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<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold;'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Bible in Spain, by George Borrow</div>
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<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Bible in Spain</div>
<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: George Borrow</div>
<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Release Date: December 15, 1995 [eBook #415]<br />
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<div style='margin-top:2em;margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BIBLE IN SPAIN ***</div>

<h1>THE BIBLE IN SPAIN</h1>

<p style="text-align: center">or The Journeys, Adventures, and
Imprisonments<br />
of an Englishman, in an Attempt to<br />
circulate the Scriptures in the Peninsula</p>
<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">by</span><br />
GEORGE BORROW</p>
<div class="gapspace"></div>
<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">cassell and
company</span>, <span class="smcap">ltd.</span><br />
<span class="smcap">london</span>, <span
class="smcap">paris</span>, <span class="smcap">new
york</span>,<br />
<span class="smcap">toronto &amp; melbourne</span><br />
<span class="smcap">mcmviii</span></p>

<div class="chapter">

<h2>EDITOR&rsquo;S NOTE</h2>

<p>Blessed with a magnificent physique, and an unswerving belief
in God&rsquo;s beneficence; endowed with &ldquo;the gift of
tongues&rdquo; and a cheerful disposition, George Borrow was well
equipped for life. That he was called to be a Bible Society
missionary was surely a curious turn of fortune. The son of
a Militia captain, whose duties took him about the country,
Borrow early acquired the taste for a roving life, and it must
have been a severe hardship to him when, at the age of sixteen,
he was articled to a Norwich firm of solicitors. Indeed, it
would almost appear that the gypsy spirit was quenched, for on
the completion of his five years he was engaged as literary hack
to Phillips, the London publisher. But after a year or so
the &ldquo;call of the wild&rdquo; came, and Borrow eagerly
responded. What happened is not really known, though much
of his gypsy life is pictured in <i>Lavengro</i>.</p>

<p>In 1832 he commenced his work for the Bible Society, and the
next year went as its representative to Russia. He stayed
there until 1835, when he was ordered to Spain and
Portugal. In spite of their adventurous nature, the five
years there spent were described by Borrow as &ldquo;the most
happy years of my life.&rdquo; <i>The Bible in Spain</i>
consists largely of his letters to the Society, and the vigour
and directness of his language must ofttimes have startled the
officials. The book was published in December, 1842.</p>

<p>George Henry Borrow was born July 5, 1803, and died July 26,
1881.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>AUTHOR&rsquo;S PREFACE</h2>

<p>It is very seldom that the preface of a work is read; indeed,
of late years, most books have been sent into the world without
any. I deem it, however, advisable to write a preface, and
to this I humbly call the attention of the courteous reader, as
its perusal will not a little tend to the proper understanding
and appreciation of these volumes.</p>

<p>The work now offered to the public, and which is styled <i>The
Bible in Spain</i>, consists of a narrative of what occurred to
me during a residence in that country, to which I was sent by the
Bible Society, as its agent for the purpose of printing and
circulating the Scriptures. It comprehends, however,
certain journeys and adventures in Portugal, and leaves me at
last in &ldquo;the land of the Corahai,&rdquo; to which region,
after having undergone considerable buffeting in Spain, I found
it expedient to retire for a season.</p>

<p>It is very probable that had I visited Spain from mere
curiosity, or with a view of passing a year or two agreeably, I
should never have attempted to give any detailed account of my
proceedings, or of what I heard and saw. I am no tourist,
no writer of books of travels; but I went there on a somewhat
remarkable errand, which necessarily led me into strange
situations and positions, involved me in difficulties and
perplexities, and brought me into contact with people of all
descriptions and grades; so that, upon the whole, I flatter
myself that a narrative of such a pilgrimage may not be wholly
uninteresting to the public, more especially as the subject is
not trite; for though various books have been published about
Spain, I believe that the present is the only one in existence
which treats of missionary labour in that country.</p>

<p>Many things, it is true, will be found in the following volume
which have little connexion with religion or religious
enterprise; I offer, however, no apology for introducing
them. I was, as I may say, from first to last adrift in
Spain, the land of old renown, the land of wonder and mystery,
with better opportunities of becoming acquainted with its strange
secrets and peculiarities than perhaps ever yet were afforded to
any individual, certainly to a foreigner; and if in many
instances I have introduced scenes and characters perhaps
unprecedented in a work of this description, I have only to
observe, that, during my sojourn in Spain, I was so unavoidably
mixed up with such, that I could scarcely have given a faithful
narrative of what befell me had I not brought them forward in the
manner which I have done.</p>

<p>It is worthy of remark that, called suddenly and unexpectedly
&ldquo;to undertake the adventure of Spain,&rdquo; I was not
altogether unprepared for such an enterprise. In the
daydreams of my boyhood, Spain always bore a considerable share,
and I took a particular interest in her, without any presentiment
that I should at a future time be called upon to take a part,
however humble, in her strange dramas; which interest, at a very
early period, led me to acquire her noble language, and to make
myself acquainted with her literature (scarcely worthy of the
language), her history and traditions; so that when I entered
Spain for the first time I felt more at home than I should
otherwise have done.</p>

<p>In Spain I passed five years, which, if not the most eventful,
were, I have no hesitation in saying, the most happy years of my
existence. Of Spain, at the present time, now that the
daydream has vanished, never, alas! to return, I entertain the
warmest admiration: she is the most magnificent country in the
world, probably the most fertile, and certainly with the finest
climate. Whether her children are worthy of their mother,
is another question, which I shall not attempt to answer; but
content myself with observing, that, amongst much that is
lamentable and reprehensible, I have found much that is noble and
to be admired; much stern heroic virtue; much savage and horrible
crime; of low vulgar vice very little, at least amongst the great
body of the Spanish nation, with which my mission lay; for it
will be as well here to observe, that I advance no claim to an
intimate acquaintance with the Spanish nobility, from whom I kept
as remote as circumstances would permit me; <i>en revanche</i>,
however, I have had the honour to live on familiar terms with the
peasants, shepherds, and muleteers of Spain, whose bread and
bacalao I have eaten; who always treated me with kindness and
courtesy, and to whom I have not unfrequently been indebted for
shelter and protection.</p>

<blockquote><p>&ldquo;The generous bearing of Francisco Gonzales,
and the high deeds of Ruy Diaz the Cid, are still sung amongst
the fastnesses of the Sierra Morena.&rdquo;<a
name="citation8"></a><a href="#footnote8"
class="citation">[8]</a></p>
</blockquote>

<p>I believe that no stronger argument can be brought forward in
proof of the natural vigour and resources of Spain, and the
sterling character of her population, than the fact that, at the
present day, she is still a powerful and unexhausted country, and
her children still, to a certain extent, a high-minded and great
people. Yes, notwithstanding the misrule of the brutal and
sensual Austrian, the doting Bourbon, and, above all, the
spiritual tyranny of the court of Rome, Spain can still maintain
her own, fight her own combat, and Spaniards are not yet fanatic
slaves and crouching beggars. This is saying much, very
much: she has undergone far more than Naples had ever to bear,
and yet the fate of Naples has not been hers. There is
still valour in Astruria; generosity in Aragon; probity in Old
Castile; and the peasant women of La Mancha can still afford to
place a silver fork and a snowy napkin beside the plate of their
guest. Yes, in spite of Austrian, Bourbon, and Rome, there
is still a wide gulf between Spain and Naples.</p>

<p>Strange as it may sound, Spain is not a fanatic country.
I know something about her, and declare that she is not, nor has
ever been; Spain never changes. It is true that, for nearly
two centuries, she was the she-butcher, <i>La Verduga</i>, of
malignant Rome; the chosen instrument for carrying into effect
the atrocious projects of that power; yet fanaticism was not the
spring which impelled her to the work of butchery; another
feeling, in her the predominant one, was worked upon&mdash;her
fatal pride. It was by humouring her pride that she was
induced to waste her precious blood and treasure in the Low
Country wars, to launch the Armada, and to many other equally
insane actions. Love of Rome had ever slight influence over
her policy; but flattered by the title of Gonfaloniera of the
Vicar of Jesus, and eager to prove herself not unworthy of the
same, she shut her eyes and rushed upon her own destruction with
the cry of &ldquo;Charge, Spain.&rdquo;</p>

<p>But the arms of Spain became powerless abroad, and she retired
within herself. She ceased to be the tool of the vengeance
and cruelty of Rome. She was not cast aside, however.
No! though she could no longer wield the sword with success
against the Lutherans, she might still be turned to some
account. She had still gold and silver, and she was still
the land of the vine and olive. Ceasing to be the butcher,
she became the banker of Rome; and the poor Spaniards, who always
esteem it a privilege to pay another person&rsquo;s reckoning,
were for a long time happy in being permitted to minister to the
grasping cupidity of Rome, who during the last century, probably
extracted from Spain more treasure than from all the rest of
Christendom.</p>

<p>But wars came into the land. Napoleon and his fierce
Franks invaded Spain; plunder and devastation ensued, the effects
of which will probably be felt for ages. Spain could no
longer pay pence to Peter so freely as of yore, and from that
period she became contemptible in the eyes of Rome, who has no
respect for a nation, save so far as it can minister to her
cruelty or avarice. The Spaniard was still willing to pay,
as far as his means would allow, but he was soon given to
understand that he was a degraded being,&mdash;a barbarian; nay,
a beggar. Now, you may draw the last cuarto from a
Spaniard, provided you will concede to him the title of cavalier,
and rich man, for the old leaven still works as powerfully as in
the time of the first Philip; but you must never hint that he is
poor, or that his blood is inferior to your own. And the
old peasant, on being informed in what slight estimation he was
held, replied, &ldquo;If I am a beast, a barbarian, and a beggar
withal, I am sorry for it; but as there is no remedy, I shall
spend these four bushels of barley, which I had reserved to
alleviate the misery of the holy father, in procuring bull
spectacles, and other convenient diversions, for the queen my
wife, and the young princes my children. Beggar!
carajo! The water of my village is better than the wine of
Rome.&rdquo;</p>

<p>I see that in a late pastoral letter directed to the
Spaniards, the father of Rome complains bitterly of the treatment
which he has received in Spain at the hands of naughty men.
&ldquo;My cathedrals are let down,&rdquo; he says, &ldquo;my
priests are insulted, and the revenues of my bishops are
curtailed.&rdquo; He consoles himself, however, with the
idea that this is the effect of the malice of a few, and that the
generality of the nation love him, especially the peasantry, the
innocent peasantry, who shed tears when they think of the
sufferings of their pope and their religion. Undeceive
yourself, Batuschca, undeceive yourself! Spain was ready to
fight for you so long as she could increase her own glory by
doing so; but she took no pleasure in losing battle after battle
on your account. She had no objection to pay money into
your coffers in the shape of alms, expecting, however, that the
same would be received with the gratitude and humility which
becomes those who accept charity. Finding, however, that
you were neither humble nor grateful; suspecting, moreover, that
you held Austria in higher esteem than herself, even as a banker,
she shrugged up her shoulders, and uttered a sentence somewhat
similar to that which I have already put into the mouth of one of
her children, &ldquo;These four bushels of barley,&rdquo;
etc.</p>

<p>It is truly surprising what little interest the great body of
the Spanish nation took in the late struggle, and yet it has been
called, by some who ought to know better, a war of religion and
principle. It was generally supposed that Biscay was the
stronghold of Carlism, and that the inhabitants were fanatically
attached to their religion, which they apprehended was in
danger. The truth is, that the Basques cared nothing for
Carlos or Rome, and merely took up arms to defend certain rights
and privileges of their own. For the dwarfish brother of
Ferdinand they always exhibited supreme contempt, which his
character, a compound of imbecility, cowardice, and cruelty, well
merited. If they made use of his name, it was merely as a
<i>cri de guerre</i>. Much the same may be said with
respect to his Spanish partisans, at least those who appeared in
the field for him. These, however, were of a widely
different character from the Basques, who were brave soldiers and
honest men. The Spanish armies of Don Carlos were composed
entirely of thieves and assassins, chiefly Valencians and
Manchegans, who, marshalled under two cut-throats, Cabrera and
Palillos, took advantage of the distracted state of the country
to plunder and massacre the honest part of the community.
With respect to the Queen Regent Christina, of whom the less said
the better, the reins of government fell into her hands on the
decease of her husband, and with them the command of the
soldiery. The respectable part of the Spanish nation, and
more especially the honourable and toilworn peasantry, loathed
and execrated both factions. Oft when I was sharing at
nightfall the frugal fare of the villager of Old or New Castile,
on hearing the distant shot of the Christino soldier or Carlist
bandit, he would invoke curses on the heads of the two
pretenders, not forgetting the holy father and the goddess of
Rome, Maria Santissima. Then, with the tiger energy of the
Spaniard when roused, he would start up and exclaim:
&ldquo;Vamos, Don Jorge, to the plain, to the plain! I wish
to enlist with you, and to learn the law of the English. To
the plain, therefore, to the plain to-morrow, to circulate the
gospel of Ingalaterra.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Amongst the peasantry of Spain I found my sturdiest
supporters: and yet the holy father supposes that the Spanish
labourers are friends and lovers of his. Undeceive
yourself, Batuschca!</p>

<p>But to return to the present work: it is devoted to an account
of what befell me in Spain whilst engaged in distributing the
Scripture. With respect to my poor labours, I wish here to
observe, that I accomplished but very little, and that I lay
claim to no brilliant successes and triumphs; indeed I was sent
into Spain more to explore the country, and to ascertain how far
the minds of the people were prepared to receive the truths of
Christianity, than for any other object; I obtained, however,
through the assistance of kind friends, permission from the
Spanish government to print an edition of the sacred volume at
Madrid, which I subsequently circulated in that capital and in
the provinces.</p>

<p>During my sojourn in Spain, there were others who wrought good
service in the Gospel cause, and of whose efforts it were unjust
to be silent in a work of this description. Base is the
heart which would refuse merit its meed, and, however
insignificant may be the value of any eulogium which can flow
from a pen like mine, I cannot refrain from mentioning with
respect and esteem a few names connected with Gospel
enterprise. A zealous Irish gentleman, of the name of
Graydon, exerted himself with indefatigable diligence in
diffusing the light of Scripture in the province of Catalonia,
and along the southern shores of Spain; whilst two missionaries
from Gibraltar, Messrs. Rule and Lyon, during one entire year,
preached Evangelic truth in a Church at Cadiz. So much
success attended the efforts of these two last brave disciples of
the immortal Wesley, that there is every reason for supposing
that, had they not been silenced and eventually banished from the
country by the pseudo-liberal faction of the Moderados, not only
Cadiz, but the greater part of Andalusia, would by this time have
confessed the pure doctrines of the Gospel, and have discarded
for ever the last relics of popish superstition.</p>

<p>More immediately connected with the Bible Society and myself,
I am most happy to take this opportunity of speaking of Luis de
Usoz y Rio, the scion of an ancient and honourable family of Old
Castile, my coadjutor whilst editing the Spanish New Testament at
Madrid. Throughout my residence in Spain, I experienced
every mark of friendship from this gentleman, who, during the
periods of my absence in the provinces, and my numerous and long
journeys, cheerfully supplied my place at Madrid, and exerted
himself to the utmost in forwarding the views of the Bible
Society, influenced by no other motive than a hope that its
efforts would eventually contribute to the peace, happiness, and
civilisation of his native land.</p>

<p>In conclusion, I beg leave to state that I am fully aware of
the various faults and inaccuracies of the present work. It
is founded on certain journals which I kept during my stay in
Spain, and numerous letters written to my friends in England,
which they had subsequently the kindness to restore: the greater
part, however, consisting of descriptions of scenery, sketches of
character, etc., has been supplied from memory. In various
instances I have omitted the names of places, which I have either
forgotten, or of whose orthography I am uncertain. The
work, as it at present exists, was written in a solitary hamlet
in a remote part of England, where I had neither books to
consult, nor friends of whose opinion or advice I could
occasionally avail myself, and under all the disadvantages which
arise from enfeebled health; I have, however, on a recent
occasion, experienced too much of the lenity and generosity of
the public, both of Britain and America, to shrink from again
exposing myself to its gaze, and trust that, if in the present
volumes it finds but little to admire, it will give me credit for
good spirit, and for setting down nought in malice.</p>

<p>Nov. 26, 1842.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER I</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Man Overboard&mdash;The Tagus&mdash;Foreign
Languages&mdash;Gesticulation&mdash;Streets of Lisbon&mdash;The
Aqueduct&mdash;Bible tolerated in Portugal&mdash;Cintra&mdash;Don
Sebastian&mdash;John de Castro&mdash;Conversation with a
Priest&mdash;Colhares&mdash;Mafra&mdash;Its Palace&mdash;The
Schoolmaster&mdash;The Portuguese&mdash;Their Ignorance of
Scripture&mdash;Rural Priesthood&mdash;The Alemtejo.</p>

<p>On the morning of the tenth of November, 1835, I found myself
off the coast of Galicia, whose lofty mountains, gilded by the
rising sun, presented a magnificent appearance. I was bound
for Lisbon; we passed Cape Finisterre, and standing farther out
to sea, speedily lost sight of land. On the morning of the
eleventh the sea was very rough, and a remarkable circumstance
occurred. I was on the forecastle, discoursing with two of
the sailors: one of them, who had but just left his hammock,
said, &ldquo;I have had a strange dream, which I do not much
like, for,&rdquo; continued he, pointing up to the mast, &ldquo;I
dreamt that I fell into the sea from the
cross-trees.&rdquo; He was heard to say this by several of
the crew besides myself. A moment after, the captain of the
vessel perceiving that the squall was increasing, ordered the
topsails to be taken in, whereupon this man with several others
instantly ran aloft; the yard was in the act of being hauled
down, when a sudden gust of wind whirled it round with violence,
and a man was struck down from the cross-trees into the sea,
which was working like yeast below. In a short time he
emerged; I saw his head on the crest of a billow, and instantly
recognised in the unfortunate man the sailor who a few moments
before had related his dream. I shall never forget the look
of agony he cast whilst the steamer hurried past him. The
alarm was given, and everything was in confusion; it was two
minutes at least before the vessel was stopped, by which time the
man was a considerable way astern; I still, however, kept my eye
upon him, and could see that he was struggling gallantly with the
waves. A boat was at length lowered, but the rudder was
unfortunately not at hand, and only two oars could be procured,
with which the men could make but little progress in so rough a
sea. They did their best, however, and had arrived within
ten yards of the man, who still struggled for his life, when I
lost sight of him, and the men on their return said that they saw
him below the water, at glimpses, sinking deeper and deeper, his
arms stretched out and his body apparently stiff, but that they
found it impossible to save him; presently after, the sea, as if
satisfied with the prey which it had acquired, became
comparatively calm. The poor fellow who perished in this
singular manner was a fine young man of twenty-seven, the only
son of a widowed mother; he was the best sailor on board, and was
beloved by all who were acquainted with him. This event
occurred on the eleventh of November, 1835; the vessel was the
<i>London Merchant</i> steamship. Truly wonderful are the
ways of Providence!</p>

<p>That same night we entered the Tagus, and dropped anchor
before the old tower of Belem; early the next morning we weighed,
and, proceeding onward about a league, we again anchored at a
short distance from the Caesodré, or principal quay of
Lisbon. Here we lay for some hours beside the enormous
black hulk of the <i>Rainha Nao</i>, a man-of-war, which in old
times so captivated the eye of Nelson, that he would fain have
procured it for his native country. She was, long
subsequently, the admiral&rsquo;s ship of the Miguelite squadron,
and had been captured by the gallant Napier about three years
previous to the time of which I am speaking.</p>

<p>The <i>Rainha Nao</i> is said to have caused him more trouble
than all the other vessels of the enemy; and some assert that,
had the others defended themselves with half the fury which the
old vixen queen displayed, the result of the battle which decided
the fate of Portugal would have been widely different.</p>

<p>I found disembarkation at Lisbon to be a matter of
considerable vexation; the custom-house officers were exceedingly
uncivil, and examined every article of my little baggage with
most provocating minuteness.</p>

<p>My first impression on landing in the Peninsula was by no
means a favourable one; and I had scarcely pressed the soil one
hour before I heartily wished myself back in Russia, a country
which I had quitted about one month previous, and where I had
left cherished friends and warm affections.</p>

<p>After having submitted to much ill-usage and robbery at the
custom-house, I proceeded in quest of a lodging, and at last
found one, but dirty and expensive. The next day I hired a
servant, a Portuguese, it being my invariable custom on arriving
in a country to avail myself of the services of a native; chiefly
with the view of perfecting myself in the language; and being
already acquainted with most of the principal languages and
dialects of the east and the west, I am soon able to make myself
quite intelligible to the inhabitants. In about a fortnight
I found myself conversing in Portuguese with considerable
fluency.</p>

<p>Those who wish to make themselves understood by a foreigner in
his own language, should speak with much noise and vociferation,
opening their mouths wide. Is it surprising that the
English are, in general, the worst linguists in the world, seeing
that they pursue a system diametrically opposite? For
example, when they attempt to speak Spanish, the most sonorous
tongue in existence, they scarcely open their lips, and putting
their hands in their pockets, fumble lazily, instead of applying
them to the indispensable office of gesticulation. Well may
the poor Spaniards exclaim, <i>These English talk so
crabbedly</i>, <i>that Satan himself would not be able to
understand them</i>.</p>

<p>Lisbon is a huge ruinous city, still exhibiting in almost
every direction the vestiges of that terrific visitation of God,
the earthquake which shattered it some eighty years ago. It
stands on seven hills, the loftiest of which is occupied by the
castle of Saint George, which is the boldest and most prominent
object to the eye, whilst surveying the city from the
Tagus. The most frequented and busy parts of the city are
those comprised within the valley to the north of this
elevation.</p>

<p>Here you find the Plaza of the Inquisition, the principal
square in Lisbon, from which run parallel towards the river three
or four streets, amongst which are those of the gold and silver,
so designated from being inhabited by smiths cunning in the
working of those metals; they are upon the whole very
magnificent; the houses are huge and as high as castles; immense
pillars defend the causeway at intervals, producing, however,
rather a cumbrous effect. These streets are quite level,
and are well paved, in which respect they differ from all the
others in Lisbon. The most singular street, however, of all
is that of the Alemcrin, or Rosemary, which debouches on the
Caesodré. It is very precipitous, and is occupied on
either side by the palaces of the principal Portuguese nobility,
massive and frowning, but grand and picturesque, edifices, with
here and there a hanging garden, overlooking the streets at a
great height.</p>

<p>With all its ruin and desolation, Lisbon is unquestionably the
most remarkable city in the Peninsula, and, perhaps, in the south
of Europe. It is not my intention to enter into minute
details concerning it; I shall content myself with remarking,
that it is quite as much deserving the attention of the artist as
even Rome itself. True it is that though it abounds with
churches it has no gigantic cathedral, like St. Peter&rsquo;s, to
attract the eye and fill it with wonder, yet I boldly say that
there is no monument of man&rsquo;s labour and skill, pertaining
either to ancient or modern Rome, for whatever purpose designed,
which can rival the water-works of Lisbon; I mean the stupendous
aqueduct whose principal arches cross the valley to the
north-east of Lisbon, and which discharges its little runnel of
cool and delicious water into the rocky cistern within that
beautiful edifice called the Mother of the Waters, from whence
all Lisbon is supplied with the crystal lymph, though the source
is seven leagues distant. Let travellers devote one entire
morning to inspecting the Arcos and the Mai das Agoas, after
which they may repair to the English church and cemetery,
Père-la-Chaise in miniature, where, if they be of England, they
may well be excused if they kiss the cold tomb, as I did, of the
author of <i>Amelia</i>, the most singular genius which their
island ever produced, whose works it has long been the fashion to
abuse in public and to read in secret. In the same cemetery
rest the mortal remains of Doddridge, another English author of a
different stamp, but justly admired and esteemed. I had not
intended, on disembarking, to remain long in Lisbon, nor indeed
in Portugal; my destination was Spain, whither I shortly proposed
to direct my steps, it being the intention of the Bible Society
to attempt to commence operations in that country, the object of
which should be the distribution of the Word of God, for Spain
had hitherto been a region barred against the admission of the
Bible; not so Portugal, where, since the revolution, the Bible
had been permitted both to be introduced and circulated.
Little, however, had been accomplished; therefore, finding myself
in the country, I determined, if possible, to effect something in
the way of distribution, but first of all to make myself
acquainted as to how far the people were disposed to receive the
Bible, and whether the state of education in general would permit
them to turn it to much account. I had plenty of Bibles and
Testaments at my disposal, but could the people read them, or
would they? A friend of the Society to whom I was
recommended was absent from Lisbon at the period of my arrival;
this I regretted, as he could have afforded me several useful
hints. In order, however, that no time might be lost, I
determined not to wait for his arrival, but at once proceed to
gather the best information I could upon those points to which I
have already alluded. I determined to commence my
researches at some slight distance from Lisbon, being well aware
of the erroneous ideas that I must form of the Portuguese in
general, should I judge of their character and opinions from what
I saw and heard in a city so much subjected to foreign
intercourse.</p>

<p>My first excursion was to Cintra. If there be any place
in the world entitled to the appellation of an enchanted region,
it is surely Cintra; Tivoli is a beautiful and picturesque place,
but it quickly fades from the mind of those who have seen the
Portuguese Paradise. When speaking of Cintra, it must not
for a moment be supposed that nothing more is meant than the
little town or city; by Cintra must be understood the entire
region, town, palace, quintas, forests, crags, Moorish ruin,
which suddenly burst on the view on rounding the side of a bleak,
savage, and sterile-looking mountain. Nothing is more
sullen and uninviting than the south-western aspect of the stony
wall which, on the side of Lisbon, seems to shield Cintra from
the eye of the world, but the other side is a mingled scene of
fairy beauty, artificial elegance, savage grandeur, domes,
turrets, enormous trees, flowers and waterfalls, such as is met
with nowhere else beneath the sun. Oh! there are strange
and wonderful objects at Cintra, and strange and wonderful
recollections attached to them. The ruin on that lofty
peak, and which covers part of the side of that precipitous
steep, was once the principal stronghold of the Lusitanian Moors,
and thither, long after they had disappeared, at a particular
moon of every year, were wont to repair wild santons of
Maugrabie, to pray at the tomb of a famous Sidi, who slumbers
amongst the rocks. That grey palace witnessed the
assemblage of the last cortes held by the boy king Sebastian, ere
he departed on his romantic expedition against the Moors, who so
well avenged their insulted faith and country at Alcazarquibir,
and in that low shady quinta, embowered amongst those tall
alcornoques, once dwelt John de Castro, the strange old viceroy
of Goa, who pawned the hairs of his dead son&rsquo;s beard to
raise money to repair the ruined wall of a fortress threatened by
the heathen of Ind; those crumbling stones which stand before the
portal, deeply graven, not with &ldquo;runes,&rdquo; but things
equally dark, Sanscrit rhymes from the Vedas, were brought by him
from Goa, the most brilliant scene of his glory, before Portugal
had become a base kingdom; and down that dingle, on an abrupt
rocky promontory, stand the ruined halls of the English
Millionaire, who there nursed the wayward fancies of a mind as
wild, rich, and variegated as the scenes around. Yes,
wonderful are the objects which meet the eye at Cintra, and
wonderful are the recollections attached to them.</p>

