eyes to Heaven. and beheld—his lost son with Doloris d'Allende hanging tenderly upon his arm.— This vision threw the old man into an uncontroulable fit of passion.

"You reprobate scoundrel!" roared he, "why did you steal my money and run away with your sweetheart?" The lovers threw themselves (a la Radcliffe) at the feet of the enraged sire.

"Forgive us, dear father," said the repentant son, "your money is safe—I will never do the like again—and you would not punish me, if you knew how I had expiated my crime."

"Forgive you!" exclaimed the old man —his anger beginning to cool as he recollected his former grief, "to be sure I will forgive you—and you shall marry Doloris, —kiss me, my daughter—you scoundrel— that you shall; for know to your sorrow, that your betrothed eloped this morning—to be revenged on you doubtless—with a young caballero who has been two days in the village!"

What love-stricken maiden does not anticipate the catastrophe of our tale?

The story was told my friend by Mariano himself—while Pedro de Ceballo, Doloris, still beautiful in matronly garb, the little curly-headed boy (he employed himself in rocking a cradle) and two sweet girls, were attentive listeners.

When Mariano had concluded, the old man put in this moral for the benefit of my friend and his grandson. "This event teaches us in what inscrutable ways those who do wrong are punished; and likewise serves as a warning to young men never to run away with their sweethearts, without first informing their fathers."

Meanwhile my friend being curious to see a specimen of this wonderful rock, drew forth the small fragment which he had brought—and found adhering thereto, the blade of his penknife and certain bits of iron, that were contained in the same pocket. The truth burst upon him, like an electric shock—and he roared forth in a prodigious laugh, in the midst of his good host's moral; and it was with the greatest difficulty he could restrain his mirth, when he saw that the good people were getting angry—not being able to divine the cause of such repeated cachinnatory explosions.

It is the custom in Cordova for the young men, like our own race of dandies, to wear iron heels to their boots, as well as a thin rim of the same metal extending round the soles. Our hero, on that memorable night, was invested with pedestral ornaments of this description, and, dearly beloved reader, "the Magic Rock," whereupon he stood enchained like Andromeda, possessed strong magnetic attraction, being, as mon ami was afterwards credibly informed, by a celebrated mineralogist and a very Munchausen at travelling, neither more nor less than solid, bona fide loadstone!

Boston Amateur.