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Such was the state of parties in the Court of Philip the Third at the time in which we commence our narrative in the ante-chamber of Don Roderigo Calderon. "It is not to be endured," said Don Felix de Castro, an old noble, whose sharp features and diminutive stature proclaimed the purity of his blood and the antiquity of his descent.

Many ecclesiastical dignities were conferred upon him, but he did not, however, on this account intermit his dramatic labors, but continued through his long life to write for the theatres, for the court, and for the churches. Many dramas of Calderon were printed without his consent, and many were attributed to him which he never wrote.

He appeared again in public a few days after the arrest of Calderon; and he made strong intercession on behalf of his former favourite.

At the sight of that mocking face, Beatriz shuddered, and fell back; but her very alarm revived her, and, starting to her feet, she exclaimed, "Save me from that bad man save me! My father, I am safe with thee!" "Safe!" echoed Calderon; "ay, safe against the world. But not," he added, looking round, and in a low and muttered tone, "not in this foul abode; its very air pollutes thee.

So have Luke Fildes, Alma Tadema, H. T. Wells, G. D. Leslie, John Collier, Val Prinsep, Solomon J. Solomon, Frank Bramley, Phil Morris, Calderon, Leader, Nettleship, Seymour Lucas, Waterlow, William Strutt, Albert Moore, W. W. Ouless, C. W. Wyllie, Sir John Gilbert, Louise Jopling, Onslow Ford, and even W. C. Horsley.

What I have said of Shakespeare I would say of Calderon, of Molière, of Corneille, of Racine, of Voltaire, of Alfieri, of Goethe, of those dramatists, in many forms, and with genius the most diverse, who have so steadily set themselves to idealize the great types of public life and of the phases of human history.

"DEAR LITTLE WIFE, Last night I passed the evening with a set of artists, friends of George Leslie, at the house of one of them, Mr. Hodgson. Among them were Calderon and Frederick Walker. This morning we all set out for a walk on Hampstead Heath; I have no doubt the walk will do me good, but I am very well now, and feel better every day.

Passing to Spain, Carlyle salutes Cervantes and the Cid, calling Don Quixote the "poetry of comedy," "the age of gold in self-mockery," pays a more reserved tribute to Calderon, ventures on the assertion that Cortes was "as great as Alexander," and gives a sketch, so graphic that it might serve as a text for Motley's great work, of the way in which the decayed Iberian chivalry, rotten through with the Inquisition, broke itself on the Dutch dykes.

Wilt thou on whose faith I have ever leaned so trustingly, forsake thy friend and thy prince for this brawling soldier? No; I wrong thee." "Oh!" said Calderon, with much semblance of emotion, "I would lay down my life in your service, and I have often surrendered my conscience to your lightest will. But this would be so base a perfidy in me! He has confided his life of life to my hands.

Gryce stopped at the Calderon to inquire how Mrs. Taylor was doing, and what his prospects were for a limited interview with her. He was told that no such interview could be considered for days that she still lay in a stupor, with brief flashes of acute consciousness, during which she would scream "No! no!" that brain fever was feared and that increased excitement might be fatal.