<p>The town of Cintra contains about eight hundred
inhabitants. The morning subsequent to my arrival, as I was
about to ascend the mountain for the purpose of examining the
Moorish ruins, I observed a person advancing towards me whom I
judged by his dress to be an ecclesiastic; he was in fact one of
the three priests of the place. I instantly accosted him,
and had no reason to regret doing so; I found him affable and
communicative.</p>

<p>After praising the beauty of the surrounding scenery, I made
some inquiry as to the state of education amongst the people
under his care. He answered, that he was sorry to say that
they were in a state of great ignorance, very few of the common
people being able either to read or write; that with respect to
schools, there was but one in the place, where four or five
children were taught the alphabet, but that even this was at
present closed; he informed me, however, that there was a school
at Colhares, about a league distant. Amongst other things,
he said that nothing more surprised him than to see Englishmen,
the most learned and intelligent people in the world, visiting a
place like Cintra, where there was no literature, science, nor
anything of utility (<i>coisa que presta</i>). I suspect
that there was some covert satire in the last speech of the
worthy priest; I was, however, Jesuit enough to appear to receive
it as a high compliment, and, taking off my hat, departed with an
infinity of bows.</p>

<p>That same day I visited Colhares, a romantic village on the
side of the mountain of Cintra, to the north-west. Seeing
some peasants collected round a smithy, I inquired about the
school, whereupon one of the men instantly conducted me
thither. I went upstairs into a small apartment, where I
found the master with about a dozen pupils standing in a row; I
saw but one stool in the room, and to that, after having embraced
me, he conducted me with great civility. After some
discourse, he showed me the books which he used for the
instruction of the children; they were spelling books, much of
the same kind as those used in the village schools in
England. Upon my asking him whether it was his practice to
place the Scriptures in the hands of the children, he informed me
that long before they had acquired sufficient intelligence to
understand them they were removed by their parents, in order that
they might assist in the labours of the field, and that the
parents in general were by no means solicitous that their
children should learn anything, as they considered the time
occupied in learning as so much squandered away. He said,
that though the schools were nominally supported by the
government, it was rarely that the schoolmasters could obtain
their salaries, on which account many had of late resigned their
employments. He told me that he had a copy of the New
Testament in his possession, which I desired to see, but on
examining it I discovered that it was only the epistles by
Pereira, with copious notes. I asked him whether he
considered that there was harm in reading the Scriptures without
notes: he replied that there was certainly no harm in it, but
that simple people, without the help of notes, could derive but
little benefit from Scripture, as the greatest part would be
unintelligible to them; whereupon I shook hands with him, and on
departing said that there was no part of Scripture so difficult
to understand as those very notes which were intended to
elucidate it, and that it would never have been written if not
calculated of itself to illume the minds of all classes of
mankind.</p>

<p>In a day or two I made an excursion to Mafra, distant about
three leagues from Cintra; the principal part of the way lay over
steep hills, somewhat dangerous for horses; however, I reached
the place in safety.</p>

<p>Mafra is a large village in the neighbourhood of an immense
building, intended to serve as a convent and palace, and which is
built somewhat after the fashion of the Escurial. In this
edifice exists the finest library in Portugal, containing books
on all sciences and in all languages, and well suited to the size
and grandeur of the edifice which contains it. There were
no monks, however, to take care of it, as in former times; they
had been driven forth, some to beg their bread, some to serve
under the banners of Don Carlos, in Spain, and many, as I was
informed, to prowl about as banditti. I found the place
abandoned to two or three menials, and exhibiting an aspect of
solitude and desolation truly appalling. Whilst I was
viewing the cloisters, a fine intelligent-looking lad came up and
asked (I suppose in the hope of obtaining a trifle) whether I
would permit him to show me the village church, which he informed
me was well worth seeing; I said no, but added, that if he would
show me the village school I should feel much obliged to
him. He looked at me with astonishment, and assured me that
there was nothing to be seen at the school, which did not contain
more than half a dozen boys, and that he himself was one of the
number. On my telling him, however, that he should show me
no other place, he at length unwillingly attended me. On
the way I learned from him that the schoolmaster was one of the
friars who had lately been expelled from the convent, that he was
a very learned man, and spoke French and Greek. We passed a
stone cross, and the boy bent his head and crossed himself with
much devotion. I mention this circumstance, as it was the
first instance of the kind which I had observed amongst the
Portuguese since my arrival. When near the house where the
schoolmaster resided, he pointed it out to me, and then hid
himself behind a wall, where he awaited my return.</p>

<p>On stepping over the threshold I was confronted by a short
stout man, between sixty and seventy years of age, dressed in a
blue jerkin and grey trousers, without shirt or waistcoat; he
looked at me sternly, and enquired in the French language what
was my pleasure. I apologised for intruding upon him, and
stated that, being informed he occupied the situation of
schoolmaster, I had come to pay my respects to him and to beg
permission to ask a few questions respecting the seminary.
He answered that whoever told me he was a schoolmaster lied, for
that he was a friar of the convent and nothing else.
&ldquo;It is not then true,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;that all the
convents have been broken up and the monks
dismissed?&rdquo; &ldquo;Yes, yes,&rdquo; said he with a
sigh, &ldquo;it is true; it is but too true.&rdquo; He then
was silent for a minute, and his better nature overcoming his
angry feelings, he produced a snuff-box and offered it to
me. The snuff-box is the olive-branch of the Portuguese,
and he who wishes to be on good terms with them must never refuse
to dip his finger and thumb into it when offered. I took
therefore a huge pinch, though I detest the dust, and we were
soon on the best possible terms. He was eager to obtain
news, especially from Lisbon and Spain. I told him that the
officers of the troops at Lisbon had, the day before I left that
place, gone in a body to the queen and insisted upon her either
receiving their swords or dismissing her ministers; whereupon he
rubbed his hands and said that he was sure matters would not
remain tranquil at Lisbon. On my saying, however, that I
thought the affairs of Don Carlos were on the decline (this was
shortly after the death of Zumalacarregui), he frowned, and cried
that it could not possibly be, for that God was too just to
suffer it. I felt for the poor man who had been driven out
of his home in the noble convent close by, and from a state of
affluence and comfort reduced in his old age to indigence and
misery, for his present dwelling scarcely seemed to contain an
article of furniture. I tried twice or thrice to induce him
to converse about the school, but he either avoided the subject
or said shortly that he knew nothing about it. On my
leaving him, the boy came from his hiding-place and rejoined me;
he said that he had hidden himself through fear of his
master&rsquo;s knowing that he had brought me to him, for that he
was unwilling that any stranger should know that he was a
schoolmaster.</p>

<p>I asked the boy whether he or his parents were acquainted with
the Scripture and ever read it; he did not, however, seem to
understand me. I must here observe that the boy was fifteen
years of age, that he was in many respects very intelligent, and
had some knowledge of the Latin language; nevertheless he knew
not the Scripture even by name, and I have no doubt, from what I
subsequently observed, that at least two-thirds of his countrymen
are on that important point no wiser than himself. At the
doors of village inns, at the hearths of the rustics, in the
fields where they labour, at the stone fountains by the wayside
where they water their cattle, I have questioned the lower class
of the children of Portugal about the Scripture, the Bible, the
Old and New Testament, and in no one instance have they known
what I was alluding to, or could return me a rational answer,
though on all other matters their replies were sensible enough;
indeed, nothing surprised me more than the free and unembarrassed
manner in which the Portuguese peasantry sustain a conversation,
and the purity of the language in which they express their
thoughts, and yet few of them can read or write; whereas the
peasantry of England, whose education is in general much
superior, are in their conversation coarse and dull almost to
brutality, and absurdly ungrammatical in their language, though
the English tongue is upon the whole more simple in its structure
than the Portuguese.</p>

<p>On my return to Lisbon I found our friend ---, who received me
very kindly. The next ten days were exceedingly rainy,
which prevented me from making any excursions into the country:
during this time I saw our friend frequently, and had long
conversations with him concerning the best means of distributing
the gospel. He thought we could do no better for the
present than put part of our stock into the hands of the
booksellers of Lisbon, and at the same time employ colporteurs to
hawk the books about the streets, receiving a certain profit off
every copy they sold. This plan was agreed upon and
forthwith put in practice, and with some success. I had
thought of sending colporteurs into the neighbouring villages,
but to this our friend objected. He thought the attempt
dangerous, as it was very possible that the rural priesthood, who
still possessed much influence in their own districts, and who
were for the most part decided enemies to the spread of the
gospel, might cause the men employed to be assassinated or
ill-treated.</p>

<p>I determined, however, ere leaving Portugal, to establish
dépots of Bibles in one or two of the provincial
towns. I wished to visit the Alemtejo, which I had heard
was a very benighted region. The Alemtejo means the
province beyond the Tagus. This province is not beautiful
and picturesque, like most other parts of Portugal: there are few
hills and mountains, the greater part consists of heaths broken
by knolls, and gloomy dingles, and forests of stunted pine; these
places are infested with banditti. The principal city is
Evora, one of the most ancient in Portugal, and formerly the seat
of a branch of the Inquisition, yet more cruel and baneful than
the terrible one of Lisbon. Evora lies about sixty miles
from Lisbon, and to Evora I determined on going with twenty
Testaments and two Bibles. How I fared there will presently
be seen.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER II</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Boatmen of the Tagus&mdash;Dangers of the
Stream&mdash;Aldea Gallega&mdash;The
Hostelry&mdash;Robbers&mdash;Sabocha&mdash;Adventure of a
Muleteer&mdash;Estalagem de Ladroes&mdash;Don
Geronimo&mdash;Vendas Novas&mdash;Royal Residence&mdash;Swine of
the Alemtejo&mdash;Monto Moro&mdash;Swayne Vonved&mdash;Singular
Goatherd&mdash;Children of the Fields&mdash;Infidels and
Sadducees.</p>

<p>On the afternoon of the sixth of December I set out for Evora,
accompanied by my servant. I had been informed that the
tide would serve for the regular passage-boats, or felouks, as
they are called, at about four o&rsquo;clock, but on reaching the
side of the Tagus opposite to Aldea Gallega, between which place
and Lisbon the boats ply, I found that the tide would not permit
them to start before eight o&rsquo;clock. Had I waited for
them I should have probably landed at Aldea Gallega about
midnight, and I felt little inclination to make my entrée
in the Alemtejo at that hour; therefore, as I saw small boats
which can push off at any time lying near in abundance, I
determined upon hiring one of them for the passage, though the
expense would be thus considerably increased. I soon agreed
with a wild-looking lad, who told me that he was in part owner of
one of the boats, to take me over. I was not aware of the
danger in crossing the Tagus at its broadest part, which is
opposite Aldea Gallega, at any time, but especially at close of
day in the winter season, or I should certainly not have
ventured. The lad and his comrade, a miserable looking
object, whose only clothing, notwithstanding the season, was a
tattered jerkin and trousers, rowed until we had advanced about
half a mile from the land; they then set up a large sail, and the
lad, who seemed to direct everything and to be the principal,
took the helm and steered. The evening was now setting in;
the sun was not far from its bourne in the horizon, the air was
very cold, the wind was rising, and the waves of the noble Tagus
began to be crested with foam. I told the boy that it was
scarcely possible for the boat to carry so much sail without
upsetting, upon which he laughed, and began to gabble in a most
incoherent manner. He had the most harsh and rapid
articulation that has ever come under my observation in any human
being; it was the scream of the hyena blended with the bark of
the terrier, though it was by no means an index of his
disposition, which I soon found to be light, merry, and anything
but malevolent, for when I, in order to show him that I cared
little about him, began to hum &ldquo;<i>Eu que sou
Contrabandista</i>,&rdquo; he laughed heartily and said, clapping
me on the shoulder, that he would not drown us if he could help
it. The other poor fellow seemed by no means averse to go
to the bottom; he sat at the fore part of the boat looking the
image of famine, and only smiled when the waters broke over the
weather side and soaked his scanty habiliments. In a little
time I had made up my mind that our last hour was come; the wind
was getting higher, the short dangerous waves were more foamy,
the boat was frequently on its beam, and the water came over the
lee side in torrents; but still the wild lad at the helm held on
laughing and chattering, and occasionally yelling out part of the
Miguelite air, &ldquo;<i>Quando el Rey chegou</i>&rdquo; the
singing of which in Lisbon is imprisonment.</p>

<p>The stream was against us, but the wind was in our favour, and
we sprang along at a wonderful rate, and I saw that our only
chance of escape was in speedily passing the farther bank of the
Tagus where the bight or bay at the extremity of which stands
Aldea Gallega commences, for we should not then have to battle
with the waves of the stream, which the adverse wind lashed into
fury. It was the will of the Almighty to permit us speedily
to gain this shelter, but not before the boat was nearly filled
with water, and we were all wet to the skin. At about seven
o&rsquo;clock in the evening we reached Aldea Gallega, shivering
with cold and in a most deplorable plight.</p>

<p>Aldea Gallega, or the Galician Village (for the two words are
Spanish, and have that signification), is a place containing, I
should think, about four thousand inhabitants. It was
pitchy dark when we landed, but rockets soon began to fly about
in all directions, illuming the air far and wide. As we
passed along the dirty unpaved street which leads to the Largo,
or square in which the inn is situated, a horrible uproar of
drums and voices assailed our ears. On inquiring the cause
of all this bustle, I was informed that it was the eve of the
Conception of the Virgin.</p>

<p>As it was not the custom of the people at the inn to furnish
provisions for the guests, I wandered about in search of food;
and at last seeing some soldiers eating and drinking in a species
of wine-house, I went in and asked the people to let me have some
supper, and in a short time they furnished me with a tolerable
meal, for which, however, they charged three crowns.</p>

<p>Having engaged with a person for mules to carry us to Evora,
which were to be ready at five next morning, I soon retired to
bed, my servant sleeping in the same apartment, which was the
only one in the house vacant. I closed not my eyes during
the whole night. Beneath us was a stable, in which some
almocreves, or carriers, slept with their mules; at our back, in
the yard, was a pigsty. How could I sleep? The hogs
grunted, the mules screamed, and the almocreves snored most
horribly. I heard the village clock strike the hours until
midnight, and from midnight till four in the morning, when I
sprang up and began to dress, and despatched my servant to hasten
the man with the mules, for I was heartily tired of the place and
wanted to leave it. An old man, bony and hale, accompanied
by a barefooted lad, brought the beasts, which were tolerably
good. He was the proprietor of them, and intended, with the
lad, who was his nephew, to accompany us to Evora.</p>

<p>When we started, the moon was shining brightly, and the
morning was piercingly cold. We soon entered on a sandy
hollow way, emerging from which we passed by a strange-looking
and large edifice, standing on a high bleak sand-hill on our
left. We were speedily overtaken by five or six men on
horseback, riding at a rapid pace, each with a long gun slung at
his saddle, the muzzle depending about two feet below the
horse&rsquo;s belly. I inquired of the old man what was the
reason of this warlike array. He answered, that the roads
were very bad (meaning that they abounded with robbers), and that
they went armed in this manner for their defence; they soon
turned off to the right towards Palmella.</p>

<p>We reached a sandy plain studded with stunted pine; the road
was little more than a footpath, and as we proceeded, the trees
thickened and became a wood, which extended for two leagues, with
clear spaces at intervals, in which herds of cattle and sheep
were feeding; the bells attached to their necks were ringing
lowly and monotonously. The sun was just beginning to show
itself; but the morning was misty and dreary, which, together
with the aspect of desolation which the country exhibited, had an
unfavourable effect on my spirits. I got down and walked,
entering into conversation with the old man. He seemed to
have but one theme, &ldquo;the robbers,&rdquo; and the atrocities
they were in the habit of practising in the very spots we were
passing. The tales he told were truly horrible, and to
avoid them I mounted again, and rode on considerably in
front.</p>

<p>In about an hour and a half we emerged from the forest, and
entered upon a savage, wild, broken ground, covered with mato, or
brushwood. The mules stopped to drink at a shallow pool,
and on looking to the right I saw a ruined wall. This, the
guide informed me, was the remains of Vendas Velhas, or the Old
Inn, formerly the haunt of the celebrated robber Sabocha.
This Sabocha, it seems, had, some sixteen years ago, a band of
about forty ruffians at his command, who infested these wilds,
and supported themselves by plunder. For a considerable
time Sabocha pursued his atrocious trade unsuspected, and many an
unfortunate traveller was murdered in the dead of night at the
solitary inn by the wood-side, which he kept; indeed, a more fit
situation for plunder and murder I never saw. The gang were
in the habit of watering their horses at the pool, and perhaps of
washing therein their hands stained with the blood of their
victims; the lieutenant of the troop was the brother of Sabocha,
a fellow of great strength and ferocity, particularly famous for
the skill he possessed in darting a long knife, with which he was
in the habit of transfixing his opponents. Sabocha&rsquo;s
connection with the gang at length became known, and he fled,
with the greater part of his associates, across the Tagus to the
northern provinces. Himself and his brothers eventually
lost their lives on the road to Coimbra, in an engagement with
the military. His house was razed by order of the
government.</p>

<p>The ruins are still frequently visited by banditti, who eat
and drink amidst them, and look out for prey, as the place
commands a view of the road. The old man assured me, that
about two months previous, on returning to Aldea Gallega with his
mules from accompanying some travellers, he had been knocked
down, stripped naked, and all his money taken from him, by a
fellow whom he believed came from this murderers&rsquo;
nest. He said that he was an exceedingly powerful young
man, with immense moustaches and whiskers, and was armed with an
espingarda, or musket. About ten days subsequently he saw
the robber at Vendas Novas, where we should pass the night.
The fellow on recognising him took him aside, and, with horrid
imprecations, threatened that he should never be permitted to
return home if he attempted to discover him; he therefore held
his peace, as there was little to be gained and everything to be
risked in apprehending him, as he would have been speedily set at
liberty for want of evidence to criminate him, and then he would
not have failed to have had his revenge, or would have been
anticipated therein by his comrades.</p>

<p>I dismounted and went up to the place, and saw the vestiges of
a fire and a broken bottle. The sons of plunder had been
there very lately. I left a New Testament and some tracts
amongst the ruins, and hastened away.</p>

<p>The sun had dispelled the mists and was beaming very hot; we
rode on for about an hour, when I heard the neighing of a horse
in our rear, and our guide said there was a party of horsemen
behind; our mules were good, and they did not overtake us for at
least twenty minutes. The headmost rider was a gentleman in
a fashionable travelling dress; a little way behind were an
officer, two soldiers, and a boy in livery. I heard the
principal horseman, on overtaking my servant, inquiring who I
was, and whether French or English. He was told I was an
English gentleman, travelling. He then asked whether I
understood Portuguese; the man said I understood it, but he
believed that I spoke French and Italian better. The
gentleman then spurred on his horse and accosted me, not in
Portuguese, nor in French or Italian, but in the purest English
that I ever heard spoken by a foreigner; it had, indeed, nothing
of foreign accent or pronunciation in it; and had I not known, by
the countenance of the speaker, that he was no Englishman, (for
there is a peculiarity in the countenance, as everybody knows,
which, though it cannot be described, is sure to betray the
Englishman), I should have concluded that I was in company with a
countryman. We continued discoursing until we arrived at
Pegoens.</p>

<p>Pegoens consists of about two or three houses and an inn;
there is likewise a species of barrack, where half a dozen
soldiers are stationed. In the whole of Portugal there is
no place of worse reputation, and the inn is nick-named
<i>Estalagem de Ladroes</i>, or the hostelry of thieves; for it
is there that the banditti of the wilderness, which extends
around it on every side for leagues, are in the habit of coming
and spending the money, the fruits of their criminal daring;
there they dance and sing, eat fricasseed rabbits and olives, and
drink the muddy but strong wine of the Alemtejo. An
enormous fire, fed by the trunk of a cork tree, was blazing in a
niche on the left hand on entering the spacious kitchen.
Close by it, seething, were several large jars, which emitted no
disagreeable odour, and reminded me that I had not broken my
fast, although it was now nearly one o&rsquo;clock, and I had
ridden five leagues. Several wild-looking men, who if they
were not banditti might easily be mistaken for such, were seated
on logs about the fire. I asked them some unimportant
questions, to which they replied with readiness and civility, and
one of them, who said he could read, accepted a tract which I
offered him.</p>

<p>My new friend, who had been bespeaking dinner, or rather
breakfast, now, with great civility, invited me to partake of it,
and at the same time introduced me to the officer who accompanied
him, and who was his brother, and also spoke English, though not
so well as himself. I found I had become acquainted with
Don Geronimo Joze D&rsquo;Azveto, secretary to the government at
Evora; his brother belonged to a regiment of hussars, whose
headquarters were at Evora, but which had outlying parties along
the road,&mdash;for example, the place where we were
stopping.</p>

<p>Rabbits at Pegoens seem to be a standard article of food,
being produced in abundance on the moors around. We had one
fried, the gravy of which was delicious, and afterwards a roasted
one, which was brought up on a dish entire; the hostess, having
first washed her hands, proceeded to tear the animal to pieces,
which having accomplished, she poured over the fragments a sweet
sauce. I ate heartily of both dishes, particularly of the
last; owing, perhaps, to the novel and curious manner in which it
was served up. Excellent figs, from the Algarves, and
apples concluded our repast, which we ate in a little side room
with a mud floor, which sent such a piercing chill into my
system, as prevented me from deriving that pleasure from my fare
and my agreeable companions that I should have otherwise
experienced.</p>

<p>Don Geronimo had been educated in England, in which country he
passed his boyhood, which in a certain degree accounted for his
proficiency in the English language, the idiom and pronunciation
of which can only be acquired by residing in the country at that
period of one&rsquo;s life. He had also fled thither
shortly after the usurpation of the throne of Portugal by Don
Miguel, and from thence had departed to the Brazils, where he had
devoted himself to the service of Don Pedro, and had followed him
in the expedition which terminated in the downfall of the usurper
and the establishment of the constitutional government in
Portugal. Our conversation rolled chiefly on literary and
political subjects, and my acquaintance with the writings of the
most celebrated authors of Portugal was hailed with surprise and
delight; for nothing is more gratifying to a Portuguese than to
observe a foreigner taking an interest in the literature of his
nation, of which, in many respects, he is justly proud.</p>

<p>At about two o&rsquo;clock we were once more in the saddle,
and pursued our way in company through a country exactly
resembling that which we had previously been traversing, rugged
and broken, with here and there a clump of pines. The
afternoon was exceedingly fine, and the bright rays of the sun
relieved the desolation of the scene. Having advanced about
two leagues, we caught sight of a large edifice towering
majestically in the distance, which I learnt was a royal palace
standing at the farther extremity of Vendas Novas, the village in
which we were to pass the night; it was considerably more than a
league from us, yet, seen through the clear transparent
atmosphere of Portugal it appeared much nearer.</p>

<p>Before reaching it we passed by a stone cross, on the pedestal
of which was an inscription commemorating a horrible murder of a
native of Lisbon, which had occurred on that spot; it looked
ancient, and was covered with moss, and the greater part of the
inscription was illegible, at least it was to me, who could not
bestow much time on its deciphering. Having arrived at
Vendas Novas, and bespoken supper, my new friend and myself
strolled forth to view the palace; it was built by the late king
of Portugal, and presents little that is remarkable in its
exterior; it is a long edifice with wings, and is only two
stories high, though it can be seen afar off, from being situated
on elevated ground; it has fifteen windows in the upper, and
twelve in the lower story, with a paltry-looking door, something
like that of a barn, to which you ascend by one single step; the
interior corresponds with the exterior, offering nothing which
can gratify curiosity, if we except the kitchens, which are
indeed magnificent, and so large that food enough might be cooked
in them, at one time, to serve as a repast for all the
inhabitants of the Alemtejo.</p>

<p>I passed the night with great comfort in a clean bed, remote
from all those noises so rife in a Portuguese inn, and the next
morning at six we again set out on our journey, which we hoped to
terminate before sunset, as Evora is but ten leagues from Vendas
Novas. The preceding morning had been cold, but the present
one was far colder, so much so, that just before sunrise I could
no longer support it on horseback, and therefore dismounting, ran
and walked until we reached a few houses at the termination of
these desolate moors. It was in one of these houses that
the commissioners of Don Pedro and Miguel met, and it was there
agreed that the latter should resign the crown in favour of Donna
Maria, for Evora was the last stronghold of the usurper, and the
moors of the Alemtejo the last area of the combats which so long
agitated unhappy Portugal. I therefore gazed on the
miserable huts with considerable interest, and did not fail to
scatter in the neighbourhood several of the precious little
tracts with which, together with a small quantity of Testaments,
my carpet bag was provided.</p>

<p>The country began to improve; the savage heaths were left
behind, and we saw hills and dales, cork trees, and azinheiras,
on the last of which trees grows that kind of sweet acorn called
bolotas, which is pleasant as a chestnut, and which supplies in
winter the principal food on which the numerous swine of the
Alemtejo subsist. Gallant swine they are, with short legs
and portly bodies of a black or dark red colour; and for the
excellence of their flesh I can vouch, having frequently
luxuriated upon it in the course of my wanderings in this
province; the lombo, or loin, when broiled on the live embers, is
delicious, especially when eaten with olives.</p>

<p>We were now in sight of Monte Moro, which, as the name
denotes, was once a fortress of the Moors; it is a high steep
hill, on the summit and sides of which are ruined walls and
towers; at its western side is a deep ravine or valley, through
which a small stream rushes, traversed by a stone bridge; farther
down there is a ford, over which we passed and ascended to the
town, which, commencing near the northern base, passes over the
lower ridge towards the north-east. The town is exceedingly
picturesque, and many of the houses are very ancient, and built
in the Moorish fashion. I wished much to examine the relics
of Moorish sway on the upper part of the mountain, but time
pressed, and the short period of our stay at this place did not
permit me to gratify my inclination.</p>

<p>Monte Moro is the head of a range of hills which cross this
part of the Alemtejo, and from hence they fork east and
south-east, towards the former of which directions lies the
direct road to Elvas, Badajos, and Madrid; and towards the latter
that to Evora. A beautiful mountain, covered to the top
with cork trees, is the third of the chain which skirts the way
in the direction of Elvas. It is called Monte Almo; a brook
brawls at its base, and as I passed it the sun was shining
gloriously on the green herbage on which flocks of goats were
feeding, with their bells ringing merrily, so that the <i>tout
ensemble</i> resembled a fairy scene; and that nothing might be
wanted to complete the picture, I here met a man, a goatherd,
beneath an azinheira, whose appearance recalled to my mind the
Brute Carle, mentioned in the Danish ballad of Swayne
Vonved:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote><p>&ldquo;A wild swine on his shoulders he kept,<br
/>
And upon his bosom a black bear slept;<br />
And about his fingers with hair o&rsquo;erhung,<br />
The squirrel sported and weasel clung.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>

<p>Upon the shoulder of the goatherd was a beast, which he told
me was a lontra, or otter, which he had lately caught in the
neighbouring brook; it had a string round its neck which was
attached to his arm. At his left side was a bag, from the
top of which peered the heads of two or three singular-looking
animals, and at his right was squatted the sullen cub of a wolf,
which he was endeavouring to tame; his whole appearance was to
the last degree savage and wild. After a little
conversation such as those who meet on the road frequently hold,
I asked him if he could read, but he made me no answer. I
then inquired if he knew anything of God or Jesus Christ; he
looked me fixedly in the face for a moment, and then turned his
countenance towards the sun, which was beginning to sink in the
west, nodded to it, and then again looked fixedly upon me.
I believe that I understood the mute reply; which probably was,
that it was God who made that glorious light which illumes and
gladdens all creation; and gratified with that belief, I left him
and hastened after my companions, who were by this time a
considerable way in advance.</p>

<p>I have always found in the disposition of the children of the
fields a more determined tendency to religion and piety than
amongst the inhabitants of towns and cities, and the reason is
obvious, they are less acquainted with the works of man&rsquo;s
hands than with those of God; their occupations, too, which are
simple, and requiring less of ingenuity and skill than those
which engage the attention of the other portion of their
fellow-creatures, are less favourable to the engendering of
self-conceit and sufficiency so utterly at variance with that
lowliness of spirit which constitutes the best foundation of
piety. The sneerers and scoffers at religion do not spring
from amongst the simple children of nature, but are the
excrescences of overwrought refinement, and though their baneful
influence has indeed penetrated to the country and corrupted man
there, the source and fountainhead was amongst crowded houses,
where nature is scarcely known. I am not one of those who
look for perfection amongst the rural population of any country;
perfection is not to be found amongst the children of the fall,
wherever their abodes may happen to be; but, until the heart
discredits the existence of a God, there is still hope for the
soul of the possessor, however stained with crime he may be, for
even Simon the magician was converted; but when the heart is once
steeled with infidelity, infidelity confirmed by carnal wisdom,
an exuberance of the grace of God is required to melt it, which
is seldom manifested; for we read in the blessed book that the
Pharisee and the wizard became receptacles of grace, but where is
there mention made of the conversion of the sneering Sadducee,
and is the modern infidel aught but a Sadducee of later date?</p>

<p>It was dark night before we reached Evora, and having taken
leave of my friends, who kindly requested me to consider their
house my home, I and my servant went to the Largo de San
Francisco, in which the muleteer informed me was the best
hostelry of the town. We rode into the kitchen, at the
extreme end of which was the stable, as is customary in
Portugal. The house was kept by an aged gypsy-like female
and her daughter, a fine blooming girl about eighteen years of
age. The house was large; in the upper storey was a very
long room, like a granary, which extended nearly the whole length
of the house; the farther part was partitioned off and formed a
chamber tolerably comfortable but very cold, and the floor was of
tiles, as was also that of the large room in which the muleteers
were accustomed to sleep on the furniture of the mules.
After supper I went to bed, and having offered up my devotions to
Him who had protected me through a dangerous journey, I slept
soundly till the morning.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER III</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Shopkeeper at Evora&mdash;Spanish
Contrabandistas&mdash;Lion and Unicorn&mdash;The
Fountain&mdash;Trust in the Almighty&mdash;Distribution of
Tracts&mdash;Library at Evora&mdash;Manuscript&mdash;The Bible as
a Guide&mdash;The Infamous Mary&mdash;The Man of
Palmella&mdash;The Charm&mdash;The Monkish
System&mdash;Sunday&mdash;Volney&mdash;An
Auto-Da-Fé&mdash;Men from Spain&mdash;Reading of a
Tract&mdash;New Arrival&mdash;The Herb Rosemary.</p>

<p>Evora is a small city, walled, but not regularly fortified,
and could not sustain a siege of a day. It has five gates;
before that to the south-west is the principal promenade of its
inhabitants: the fair on St. John&rsquo;s day is likewise held
there; the houses are in general very ancient, and many of them
unoccupied. It contains about five thousand inhabitants,
though twice that number would be by no means disproportionate to
its size. The two principal edifices are the See, or
cathedral, and the convent of San Francisco, in the square before
the latter of which was situated the posada where I had taken up
my abode. A large barrack for cavalry stands on the
right-hand side, on entering the south-west gate. To the
south-east, at the distance of six leagues, is to be seen a blue
chain of hills, the highest of which is called Serra Dorso; it is
picturesquely beautiful, and contains within its recesses wolves
and wild boars in numbers. About a league and a half on the
other side of this hill is Estremos.</p>

<p>I passed the day succeeding my arrival principally in
examining the town and its environs, and, as I strolled about,
entering into conversation with various people that I met;
several of these were of the middle class, shopkeepers and
professional men; they were all Constitutionalists, or pretended
to be so, but had very little to say except a few commonplace
remarks on the way of living of the friars, their hypocrisy and
laziness. I endeavoured to obtain some information
respecting the state of instruction in the place, and from their
answers was led to believe that it must be at the lowest ebb, for
it seemed that there was neither book-shop nor school. When
I spoke of religion, they exhibited the utmost apathy for the
subject, and making their bows left me as soon as possible.</p>

<p>Having a letter of introduction to a person who kept a shop in
the market-place, I went thither and delivered it to him as he
stood behind his counter. In the course of conversation, I
found that he had been much persecuted whilst the old system was
in its vigour, and that he entertained a hearty aversion for
it. I told him that the ignorance of the people in
religious matters had served to nurse that system, and that the
surest way to prevent its return was to enlighten their minds: I
added that I had brought a small stock of Bibles and Testaments
to Evora, which I wished to leave for sale in the hands of some
respectable merchant, and that if he were anxious to help to lay
the axe to the root of superstition and tyranny, he could not do
so more effectually than by undertaking the charge of these
books. He declared his willingness to do so, and I went
away determined to entrust to him half of my stock. I
returned to the hostelry, and sat down on a log of wood on the
hearth within the immense chimney in the common apartment; two
surly looking men were on their knees on the stones; before them
was a large heap of pieces of old iron, brass, and copper; they
were assorting it, and stowing it away in various bags.
They were Spanish contrabandistas of the lowest class, and earned
a miserable livelihood by smuggling such rubbish from Portugal
into Spain. Not a word proceeded from their lips, and when
I addressed them in their native language, they returned no other
answer than a kind of growl. They looked as dirty and rusty
as the iron in which they trafficked; their four miserable
donkeys were in the stable in the rear.</p>

<p>The woman of the house and her daughter were exceedingly civil
to me, and coming near crouched down, asking various questions
about England. A man dressed somewhat like an English
sailor, who sat on the other side of the hearth confronting me,
said, &ldquo;I hate the English, for they are not baptized, and
have not the law,&rdquo; meaning the law of God. I laughed,
and told him that according to the law of England, no one who was
unbaptized could be buried in consecrated ground; whereupon he
said, &ldquo;Then you are stricter than we.&rdquo; He then
said, &ldquo;What is meant by the lion and the unicorn which I
saw the other day on the coat of arms over the door of the
English consul at St. Ubes?&rdquo; I said they were the
arms of England! &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;but
what do they represent?&rdquo; I said I did not know.
&ldquo;Then,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;you do not know the secrets
of your own house.&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;Suppose I were to
tell you that they represent the Lion of Bethlehem, and the
horned monster of the flaming pit in combat, as to which should
obtain the mastery in England, what would you say?&rdquo;
He replied, &ldquo;I should say that you gave a fair
answer.&rdquo; This man and myself became great friends; he
came from Palmella, not far from St. Ubes; he had several mules
and horses with him, and dealt in corn and barley. I again
walked out and roamed in the environs of the town.</p>

<p>About half a mile from the southern wall is a stone fountain,
where the muleteers and other people who visit the town are
accustomed to water their horses. I sat down by it, and
there I remained about two hours, entering into conversation with
every one who halted at the fountain; and I will here observe,
that during the time of my sojourn at Evora, I repeated my visit
every day, and remained there the same time; and by following
this plan, I believe that I spoke to at least two hundred of the
children of Portugal upon matters relating to their eternal
welfare. I found that very few of those whom I addressed
had received any species of literary education, none of them had
seen the Bible, and not more than half a dozen had the slightest
inkling of what the holy book consisted. I found that most
of them were bigoted Papists and Miguelites at heart. I
therefore, when they told me they were Christians, denied the
possibility of their being so, as they were ignorant of Christ
and His commandments, and placed their hope of salvation on
outward forms and superstitious observances, which were the
invention of Satan, who wished to keep them in darkness that at
last they might stumble into the pit which he had dug for
them. I said repeatedly that the Pope, whom they revered,
was an arch deceiver, and the head minister of Satan here on
earth, and that the monks and friars, whose absence they so
deplored, and to whom they had been accustomed to confess
themselves, were his subordinate agents. When called upon
for proofs, I invariably cited the ignorance of my auditors
respecting the Scriptures, and said that if their spiritual
guides had been really ministers of Christ, they would not have
permitted their flocks to remain unacquainted with His Word.</p>

<p>Since this occurred, I have been frequently surprised that I
experienced no insult and ill-treatment from the people, whose
superstitions I was thus attacking; but I really experienced
none, and am inclined to believe that the utter fearlessness
which I displayed, trusting in the Protection of the Almighty,
may have been the cause. When threatened by danger, the
best policy is to fix your eye steadily upon it, and it will in
general vanish like the morning mist before the sun; whereas, if
you quail before it, it is sure to become more imminent. I
have fervent hope that the words of my mouth sank deep into the
hearts of some of my auditors, as I observed many of them depart
musing and pensive. I occasionally distributed tracts
amongst them; for although they themselves were unable to turn
them to much account, I thought that by their means they might
become of service at some future time, and fall into the hands of
others, to whom they might be of eternal interest. Many a
book which is abandoned to the waters is wafted to some remote
shore, and there proves a blessing and a comfort to millions, who
are ignorant from whence it came.</p>

<p>The next day, which was Friday, I called at the house of my
friend Don Geronimo Azveto. I did not find him there, but
was directed to the see, or episcopal palace, in an apartment of
which I found him, writing, with another gentleman, to whom he
introduced me; it was the governor of Evora, who welcomed me with
every mark of kindness and affability. After some
discourse, we went out together to examine an ancient edifice,
which was reported to have served, in bygone times, as a temple
to Diana. Part of it was evidently of Roman architecture,
for there was no mistaking the beautiful light pillars which
supported a dome, under which the sacrifices to the most
captivating and poetical divinity of the heathen theocracy had
probably been made; but the original space between the pillars
had been filled up with rubbish of a modern date, and the rest of
the building was apparently of the architecture of the latter end
of the Middle Ages. It was situated at one end of the
building which had once been the seat of the Inquisition, and had
served, before the erection of the present see, as the residence
of the bishop.</p>

<p>Within the see, where the governor now resides, is a superb
library, occupying an immense vaulted room, like the aisle of a
cathedral, and in a side apartment is a collection of paintings
by Portuguese artists, chiefly portraits, amongst which is that
of Don Sebastian. I sincerely hope it did not do him
justice, for it represents him in the shape of an awkward lad of
about eighteen, with a bloated booby face with staring eyes, and
a ruff round a short apoplectic neck.</p>

<p>I was shown several beautifully illuminated missals and other
manuscripts; but the one which most arrested my attention, I
scarcely need say why, was that which bore the following
title:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote><p>&ldquo;Forma sive ordinatio Capelli illustrissimi
et xianissimi principis Henvici Sexti Regis Anglie et Francie am
dm Hibernie descripta serenissio principi Alfonso Regi Portugalie
illustri per humilem servitorem sm Willm. Sav. Decanu capelle
supradicte.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>

<p>It seemed a voice from the olden times of my dear native
land! This library and picture gallery had been formed by
one of the latter bishops, a person of much learning and
piety.</p>

<p>In the evening I dined with Don Geronimo and his brother; the
latter soon left us to attend to his military duties. My
friend and myself had now much conversation of considerable
interest; he lamented the deplorable state of ignorance in which
his countrymen existed at present. He said that his friend
the governor and himself were endeavouring to establish a school
in the vicinity, and that they had made application to the
government for the use of an empty convent, called the
Espinheiro, or thorn tree, at about a league&rsquo;s distance,
and that they had little doubt of their request being complied
with. I had before told him who I was, and after expressing
joy at the plan which he had in contemplation, I now urged him in
the most pressing manner to use all his influence to make the
knowledge of the Scripture the basis of the education which the
children were to receive, and added, that half the Bibles and
Testaments which I had brought with me to Evora were heartily at
his service; he instantly gave me his hand, said he accepted my
offer with the greatest pleasure, and would do all in his power
to forward my views, which were in many respects his own. I
now told him that I did not come to Portugal with the view of
propagating the dogmas of any particular sect, but with the hope
of introducing the Bible, which is the well-head of all that is
useful and conducive to the happiness of society,&mdash;that I
cared not what people called themselves, provided they followed
the Bible as a guide; for that where the Scriptures were read,
neither priestcraft nor tyranny could long exist, and instanced
the case of my own country, the cause of whose freedom and
prosperity was the Bible, and that only, as the last persecutor
of this book, the bloody and infamous Mary, was the last tyrant
who had sat on the throne of England. We did not part till
the night was considerably advanced, and the next morning I sent
him the books, in the firm and confident hope that a bright and
glorious morning was about to rise over the night which had so
long cast its dreary shadows over the regions of the
Alemtejo.</p>

<p>The day after this interesting event, which was Saturday, I
had more conversation with the man from Palmella. I asked
him if in his journeys he had never been attacked by robbers; he
answered no, for that he generally travelled in company with
others. &ldquo;However,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;were I alone
I should have little fear, for I am well protected.&rdquo;
I said that I supposed he carried arms with him. &ldquo;No
other arms than this,&rdquo; said he, pulling out one of those
long desperate looking knives, of English manufacture, with which
every Portuguese peasant is usually furnished. This knife
serves for many purposes, and I should consider it a far more
efficient weapon than a dagger. &ldquo;But,&rdquo; said he,
&ldquo;I do not place much confidence in the knife.&rdquo;
I then inquired in what rested his hope of protection.
&ldquo;In this,&rdquo; said he: and unbuttoning his waistcoat, he
showed me a small bag, attached to his neck by a silken
string. &ldquo;In this bag is an oracam, or prayer, written
by a person of power, and as long as I carry it about with me, no
ill can befall me.&rdquo; Curiosity is the leading feature
of my character, and I instantly said, with eagerness, that I
should feel great pleasure in being permitted to read the
prayer. &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;you are my
friend, and I would do for you what I would for few others, I
will show it you.&rdquo; He then asked for my penknife, and
having unripped the bag, took out a large piece of paper closely
folded up. I hurried to my apartment and commenced the
examination of it. It was scrawled over in a very illegible
hand, and was moreover much stained with perspiration, so that I
had considerable difficulty in making myself master of its
contents, but I at last accomplished the following literal
translation of the charm, which was written in bad Portuguese,
but which struck me at the time as being one of the most
remarkable compositions that had ever come to my knowledge.</p>

<h3>THE CHARM</h3>

<blockquote><p>&ldquo;Just Judge and divine Son of the Virgin
Maria, who wast born in Bethlehem, a Nazarene, and wast crucified
in the midst of all Jewry, I beseech thee, O Lord, by thy sixth
day, that the body of me be not caught, nor put to death by the
hands of justice at all; peace be with you, the peace of Christ,
may I receive peace, may you receive peace, said God to his
disciples. If the accursed justice should distrust me, or
have its eyes on me, in order to take me or to rob me, may its
eyes not see me, may its mouth not speak to me, may it have ears
which may not hear me, may it have hands which may not seize me,
may it have feet which may not overtake me; for may I be armed
with the arms of St. George, covered with the cloak of Abraham,
and shipped in the ark of Noah, so that it can neither see me,
nor hear me, nor draw the blood from my body. I also adjure
thee, O Lord, by those three blessed crosses, by those three
blessed chalices, by those three blessed clergymen, by those
three consecrated hosts, that thou give me that sweet company
which thou gavest to the Virgin Maria, from the gates of
Bethlehem to the portals of Jerusalem, that I may go and come
with pleasure and joy with Jesus Christ, the Son of the Virgin
Maria, the prolific yet nevertheless the eternal
virgin.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>

<p>The woman of the house and her daughter had similar bags
attached to their necks, containing charms, which, they said,
prevented the witches having power to harm them. The belief
in witchcraft is very prevalent amongst the peasantry of the
Alemtejo, and I believe of other provinces of Portugal.
This is one of the relics of the monkish system, the aim of
which, in all countries where it has existed, seems to have been
to besot the minds of the people, that they might be more easily
misled. All these charms were fabrications of the monks,
who had sold them to their infatuated confessants. The
monks of the Greek and Syrian churches likewise deal in this
ware, which they know to be poison, but which they would rather
vend than the wholesome balm of the gospel, because it brings
them a large price, and fosters the delusion which enables them
to live a life of luxury.</p>

<p>The Sunday morning was fine, and the plain before the church
of the convent of San Francisco was crowded with people hastening
to or returning from the mass. After having performed my
morning devotion, and breakfasted, I went down to the kitchen;
the girl Geronima was seated by the fire. I inquired if she
had heard mass? She replied in the negative, and that she
did not intend to hear it. Upon my inquiring her motive for
absenting herself, she replied, that since the friars had been
expelled from their churches and convents she had ceased to
attend mass, or to confess herself; for that the government
priests had no spiritual power, and consequently she never
troubled them. She said the friars were holy men and
charitable; for that every morning those of the convent over the
way fed forty poor persons with the relics of the meals of the
preceding day, but that now these people were allowed to
starve. I replied, that the friars, who lived on the fat of
the land, could well afford to bestow a few bones upon their
poor, and that their doing so was merely a part of their policy,
by which they hoped to secure to themselves friends in time of
need. The girl then observed, that as it was Sunday, I
should perhaps like to see some books, and without waiting for a
reply she produced them. They consisted principally of
popular stories, with lives and miracles of saints, but amongst
them was a translation of Volney&rsquo;s <i>Ruins of
Empires</i>. I expressed a wish to know how she became
possessed of this book. She said that a young man, a great
Constitutionalist, had given it to her some months previous, and
had pressed her much to read it, for that it was one of the best
books in the world. I replied, that the author of it was an
emissary of Satan, and an enemy of Jesus Christ and the souls of
mankind; that it was written with the sole aim of bringing all
religion into contempt, and that it inculcated the doctrine that
there was no future state, nor reward for the righteous nor
punishment for the wicked. She made no reply, but going
into another room, returned with her apron full of dry sticks and
brushwood, all which she piled upon the fire, and produced a
bright blaze. She then took the book from my hand and
placed it upon the flaming pile; then sitting down, took her
rosary out of her pocket and told her beads till the volume was
consumed. This was an <i>auto da fé</i> in the best
sense of the word.</p>

<p>On the Monday and Tuesday I paid my usual visits to the
fountain, and likewise rode about the neighbourhood on a mule,
for the purpose of circulating tracts. I dropped a great
many in the favourite walks of the people of Evora, as I felt
rather dubious of their accepting them had I proffered them with
my own hand, whereas, should they be observed lying on the
ground, I thought that curiosity might cause them to be picked up
and examined. I likewise, on the Tuesday evening, paid a
farewell visit to my friend Azveto, as it was my intention to
leave Evora on the Thursday following and return to Lisbon; in
which view I had engaged a calash of a man who informed me that
he had served as a soldier in the grande armée of
Napoleon, and been present in the Russian campaign. He
looked the very image of a drunkard. His face was covered
with carbuncles, and his breath impregnated with the fumes of
strong waters. He wished much to converse with me in
French, in the speaking of which language it seemed he prided
himself, but I refused, and told him to speak the language of the
country, or I would hold no discourse with him.</p>

<p>Wednesday was stormy, with occasional rain. On coming
down, I found that my friend from Palmella had departed: but
several contrabandistas had arrived from Spain. They were
mostly fine fellows, and unlike the two I had seen the preceding
week, who were of much lower degree, were chatty and
communicative; they spoke their native language, and no other,
and seemed to hold the Portuguese in great contempt. The
magnificent tones of the Spanish sounded to great advantage
amidst the shrill squeaking dialect of Portugal. I was soon
in deep conversation with them, and was much pleased to find that
all of them could read. I presented the eldest, a man of
about fifty years of age, with a tract in Spanish. He
examined it for some time with great attention; he then rose from
his seat, and going into the middle of the apartment, began
reading it aloud, slowly and emphatically; his companions
gathered around him, and every now and then expressed their
approbation of what they heard. The reader occasionally
called upon me to explain passages which, as they referred to
particular texts of Scripture, he did not exactly understand, for
not one of the party had ever seen either the Old or New
Testament.</p>

<p>He continued reading for upwards of an hour, until he had
finished the tract; and, at its conclusion, the whole party were
clamorous for similar ones, with which I was happy to be able to
supply them.</p>

<p>Most of these men spoke of priestcraft and the monkish system
with the utmost abhorrence, and said that they should prefer
death to submitting again to the yoke which had formerly galled
their necks. I questioned them very particularly respecting
the opinion of their neighbours and acquaintances on this point,
and they assured me that in their part of the Spanish frontier
all were of the same mind, and that they cared as little for the
Pope and his monks as they did for Don Carlos; for the latter was
a dwarf (<i>chicotito</i>) and a tyrant, and the others were
plunderers and robbers. I told them they must beware of
confounding religion with priestcraft, and that in their
abhorrence of the latter they must not forget that there is a God
and a Christ to whom they must look for salvation, and whose word
it was incumbent upon them to study on every occasion; whereupon
they all expressed a devout belief in Christ and the Virgin.</p>

<p>These men, though in many respects more enlightened than the
surrounding peasantry, were in others as much in the dark; they
believed in witchcraft and in the efficacy of particular
charms. The night was very stormy, and at about nine we
heard a galloping towards the door, and then a loud knocking; it
was opened, and in rushed a wild-looking man mounted on a donkey;
he wore a ragged jacket of sheepskin, called in Spanish zamarra,
with breeches of the same as far down as his knees; his legs were
bare. Around his sombrero, or shadowy hat, was tied a large
quantity of the herb which in English is called rosemary, in
Spanish romero, and in the rustic language of Portugal, alecrim;
which last is a word of Scandinavian origin (<i>ellegren</i>),
signifying the elfin plant, and was probably carried into the
south by the Vandals. The man seemed frantic with terror,
and said that the witches had been pursuing him and hovering over
his head for the last two leagues. He came from the Spanish
frontier with meal and other articles; he said that his wife was
following him and would soon arrive, and in about a quarter of an
hour she made her appearance, dripping with rain, and also
mounted on a donkey.</p>

<p>I asked my friends the contrabandistas why he wore the
rosemary in his hat; whereupon they told me that it was good
against witches and the mischances on the road. I had no
time to argue against this superstition, for, as the chaise was
to be ready at five the next morning, I wished to make the most
of the short time which I could devote to sleep.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER IV</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Vexatious Delays&mdash;Drunken
Driver&mdash;The Murdered Mule&mdash;The
Lamentation&mdash;Adventure on the Heath&mdash;Fear of
Darkness&mdash;Portuguese Fidalgo&mdash;The Escort&mdash;Return
to Lisbon.</p>

<p>I rose at four, and after having taken some refreshment, I
descended and found the strange man and his wife sleeping in the
chimney corner by the fire, which was still burning; they soon
awoke and began preparing their breakfast, which consisted of
salt sardinhas, broiled upon the embers. In the meantime
the woman sang snatches of the beautiful hymn, very common in
Spain, which commences thus:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote><p>&ldquo;Once of old upon a mountain, shepherds
overcome with sleep,<br />
Near to Bethlem&rsquo;s holy tower, kept at dead of night their
sheep;<br />
Round about the trunk they nodded of a huge ignited oak,<br />
Whence the crackling flame ascending bright and clear the
darkness broke.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>

<p>On hearing that I was about to depart, she said, &ldquo;You
shall have some of my husband&rsquo;s rosemary, which will keep
you from danger, and prevent any misfortune
occurring.&rdquo; I was foolish enough to permit her to put
some of it in my hat; and the man having by this time arrived
with his mules, I bade farewell to my friendly hostesses, and
entered the chaise with my servant.</p>

<p>I remarked at the time, that the mules which drew us were the
finest I had ever seen; the largest could be little short of
sixteen hands high; and the fellow told me in his bad French that
he loved them better than his wife and children. We turned
round the corner of the convent and proceeded down the street
which leads to the south-western gate. The driver now
stopped before the door of a large house, and having alighted,
said that it was yet very early, and that he was afraid to
venture forth, as it was very probable we should be robbed, and
himself murdered, as the robbers who resided in the town would be
apprehensive of his discovering them, but that the family who
lived in this house were going to Lisbon, and would depart in
about a quarter of an hour, when we might avail ourselves of an
escort of soldiers which they would take with them, and in their
company we should run no danger. I told him I had no fear,
and commanded him to drive on; but he said he would not, and left
us in the street. We waited an hour, when two carriages
came to the door of the house, but it seems the family were not
yet ready, whereupon the coachman likewise got down and went
away. At the expiration of about half an hour the family
came out, and when their luggage had been arranged they called
for the coachman, but he was nowhere to be found. Search
was made for him, but ineffectually, and an hour more was spent
before another driver could be procured; but the escort had not
yet made its appearance, and it was not before a servant had been
twice despatched to the barracks that it arrived. At last
everything was ready, and they drove off.</p>

<p>All this time I had seen nothing of our own coachman, and I
fully expected that he had abandoned us altogether. In a
few minutes I saw him staggering up the street in a state of
intoxication, attempting to sing the Marseillois hymn. I
said nothing to him, but sat observing him. He stood for
some time staring at the mules and talking incoherent nonsense in
French. At last he said, &ldquo;I am not so drunk but I can
ride,&rdquo; and proceeded to lead his mules towards the
gate. When out of the town he made several ineffectual
attempts to mount the smallest mule which bore the saddle; he at
length succeeded, and instantly commenced spurring at a furious
rate down the road. We arrived at a place where a narrow
rocky path branched off, by taking which we should avoid a
considerable circuit round the city wall, which otherwise it
would be necessary to make before we could reach the road to
Lisbon, which lay at the north-east; he now said, &ldquo;I shall
take this path, for by so doing we shall overtake the family in a
minute&rdquo;; so into the path we went; it was scarcely wide
enough to admit the carriage, and exceedingly steep and broken;
we proceeded; ascending and descending, the wheels cracked, and
the motion was so violent that we were in danger of being cast
out as from a sling. I saw that if we remained in the
carriage it must be broken in pieces, as our weight must insure
its destruction. I called to him in Portuguese to stop, but
he flogged and spurred the beasts the more. My man now
entreated me for God&rsquo;s sake to speak to him in French, for,
if anything would pacify him, that would. I did so, and
entreated him to let us dismount and walk, till we had cleared
this dangerous way. The result justified Antonio&rsquo;s
anticipation. He instantly stopped and said, &ldquo;Sir,
you are master, you have only to command and I shall
obey.&rdquo; We dismounted and walked on till we reached
the great road, when we once more seated ourselves.</p>

<p>The family were about a quarter of a mile in advance, and we
were no sooner reseated, than he lashed the mules into full
gallop for the purpose of overtaking it; his cloak had fallen
from his shoulder, and, in endeavouring to readjust it, he
dropped the string from his hand by which he guided the large
mule, it became entangled in the legs of the poor animal, which
fell heavily on its neck, it struggled for a moment, and then lay
stretched across the way, the shafts over its body. I was
pitched forward into the dirt, and the drunken driver fell upon
the murdered mule.</p>

<p>I was in a great rage, and cried, &ldquo;You drunken renegade,
who are ashamed to speak the language of your own country, you
have broken the staff of your existence, and may now
starve.&rdquo; &ldquo;Paciencia,&rdquo; said he, and began
kicking the head of the mule, in order to make it rise; but I
pushed him down, and taking his knife, which had fallen from his
pocket, cut the bands by which it was attached to the carriage,
but life had fled, and the film of death had begun to cover its
eyes.</p>

<p>The fellow, in the recklessness of intoxication, seemed at
first disposed to make light of his loss, saying, &ldquo;The mule
is dead, it was God&rsquo;s will that she should die, what more
can be said? Paciencia.&rdquo; Meanwhile, I
despatched Antonio to the town for the purpose of hiring mules,
and, having taken my baggage from the chaise, waited on the
roadside until he should arrive.</p>

<p>The fumes of the liquor began now to depart from the
fellow&rsquo;s brain; he clasped his hands and exclaimed,
&ldquo;Blessed Virgin, what is to become of me? How am I to
support myself? Where am I to get another mule! For
my mule, my best mule is dead, she fell upon the road, and died
of a sudden! I have been in France, and in other countries,
and have seen beasts of all kinds, but such a mule as that I have
never seen; but she is dead&mdash;my mule is dead&mdash;she fell
upon the road and died of a sudden!&rdquo; He continued in
this strain for a considerable time, and the burden of his
lamentation was always, &ldquo;My mule is dead, she fell upon the
road, and died of a sudden.&rdquo; At length he took the
collar from the creature&rsquo;s neck, and put it upon the other,
which with some difficulty he placed in the shafts.</p>

<p>A beautiful boy of about thirteen now came from the direction
of the town, running along the road with the velocity of a hare:
he stopped before the dead mule and burst into tears: it was the
man&rsquo;s son, who had heard of the accident from
Antonio. This was too much for the poor fellow: he ran up
to the boy, and said, &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t cry, our bread is gone,
but it is God&rsquo;s will; the mule is dead!&rdquo; He
then flung himself on the ground, uttering fearful cries.
&ldquo;I could have borne my loss,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;but
when I saw my child cry, I became a fool.&rdquo; I gave him
two or three crowns, and added some words of comfort; assuring
him I had no doubt that, if he abandoned drink, the Almighty God
would take compassion on him and repair his loss. At length
he became more composed, and placing my baggage in the chaise, we
returned to the town, where I found two excellent riding mules
awaiting my arrival at the inn. I did not see the Spanish
woman, or I should have told her of the little efficacy of
rosemary in this instance.</p>

<p>I have known several drunkards amongst the Portuguese, but,
without one exception, they have been individuals who, having
travelled abroad, like this fellow, have returned with a contempt
for their own country, and polluted with the worst vices of the
lands which they have visited.</p>

<p>I would strongly advise any of my countrymen who may chance to
read these lines, that, if their fate lead them into Spain or
Portugal, they avoid hiring as domestics, or being connected
with, individuals of the lower classes who speak any other
language than their own, as the probability is that they are
heartless thieves and drunkards. These gentry are
invariably saying all they can in dispraise of their native land;
and it is my opinion, grounded upon experience, that an
individual who is capable of such baseness would not hesitate at
the perpetration of any villainy, for next to the love of God,
the love of country is the best preventive of crime. He who
is proud of his country, will be particularly cautious not to do
anything which is calculated to disgrace it.</p>

<p>We now journeyed towards Lisbon, and reached Monte Moro about
two o&rsquo;clock. After taking such refreshment as the
place afforded, we pursued our way till we were within a quarter
of a league of the huts which stand on the edge of the savage
wilderness we had before crossed. Here we were overtaken by
a horseman; he was a powerful, middle-sized man, and was mounted
on a noble Spanish horse. He had a broad, slouching
sombrero on his head, and wore a jerkin of blue cloth, with large
bosses of silver for buttons, and clasps of the same metal; he
had breeches of yellow leather, and immense jackboots: at his
saddle was slung a formidable gun. He inquired if I
intended to pass the night at Vendas Novas, and on my replying in
the affirmative, he said that he would avail himself of our
company. He now looked towards the sun, whose disk was
rapidly sinking beneath the horizon, and entreated us to spur on
and make the most of its light, for that the moor was a horrible
place in the dusk. He placed himself at our head, and we
trotted briskly on, the boy or muleteer who attended us running
behind without exhibiting the slightest symptom of fatigue.</p>

<p>We entered upon the moor, and had advanced about a mile when
dark night fell around us; we were in a wild path, with high
brushwood on either side, when the rider said that he could not
confront the darkness, and begged me to ride on before, and he
would follow after: I could hear him trembling. I asked the
reason of his terror, and he replied that at one time darkness
was the same thing to him as day, but that of late years he
dreaded it, especially in wild places. I complied with his
request, but I was ignorant of the way, and as I could scarcely
see my hand, was continually going wrong. This made the man
impatient, and he again placed himself at our head. We
proceeded so for a considerable way, when he again stopped, and
said that the power of the darkness was too much for him.
His horse seemed to be infected with the same panic, for it shook
in every limb. I now told him to call on the name of the
Lord Jesus, who was able to turn the darkness into light, but he
gave a terrible shout, and, brandishing his gun aloft, discharged
it in the air. His horse sprang forward at full speed, and
my mule, which was one of the swiftest of its kind, took fright
and followed at the heels of the charger. Antonio and the
boy were left behind. On we flew like a whirlwind, the
hoofs of the animals illuming the path with the sparks of fire
they struck from the stones. I knew not whither we were
going, but the dumb creatures were acquainted with the way, and
soon brought us to Vendas Novas, where we were rejoined by our
companions.</p>

<p>I thought this man was a coward, but I did him injustice, for
during the day he was as brave as a lion, and feared no
one. About five years since, he had overcome two robbers
who had attacked him on the moors, and, after tying their hands
behind them, had delivered them up to justice; but at night the
rustling of a leaf filled him with terror. I have known
similar instances of the kind in persons of otherwise
extraordinary resolution. For myself, I confess I am not a
person of extraordinary resolution, but the dangers of the night
daunt me no more than those of midday. The man in question
was a farmer from Evora, and a person of considerable wealth.</p>

<p>I found the inn at Vendas Novas thronged with people, and had
some difficulty in obtaining accommodation and refreshment.
It was occupied by the family of a certain Fidalgo, from
Estremoz; he was on the way to Lisbon, conveying a large sum of
money, as was said&mdash;probably the rents of his estates.
He had with him a body guard of four-and-twenty of his
dependants, each armed with a rifle; they consisted of his
swineherds, shepherds, cowherds, and hunters, and were commanded
by two youths, his son and nephew, the latter of whom was in
regimentals; nevertheless, notwithstanding the number of his
troop, it appeared that the Fidalgo laboured under considerable
apprehension of being despoiled upon the waste which lay between
Vendas Novas and Pegoens, as he had just requested a guard of
four soldiers from the officer who commanded a detachment
stationed here: there were many females in his company, who, I
was told, were his illegitimate daughters&mdash;for he bore an
infamous moral character, and was represented to me as a staunch
friend of Don Miguel. It was not long before he came up to
me and my new acquaintance, as we sat by the kitchen fire: he was
a tall man of about sixty, but stooped much. His
countenance was by no means pleasing: he had a long hooked nose,
small twinkling cunning eyes, and, what I liked worst of all, a
continual sneering smile, which I firmly believe to be the index
of a treacherous and malignant heart. He addressed me in
Spanish, which, as he resided not far from the frontier, he spoke
with fluency, but contrary to my usual practice, I was reserved
and silent.</p>

<p>On the following morning I rose at seven, and found that the
party from Estremoz had started several hours previously. I
breakfasted with my acquaintance of the preceding night, and we
set out to accomplish what remained of our journey. The sun
had now arisen; and all his fears had left him&mdash;he breathed
defiance against all the robbers of the Alemtejo. When we
had advanced about a league, the boy who attended us said he saw
heads of men amongst the brushwood. Our cavalier instantly
seized his gun, and causing his horse to make two or three lofty
bounds, held it in one hand, the muzzle pointed in the direction
indicated, but the heads did not again make their appearance, and
it was probably but a false alarm.</p>

<p>We resumed our way, and the conversation turned, as might be
expected, upon robbers. My companion, who seemed to be
acquainted with every inch of ground over which we passed, had a
legend to tell of every dingle and every pine-clump. We
reached a slight eminence, on the top of which grew three stately
pines: about half a league farther on was another similar one:
these two eminences commanded a view of the road from Pegoens and
Vendas Novas, so that all people going and coming could be
descried, whilst yet at a distance. My friend told me that
these heights were favourite stations of robbers. Some two
years since, a band of six mounted banditti remained there three
days, and plundered whomsoever approached from either quarter:
their horses, saddled and bridled, stood picqueted at the foot of
the trees, and two scouts, one for each eminence, continually sat
in the topmost branches and gave notice of the approach of
travellers: when at a proper distance the robbers below sprang
upon their horses, and putting them to full gallop, made at their
prey, shouting <i>Rendete</i>, <i>Picaro</i>! <i>Rendete</i>,<i>
Picaro</i>! (Surrender, scoundrel, surrender!) We, however,
passed unmolested, and, about a quarter of a mile before we
reached Pegoens, overtook the family of the Fidalgo.</p>

<p>Had they been conveying the wealth of Ind through the deserts
of Arabia, they could not have travelled with more
precaution. The nephew, with drawn sabre, rode in front;
pistols at his holsters, and the usual Spanish gun slung at his
saddle. Behind him tramped six men in a rank, with muskets
shouldered, and each of them wore at his girdle a hatchet, which
was probably intended to cleave the thieves to the brisket should
they venture to come to close quarters. There were six
vehicles, two of them calashes, in which latter rode the Fidalgo
and his daughters; the others were covered carts, and seemed to
be filled with household furniture; each of these vehicles had an
armed rustic on either side; and the son, a lad about sixteen,
brought up the rear with a squad equal to that of his cousin in
the van. The soldiers, who by good fortune were light
horse, and admirably mounted, were galloping about in all
directions, for the purpose of driving the enemy from cover,
should they happen to be lurking in the neighbourhood.</p>

<p>I could not help thinking as I passed by, that this martial
array was very injudicious, for though it was calculated to awe
plunderers, it was likewise calculated to allure them, as it
seemed to hint that immense wealth was passing through their
territories. I do not know how the soldiers and rustics
would have behaved in case of an attack; but am inclined to
believe that if three such men as Richard Turpin had suddenly
galloped forth from behind one of the bush-covered knolls,
neither the numbers nor resistance opposed to them would have
prevented them from bearing away the contents of the strong box
jingling in their saddlebags.</p>

<p>From this moment nothing worthy of relating occurred till our
arrival at Aldea Gallega, where we passed the night, and next
morning at three o&rsquo;clock embarked in the passage-boat for
Lisbon, where we arrived at eight&mdash;and thus terminates my
first wandering in the Alemtejo.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER V</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">The College&mdash;The
Rector&mdash;Shibboleth&mdash;National Prejudices&mdash;Youthful
Sports&mdash;Jews of Lisbon&mdash;Bad Faith&mdash;Crime and
Superstition&mdash;Strange Proposal.</p>

<p>One afternoon Antonio said to me, &ldquo;It has struck me,
Senhor, that your worship would like to see the college of the
English ---.&rdquo; &ldquo;By all means,&rdquo; I replied,
&ldquo;pray conduct me thither.&rdquo; So he led me through
various streets until we stopped before the gate of a large
building in one of the most elevated situations in Lisbon; upon
our ringing, a kind of porter presently made his appearance, and
demanded our business. Antonio explained it to him.
He hesitated for a moment; but presently, bidding us enter,
conducted us to a large gloomy-looking stone hall, where, begging
us to be seated, he left us. We were soon joined by a
venerable personage, seemingly about seventy, in a kind of
flowing robe or surplice, with a collegiate cap upon his
head. Notwithstanding his age there was a ruddy tinge upon
his features, which were perfectly English. Coming slowly
up he addressed me in the English tongue, requesting to know how
he could serve me. I informed him that I was an English
traveller, and should be happy to be permitted to inspect the
college, provided it were customary to show it to
strangers. He informed me that there could be no objection
to accede to my request, but that I came at rather an unfortunate
moment, it being the hour of refection. I apologised, and
was preparing to retire, but he begged me to remain, as, in a few
minutes, the refection would be over, when the principals of the
college would do themselves the pleasure of waiting on me.</p>

<p>We sat down on the stone bench, when he commenced surveying me
attentively for some time, and then cast his eyes on
Antonio. &ldquo;Whom have we here?&rdquo; said he to the
latter; &ldquo;surely your features are not unknown to
me.&rdquo; &ldquo;Probably not, your reverence,&rdquo;
replied Antonio, getting up and bowing most profoundly.
&ldquo;I lived in the family of the Countess ---, at Cintra, when
your venerability was her spiritual guide.&rdquo;
&ldquo;True, true,&rdquo; said the old gentleman, sighing,
&ldquo;I remember you now. Ah, Antonio, things are
strangely changed since then. A new government&mdash;a new
system&mdash;a new religion, I may say.&rdquo; Then looking
again at me, he demanded whither I was journeying? &ldquo;I
am going to Spain,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;and have stopped at
Lisbon by the way.&rdquo; &ldquo;Spain, Spain!&rdquo; said
the old man; &ldquo;surely you have chosen a strange time to
visit Spain; there is much bloodshedding in Spain at present, and
violent wars and tumults.&rdquo; &ldquo;I consider the
cause of Don Carlos as already crushed,&rdquo; I replied;
&ldquo;he has lost the only general capable of leading his armies
to Madrid. Zumalacarregui, his Cid, has
fallen.&rdquo; &ldquo;Do not flatter yourself; I beg your
pardon, but do not think, young man, that the Lord will permit
the powers of darkness to triumph so easily; the cause of Don
Carlos is not lost; its success did not depend on the life of a
frail worm like him whom you have mentioned.&rdquo; We
continued in discourse some little time, when he arose, saying
that by this time he believed the refection was concluded.</p>

<p>He had scarcely left me five minutes when three individuals
entered the stone hall, and advanced slowly towards me;&mdash;the
principals of the college, said I to myself! and so indeed they
were. The first of these gentlemen, and to whom the other
two appeared to pay considerable deference, was a thin spare
person, somewhat above the middle height; his complexion was very
pale, his features emaciated but fine, his eyes dark and
sparkling; he might be about fifty&mdash;the other two were men
in the prime of life. One was of rather low stature; his
features were dark, and wore that pinched and mortified
expression so frequently to be observed in the countenance of the
English ---: the other was a bluff, ruddy, and rather
good-looking young man; all three were dressed alike in the usual
college cap and silk gown. Coming up, the eldest of the
three took me by the hand and thus addressed me in clear silvery
tones:&mdash;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Welcome, Sir, to our poor house; we are always happy to
see in it a countryman from our beloved native land; it will
afford us extreme satisfaction to show you over it; it is true
that satisfaction is considerably diminished by the reflection
that it possesses nothing worthy of the attention of a traveller;
there is nothing curious pertaining to it save perhaps its
economy, and that as we walk about we will explain to you.
Permit us, first of all, to introduce ourselves to you; I am
rector of this poor English house of refuge; this gentleman is
our professor of humanity, and this (pointing to the ruddy
personage) is our professor of polite learning, Hebrew, and
Syriac.&rdquo;</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;I humbly salute you all; excuse me if I
inquire who was the venerable gentleman who put himself to the
inconvenience of staying with me whilst I was awaiting your
leisure.</p>

<p><i>Rector</i>.&mdash;O! a most admirable personage, our
almoner, our chaplain; he came into this country before any of us
were born, and here he has continued ever since. Now let us
ascend that we may show you our poor house: but how is this, my
dear Sir, how is it that I see you standing uncovered in our cold
damp hall?</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;I can easily explain that to you; it is a
custom which has become quite natural to me. I am just
arrived from Russia, where I have spent some years. A
Russian invariably takes off his hat whenever he enters beneath a
roof, whether it pertain to hut, shop, or palace. To omit
doing so would be considered as a mark of brutality and
barbarism, and for the following reason: in every apartment of a
Russian house there is a small picture of the Virgin stuck up in
a corner, just below the ceiling&mdash;the hat is taken off out
of respect to her.</p>

<p>Quick glances of intelligence were exchanged by the three
gentlemen. I had stumbled upon their shibboleth, and
proclaimed myself an Ephraimite, and not of Gilead. I have
no doubt that up to that moment they had considered me as one of
themselves&mdash;a member, and perhaps a priest, of their own
ancient, grand, and imposing religion, for such it is, I must
confess&mdash;an error into which it was natural that they should
fall. What motives could a Protestant have for intruding
upon their privacy? What interest could he take in
inspecting the economy of their establishment? So far,
however, from relaxing in their attention after this discovery,
their politeness visibly increased, though, perhaps, a
scrutinizing observer might have detected a shade of less
cordiality in their manner.</p>

<p><i>Rector</i>.&mdash;Beneath the ceiling in every
apartment? I think I understood you so. How
delightful&mdash;how truly interesting; a picture of the
<i>Blessed</i> Virgin beneath the ceiling in every apartment of a
Russian house! Truly, this intelligence is as unexpected as
it is delightful. I shall from this moment entertain a much
higher opinion of the Russians than hitherto&mdash;most truly an
example worthy of imitation. I wish sincerely that it was
our own practice to place an <i>image</i> of the <i>Blessed</i>
Virgin beneath the ceiling in every corner of our houses.
What say you, our professor of humanity? What say you to
the information so obligingly communicated to us by this
excellent gentleman?</p>

<p><i>Humanity Professor</i>.&mdash;It is, indeed, most
delightful, most cheering, I may say; but I confess that I was
not altogether unprepared for it. The adoration of the
Blessed Virgin is becoming every day more extended in countries
where it has hitherto been unknown or forgotten. Dr. W---,
when he passed through Lisbon, gave me some most interesting
details with respect to the labours of the propaganda in
India. Even England, our own beloved country. . . .</p>
<div class="gapspace"></div>
<p>My obliging friends showed me all over their &ldquo;poor
house,&rdquo; it certainly did not appear a very rich one; it was
spacious, and rather dilapidated. The library was small,
and possessed nothing remarkable; the view, however, from the
roof, over the greater part of Lisbon and the Tagus, was very
grand and noble; but I did not visit this place in the hope of
seeing busts, or books, or fine prospects,&mdash;I visited this
strange old house to converse with its inmates, for my favourite,
I might say, my only study, is man. I found these gentlemen
much what I had anticipated, for this was not the first time that
I had visited an English --- establishment in a foreign
land. They were full of amiability and courtesy to their
heretic countryman, and though the advancement of their religion
was with them an object of paramount importance, I soon found
that, with ludicrous inconsistency, they cherished, to a
wonderful degree, national prejudices almost extinct in the
mother land, even to the disparagement of those of their own
darling faith. I spoke of the English ---, of their high
respectability, and of the loyalty which they had uniformly
displayed to their sovereign, though of a different religion, and
by whom they had been not unfrequently subjected to much
oppression and injustice.</p>

<p><i>Rector</i>.&mdash;My dear Sir, I am rejoiced to hear you; I
see that you are well acquainted with the great body of those of
our faith in England. They are as you have well described
them, a most respectable and loyal body; from loyalty, indeed,
they never swerved, and though they have been accused of plots
and conspiracies, it is now well known that such had no real
existence, but were merely calumnies invented by their religious
enemies. During the civil wars the English --- cheerfully
shed their blood and squandered their fortunes in the cause of
the unfortunate martyr, notwithstanding that he never favoured
them, and invariably looked upon them with suspicion. At
present the English --- are the most devoted subjects to our
gracious sovereign. I should be happy if I could say as
much for our Irish brethren; but their conduct has been&mdash;oh!
detestable. Yet what can you expect? The
true&mdash;blush for them. A certain person is a disgrace
to the church of which he pretends to be a servant. Where
does he find in our canons sanction for his proceedings, his
undutiful expressions towards one who is his sovereign by divine
right, and who can do no wrong? And above all, where does
he find authority for inflaming the passions of a vile mob
against a nation intended by nature and by position to command
them?</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;I believe there is an Irish college in
this city?</p>

<p><i>Rector</i>.&mdash;I believe there is; but it does not
flourish, there are few or no pupils. Oh!</p>

<p>I looked through a window, at a great height, and saw about
twenty or thirty fine lads sporting in a court below.
&ldquo;This is as it should be,&rdquo; said I; &ldquo;those boys
will not make worse priests from a little early devotion to
trap-ball and cudgel playing. I dislike a staid, serious,
puritanic education, as I firmly believe that it encourages vice
and hypocrisy.&rdquo;</p>

<p>We then went into the Rector&rsquo;s room, where, above a
crucifix, was hanging a small portrait.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;That was a great and portentous man,
honest withal. I believe the body of which he was the
founder, and which has been so much decried, has effected
infinitely more good than it has caused harm.</p>

<p><i>Rector</i>.&mdash;What do I hear? You an Englishman,
and a Protestant, and yet an admirer of Ignatius Loyola?</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;I will say nothing with respect to the
doctrine of the Jesuits, for, as you have observed, I am a
Protestant: but I am ready to assert that there are no people in
the world better qualified, upon the whole, to be intrusted with
the education of youth. Their moral system and discipline
are truly admirable. Their pupils, in after life, are
seldom vicious and licentious characters, and are in general men
of learning, science, and possessed of every elegant
accomplishment. I execrate the conduct of the liberals of
Madrid in murdering last year the helpless fathers, by whose care
and instruction two of the finest minds of Spain have been
evolved&mdash;the two ornaments of the liberal cause and modern
literature of Spain, for such are Toreno and Martinez de la Rosa.
. . .</p>
<div class="gapspace"></div>
<p>Gathered in small clusters about the pillars at the lower
extremities of the gold and silver streets in Lisbon, may be
observed, about noon in every day, certain strange looking men,
whose appearance is neither Portuguese nor European. Their
dress generally consists of a red cap, with a blue silken tassel
at the top of it, a blue tunic girded at the waist with a red
sash, and wide linen pantaloons or trousers. He who passes
by these groups generally hears them conversing in broken Spanish
or Portuguese, and occasionally in a harsh guttural language,
which the oriental traveller knows to be the Arabic, or a dialect
thereof. These people are the Jews of Lisbon. Into
the midst of one of these groups I one day introduced myself, and
pronounced a beraka, or blessing. I have lived in different
parts of the world, much amongst the Hebrew race, and am well
acquainted with their ways and phraseology. I was rather
anxious to become acquainted with the state of the Portuguese
Jews, and I had now an opportunity. &ldquo;The man is a
powerful rabbi,&rdquo; said a voice in Arabic; &ldquo;it behoves
us to treat him kindly.&rdquo; They welcomed me. I
favoured their mistake, and in a few days I knew all that related
to them and their traffic in Lisbon.</p>

<p>I found them a vile, infamous rabble, about two hundred in
number. With a few exceptions, they consist of escapados
from the Barbary shore, from Tetuan, from Tangier, but
principally from Mogadore; fellows who have fled to a foreign
land from the punishment due to their misdeeds. Their
manner of life in Lisbon is worthy of such a goodly assemblage of
<i>amis reunis</i>. The generality of them pretend to work
in gold and silver, and keep small peddling shops; they, however,
principally depend for their livelihood on an extensive traffic
in stolen goods which they carry on. It is said that there
is honour amongst thieves, but this is certainly not the case
with the Jews of Lisbon, for they are so greedy and avaricious,
that they are constantly quarrelling about their ill-gotten gain,
the result being that they frequently ruin each other.
Their mutual jealousy is truly extraordinary. If one, by
cheating and roguery, gains a cruzado in the presence of another,
the latter instantly says I cry halves, and if the first refuse
he is instantly threatened with an information. The manner
in which they cheat each other has, with all its infamy,
occasionally something extremely droll and ludicrous. I was
one day in the shop of a Swiri, or Jew of Mogadore, when a Jew
from Gibraltar entered, with a Portuguese female, who held in her
hand a mantle, richly embroidered with gold.</p>

<p><i>Gibraltar Jew</i> (speaking in broken
Arabic).&mdash;Good-day, O Swiri; God has favoured me this day;
here is a bargain by which we shall both gain. I have
bought this mantle of the woman almost for nothing, for it is
stolen; but I am poor, as you know, I have not a cruzado; pay her
therefore the price, that we may then forthwith sell the mantle
and divide the gain.</p>

<p><i>Swiri</i>.&mdash;Willingly, brother of Gibraltar; I will
pay the woman for the mantle; it does not appear a bad one.</p>

<p>Thereupon he flung two cruzados to the woman, who forthwith
left the shop.</p>

<p><i>Gibraltar Jew</i>.&mdash;Thanks, brother Swirl, this is
very kind of you; now let us go and sell the mantle, the gold
alone is well worth a moidore; but I am poor and have nothing to
eat, give me, therefore, the half of that sum and keep the
mantle; I shall be content.</p>

<p><i>Swiri</i>.&mdash;May Allah blot out your name, you
thief. What mean you by asking me for money? I bought
the mantle of the woman and paid for it. I know nothing of
you. Go out of my doors, dog of a Nazarene, if not I will
pay you with a kick.</p>

<p>The dispute was referred to one of the sabios, or priests; but
the sabio, who was also from Mogadore, at once took the part of
the Swiri, and decided that the other should have nothing.
Whereupon the Gibraltar Jew cursed the sabio, his father, mother,
and all his family. The sabio replied, &ldquo;I put you in
ndui,&rdquo; a kind of purgatory or hell. &ldquo;I put you
in seven nduis,&rdquo; retorted the incensed Jew, over whom,
however, superstitious fear speedily prevailed; he faltered,
became pale, and dropping his voice, retreated, trembling in
every limb.</p>

<p>The Jews have two synagogues in Lisbon, both are small; one
is, however, tolerably well furnished, it has its reading desk,
and in the middle there is a rather handsome chandelier; the
other is little better than a sty, filthy to a degree, without
ornament of any kind. The congregation of this last are
thieves to a man; no Jew of the slightest respectability ever
enters it.</p>

<p>How well do superstition and crime go hand in hand.
These wretched beings break the eternal commandments of their
Maker without scruple; but they will not partake of the beast of
the uncloven foot, and the fish which has no scales. They
pay no regard to the denunciations of holy prophets against the
children of sin, but they quake at the sound of a dark cabalistic
word, pronounced by one perhaps their equal, or superior, in
villainy, as if God would delegate the exercise of his power to
the workers of iniquity.</p>

<p>I was one day sauntering on the Caesodré, when a Jew,
with whom I had previously exchanged a word or two, came up and
addressed me.</p>

<p><i>Jew</i>.&mdash;The blessing of God upon you, brother; I
know you to be a wise and powerful man, and I have conceived much
regard for you; it is on that account that I wish to put you in
the way of gaining much money. Come with me, and I will
conduct you to a place where there are forty chests of tea.
It is a seréka (a robbery), and the thieves are willing to
dispose of it for a trifle, for there is search being made, and
they are in much fear. I can raise one half of what they
demand, do you supply the other, we will then divide it, each
shall go his own way and dispose of his portion.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Wherefore, O son of Arbat, do you propose
this to me, who am a stranger? Surely you are mad.
Have you not your own people about you whom you know, and in whom
you can confide?</p>

<p><i>Jew</i>.&mdash;It is because I know our people here that I
do not confide in them; we are in the galoot of sin. Were I
to confide in my brethren there would be a dispute, and perhaps
they would rob me, and few of them have any money. Were I
to apply to the sabio he might consent, but when I ask for my
portion he would put me in ndui! You I do not fear; you are
good and would do me no harm, unless I attempted to deceive you,
and that I dare not do, for I know you are powerful. Come
with me, master, for I wish to gain something, that I may return
to Arbat, where I have children . . .</p>

<p>Such are Jews in Lisbon.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER VI</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Cold of Portugal&mdash;Extortion
prevented&mdash;Sensation of Loneliness&mdash;The Dog&mdash;The
Convent&mdash;Enchanting Landscape&mdash;Moorish
Fortresses&mdash;Prayer for the Sick.</p>

<p>About a fortnight after my return from Evora, having made the
necessary preparations, I set out on my journey for Badajoz, from
which town I intended to take the diligence to Madrid.
Badajoz lies about a hundred miles distant from Lisbon, and is
the principal frontier town of Spain in the direction of the
Alemtejo. To reach this place, it was necessary to retravel
the road as far as Monte Moro, which I had already passed in my
excursion to Evora; I had therefore very little pleasure to
anticipate from novelty of scenery. Moreover, in this
journey I should be a solitary traveller, with no other companion
than the muleteer, as it was my intention to take my servant no
farther than Aldea Gallega, for which place I started at four in
the afternoon. Warned by former experience, I did not now
embark in a small boat, but in one of the regular passage
felouks, in which we reached Aldea Gallega, after a voyage of six
hours; for the boat was heavy, there was no wind to propel it,
and the crew were obliged to ply their huge oars the whole
way. In a word, this passage was the reverse of the
first,&mdash;safe in every respect,&mdash;but so sluggish and
tiresome, that I a hundred times wished myself again under the
guidance of the wild lad, galloping before the hurricane over the
foaming billows. From eight till ten the cold was truly
terrible, and though I was closely wrapped in an excellent fur
&ldquo;shoob,&rdquo; with which I had braved the frosts of
Russian winters, I shivered in every limb, and was far more
rejoiced when I again set my foot on the Alemtejo, than when I
landed for the first time, after having escaped the horrors of
the tempest.</p>

<p>I took up my quarters for the night at a house to which my
friend who feared the darkness had introduced me on my return
from Evora, and where, though I paid mercilessly dear for
everything, the accommodation was superior to that of the common
inn in the square. My first care now was to inquire for
mules to convey myself and baggage to Elvas, from whence there
are but three short leagues to the Spanish town of Badajoz.
The people of the house informed me that they had an excellent
pair at my disposal, but when I inquired the price, they were not
ashamed to demand four moidores. I offered them three,
which was too much, but which, however, they did not accept, for
knowing me to be an Englishman, they thought they had an
excellent opportunity to practise imposition, not imagining that
a person so rich as an Englishman <i>must</i> be, would go out in
a cold night for the sake of obtaining a reasonable
bargain. They were, however, much mistaken, as I told them
that rather than encourage them in their knavery, I should be
content to return to Lisbon; whereupon they dropped their demand
to three and a half, but I made them no answer, and going out
with Antonio, proceeded to the house of the old man who had
accompanied us to Evora. We knocked a considerable time,
for he was in bed; at length he arose and admitted us, but on
hearing our object, he said that his mules were again gone to
Evora, under the charge of the boy, for the purpose of
transporting some articles of merchandise. He, however,
recommended us to a person in the neighbourhood who kept mules
for hire, and there Antonio engaged two fine beasts for two
moidores and a half. I say he engaged them, for I stood
aloof and spoke not, and the proprietor, who exhibited them, and
who stood half-dressed, with a lamp in his hand and shivering
with cold, was not aware that they were intended for a foreigner
till the agreement was made, and he had received a part of the
sum in earnest. I returned to the inn well pleased, and
having taken some refreshment went to rest, paying little
attention to the people, who glanced daggers at me from their
small Jewish eyes.</p>

<p>At five the next morning the mules were at the door; a lad of
some nineteen or twenty years of age attended them; he was short
but exceedingly strong built, and possessed the largest head
which I ever beheld upon mortal shoulders; neck he had none, at
least I could discern nothing which could be entitled to that
name. His features were hideously ugly, and upon addressing
him I discovered that he was an idiot. Such was my intended
companion in a journey of nearly a hundred miles, which would
occupy four days, and which lay over the most savage and ill
noted track in the whole kingdom. I took leave of my
servant almost with tears, for he had always served me with the
greatest fidelity, and had exhibited an assiduity and a wish to
please which afforded me the utmost satisfaction.</p>

<p>We started, my uncouth guide sitting tailor-fashion on the
sumpter mule upon the baggage. The moon had just gone down,
and the morning was pitchy dark, and, as usual, piercingly
cold. He soon entered the dismal wood, which I had already
traversed, and through which we wended our way for some time,
slowly and mournfully. Not a sound was to be heard save the
trampling of the animals, not a breath of air moved the leafless
branches, no animal stirred in the thickets, no bird, not even
the owl, flew over our heads, all seemed desolate and dead, and
during my many and far wanderings, I never experienced a greater
sensation of loneliness, and a greater desire for conversation
and an exchange of ideas than then. To speak to the idiot
was useless, for though competent to show the road, with which he
was well acquainted, he had no other answer than an uncouth laugh
to any question put to him. Thus situated, like many other
persons when human comfort is not at hand, I turned my heart to
God, and began to commune with Him, the result of which was that
my mind soon became quieted and comforted.</p>

<p>We passed on our way uninterrupted; no thieves showed
themselves, nor indeed did we see a single individual until we
arrived at Pegoens, and from thence to Vendas Novas our fortune
was the same. I was welcomed with great kindness by the
people of the hostelry of the latter place, who were well
acquainted with me on account of my having twice passed the night
under their roof. The name of the keeper of this is, or
was, Jozé Dias Azido, and unlike the generality of those
of the same profession as himself in Portugal, he is an honest
man, and a stranger and foreigner who takes up his quarters at
his inn, may rest assured that he will not be most unmercifully
pillaged and cheated when the hour of reckoning shall arrive, as
he will not be charged a single ré more than a native
Portuguese on a similar occasion. I paid at this place
exactly one half of the sum which was demanded from me at
Arroyolos, where I passed the ensuing night, and where the
accommodation was in every respect inferior.</p>

<p>At twelve next day we arrived at Monte Moro, and, as I was not
pressed for time, I determined upon viewing the ruins which cover
the top and middle part of the stately hill which towers above
the town. Having ordered some refreshment at the inn where
we dismounted, I ascended till I arrived at a large wall or
rampart, which, at a certain altitude embraces the whole
hill. I crossed a rude bridge of stones, which bestrides a
small hollow or trench; and passing by a large tower, entered
through a portal into the enclosed part of the hill. On the
left hand stood a church, in good preservation, and still devoted
to the purposes of religion, but which I could not enter, as the
door was locked, and I saw no one at hand to open it.</p>

<p>I soon found that my curiosity had led me to a most
extraordinary place, which quite beggars the scanty powers of
description with which I am gifted. I stumbled on amongst
ruined walls, and at one time found I was treading over vaults,
as I suddenly started back from a yawning orifice into which my
next step, as I strolled musing along, would have precipitated
me. I proceeded for a considerable way by the eastern wall,
till I heard a tremendous bark, and presently an immense dog,
such as those which guard the flocks in the neighbourhood against
the wolves, came bounding to attack me &ldquo;with eyes that
glowed and fangs that grinned.&rdquo; Had I retreated, or
had recourse to any other mode of defence than that which I
invariably practise under such circumstances, he would probably
have worried me; but I stooped till my chin nearly touched my
knee, and looked him full in the eyes, and as John Leyden says,
in the noblest ballad which the Land of Heather has
produced:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote><p>&ldquo;The hound he yowled and back he fled,<br />
As struck with fairy charm.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>

<p>It is a fact known to many people, and I believe it has been
frequently stated, that no large and fierce dog or animal of any
kind, with the exception of the bull, which shuts its eyes and
rushes blindly forward, will venture to attack an individual who
confronts it with a firm and motionless countenance. I say
large and fierce, for it is much easier to repel a bloodhound or
bear of Finland in this manner than a dunghill cur or a terrier,
against which a stick or a stone is a much more certain
defence. This will astonish no one who considers that the
calm reproving glance of reason, which allays the excesses of the
mighty and courageous in our own species, has seldom any other
effect than to add to the insolence of the feeble and foolish,
who become placid as doves upon the infliction of chastisements,
which if attempted to be applied to the former would only serve
to render them more terrible, and like gunpowder cast on a flame,
cause them in mad desperation to scatter destruction around
them.</p>

<p>The barking of the dog brought out from a kind of alley an
elderly man, whom I supposed to be his master, and of whom I made
some inquiries respecting the place. The man was civil, and
informed me that he served as a soldier in the British army,
under the &ldquo;great lord,&rdquo; during the Peninsular
war. He said that there was a convent of nuns a little
farther on, which he would show me, and thereupon led the way to
the south-east part of the wall, where stood a large dilapidated
edifice.</p>

<p>We entered a dark stone apartment, at one corner of which was
a kind of window occupied by a turning table, at which articles
were received into the convent or delivered out. He rang
the bell, and, without saying a word, retired, leaving me rather
perplexed; but presently I heard, though the speaker was
invisible, a soft feminine voice demanding who I was, and what I
wanted. I replied that I was an Englishman travelling into
Spain, and that passing through Monte Moro I had ascended the
hill for the purpose of seeing the ruins. The voice then
said, &ldquo;I suppose you are a military man going to fight
against the king, like the rest of your countrymen.&rdquo;
&ldquo;No,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;I am not a military man, but a
Christian, and I go not to shed blood but to endeavour to
introduce the gospel of Christ into a country where it is not
known;&rdquo; whereupon there was a stifled titter. I then
inquired if there were any copies of the Holy Scriptures in the
convent, but the friendly voice could give me no information on
that point, and I scarcely believe that its possessor understood
the purport of my question. It informed me, that the office
of lady abbess of the house was an annual one, and that every
year there was a fresh superior; on my inquiring whether the nuns
did not frequently find the time exceedingly heavy on their
hands, it stated that, when they had nothing better to do, they
employed themselves in making cheesecakes, which were disposed of
in the neighbourhood. I thanked the voice for its
communications, and walked away. Whilst proceeding under
the wall of the house towards the south-west, I heard a fresh and
louder tittering above my head, and looking up, saw three or four
windows crowded with dusky faces, and black waving hair; these
belonged to the nuns, anxious to obtain a view of the
stranger. After kissing my hand repeatedly, I moved on, and
soon arrived at the south-west end of this mountain of
curiosities. There I found the remains of a large building,
which seemed to have been originally erected in the shape of a
cross. A tower at its eastern entrance was still entire;
the western side was quite in ruins, and stood on the verge of
the hill overlooking the valley, at the bottom of which ran the
stream I have spoken of on a former occasion.</p>

<p>The day was intensely hot, notwithstanding the coldness of the
preceding nights; and the brilliant sun of Portugal now illumined
a landscape of entrancing beauty. Groves of cork trees
covered the farther side of the valley and the distant
acclivities, exhibiting here and there charming vistas, where
various flocks of cattle were feeding; the soft murmur of the
stream, which was at intervals chafed and broken by huge stones,
ascended to my ears and filled my mind with delicious
feelings. I sat down on the broken wall and remained
gazing, and listening, and shedding tears of rapture; for, of all
the pleasures which a bountiful God permitteth his children to
enjoy, none are so dear to some hearts as the music of forests,
and streams, and the view of the beauties of his glorious
creation. An hour elapsed, and I still maintained my seat
on the wall; the past scenes of my life flitting before my eyes
in airy and fantastic array, through which every now and then
peeped trees and hills and other patches of the real landscape
which I was confronting; the sun burnt my visage, but I heeded it
not; and I believe that I should have remained till night, buried
in these reveries, which, I confess, only served to enervate the
mind, and steal many a minute which might be most profitably
employed, had not the report of the gun of a fowler in the
valley, which awakened the echoes of the woods, hills, and ruins,
caused me to start on my feet, and remember that I had to proceed
three leagues before I could reach the hostelry where I intended
to pass the night.</p>

<p>I bent my steps to the inn, passing along a kind of rampart:
shortly before I reached the portal, which I have already
mentioned, I observed a kind of vault on my right hand, scooped
out of the side of the hill; its roof was supported by three
pillars, though part of it had given way towards the farther end,
so that the light was admitted through a chasm in the top.
It might have been intended for a chapel, a dungeon, or a
cemetery, but I should rather think for the latter; one thing I
am certain of, that it was not the work of Moorish hands, and
indeed throughout my wanderings in this place I saw nothing which
reminded me of that most singular people. The hill on which
the ruins stand was doubtless originally a strong fortress of the
Moors, who, upon their first irruption into the peninsula, seized
and fortified most of the lofty and naturally strong positions,
but they had probably lost it at an early period, so that the
broken walls and edifices, which at present cover the hill, are
probably remains of the labours of the Christians after the place
had been rescued from the hands of the terrible enemies of their
faith. Monte Moro will perhaps recall Cintra to the mind of
the traveller, as it exhibits a distant resemblance to that
place; nevertheless, there is something in Cintra wild and
savage, to which Monte Moro has no pretension; its scathed and
gigantic crags are piled upon each other in a manner which seems
to menace headlong destruction to whatever is in the
neighbourhood; and the ruins which still cling to those crags
seem more like eagles&rsquo; nests than the remains of the
habitations even of Moors; whereas those of Monte Moro stand
comparatively at their ease on the broad back of a hill, which,
though stately and commanding, has no crags nor precipices, and
which can be ascended on every side without much difficulty: yet
I was much gratified by my visit, and I shall wander far indeed
before I forget the voice in the dilapidated convent, the ruined
walls amongst which I strayed, and the rampart where, sunk in
dreamy rapture, I sat during a bright sunny hour at Monte
Moro.</p>

<p>I returned to the inn, where I refreshed myself with tea and
very sweet and delicious cheesecakes, the handiwork of the nuns
in the convent above. Observing gloom and unhappiness on
the countenances of the people of the house, I inquired the
reason of the hostess, who sat almost motionless, on the hearth
by the fire; whereupon she informed me that her husband was
deadly sick with a disorder which, from her description, I
supposed to be a species of cholera; she added, that the surgeon
who attended him entertained no hopes of his recovery. I
replied that it was quite in the power of God to restore her
husband in a few hours from the verge of the grave to health and
vigour, and that it was her duty to pray to that Omnipotent Being
with all fervency. I added, that if she did not know how to
pray upon such an occasion, I was ready to pray for her, provided
she would join in the spirit of the supplication. I then
offered up a short prayer in Portuguese, in which I entreated the
Lord to remove, if he thought proper, the burden of affliction
under which the family was labouring.</p>

<p>The woman listened attentively, with her hands devoutly
clasped, until the prayer was finished, and then gazed at me
seemingly with astonishment, but uttered no word by which I could
gather that she was pleased or displeased with what I had
said. I now bade the family farewell, and having mounted my
mule, set forward to Arroyolos.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">The Druids&rsquo; Stone&mdash;The Young
Spaniard&mdash;Ruffianly Soldiers&mdash;Evils of
War&mdash;Estremoz&mdash;The Brawl&mdash;Ruined Watch
Tower&mdash;Glimpse of Spain&mdash;Old Times and New.</p>

<p>After proceeding about a league and a half, a blast came
booming from the north, rolling before it immense clouds of dust;
happily it did not blow in our faces, or it would have been
difficult to proceed, so great was its violence. We had
left the road in order to take advantage of one of those short
cuts, which, though possible for a horse or a mule, are far too
rough to permit any species of carriage to travel along
them. We were in the midst of sands, brushwood, and huge
pieces of rock, which thickly studded the ground. These are
the stones which form the sierras of Spain and Portugal; those
singular mountains which rise in naked horridness, like the ribs
of some mighty carcass from which the flesh has been torn.
Many of these stones, or rocks, grew out of the earth, and many
lay on its surface unattached, perhaps wrested from their bed by
the waters of the deluge. Whilst toiling along these wild
wastes, I observed, a little way to my left, a pile of stones of
rather a singular appearance, and rode up to it. It was a
druidical altar, and the most perfect and beautiful one of the
kind which I had ever seen. It was circular, and consisted
of stones immensely large and heavy at the bottom, which towards
the top became thinner and thinner, having been fashioned by the
hand of art to something of the shape of scollop shells.
These were surmounted by a very large flat stone, which slanted
down towards the south, where was a door. Three or four
individuals might have taken shelter within the interior, in
which was growing a small thorn tree.</p>

<p>I gazed with reverence and awe upon the pile where the first
colonies of Europe offered their worship to the unknown
God. The temples of the mighty and skilful Roman,
comparatively of modern date, have crumbled to dust in its
neighbourhood. The churches of the Arian Goth, his
successor in power, have sunk beneath the earth, and are not to
be found; and the mosques of the Moor, the conqueror of the Goth,
where and what are they? Upon the rock, masses of hoary and
vanishing ruin. Not so the Druids&rsquo; stone; there it
stands on the hill of winds, as strong and as freshly new as the
day, perhaps thirty centuries back, when it was first raised, by
means which are a mystery. Earthquakes have heaved it, but
its copestone has not fallen; rain floods have deluged it, but
failed to sweep it from its station; the burning sun has flashed
upon it, but neither split nor crumbled it; and time, stern old
time, has rubbed it with his iron tooth, and with what effect let
those who view it declare. There it stands, and he who
wishes to study the literature, the learning, and the history of
the ancient Celt and Cymbrian, may gaze on its broad covering,
and glean from that blank stone the whole known amount. The
Roman has left behind him his deathless writings, his history,
and his songs; the Goth his liturgy, his traditions, and the
germs of noble institutions; the Moor his chivalry, his
discoveries in medicine, and the foundations of modern commerce;
and where is the memorial of the Druidic races? Yonder:
that pile of eternal stone!</p>

<p>We arrived at Arroyolos about seven at night. I took
possession of a large two-bedded room, and, as I was preparing to
sit down to supper, the hostess came to inquire whether I had any
objection to receive a young Spaniard for the night. She
said he had just arrived with a train of muleteers, and that she
had no other room in which she could lodge him. I replied
that I was willing, and in about half an hour he made his
appearance, having first supped with his companions. He was
a very gentlemanly, good-looking lad of seventeen. He
addressed me in his native language, and, finding that I
understood him, he commenced talking with astonishing
volubility. In the space of five minutes he informed me
that, having a desire to see the world, he had run away from his
friends, who were people of opulence at Madrid, and that he did
not intend to return until he had travelled through various
countries. I told him that if what he said was true, he had
done a very wicked and foolish action; wicked, because he must
have overwhelmed those with grief whom he was bound to honour and
love, and foolish, inasmuch as he was going to expose himself to
inconceivable miseries and hardships, which would shortly cause
him to rue the step he had taken; that he would be only welcome
in foreign countries so long as he had money to spend, and when
he had none, he would be repulsed as a vagabond, and would
perhaps be allowed to perish of hunger. He replied that he
had a considerable sum of money with him, no less than a hundred
dollars, which would last him a long time, and that when it was
spent he should perhaps be able to obtain more. &ldquo;Your
hundred dollars,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;will scarcely last you
three months in the country in which you are, even if it be not
stolen from you; and you may as well hope to gather money on the
tops of the mountains as expect to procure more by honourable
means.&rdquo; But he had not yet sufficiently drank of the
cup of experience to attend much to what I said, and I soon after
changed the subject. About five next morning he came to my
bedside to take leave, as his muleteers were preparing to
depart. I gave him the usual Spanish valediction (<i>Vaya
usted con Dios</i>), and saw no more of him.</p>

<p>At nine, after having paid a most exorbitant sum for slight
accommodation, I started from Arroyolos, which is a town or large
village situated on very elevated ground, and discernible afar
off. It can boast of the remains of a large ancient and
seemingly Moorish castle, which stands on a hill on the left as
you take the road to Estremoz.</p>

<p>About a mile from Arroyolos I overtook a train of carts
escorted by a number of Portuguese soldiers, conveying stores and
ammunition into Spain. Six or seven of these soldiers
marched a considerable way in front; they were villainous looking
ruffians upon whose livid and ghastly countenances were written
murder, and all the other crimes which the decalogue
forbids. As I passed by, one of them, with a harsh,
croaking voice, commenced cursing all foreigners.
&ldquo;There,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;is this Frenchman riding on
horseback&rdquo; (I was on a mule), &ldquo;with a man&rdquo; (the
idiot) &ldquo;to take care of him, and all because he is rich;
whilst I, who am a poor soldier, am obliged to tramp on
foot. I could find it in my heart to shoot him dead, for in
what respect is he better than I? But he is a foreigner,
and the devil helps foreigners and hates the
Portuguese.&rdquo; He continued shouting his remarks until
I got about forty yards in advance, when I commenced laughing;
but it would have been more prudent in me to have held my peace,
for the next moment, with bang&mdash;bang, two bullets, well
aimed, came whizzing past my ears. A small river lay just
before me, though the bridge was a considerable way on my
left. I spurred my animal through it, closely followed by
my terrified guide, and commenced galloping along a sandy plain
on the other side, and so escaped with my life.</p>

<p>These fellows, with the look of banditti, were in no respect
better; and the traveller who should meet them in a solitary
place would have little reason to bless his good fortune.
One of the carriers (all of whom were Spaniards from the
neighbourhood of Badajoz, and had been despatched into Portugal
for the purpose of conveying the stores), whom I afterwards met
in the aforesaid town, informed me that the whole party were
equally bad, and that he and his companions had been plundered by
them of various articles, and threatened with death if they
attempted to complain. How frightful to figure to oneself
an army of such beings in a foreign land, sent thither either to
invade or defend; and yet Spain, at the time I am writing this,
is looking forward to armed assistance from Portugal. May
the Lord in his mercy grant that the soldiers who proceed to her
assistance may be of a different stamp: and yet, from the lax
state of discipline which exists in the Portuguese army, in
comparison with that of England and France, I am afraid that the
inoffensive population of the disturbed provinces will say that
wolves have been summoned to chase away foxes from the
sheepfold. O! may I live to see the day when soldiery will
no longer be tolerated in any civilized, or at least Christian,
country!</p>

<p>I pursued my route to Estremoz, passing by Monte Moro Novo,
which is a tall dusky hill, surmounted by an ancient edifice,
probably Moorish. The country was dreary and deserted, but
offering here and there a valley studded with cork trees and
azinheiras. After midday the wind, which during the night
and morning had much abated, again blew with such violence as
nearly to deprive me of my senses, though it was still in our
rear.</p>

<p>I was heartily glad when, on ascending a rising ground, at
about four o&rsquo;clock, I saw Estremoz on its hill at something
less than a league&rsquo;s distance. Here the view became
wildly interesting; the sun was sinking in the midst of red and
stormy clouds, and its rays were reflected on the dun walls of
the lofty town to which we were wending. Nor far distant to
the south-west rose Serra Dorso, which I had seen from Evora, and
which is the most beautiful mountain in the Alemtejo. My
idiot guide turned his uncouth visage towards it, and becoming
suddenly inspired, opened his mouth for the first time during the
day, I might almost say since we had left Aldea Gallega, and
began to tell me what rare hunting was to be obtained in that
mountain. He likewise described with great minuteness a
wonderful dog, which was kept in the neighbourhood for the
purpose of catching the wolves and wild boars, and for which the
proprietor had refused twenty moidores.</p>

<p>At length we reached Estremoz, and took up our quarters at the
principal inn, which looks upon a large plain or market-place
occupying the centre of the town, and which is so extensive that
I should think ten thousand soldiers at least might perform their
evolutions there with ease.</p>

<p>The cold was far too terrible to permit me to remain in the
chamber to which I had been conducted; I therefore went down to a
kind of kitchen on one side of the arched passage, which led
under the house to the yard and stables. A tremendous
withering blast poured through this passage, like the water
through the flush of a mill. A large cork tree was blazing
in the kitchen beneath a spacious chimney; and around it were
gathered a noisy crew of peasants and farmers from the
neighbourhood, and three or four Spanish smugglers from the
frontier. I with difficulty obtained a place amongst them,
as a Portuguese or a Spaniard will seldom make way for a
stranger, till called upon or pushed aside, but prefers gazing
upon him with an expression which seems to say, I know what you
want, but I prefer remaining where I am.</p>

<p>I now first began to observe an alteration in the language
spoken; it had become less sibilant, and more guttural; and, when
addressing each other, the speakers used the Spanish title of
courtesy <i>usted</i>, or your worthiness, instead of the
Portuguese high flowing <i>vossem se</i>, or your lordship.
This is the result of constant communication with the natives of
Spain, who never condescend to speak Portuguese, even when in
Portugal, but persist in the use of their own beautiful language,
which, perhaps, at some future period, the Portuguese will
generally adopt. This would greatly facilitate the union of
the two countries, hitherto kept asunder by the natural
waywardness of mankind.</p>

<p>I had not been seated long before the blazing pile, when a
fellow, mounted on a fine spirited horse, dashed from the stables
through the passage into the kitchen, where he commenced
displaying his horsemanship, by causing the animal to wheel about
with the velocity of a millstone, to the great danger of
everybody in the apartment. He then galloped out upon the
plain, and after half an hour&rsquo;s absence returned, and
having placed his horse once more in the stable, came and seated
himself next to me, to whom he commenced talking in a gibberish
of which I understood very little, but which he intended for
French. He was half intoxicated, and soon became three
parts so, by swallowing glass after glass of aguardiente.
Finding that I made him no answer, he directed his discourse to
one of the contrabandistas, to whom he talked in bad
Spanish. The latter either did not or would not understand
him; but at last, losing patience, called him a drunkard, and
told him to hold his tongue. The fellow, enraged at this
contempt, flung the glass out of which he was drinking at the
Spaniard&rsquo;s head, who sprang up like a tiger, and
unsheathing instantly a snick and snee knife, made an upward cut
at the fellow&rsquo;s cheek, and would have infallibly laid it
open, had I not pulled his arm down just in time to prevent worse
effects than a scratch above the lower jawbone, which, however,
drew blood.</p>

<p>The smuggler&rsquo;s companions interfered, and with much
difficulty led him off to a small apartment in the rear of the
house, where they slept, and kept the furniture of their
mules. The drunkard then commenced singing, or rather
yelling, the Marseillois hymn; and after having annoyed every one
for nearly an hour, was persuaded to mount his horse and depart,
accompanied by one of his neighbours. He was a pig merchant
of the vicinity, but had formerly been a trooper in the army of
Napoleon, where, I suppose, like the drunken coachman of Evora,
he had picked up his French and his habits of intoxication.</p>

<p>From Estremoz to Elvas the distance is six leagues. I
started at nine next morning; the first part of the way lay
through an enclosed country, but we soon emerged upon wild bleak
downs, over which the wind, which still pursued us, howled most
mournfully. We met no one on the route; and the scene was
desolate in the extreme; the heaven was of a dark grey, through
which no glimpse of the sun was to be perceived. Before us,
at a great distance, on an elevated ground, rose a
tower&mdash;the only object which broke the monotony of the
waste. In about two hours from the time when we first
discovered it, we reached a fountain, at the foot of the hill on
which it stood; the water, which gushed into a long stone trough,
was beautifully clear and transparent, and we stopped here to
water the animals.</p>

<p>Having dismounted, I left the guide, and proceeded to ascend
the hill on which the tower stood. Though the ascent was
very gentle I did not accomplish it without difficulty; the
ground was covered with sharp stones, which, in two or three
instances, cut through my boots and wounded my feet; and the
distance was much greater than I had expected. I at last
arrived at the ruin, for such it was. I found it had been
one of those watch towers or small fortresses called in
Portuguese <i>atalaias</i>; it was square, and surrounded by a
wall, broken down in many places. The tower itself had no
door, the lower part being of solid stone work; but on one side
were crevices at intervals between the stones, for the purpose of
placing the feet, and up this rude staircase I climbed to a small
apartment, about five feet square, from which the top had
fallen. It commanded an extensive view from all sides, and
had evidently been built for the accommodation of those whose
business it was to keep watch on the frontier, and at the
appearance of an enemy to alarm the country by
signals&mdash;probably by a fire. Resolute men might have
defended themselves in this little fastness against many
assailants, who must have been completely exposed to their arrows
or musketry in the ascent.</p>

<p>Being about to leave the place, I heard a strange cry behind a
part of the wall which I had not visited, and hastening thither,
I found a miserable object in rags, seated upon a stone. It
was a maniac&mdash;a man about thirty years of age, and I believe
deaf and dumb; there he sat, gibbering and mowing, and distorting
his wild features into various dreadful appearances. There
wanted nothing but this object to render the scene complete;
banditti amongst such melancholy desolation would have been by no
means so much in keeping. But the maniac, on his stone, in
the rear of the wind-beaten ruin, overlooking the blasted heath,
above which scowled the leaden heaven, presented such a picture
of gloom and misery as I believe neither painter nor poet ever
conceived in the saddest of their musings. This is not the
first instance in which it has been my lot to verify the wisdom
of the saying, that truth is sometimes wilder than fiction.</p>

<p>I remounted my mule, and proceeded till, on the top of another
hill, my guide suddenly exclaimed, &ldquo;there is
Elvas.&rdquo; I looked in the direction in which he
pointed, and beheld a town perched on the top of a lofty
hill. On the other side of a deep valley towards the left
rose another hill, much higher, on the top of which is the
celebrated fort of Elvas, believed to be the strongest place in
Portugal. Through the opening between the fort and the
town, but in the background and far in Spain, I discerned the
misty sides and cloudy head of a stately mountain, which I
afterwards learned was Albuquerque, one of the loftiest of
Estremadura.</p>

<p>We now got into a cultivated country, and following the road,
which wound amongst hedgerows, we arrived at a place where the
ground began gradually to shelve down. Here, on the right,
was the commencement of an aqueduct by means of which the town on
the opposite hill was supplied; it was at this point scarcely two
feet in altitude, but, as we descended, it became higher and
higher, and its proportions more colossal. Near the bottom
of the valley it took a turn to the left, bestriding the road
with one of its arches. I looked up, after passing under
it; the water must have been flowing near a hundred feet above my
head, and I was filled with wonder at the immensity of the
structure which conveyed it. There was, however, one
feature which was no slight drawback to its pretensions to
grandeur and magnificence; the water was supported not by
gigantic single arches, like those of the aqueduct of Lisbon,
which stalk over the valley like legs of Titans, but by three
layers of arches, which, like three distinct aqueducts, rise
above each other. The expense and labour necessary for the
erection of such a structure must have been enormous; and, when
we reflect with what comparative ease modern art would confer the
same advantage, we cannot help congratulating ourselves that we
live in times when it is not necessary to exhaust the wealth of a
province to supply a town on a hill with one of the first
necessaries of existence.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Elvas&mdash;Extraordinary Longevity&mdash;The
English Nation&mdash;Portuguese
Ingratitude&mdash;Illiberality&mdash;Fortifications&mdash;Spanish
Beggar&mdash;Badajoz&mdash;The Custom House.</p>

<p>Arrived at the gate of Elvas, an officer came out of a kind of
guard house, and, having asked me some questions, despatched a
soldier with me to the police office, that my passport might be
viséed, as upon the frontier they are much more particular
with respect to passports than in other parts. This matter
having been settled, I entered an hostelry near the same gate,
which had been recommended to me by my host at Vendas Novas, and
which was kept by a person of the name of Joze Rosado. It
was the best in the town, though, for convenience and
accommodation, inferior to a hedge alehouse in England. The
cold still pursued me, and I was glad to take refuge in an inner
kitchen, which, when the door was not open, was only lighted by a
fire burning somewhat dimly on the hearth. An elderly
female sat beside it in her chair, telling her beads: there was
something singular and extraordinary in her look, as well as I
could discern by the imperfect light of the apartment. I
put a few unimportant questions to her, to which she replied, but
seemed to be afflicted to a slight degree with deafness.
Her hair was becoming grey, and I said that I believed she was
older than myself, but that I was confident she had less snow on
her head.</p>

<p>&ldquo;How old may you be, cavalier?&rdquo; said she, giving
me that title which in Spain is generally used when an
extraordinary degree of respect is wished to be exhibited.
I answered that I was near thirty. &ldquo;Then,&rdquo; said
she, &ldquo;you were right in supposing that I am older than
yourself; I am older than your mother, or your mother&rsquo;s
mother: it is more than a hundred years since I was a girl, and
sported with the daughters of the town on the
hillside.&rdquo; &ldquo;In that case,&rdquo; said I,
&ldquo;you doubtless remember the earthquake.&rdquo;
&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she replied, &ldquo;if there is any occurrence
in my life that I remember, it is that: I was in the church of
Elvas at the moment, hearing the mass of the king, and the priest
fell on the ground, and let fall the Host from his hands. I
shall never forget how the earth shook; it made us all sick; and
the houses and walls reeled like drunkards. Since that
happened I have seen fourscore years pass by me, yet I was older
then than you are now.&rdquo;</p>

<p>I looked with wonder at this surprising female, and could
scarcely believe her words. I was, however, assured that
she was in fact upwards of a hundred and ten years of age, and
was considered the oldest person in Portugal. She still
retained the use of her faculties in as full a degree as the
generality of people who have scarcely attained the half of her
age. She was related to the people of the house.</p>

<p>As the night advanced, several persons entered for the purpose
of enjoying the comfort of the fire and for the sake of
conversation, for the house was a kind of news room, where the
principal speaker was the host, a man of some shrewdness and
experience, who had served as a soldier in the British
army. Amongst others was the officer who commanded at the
gate. After a few observations, this gentleman, who was a
good-looking young man of five-and-twenty, began to burst forth
in violent declamation against the English nation and government,
who, he said, had at all times proved themselves selfish and
deceitful, but that their present conduct in respect to Spain was
particularly infamous, for though it was in their power to put an
end to the war at once, by sending a large army thither, they
preferred sending a handful of troops, in order that the war
might be prolonged, for no other reason than that it was of
advantage to them. Having paid him an ironical compliment
for his politeness and urbanity, I asked whether he reckoned
amongst the selfish actions of the English government and nation,
their having expended hundreds of millions of pounds sterling,
and an ocean of precious blood, in fighting the battles of Spain
and Portugal against Napoleon. &ldquo;Surely,&rdquo; said
I, &ldquo;the fort of Elvas above our heads, and still more the
castle of Badajoz over the water, speak volumes respecting
English selfishness, and must, every time you view them, confirm
you in the opinion which you have just expressed. And then,
with respect to the present combat in Spain, the gratitude which
that country evinced to England after the French, by means of
English armies, had been expelled,&mdash;gratitude evinced by
discouraging the trade of England on all occasions, and by
offering up masses in thanksgiving when the English heretics
quitted the Spanish shores,&mdash;ought now to induce England to
exhaust and ruin herself, for the sake of hunting Don Carlos out
of his mountains. In deference to your superior
judgment,&rdquo; continued I to the officer, &ldquo;I will
endeavour to believe that it would be for the advantage of
England were the war prolonged for an indefinite period;
nevertheless, you would do me a particular favour by explaining
by what process in chemistry blood shed in Spain will find its
way into the English treasury in the shape of gold.&rdquo;</p>

<p>As he was not ready with his answer, I took up a plate of
fruit which stood on the table beside me, and said, &ldquo;What
do you call these fruits?&rdquo; &ldquo;Pomegranates and
bolotas,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;Right,&rdquo; said I,
&ldquo;a home-bred Englishman could not have given me that
answer; yet he is as much acquainted with pomegranates and
bolotas as your lordship is with the line of conduct which it is
incumbent upon England to pursue in her foreign and domestic
policy.&rdquo;</p>

<p>This answer of mine, I confess, was not that of a Christian,
and proved to me how much of the leaven of the ancient man still
pervaded me; yet I must be permitted to add, that I believe no
other provocation would have elicited from me a reply so full of
angry feeling: but I could not command myself when I heard my own
glorious land traduced in this unmerited manner. By
whom? A Portuguese! A native of a country which has
been twice liberated from horrid and detestable thraldom by the
hands of Englishmen. But for Wellington and his heroes,
Portugal would have been French at this day; but for Napier and
his mariners, Miguel would now be lording it in Lisbon. To
return, however, to the officer; every one laughed at him, and he
presently went away.</p>

<p>The next day I became acquainted with a respectable tradesman
of the name of Almeida, a man of talent, though rather rough in
his manners. He expressed great abhorrence of the papal
system, which had so long spread a darkness like that of death
over his unfortunate country, and I had no sooner informed him
that I had brought with me a certain quantity of Testaments,
which it was my intention to leave for sale at Elvas, than he
expressed a great desire to undertake the charge, and said that
he would do the utmost in his power to procure a sale for them
amongst his numerous customers. Upon showing him a copy, I
remarked, your name is upon the title page; the Portuguese
version of the Holy Scriptures, circulated by the Bible Society,
having been executed by a Protestant of the name of Almeida, and
first published in the year 1712; whereupon he smiled, and
observed that he esteemed it an honour to be connected in name at
least with such a man. He scoffed at the idea of receiving
any remuneration, and assured me that the feeling of being
permitted to co-operate in so holy and useful a cause as the
circulation of the Scriptures was quite a sufficient reward.</p>

<p>After having accomplished this matter, I proceeded to survey
the environs of the place, and strolled up the hill to the fort
on the north side of the town. The lower part of the hill
is planted with azinheiras, which give it a picturesque
appearance, and at the bottom is a small brook, which I crossed
by means of stepping stones. Arrived at the gate of the
fort, I was stopped by the sentry, who, however, civilly told me,
that if I sent in my name to the commanding officer he would make
no objection to my visiting the interior. I accordingly
sent in my card by a soldier who was lounging about, and, sitting
down on a stone, waited his return. He presently appeared,
and inquired whether I was an Englishman; to which, having
replied in the affirmative, he said, &ldquo;In that case, sir,
you cannot enter; indeed, it is not the custom to permit any
foreigners to visit the fort.&rdquo; I answered that it was
perfectly indifferent to me whether I visited it or not; and,
having taken a survey of Badajoz from the eastern side of the
hill, descended by the way I came.</p>

<p>This is one of the beneficial results of protecting a nation
and squandering blood and treasure in its defence. The
English, who have never been at war with Portugal, who have
fought for its independence on land and sea, and always with
success, who have forced themselves by a treaty of commerce to
drink its coarse and filthy wines, which no other nation cares to
taste, are the most unpopular people who visit Portugal.
The French have ravaged the country with fire and sword, and shed
the blood of its sons like water; the French buy not its fruits
and loathe its wines, yet there is no bad spirit in Portugal
towards the French. The reason of this is no mystery; it is
the nature not of the Portuguese only, but of corrupt and
unregenerate man, to dislike his benefactors, who, by conferring
benefits upon him, mortify in the most generous manner his
miserable vanity.</p>

<p>There is no country in which the English are so popular as in
France; but, though the French have been frequently roughly
handled by the English, and have seen their capital occupied by
an English army, they have never been subjected to the supposed
ignominy of receiving assistance from them.</p>

<p>The fortifications of Elvas are models of their kind, and, at
the first view, it would seem that the town, if well garrisoned,
might bid defiance to any hostile power; but it has its weak
point: the western side is commanded by a hill, at the distance
of half a mile, from which an experienced general would cannonade
it, and probably with success. It is the last town in this
part of Portugal, the distance to the Spanish frontier being
barely two leagues. It was evidently built as a rival to
Badajoz, upon which it looks down from its height across a sandy
plain and over the sullen waters of the Guadiana; but, though a
strong town, it can scarcely be called a defence to the frontier,
which is open on all sides, so that there would not be the
slightest necessity for an invading army to approach within a
dozen leagues of its walls, should it be disposed to avoid
them. Its fortifications are so extensive that ten thousand
men at least would be required to man them, who, in the event of
an invasion, might be far better employed in meeting the enemy in
the open field. The French, during their occupation of
Portugal, kept a small force in this place, who, at the approach
of the British, retreated to the fort, where they shortly after
capitulated.</p>

<p>Having nothing farther to detain me at Elvas, I proceeded to
cross the frontier into Spain. My idiot guide was on his
way back to Aldea Gallega; and, on the fifth of January, I
mounted a sorry mule without bridle or stirrups, which I guided
by a species of halter, and followed by a lad who was to attend
me on another, I spurred down the hill of Elvas to the plain,
eager to arrive in old chivalrous romantic Spain. But I
soon found that I had no need to quicken the beast which bore me,
for though covered with sores, wall-eyed, and with a kind of halt
in its gait, it cantered along like the wind.</p>

<p>In little more than half an hour we arrived at a brook, whose
waters ran vigorously between steep banks. A man who was
standing on the side directed me to the ford in the squeaking
dialect of Portugal; but whilst I was yet splashing through the
water, a voice from the other bank hailed me, in the magnificent
language of Spain, in this guise: &ldquo;<i>O Senor
Caballero</i>, <i>que me de usted una limosna por amor de
Dios</i>, <i>una limosnita para que io me compre un traguillo de
vino tinto</i>&rdquo; (Charity, Sir Cavalier, for the love of
God, bestow an alms upon me, that I may purchase a mouthful of
red wine). In a moment I was on Spanish ground, as the
brook, which is called Acaia, is the boundary here of the two
kingdoms, and having flung the beggar a small piece of silver, I
cried in ecstasy &ldquo;<i>Santiago y cierra Espana</i>!&rdquo;
and scoured on my way with more speed than before, paying, as Gil
Blas says, little heed to the torrent of blessings which the
mendicant poured forth in my rear: yet never was charity more
unwisely bestowed, for I was subsequently informed that the
fellow was a confirmed drunkard, who took his station every
morning at the ford, where he remained the whole day for the
purpose of extorting money from the passengers, which he
regularly spent every night in the wine-shops of Badajoz.
To those who gave him money he returned blessings, and to those
who refused, curses; being equally skilled and fluent in the use
of either.</p>

<p>Badajoz was now in view, at the distance of little more than
half a league. We soon took a turn to the left, towards a
bridge of many arches across the Guadiana, which, though so famed
in song and ballad, is a very unpicturesque stream, shallow and
sluggish, though tolerably wide; its banks were white with linen
which the washer-women had spread out to dry in the sun, which
was shining brightly; I heard their singing at a great distance,
and the theme seemed to be the praises of the river where they
were toiling, for as I approached, I could distinguish Guadiana,
Guadiana, which reverberated far and wide, pronounced by the
clear and strong voices of many a dark-cheeked maid and
matron. I thought there was some analogy between their
employment and my own: I was about to tan my northern complexion
by exposing myself to the hot sun of Spain, in the humble hope of
being able to cleanse some of the foul stains of Popery from the
minds of its children, with whom I had little acquaintance,
whilst they were bronzing themselves on the banks of the river in
order to make white the garments of strangers: the words of an
eastern poet returned forcibly to my mind.</p>

<blockquote><p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll weary myself each night and each
day,<br />
 To aid my unfortunate brothers;<br />
As the laundress tans her own face in the ray,<br />
 To cleanse the garments of others.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>

<p>Having crossed the bridge, we arrived at the northern gate,
when out rushed from a species of sentry box a fellow wearing on
his head a high-peaked Andalusian hat, with his figure wrapped up
in one of those immense cloaks so well known to those who have
travelled in Spain, and which none but a Spaniard can wear in a
becoming manner: without saying a word, he laid hold of the
halter of the mule, and began to lead it through the gate up a
dirty street, crowded with long-cloaked people like
himself. I asked him what he meant, but he deigned not to
return an answer, the boy, however, who waited upon me said that
it was one of the gate-keepers, and that he was conducting us to
the Custom House or Alfandega, where the baggage would be
examined. Having arrived there, the fellow, who still
maintained a dogged silence, began to pull the trunks off the
sumpter mule, and commenced uncording them. I was about to
give him a severe reproof for his brutality, but before I could
open my mouth a stout elderly personage appeared at the door, who
I soon found was the principal officer. He looked at me for
a moment and then asked me, in the English language, if I was an
Englishman. On my replying in the affirmative, he demanded
of the fellow how he dared to have the insolence to touch the
baggage, without orders, and sternly bade him cord up the trunks
again and place them on the mule, which he performed without
uttering a word. The gentleman then asked what the trunks
contained: I answered clothes and linen; when he begged pardon
for the insolence of the subordinate, and informed him that I was
at liberty to proceed where I thought proper. I thanked him
for his exceeding politeness, and, under guidance of the boy,
made the best of my way to the Inn of the Three Nations, to which
I had been recommended at Elvas.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER IX</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Badajoz&mdash;Antonio the
Gypsy&mdash;Antonio&rsquo;s Proposal&mdash;The Proposal
Accepted&mdash;Gypsy Breakfast&mdash;Departure from
Badajoz&mdash;The Gypsy Donkey&mdash;Merida&mdash;The Ruined
Wall&mdash;The Crone&mdash;The Land of the Moor&mdash;The Black
Men&mdash;Life in the Desert&mdash;The Supper.</p>

<p>I was now at Badajoz in Spain, a country which for the next
four years was destined to be the scene of my labour: but I will
not anticipate. The neighbourhood of Badajoz did not
prepossess me much in favour of the country which I had just
entered; it consists chiefly of brown moors, which bear little
but a species of brushwood, called in Spanish <i>carrasco</i>;
blue mountains are however seen towering up in the far distance,
which relieve the scene from the monotony which would otherwise
pervade it.</p>

<p>It was at this town of Badajoz, the capital of Estremadura,
that I first fell in with those singular people, the Zincali,
Gitanos, or Spanish gypsies. It was here I met with the
wild Paco, the man with the withered arm, who wielded the cachas
(<i>shears</i>) with his left hand; his shrewd wife, Antonia,
skilled in hokkano baro, or the great trick; the fierce gypsy,
Antonio Lopez, their father-in-law; and many other almost equally
singular individuals of the Errate, or gypsy blood. It was
here that I first preached the gospel to the gypsy people, and
commenced that translation of the New Testament in the Spanish
gypsy tongue, a portion of which I subsequently printed at
Madrid.</p>

<p>After a stay of three weeks at Badajoz, I prepared to depart
for Madrid: late one afternoon, as I was arranging my scanty
baggage, the gypsy Antonio entered my apartment, dressed in his
zamarra and high-peaked Andalusian hat.</p>

<p><i>Antonio</i>.&mdash;Good evening, brother; they tell me that
on the callicaste (<i>day after to-morrow</i>) you intend to set
out for Madrilati.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Such is my intention; I can stay here no
longer.</p>

<p><i>Antonio</i>.&mdash;The way is far to Madrilati: there are,
moreover, wars in the land and many chories (<i>thieves</i>) walk
about; are you not afraid to journey?</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;I have no fears; every man must
accomplish his destiny: what befalls my body or soul was written
in a gabicote (<i>book</i>) a thousand years before the
foundation of the world.</p>

<p><i>Antonio</i>.&mdash;I have no fears myself, brother; the
dark night is the same to me as the fair day, and the wild
carrascal as the market-place or the chardy (<i>fair</i>); I have
got the bar lachi in my bosom, the precious stone to which sticks
the needle.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;You mean the loadstone, I suppose.
Do you believe that a lifeless stone can preserve you from the
dangers which occasionally threaten your life?</p>

<p><i>Antonio</i>.&mdash;Brother, I am fifty years old, and you
see me standing before you in life and strength; how could that
be unless the bar lachi had power? I have been soldier and
contrabandista, and I have likewise slain and robbed the
Busné. The bullets of the Gabiné
(<i>French</i>) and of the jara canallis (<i>revenue
officers</i>) have hissed about my ears without injuring me, for
I carried the bar lachi. I have twenty times done that
which by Busnée law should have brought me to the
filimicha (<i>gallows</i>), yet my neck has never yet been
squeezed by the cold garrote. Brother, I trust in the bar
lachi, like the Caloré of old: were I in the midst of the
gulph of Bombardo (<i>Lyons</i>), without a plank to float upon,
I should feel no fear; for if I carried the precious stone, it
would bring me safe to shore: the bar lachi has power,
brother.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;I shall not dispute the matter with you,
more especially as I am about to depart from Badajoz: I must
speedily bid you farewell, and we shall see each other no
more.</p>

<p><i>Antonio</i>.&mdash;Brother, do you know what brings me
hither?</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;I cannot tell, unless it be to wish me a
happy journey: I am not gypsy enough to interpret the thoughts of
other people.</p>

<p><i>Antonio</i>.&mdash;All last night I lay awake, thinking of
the affairs of Egypt; and when I arose in the morning I took the
bar lachi from my bosom, and scraping it with a knife, swallowed
some of the dust in aguardiente, as I am in the habit of doing
when I have made up my mind; and I said to myself, I am wanted on
the frontiers of Castumba (<i>Castile</i>) on a certain
matter. The strange Caloro is about to proceed to
Madrilati; the journey is long, and he may fall into evil hands,
peradventure into those of his own blood; for let me tell you,
brother, the Calés are leaving their towns and villages,
and forming themselves into troops to plunder the Busné,
for there is now but little law in the land, and now or never is
the time for the Caloré to become once more what they were
in former times; so I said, the strange Caloro may fall into the
hands of his own blood and be ill-treated by them, which were
shame: I will therefore go with him through the Chim del Manro
(<i>Estremadura</i>) as far as the frontiers of Castumba, and
upon the frontiers of Castumba I will leave the London Caloro to
find his own way to Madrilati, for there is less danger in
Castumba than in the Chim del Manro, and I will then betake me to
the affairs of Egypt which call me from hence.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;This is a very hopeful plan of yours, my
friend; and in what manner do you propose that we shall
travel?</p>

<p><i>Antonio</i>.&mdash;I will tell you, brother; I have a gras
in the stall, even the one which I purchased at Oliven&ccedil;as,
as I told you on a former occasion; it is good and fleet, and
cost me, who am a gypsy, fifty chulé (<i>dollars</i>);
upon that gras you shall ride. As for myself, I will
journey upon the macho.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Before I answer you, I shall wish you to
inform me what business it is which renders your presence
necessary in Castumba; your son-in-law, Paco, told me that it was
no longer the custom of the gypsies to wander.</p>

<p><i>Antonio</i>.&mdash;It is an affair of Egypt, brother, and I
shall not acquaint you with it; peradventure it relates to a
horse or an ass, or peradventure it relates to a mule or a macho;
it does not relate to yourself, therefore I advise you not to
inquire about it&mdash;Dosta (<i>enough</i>). With respect
to my offer, you are free to decline it; there is a drungruje
(<i>royal road</i>) between here and Madrilati, and you can
travel it in the birdoche (<i>stage-coach</i>) or with the
dromale (<i>muleteers</i>); but I tell you, as a brother, that
there are chories upon the drun, and some of them are of the
Errate.</p>

<p>Certainly few people in my situation would have accepted the
offer of this singular gypsy. It was not, however, without
its allurements for me; I was fond of adventure, and what more
ready means of gratifying my love of it than by putting myself
under the hands of such a guide. There are many who would
have been afraid of treachery, but I had no fears on this point,
as I did not believe that the fellow harboured the slightest ill
intention towards me; I saw that he was fully convinced that I
was one of the Errate, and his affection for his own race, and
his hatred for the Busné, were his strongest
characteristics. I wished, moreover, to lay hold of every
opportunity of making myself acquainted with the ways of the
Spanish gypsies, and an excellent one here presented itself on my
first entrance into Spain. In a word, I determined to
accompany the gypsy. &ldquo;I will go with you,&rdquo; I
exclaimed; &ldquo;as for my baggage, I will despatch it to Madrid
by the birdoche.&rdquo; &ldquo;Do so, brother,&rdquo; he
replied, &ldquo;and the gras will go lighter. Baggage,
indeed!&mdash;what need of baggage have you? How the
Busné on the road would laugh if they saw two Calés
with baggage behind them.&rdquo;</p>

<p>During my stay at Badajoz, I had but little intercourse with
the Spaniards, my time being chiefly devoted to the gypsies, with
whom, from long intercourse with various sections of their race
in different parts of the world, I felt myself much more at home
than with the silent, reserved men of Spain, with whom a
foreigner might mingle for half a century without having half a
dozen words addressed to him, unless he himself made the first
advances to intimacy, which, after all, might be rejected with a
shrug and a <i>no intendo</i>; for, among the many deeply rooted
prejudices of these people, is the strange idea that no foreigner
can speak their language; an idea to which they will still cling
though they hear him conversing with perfect ease; for in that
case the utmost that they will concede to his attainments is,
<i>Habla quatro palabras y nada mas</i> (he can speak four words,
and no more).</p>

<p>Early one morning, before sunrise, I found myself at the house
of Antonio; it was a small mean building, situated in a dirty
street. The morning was quite dark; the street, however,
was partially illumined by a heap of lighted straw, round which
two or three men were busily engaged, apparently holding an
object over the flames. Presently the gypsy&rsquo;s door
opened, and Antonio made his appearance; and, casting his eye in
the direction of the light, exclaimed, &ldquo;The swine have
killed their brother; would that every Busno was served as yonder
hog is. Come in, brother, and we will eat the heart of that
hog.&rdquo; I scarcely understood his words, but, following
him, he led me into a low room in which was a brasero, or small
pan full of lighted charcoal; beside it was a rude table, spread
with a coarse linen cloth, upon which was bread and a large
pipkin full of a mess which emitted no disagreeable savour.
&ldquo;The heart of the balichow is in that puchera,&rdquo; said
Antonio; &ldquo;eat, brother.&rdquo; We both sat down and
ate, Antonio voraciously. When we had concluded he
arose:&mdash;&ldquo;Have you got your <i>li</i>?&rdquo; he
demanded. &ldquo;Here it is,&rdquo; said I, showing him my
passport. &ldquo;Good,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;you may want
it; I want none, my passport is the bar lachi. Now for a
glass of repani, and then for the road.&rdquo;</p>

<p>We left the room, the door of which he locked, hiding the key
beneath a loose brick in a corner of the passage. &ldquo;Go
into the street, brother, whilst I fetch the caballerias from the
stable.&rdquo; I obeyed him. The sun had not yet
risen, and the air was piercingly cold; the grey light, however,
of dawn enabled me to distinguish objects with tolerable
accuracy; I soon heard the clattering of the animals&rsquo; feet,
and Antonio presently stepped forth leading the horse by the
bridle; the macho followed behind. I looked at the horse
and shrugged my shoulders: as far as I could scan it, it appeared
the most uncouth animal I had ever beheld. It was of a
spectral white, short in the body, but with remarkably long
legs. I observed that it was particularly high in the cruz
or withers. &ldquo;You are looking at the grasti,&rdquo;
said Antonio; &ldquo;it is eighteen years old, but it is the very
best in the Chim del Manro; I have long had my eye upon it; I
bought it for my own use for the affairs of Egypt. Mount,
brother, mount and let us leave the foros&mdash;the gate is about
being opened.&rdquo;</p>

<p>He locked the door, and deposited the key in his faja.
In less than a quarter of an hour we had left the town behind
us. &ldquo;This does not appear to be a very good
horse,&rdquo; said I to Antonio, as we proceeded over the
plain. &ldquo;It is with difficulty that I can make him
move.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;He is the swiftest horse in the Chim del Manro,
brother,&rdquo; said Antonio; &ldquo;at the gallop and at the
speedy trot there is no one to match him; but he is eighteen
years old, and his joints are stiff, especially of a morning; but
let him once become heated and the genio del viejo (<i>spirit of
the old man</i>) comes upon him and there is no holding him in
with bit or bridle. I bought that horse for the affairs of
Egypt, brother.&rdquo;</p>

<p>About noon we arrived at a small village in the neighbourhood
of a high lumpy hill. &ldquo;There is no Calo house in this
place,&rdquo; said Antonio; &ldquo;we will therefore go to the
posada of the Busné, and refresh ourselves, man and
beast.&rdquo; We entered the kitchen and sat down at the
boards, calling for wine and bread. There were two
ill-looking fellows in the kitchen, smoking cigars; I said
something to Antonio in the Calo language.</p>

<p>&ldquo;What is that I hear?&rdquo; said one of the fellows,
who was distinguished by an immense pair of moustaches.
&ldquo;What is that I hear? is it in Calo that you are speaking
before me, and I a Chalan and national? Accursed gypsy, how
dare you enter this posada and speak before me in that
speech? Is it not forbidden by the law of the land in which
we are, even as it is forbidden for a gypsy to enter the
mercado? I tell you what, friend, if I hear another word of
Calo come from your mouth, I will cudgel your bones and send you
flying over the house-tops with a kick of my foot.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;You would do right,&rdquo; said his companion;
&ldquo;the insolence of these gypsies is no longer to be
borne. When I am at Merida or Badajoz I go to the mercado,
and there in a corner stand the accursed gypsies jabbering to
each other in a speech which I understand not. &lsquo;Gypsy
gentleman,&rsquo; say I to one of them, &lsquo;what will you have
for that donkey?&rsquo; &lsquo;I will have ten dollars for
it, Caballero nacional,&rsquo; says the gypsy; &lsquo;it is the
best donkey in all Spain.&rsquo; &lsquo;I should like to
see its paces,&rsquo; say I. &lsquo;That you shall, most
valorous!&rsquo; says the gypsy, and jumping upon its back, he
puts it to its paces, first of all whispering something into its
ears in Calo, and truly the paces of the donkey are most
wonderful, such as I have never seen before. &lsquo;I think
it will just suit me,&rsquo; and after looking at it awhile, I
take out the money and pay for it. &lsquo;I shall go to my
house,&rsquo; says the gypsy; and off he runs. &lsquo;I
shall go to my village,&rsquo; say I, and I mount the
donkey. &lsquo;Vamonos,&rsquo; say I, but the donkey
won&rsquo;t move. I give him a switch, but I don&rsquo;t
get on the better for that. &lsquo;How is this?&rsquo; say
I, and I fall to spurring him. What happens then,
brother? The wizard no sooner feels the prick than he bucks
down, and flings me over his head into the mire. I get up
and look about me; there stands the donkey staring at me, and
there stand the whole gypsy canaille squinting at me with their
filmy eyes. &lsquo;Where is the scamp who has sold me this
piece of furniture?&rsquo; I shout. &lsquo;He is gone to
Granada, Valorous,&rsquo; says one. &lsquo;He is gone to
see his kindred among the Moors,&rsquo; says another.
&lsquo;I just saw him running over the field, in the direction of
---, with the devil close behind him,&rsquo; says a third.
In a word, I am tricked. I wish to dispose of the donkey;
no one, however, will buy him; he is a Calo donkey, and every
person avoids him. At last the gypsies offer thirty rials
for him; and after much chaffering I am glad to get rid of him at
two dollars. It is all a trick, however; he returns to his
master, and the brotherhood share the spoil amongst them.
All which villainy would be prevented, in my opinion, were the
Calo language not spoken; for what but the word of Calo could
have induced the donkey to behave in such an unaccountable
manner?&rdquo;</p>

<p>Both seemed perfectly satisfied with the justness of this
conclusion, and continued smoking till their cigars were burnt to
stumps, when they arose, twitched their whiskers, looked at us
with fierce disdain, and dashing the tobacco-ends to the ground,
strode out of the apartment.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Those people seem no friends to the gypsies,&rdquo;
said I to Antonio, when the two bullies had departed, &ldquo;nor
to the Calo language either.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;May evil glanders seize their nostrils,&rdquo; said
Antonio; &ldquo;they have been jonjabadoed by our people.
However, brother, you did wrong to speak to me in Calo, in a
posada like this; it is a forbidden language; for, as I have
often told you, the king has destroyed the law of the
Calés. Let us away, brother, or those juntunes
(<i>sneaking scoundrels</i>) may set the justicia upon
us.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Towards evening we drew near to a large town or village.
&ldquo;That is Merida,&rdquo; said Antonio, &ldquo;formerly, as
the Busné say, a mighty city of the Corahai. We
shall stay here to-night, and perhaps for a day or two, for I
have some business of Egypt to transact in this place. Now,
brother, step aside with the horse, and wait for me beneath
yonder wall. I must go before and see in what condition
matters stand.&rdquo;</p>

<p>I dismounted from the horse, and sat down on a stone beneath
the ruined wall to which Antonio had motioned me; the sun went
down, and the air was exceedingly keen; I drew close around me an
old tattered gypsy cloak with which my companion had provided me,
and being somewhat fatigued, fell into a doze which lasted for
nearly an hour.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Is your worship the London Caloro?&rdquo; said a
strange voice close beside me.</p>

<p>I started and beheld the face of a woman peering under my
hat. Notwithstanding the dusk, I could see that the
features were hideously ugly and almost black; they belonged, in
fact, to a gypsy crone, at least seventy years of age, leaning
upon a staff.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Is your worship the London Caloro?&rdquo; repeated
she.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I am he whom you seek,&rdquo; said I; &ldquo;where is
Antonio?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;<i>Curelando</i>, <i>curelando</i>, <i>baribustres
curelos terela</i>,&rdquo; <a name="citation90"></a><a
href="#footnote90" class="citation">[90]</a> said the crone:
&ldquo;come with me, Caloro of my garlochin, come with me to my
little ker, he will be there anon.&rdquo;</p>

<p>I followed the crone, who led the way into the town, which was
ruinous and seemingly half deserted; we went up the street, from
which she turned into a narrow and dark lane, and presently
opened the gate of a large dilapidated house; &ldquo;Come
in,&rdquo; said she.</p>

<p>&ldquo;And the gras?&rdquo; I demanded.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Bring the gras in too, my chabo, bring the gras in too;
there is room for the gras in my little stable.&rdquo; We
entered a large court, across which we proceeded till we came to
a wide doorway. &ldquo;Go in, my child of Egypt,&rdquo;
said the hag; &ldquo;go in, that is my little stable.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;The place is as dark as pitch,&rdquo; said I,
&ldquo;and may be a well for what I know; bring a light or I will
not enter.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Give me the solabarri (<i>bridle</i>),&rdquo; said the
hag, &ldquo;and I will lead your horse in, my chabo of Egypt,
yes, and tether him to my little manger.&rdquo; She led the
horse through the doorway, and I heard her busy in the darkness;
presently the horse shook himself: &ldquo;<i>Grasti
terelamos</i>,&rdquo; said the hag, who now made her appearance
with the bridle in her hand; &ldquo;the horse has shaken himself,
he is not harmed by his day&rsquo;s journey; now let us go in, my
Caloro, into my little room.&rdquo;</p>

<p>We entered the house and found ourselves in a vast room, which
would have been quite dark but for a faint glow which appeared at
the farther end; it proceeded from a brasero, beside which were
squatted two dusky figures.</p>

<p>&ldquo;These are Callees,&rdquo; said the hag; &ldquo;one is
my daughter and the other is her chabi; sit down, my London
Caloro, and let us hear you speak.&rdquo;</p>

<p>I looked about for a chair, but could see none; at a short
distance, however, I perceived the end of a broken pillar lying
on the floor; this I rolled to the brasero and sat down upon
it.</p>

<p>&ldquo;This is a fine house, mother of the gypsies,&rdquo;
said I to the hag, willing to gratify the desire she had
expressed of hearing me speak; &ldquo;a fine house is this of
yours, rather cold and damp, though; it appears large enough to
be a barrack for hundunares.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Plenty of houses in this foros, plenty of houses in
Merida, my London Caloro, some of them just as they were left by
the Corahanoes; ah, a fine people are the Corahanoes; I often
wish myself in their chim once more.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;How is this, mother,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;have you
been in the land of the Moors?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Twice have I been in their country, my
Caloro,&mdash;twice have I been in the land of the Corahai; the
first time is more than fifty years ago, I was then with the Sese
(<i>Spaniards</i>), for my husband was a soldier of the Crallis
of Spain, and Oran at that time belonged to Spain.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;You were not then with the real Moors,&rdquo; said I,
&ldquo;but only with the Spaniards who occupied part of their
country.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I have been with the real Moors, my London
Caloro. Who knows more of the real Moors than myself?
About forty years ago I was with my ro in Ceuta, for he was still
a soldier of the king, and he said to me one day, &lsquo;I am
tired of this place where there is no bread and less water, I
will escape and turn Corahano; this night I will kill my sergeant
and flee to the camp of the Moor.&rsquo; &lsquo;Do
so,&rsquo; said I, &lsquo;my chabo, and as soon as may be I will
follow you and become a Corahani.&rsquo; That same night he
killed his sergeant, who five years before had called him Calo
and cursed him, then running to the wall he dropped from it, and
amidst many shots he escaped to the land of the Corahai, as for
myself, I remained in the presidio of Ceuta as a suttler, selling
wine and repani to the soldiers. Two years passed by and I
neither saw nor heard from my ro; one day there came a strange
man to my cachimani (<i>wine-shop</i>), he was dressed like a
Corahano, and yet he did not look like one, he looked like more a
callardo (<i>black</i>), and yet he was not a callardo either,
though he was almost black, and as I looked upon him I thought he
looked something like the Errate, and he said to me,
&lsquo;Zincali; chachipé!&rsquo; and then he whispered to
me in queer language, which I could scarcely understand,
&lsquo;Your ro is waiting, come with me, my little sister, and I
will take you unto him.&rsquo; &lsquo;Where is he?&rsquo;
said I, and he pointed to the west, to the land of the Corahai,
and said, &lsquo;He is yonder away; come with me, little sister,
the ro is waiting.&rsquo; For a moment I was afraid, but I
bethought me of my husband and I wished to be amongst the
Corahai; so I took the little parné (<i>money</i>) I had,
and locking up the cachimani went with the strange man; the
sentinel challenged us at the gate, but I gave him repani
(<i>brandy</i>) and he let us pass; in a moment we were in the
land of the Corahai. About a league from the town beneath a
hill we found four people, men and women, all very black like the
strange man, and we joined ourselves with them and they all
saluted me and called me little sister. That was all I
understood of their discourse, which was very crabbed; and they
took away my dress and gave me other clothes, and I looked like a
Corahani, and away we marched for many days amidst deserts and
small villages, and more than once it seemed to me that I was
amongst the Errate, for their ways were the same: the men would
hokkawar (<i>cheat</i>) with mules and asses, and the women told
baji, and after many days we came before a large town, and the
black man said, &lsquo;Go in there, little sister, and there you
will find your ro;&rsquo; and I went to the gate, and an armed
Corahano stood within the gate, and I looked in his face, and lo!
it was my ro.</p>

<p>&ldquo;O what a strange town it was that I found myself in,
full of people who had once been Candoré
(<i>Christians</i>) but had renegaded and become Corahai.
There were Sese and Laloré (<i>Portuguese</i>), and men of
other nations, and amongst them were some of the Errate from my
own country; all were now soldiers of the Crallis of the Corahai
and followed him to his wars; and in that town I remained with my
ro a long time, occasionally going out with him to the wars, and
I often asked him about the black men who had brought me thither,
and he told me that he had had dealings with them, and that he
believed them to be of the Errate. Well, brother, to be
short, my ro was killed in the wars, before a town to which the
king of the Corahai laid siege, and I became a piuli
(<i>widow</i>), and I returned to the village of the renegades,
as it was called, and supported myself as well as I could; and
one day as I was sitting weeping, the black man, whom I had never
seen since the day he brought me to my ro, again stood before me,
and he said, &lsquo;Come with me, little sister, come with me,
the ro is at hand&rsquo;; and I went with him, and beyond the
gate in the desert was the same party of black men and women
which I had seen before. &lsquo;Where is my ro?&rsquo; said
I. &lsquo;Here he is, little sister,&rsquo; said the black
man, &lsquo;here he is; from this day I am the ro and you the
romi; come, let us go, for there is business to be
done.&rsquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;And I went with him, and he was my ro, and we lived
amongst the deserts, and hokkawar&rsquo;d and choried and told
baji; and I said to myself, this is good, sure I am amongst the
Errate in a better chim than my own; and I often said that they
were of the Errate, and then they would laugh and say that it
might be so, and that they were not Corahai, but they could give
no account of themselves.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Well, things went on in this way for years, and I had
three chai by the black man, two of them died, but the youngest,
who is the Calli who sits by the brasero, was spared; so we
roamed about and choried and told baji; and it came to pass that
once in the winter time our company attempted to pass a wide and
deep river, of which there are many in the Chim del Corahai, and
the boat overset with the rapidity of the current and all our
people were drowned, all but myself and my chabi, whom I bore in
my bosom. I had now no friends amongst the Corahai, and I
wandered about the despoblados howling and lamenting till I
became half lili (<i>mad</i>), and in this manner I found my way
to the coast, where I made friends with the captain of a ship and
returned to this land of Spain. And now I am here, I often
wish myself back again amongst the Corahai.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Here she commenced laughing loud and long, and when she had
ceased, her daughter and grandchild took up the laugh, which they
continued so long that I concluded they were all lunatics.</p>

<p>Hour succeeded hour, and still we sat crouching over the
brasero, from which, by this time, all warmth had departed; the
glow had long since disappeared, and only a few dying sparks were
to be distinguished. The room or hall was now involved in
utter darkness; the women were motionless and still; I shivered
and began to feel uneasy. &ldquo;Will Antonio be here
to-night?&rdquo; at length I demanded.</p>

<p>&ldquo;<i>No tenga usted cuidao</i>, my London Caloro,&rdquo;
said the Gypsy mother, in an unearthly tone; &ldquo;Pepindorio <a
name="citation93a"></a><a href="#footnote93a"
class="citation">[93a]</a> has been here some time.&rdquo;</p>

<p>I was about to rise from my seat and attempt to escape from
the house, when I felt a hand laid upon my shoulder, and in a
moment I heard the voice of Antonio.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Be not afraid, &rsquo;tis I, brother; we will have a
light anon, and then supper.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The supper was rude enough, consisting of bread, cheese, and
olives. Antonio, however, produced a leathern bottle of
excellent wine; we despatched these viands by the light of an
earthen lamp which was placed upon the floor.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Now,&rdquo; said Antonio to the youngest female,
&ldquo;bring me the pajandi, and I will sing a
gachapla.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The girl brought the guitar, which, with some difficulty, the
Gypsy tuned, and then strumming it vigorously, he sang:</p>

<blockquote><p>&ldquo;I stole a plump and bonny fowl,<br />
 But ere I well had dined,<br />
The master came with scowl and growl,<br />
 And me would captive bind.</p>

<p>&ldquo;My hat and mantle off I threw,<br />
 And scour&rsquo;d across the lea,<br />
Then cried the beng <a name="citation93b"></a><a
href="#footnote93b" class="citation">[93b]</a> with loud
halloo,<br />
 Where does the Gypsy flee?&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>

<p>He continued playing and singing for a considerable time, the
two younger females dancing in the meanwhile with unwearied
diligence, whilst the aged mother occasionally snapped her
fingers or beat time on the ground with her stick. At last
Antonio suddenly laid down the instrument:&mdash;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I see the London Caloro is weary; enough, enough,
to-morrow more thereof&mdash;we will now to the charipé
(<i>bed</i>).&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;With all my heart,&rdquo; said I; &ldquo;where are we
to sleep?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;In the stable,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;in the manger;
however cold the stable may be we shall be warm enough in the
bufa.&rdquo;</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER X</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">The Gypsy&rsquo;s Granddaughter&mdash;Proposed
Marriage&mdash;The Algnazil&mdash;The Assault&mdash;Speedy
Trot&mdash;Arrival at Trujillo&mdash;Night and Rain&mdash;The
Forest&mdash;The Bivouac&mdash;Mount and
Away!&mdash;Jaraicejo&mdash;The National&mdash;The Cavalier
Balmerson&mdash;Among the Thickets&mdash;Serious
Discourse&mdash;What is Truth?&mdash;Unexpected Intelligence.</p>

<p>We remained three days at the Gypsies&rsquo; house, Antonio
departing early every morning, on his mule, and returning late at
night. The house was large and ruinous, the only habitable
part of it, with the exception of the stable, being the hall,
where we had supped, and there the Gypsy females slept at night,
on some mats and mattresses in a corner.</p>

<p>&ldquo;A strange house is this,&rdquo; said I to Antonio, one
morning as he was on the point of saddling his mule and
departing, as I supposed, on the affairs of Egypt; &ldquo;a
strange house and strange people; that Gypsy grandmother has all
the appearance of a sowanee (<i>sorceress</i>).&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;All the appearance of one!&rdquo; said Antonio;
&ldquo;and is she not really one? She knows more crabbed
things and crabbed words than all the Errate betwixt here and
Catalonia. She has been amongst the wild Moors, and can
make more drows, poisons, and philtres than any one alive.
She once made a kind of paste, and persuaded me to taste, and
shortly after I had done so my soul departed from my body, and
wandered through horrid forests and mountains, amidst monsters
and duendes, during one entire night. She learned many
things amidst the Corahai which I should be glad to
know.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Have you been long acquainted with her?&rdquo; said I;
&ldquo;you appear to be quite at home in this house.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Acquainted with her!&rdquo; said Antonio.
&ldquo;Did not my own brother marry the black Calli, her
daughter, who bore him the chabi, sixteen years ago, just before
he was hanged by the Busné?&rdquo;</p>

<p>In the afternoon I was seated with the Gypsy mother in the
hall, the two Callees were absent telling fortunes about the town
and neighbourhood, which was their principal occupation.
&ldquo;Are you married, my London Caloro?&rdquo; said the old
woman to me. &ldquo;Are you a ro?&rdquo;</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Wherefore do you ask, O Dai de los
Cales?</p>

<p><i>Gypsy Mother</i>.&mdash;It is high time that the lacha of
the chabi were taken from her, and that she had a ro. You
can do no better than take her for romi, my London Caloro.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;I am a stranger in this land, O mother of
the Gypsies, and scarcely know how to provide for myself, much
less for a romi.</p>

<p><i>Gypsy Mother</i>.&mdash;She wants no one to provide for
her, my London Caloro, she can at any time provide for herself
and her ro. She can hokkawar, tell baji, and there are few
to equal her at stealing a pastesas. Were she once at
Madrilati, where they tell me you are going, she would make much
treasure; therefore take her thither, for in this foros she is
nahi (<i>lost</i>), as it were, for there is nothing to be
gained; but in the foros baro it would be another matter; she
would go dressed in lachipi and sonacai (<i>silk and gold</i>),
whilst you would ride about on your black-tailed gra; and when
you had got much treasure, you might return hither and live like
a Crallis, and all the Errate of the Chim del Manro should bow
down their heads to you. What, say you, my London Caloro,
what say you to my plan?</p>

<p>Myself.&mdash;Your plan is a plausible one, mother, or at
least some people would think so; but I am, as you are aware, of
another chim, and have no inclination to pass my life in this
country.</p>

<p><i>Gypsy Mother</i>.&mdash;Then return to your own country, my
Caloro, the chabi can cross the pani. Would she not do
business in London with the rest of the Caloré? Or
why not go to the land of the Corahai? In which case I
would accompany you; I and my daughter, the mother of the
chabi.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;And what should we do in the land of the
Corahai? It is a poor and wild country, I believe.</p>

<p><i>Gypsy Mother</i>.&mdash;The London Caloro asks me what we
could do in the land of the Corahai! Aromali! I
almost think that I am speaking to a lilipendi
(<i>simpleton</i>). Are there not horses to chore?
Yes, I trow there are, and better ones than in this land, and
asses and mules. In the land of the Corahai you must
hokkawar and chore even as you must here, or in your own country,
or else you are no Caloro. Can you not join yourselves with
the black people who live in the despoblados? Yes, surely;
and glad they would be to have among them the Errate from Spain
and London. I am seventy years of age, but I wish not to
die in this chim, but yonder, far away, where both my roms are
sleeping. Take the chabi, therefore, and go to Madrilati to
win the parné, and when you have got it, return, and we
will give a banquet to all the Busné in Merida, and in
their food I will mix drow, and they shall eat and burst like
poisoned sheep. . . . And when they have eaten we will leave
them, and away to the land of the Moor, my London Caloro.</p>

<p>During the whole time that I remained at Merida I stirred not
once from the house; following the advice of Antonio, who
informed me that it would not be convenient. My time lay
rather heavily on my hands, my only source of amusement
consisting in the conversation of the women, and in that of
Antonio when he made his appearance at night. In these
tertulias the grandmother was the principal spokeswoman, and
astonished my ears with wonderful tales of the Land of the Moors,
prison escapes, thievish feats, and one or two poisoning
adventures, in which she had been engaged, as she informed me, in
her early youth.</p>

<p>There was occasionally something very wild in her gestures and
demeanour; more than once I observed her, in the midst of much
declamation, to stop short, stare in vacancy, and thrust out her
palms as if endeavouring to push away some invisible substance;
she goggled frightfully with her eyes, and once sank back in
convulsions, of which her children took no farther notice than
observing that she was only lili, and would soon come to
herself.</p>

<p>Late in the afternoon of the third day, as the three women and
myself sat conversing as usual over the brasero, a shabby looking
fellow in an old rusty cloak walked into the room: he came
straight up to the place where we were sitting, produced a paper
cigar, which he lighted at a coal, and taking a whiff or two,
looked at me: &ldquo;Carracho,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;who is this
companion?&rdquo;</p>

<p>I saw at once that the fellow was no Gypsy: the women said
nothing, but I could hear the grandmother growling to herself,
something after the manner of an old grimalkin when
disturbed.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Carracho,&rdquo; reiterated the fellow, &ldquo;how came
this companion here?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;<i>No le penela chi min chaboro</i>,&rdquo; said the
black Callee to me, in an undertone; &ldquo;<i>sin un balicho de
los chineles</i> <a name="citation97"></a><a href="#footnote97"
class="citation">[97]</a>;&rdquo; then looking up to the
interrogator she said aloud, &ldquo;he is one of our people from
Portugal, come on the smuggling lay, and to see his poor sisters
here.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Then let him give me some tobacco,&rdquo; said the
fellow, &ldquo;I suppose he has brought some with him.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;He has no tobacco,&rdquo; said the black Callee,
&ldquo;he has nothing but old iron. This cigar is the only
tobacco there is in the house; take it, smoke it, and go
away!&rdquo;</p>

<p>Thereupon she produced a cigar from out her shoe, which she
presented to the alguazil.</p>

<p>&ldquo;This will not do,&rdquo; said the fellow, taking the
cigar, &ldquo;I must have something better; it is now three
months since I received anything from you; the last present was a
handkerchief, which was good for nothing; therefore hand me over
something worth taking, or I will carry you all to the
Carcel.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;The Busno will take us to prison,&rdquo; said the black
Callee, &ldquo;ha! ha! ha!&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;The Chinel will take us to prison,&rdquo; giggled the
young girl &ldquo;he! he! he!&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;The Bengui will carry us all to the estaripel,&rdquo;
grunted the Gypsy grandmother, &ldquo;ho! ho! ho!&rdquo;</p>

<p>The three females arose and walked slowly round the fellow,
fixing their eyes steadfastly on his face; he appeared
frightened, and evidently wished to get away. Suddenly the
two youngest seized his hands, and whilst he struggled to release
himself, the old woman exclaimed: &ldquo;You want tobacco,
hijo&mdash;you come to the Gypsy house to frighten the Callees
and the strange Caloro out of their plako&mdash;truly, hijo, we
have none for you, and right sorry I am; we have, however, plenty
of the dust <i>a su servicio</i>.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Here, thrusting her hand into her pocket, she discharged a
handful of some kind of dust or snuff into the fellow&rsquo;s
eyes; he stamped and roared, but was for some time held fast by
the two Callees; he extricated himself, however, and attempted to
unsheath a knife which he bore at his girdle; but the two younger
females flung themselves upon him like furies, while the old
woman increased his disorder by thrusting her stick into his
face; he was soon glad to give up the contest, and retreated,
leaving behind him his hat and cloak, which the chabi gathered up
and flung after him into the street.</p>

<p>&ldquo;This is a bad business,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;the
fellow will of course bring the rest of the justicia upon us, and
we shall all be cast into the estaripel.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Ca!&rdquo; said the black Callee, biting her thumb
nail, &ldquo;he has more reason to fear us than we him, we could
bring him to the filimicha; we have, moreover, friends in this
town, plenty, plenty.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; mumbled the grandmother, &ldquo;the
daughters of the baji have friends, my London Caloro, friends
among the Busnees, baributre, baribu (<i>plenty</i>,
<i>plenty</i>).&rdquo;</p>

<p>Nothing farther of any account occurred in the Gypsy house;
the next day, Antonio and myself were again in the saddle, we
travelled at least thirteen leagues before we reached the Venta,
where we passed the night; we rose early in the morning, my guide
informing me that we had a long day&rsquo;s journey to
make. &ldquo;Where are we bound to?&rdquo; I
demanded. &ldquo;To Trujillo,&rdquo; he replied.</p>

<p>When the sun arose, which it did gloomily and amidst
threatening rain-clouds, we found ourselves in the neighbourhood
of a range of mountains which lay on our left, and which, Antonio
informed me, were called the Sierra of San Selvan; our route,
however, lay over wide plains, scantily clothed with brushwood,
with here and there a melancholy village, with its old and
dilapidated church. Throughout the greater part of the day,
a drizzling rain was falling, which turned the dust of the roads
into mud and mire, considerably impeding our progress.
Towards evening we reached a moor, a wild place enough, strewn
with enormous stones and rocks. Before us, at some
distance, rose a strange conical hill, rough and shaggy, which
appeared to be neither more nor less than an immense assemblage
of the same kind of rocks which lay upon the moor. The rain
had now ceased, but a strong wind rose and howled at our
backs. Throughout the journey, I had experienced
considerable difficulty in keeping up with the mule of Antonio;
the walk of the horse was slow, and I could discover no vestige
of the spirit which the Gypsy had assured me lurked within
him. We were now upon a tolerably clear spot of the moor:
&ldquo;I am about to see,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;whether this
horse has any of the quality which you have
described.&rdquo; &ldquo;Do so,&rdquo; said Antonio, and
spurred his beast onward, speedily leaving me far behind. I
jerked the horse with the bit, endeavouring to arouse his dormant
spirit, whereupon he stopped, reared, and refused to
proceed. &ldquo;Hold the bridle loose and touch him with
your whip,&rdquo; shouted Antonio from before. I obeyed,
and forthwith the animal set off at a trot, which gradually
increased in swiftness till it became a downright furious speedy
trot; his limbs were now thoroughly lithy, and he brandished his
fore legs in a manner perfectly wondrous; the mule of Antonio,
which was a spirited animal of excellent paces, would fain have
competed with him, but was passed in a twinkling. This
tremendous trot endured for about a mile, when the animal,
becoming yet more heated, broke suddenly into a gallop.
Hurrah! no hare ever ran so wildly or blindly; it was, literally,
<i>ventre a terre</i>; and I had considerable difficulty in
keeping him clear of rocks, against which he would have rushed in
his savage fury, and dashed himself and rider to atoms.</p>

<p>This race brought me to the foot of the hill, where I waited
till the Gypsy rejoined me: we left the hill, which seemed quite
inaccessible, on our right, passing through a small and wretched
village. The sun went down, and dark night presently came
upon us; we proceeded on, however, for nearly three hours, until
we heard the barking of dogs, and perceived a light or two in the
distance. &ldquo;That is Trujillo,&rdquo; said Antonio, who
had not spoken for a long time. &ldquo;I am glad of
it,&rdquo; I replied; &ldquo;I am thoroughly tired; I shall sleep
soundly in Trujillo.&rdquo; &ldquo;That is as it may
be,&rdquo; said the Gypsy, and spurred his mule to a brisker
pace. We soon entered the town, which appeared dark and
gloomy enough; I followed close behind the Gypsy, who led the way
I knew not whither, through dismal streets and dark places, where
cats were squalling. &ldquo;Here is the house,&rdquo; said
he at last, dismounting before a low mean hut; he knocked, no
answer was returned;&mdash;he knocked again, but still there was
no reply; he shook the door and essayed to open it, but it
appeared firmly locked and bolted. &ldquo;Caramba!&rdquo;
said he, &ldquo;they are out&mdash;I feared it might be so.
Now what are we to do?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;There can be no difficulty,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;with
respect to what we have to do; if your friends are gone out, it
is easy enough to go to a posada.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;You know not what you say,&rdquo; replied the Gypsy,
&ldquo;I dare not go to the mesuna, nor enter any house in
Trujillo save this, and this is shut; well, there is no remedy,
we must move on, and, between ourselves, the sooner we leave this
place the better; my own planoro (<i>brother</i>) was garroted at
Trujillo.&rdquo;</p>

<p>He lighted a cigar, by means of a steel and yesca, sprang on
his mule, and proceeded through streets and lanes equally dismal
as those which we had already traversed till we again found
ourselves out of the, town.</p>

<p>I confess I did not much like this decision of the Gypsy; I
felt very slight inclination to leave the town behind and to
venture into unknown places in the dark night: amidst rain and
mist, for the wind had now dropped, and the rain began again to
fall briskly. I was, moreover, much fatigued, and wished
for nothing better than to deposit myself in some comfortable
manger, where I might sink to sleep, lulled by the pleasant sound
of horses and mules despatching their provender. I had,
however, put myself under the direction of the Gypsy, and I was
too old a traveller to quarrel with my guide under the present
circumstances. I therefore followed close at his crupper;
our only light being the glow emitted from the Gypsy&rsquo;s
cigar; at last he flung it from his mouth into a puddle, and we
were then in darkness.</p>

<p>We proceeded in this manner for a long time; the Gypsy was
silent; I myself was equally so; the rain descended more and
more. I sometimes thought I heard doleful noises, something
like the hooting of owls. &ldquo;This is a strange night to
be wandering abroad in,&rdquo; I at length said to Antonio.</p>

<p>&ldquo;It is, brother,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;but I would
sooner be abroad in such a night, and in such places, than in the
estaripel of Trujillo.&rdquo;</p>

<p>We wandered at least a league farther, and appeared now to be
near a wood, for I could occasionally distinguish the trunks of
immense trees. Suddenly Antonio stopped his mule;
&ldquo;Look, brother,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;to the left, and
tell me if you do not see a light; your eyes are sharper than
mine.&rdquo; I did as he commanded me. At first I
could see nothing, but moving a little farther on I plainly saw a
large light at some distance, seemingly amongst the trees.
&ldquo;Yonder cannot be a lamp or candle,&rdquo; said I;
&ldquo;it is more like the blaze of a fire.&rdquo;
&ldquo;Very likely,&rdquo; said Antonio. &ldquo;There are
no queres (<i>houses</i>) in this place; it is doubtless a fire
made by durotunes (<i>shepherds</i>); let us go and join them,
for, as you say, it is doleful work wandering about at night
amidst rain and mire.&rdquo;</p>

<p>We dismounted and entered what I now saw was a forest, leading
the animals cautiously amongst the trees and brushwood. In
about five minutes we reached a small open space, at the farther
side of which, at the foot of a large cork tree, a fire was
burning, and by it stood or sat two or three figures; they had
heard our approach, and one of them now exclaimed Quien
Vive? &ldquo;I know that voice,&rdquo; said Antonio, and
leaving the horse with me, rapidly advanced towards the fire:
presently I heard an Ola! and a laugh, and soon the voice of
Antonio summoned me to advance. On reaching the fire I
found two dark lads, and a still darker woman of about forty; the
latter seated on what appeared to be horse or mule
furniture. I likewise saw a horse and two donkeys tethered
to the neighbouring trees. It was in fact a Gypsy bivouac.
. . . &ldquo;Come forward, brother, and show yourself,&rdquo;
said Antonio to me; &ldquo;you are amongst friends; these are of
the Errate, the very people whom I expected to find at Trujillo,
and in whose house we should have slept.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;And what,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;could have induced them
to leave their house in Trujillo and come into this dark forest
in the midst of wind and rain, to pass the night?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;They come on business of Egypt, brother,
doubtless,&rdquo; replied Antonio; &ldquo;and that business is
none of ours, Calla boca! It is lucky we have found them
here, else we should have had no supper, and our horses no
corn.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;My ro is prisoner at the village yonder,&rdquo; said
the woman, pointing with her hand in a particular direction;
&ldquo;he is prisoner yonder for choring a mailla (<i>stealing a
donkey</i>); we are come to see what we can do in his behalf; and
where can we lodge better than in this forest, where there is
nothing to pay? It is not the first time, I trow, that
Caloré have slept at the root of a tree.&rdquo;</p>

<p>One of the striplings now gave us barley for our animals in a
large bag, into which we successively introduced their heads,
allowing the famished creatures to regale themselves till we
conceived that they had satisfied their hunger. There was a
puchero simmering at the fire, half full of bacon, garbanzos, and
other provisions; this was emptied into a large wooden platter,
and out of this Antonio and myself supped; the other Gypsies
refused to join us, giving us to understand that they had eaten
before our arrival; they all, however, did justice to the
leathern bottle of Antonio, which, before his departure from
Merida, he had the precaution to fill.</p>

<p>I was by this time completely overcome with fatigue and
sleep. Antonio flung me an immense horse-cloth, of which he
bore more than one beneath the huge cushion on which he rode; in
this I wrapped myself, and placing my head upon a bundle, and my
feet as near as possible to the fire, I lay down.</p>

<p>Antonio and the other Gypsies remained seated by the fire
conversing. I listened for a moment to what they said, but
I did not perfectly understand it, and what I did understand by
no means interested me: the rain still drizzled, but I heeded it
not, and was soon asleep.</p>

<p>The sun was just appearing as I awoke. I made several
efforts before I could rise from the ground; my limbs were quite
stiff, and my hair was covered with rime; for the rain had ceased
and a rather severe frost set in. I looked around me, but
could see neither Antonio nor the Gypsies; the animals of the
latter had likewise disappeared, so had the horse which I had
hitherto rode; the mule, however, of Antonio still remained
fastened to the tree! this latter circumstance quieted some
apprehensions which were beginning to arise in my mind.
&ldquo;They are gone on some business of Egypt,&rdquo; I said to
myself, &ldquo;and will return anon.&rdquo; I gathered
together the embers of the fire, and heaping upon them sticks and
branches, soon succeeded in calling forth a blaze, beside which I
placed the puchero, with what remained of the provision of last
night. I waited for a considerable time in expectation of
the return of my companions, but as they did not appear, I sat
down and breakfasted. Before I had well finished I heard
the noise of a horse approaching rapidly, and presently Antonio
made his appearance amongst the trees, with some agitation in his
countenance. He sprang from the horse, and instantly
proceeded to untie the mule. &ldquo;Mount, brother,
mount!&rdquo; said he, pointing to the horse; &ldquo;I went with
the Callee and her chabés to the village where the ro is
in trouble; the chinobaro, however, seized them at once with
their cattle, and would have laid hands also on me, but I set
spurs to the grasti, gave him the bridle, and was soon far
away. Mount, brother, mount, or we shall have the whole
rustic canaille upon us in a twinkling.&rdquo;</p>

<p>I did as he commanded: we were presently in the road which we
had left the night before. Along this we hurried at a great
rate, the horse displaying his best speedy trot; whilst the mule,
with its ears pricked up, galloped gallantly at his side.
&ldquo;What place is that on the hill yonder?&rdquo; said I to
Antonio, at the expiration of an hour, as we prepared to descend
a deep valley.</p>

<p>&ldquo;That is Jaraicejo,&rdquo; said Antonio; &ldquo;a bad
place it is and a bad place it has ever been for the Calo
people.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;If it is such a bad place,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;I hope
we shall not have to pass through it.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;We must pass through it,&rdquo; said Antonio,
&ldquo;for more reasons than one: first, forasmuch is the road
lies through Jaraicejo; and second, forasmuch as it will be
necessary to purchase provisions there, both for ourselves and
horses. On the other side of Jaraicejo there is a wild
desert, a despoblado, where we shall find nothing.&rdquo;</p>

<p>We crossed the valley, and ascended the hill, and as we drew
near to the town the Gypsy said, &ldquo;Brother, we had best pass
through that town singly. I will go in advance; follow
slowly, and when there purchase bread and barley; you have
nothing to fear. I will await you on the
despoblado.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Without waiting for my answer he hastened forward, and was
speedily out of sight.</p>

<p>I followed slowly behind, and entered the gate of the town; an
old dilapidated place, consisting of little more than one
street. Along this street I was advancing, when a man with
a dirty foraging cap on his head, and holding a gun in his hand,
came running up to me: &ldquo;Who are you?&rdquo; said he, in
rather rough accents, &ldquo;from whence do you come?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;From Badajoz and Trujillo,&rdquo; I replied; &ldquo;why
do you ask?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I am one of the national guard,&rdquo; said the man,
&ldquo;and am placed here to inspect strangers; I am told that a
Gypsy fellow just now rode through the town; it is well for him
that I had stepped into my house. Do you come in his
company?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Do I look a person,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;likely to
keep company with Gypsies?&rdquo;</p>

<p>The national measured me from top to toe, and then looked me
full in the face with an expression which seemed to say,
&ldquo;likely enough.&rdquo; In fact, my appearance was by
no means calculated to prepossess people in my favour. Upon
my head I wore an old Andalusian hat, which, from its condition,
appeared to have been trodden under foot; a rusty cloak, which
had perhaps served half a dozen generations, enwrapped my
body. My nether garments were by no means of the finest
description; and as far as could be seen were covered with mud,
with which my face was likewise plentifully bespattered, and upon
my chin was a beard of a week&rsquo;s growth.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Have you a passport?&rdquo; at length demanded the
national.</p>

<p>I remembered having read that the best way to win a
Spaniard&rsquo;s heart is to treat him with ceremonious
civility. I therefore dismounted, and taking off my hat,
made a low bow to the constitutional soldier, saying,
&ldquo;Se&ntilde;or nacional, you must know that I am an English
gentleman, travelling in this country for my pleasure; I bear a
passport, which, on inspecting, you will find to be perfectly
regular; it was given me by the great Lord Palmerston, minister
of England, whom you of course have heard of here; at the bottom
you will see his own handwriting; look at it and rejoice; perhaps
you will never have another opportunity. As I put unbounded
confidence in the honour of every gentleman, I leave the passport
in your hands whilst I repair to the posada to refresh
myself. When you have inspected it, you will perhaps oblige
me so far as to bring it to me. Cavalier, I kiss your
hands.&rdquo;</p>

<p>I then made him another low bow, which he returned with one
still lower, and leaving him now staring at the passport and now
looking at myself, I went into a posada, to which I was directed
by a beggar whom I met.</p>

<p>I fed the horse, and procured some bread and barley, as the
Gypsy had directed me; I likewise purchased three fine partridges
of a fowler, who was drinking wine in the posada. He was
satisfied with the price I gave him, and offered to treat me with
a copita, to which I made no objection. As we sat
discoursing at the table, the national entered with the passport
in his hand, and sat down by us.</p>

<p><i>National</i>.&mdash;Caballero! I return you your
passport, it is quite in form; I rejoice much to have made your
acquaintance; I have no doubt that you can give me some
information respecting the present war.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;I shall be very happy to afford so polite
and honourable a gentleman any information in my power.</p>

<p><i>National</i>.&mdash;What is England doing,&mdash;is she
about to afford any assistance to this country? If she
pleased she could put down the war in three months.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Be under no apprehension, Se&ntilde;or
nacional; the war will be put down, don&rsquo;t doubt. You
have heard of the English legion, which my Lord Palmerston has
sent over? Leave the matter in their hands, and you will
soon see the result.</p>

<p><i>National</i>.&mdash;It appears to me that this Caballero
Balmerson must be a very honest man.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;There can be no doubt of it.</p>

<p><i>National</i>.&mdash;I have heard that he is a great
general.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;There can be no doubt of it. In
some things neither Napoleon nor the sawyer <a
name="citation104"></a><a href="#footnote104"
class="citation">[104]</a> would stand a chance with him for a
moment. <i>Es mucho hombre</i>.</p>

<p><i>National</i>.&mdash;I am glad to hear it. Does he
intend to head the legion himself?</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;I believe not; but he has sent over, to
head the fighting men, a friend of his, who is thought to be
nearly as much versed in military matters as himself.</p>

<p><i>National</i>.&mdash;I am rejoiced to hear it. I see
that the war will soon be over. Caballero, I thank you for
your politeness, and for the information which you have afforded
me. I hope you will have a pleasant journey. I
confess that I am surprised to see a gentleman of your country
travelling alone, and in this manner, through such regions as
these. The roads are at present very bad; there have of
late been many accidents, and more than two deaths in this
neighbourhood. The despoblado out yonder has a particularly
evil name; be on your guard, Caballero. I am sorry that
Gypsy was permitted to pass; should you meet him and not like his
looks, shoot him at once, stab him, or ride him down. He is
a well known thief, contrabandista, and murderer, and has
committed more assassinations than he has fingers on his
hands. Caballero, if you please, we will allow you a guard
to the other side of the pass. You do not wish it?
Then, farewell. Stay, before I go I should wish to see once
more the signature of the Caballero Balmerson.</p>

<p>I showed him the signature, which he looked upon with profound
reverence, uncovering his head for a moment; we then embraced and
parted.</p>

<p>I mounted the horse and rode from the town, at first
proceeding very slowly; I had no sooner, however, reached the
moor, than I put the animal to his speedy trot, and proceeded at
a tremendous rate for some time, expecting every moment to
overtake the Gypsy. I, however, saw nothing of him, nor did
I meet with a single human being. The road along which I
sped was narrow and sandy, winding amidst thickets of broom and
brushwood, with which the despoblado was overgrown, and which in
some places were as high as a man&rsquo;s head. Across the
moor, in the direction in which I was proceeding, rose a lofty
eminence, naked and bare. The moor extended for at least
three leagues; I had nearly crossed it, and reached the foot of
the ascent. I was becoming very uneasy, conceiving that I
might have passed the Gypsy amongst the thickets, when I suddenly
heard his well known Ola! and his black savage head and staring
eyes suddenly appeared from amidst a clump of broom.</p>

<p>&ldquo;You have tarried long, brother,&rdquo; said he;
&ldquo;I almost thought you had played me false.&rdquo;</p>

<p>He bade me dismount, and then proceeded to lead the horse
behind the thicket, where I found the mule picqueted to the
ground. I gave him the barley and provisions, and then
proceeded to relate to him my adventure with the national.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I would I had him here,&rdquo; said the Gypsy, on
hearing the epithets which the former had lavished upon
him. &ldquo;I would I had him here, then should my chulee
and his carlo become better acquainted.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;And what are you doing here yourself,&rdquo; I
demanded, &ldquo;in this wild place, amidst these
thickets?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I am expecting a messenger down yon pass,&rdquo; said
the Gypsy; &ldquo;and till that messenger arrive I can neither go
forward nor return. It is on business of Egypt, brother,
that I am here.&rdquo;</p>

<p>As he invariably used this last expression when he wished to
evade my inquiries, I held my peace, and said no more; the
animals were fed, and we proceeded to make a frugal repast on
bread and wine.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Why do you not cook the game which I brought?&rdquo; I
demanded; &ldquo;in this place there is plenty of materials for a
fire.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;The smoke might discover us, brother,&rdquo; said
Antonio, &ldquo;I am desirous of lying escondido in this place
until the arrival of the messenger.&rdquo;</p>

<p>It was now considerably past noon; the gypsy lay behind the
thicket, raising himself up occasionally and looking anxiously
towards the hill which lay over against us; at last, with an
exclamation of disappointment and impatience, he flung himself on
the ground, where he lay a considerable time, apparently
ruminating; at last he lifted up his head and looked me in the
face.</p>

<p><i>Antonio</i>.&mdash;Brother, I cannot imagine what business
brought you to this country.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Perhaps the same which brings you to this
moor&mdash;business of Egypt.</p>

<p><i>Antonio</i>.&mdash;Not so, brother; you speak the language
of Egypt, it is true, but your ways and words are neither those
of the Cales nor of the Busné.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Did you not hear me speak in the foros
about God and Tebleque? It was to declare his glory to the
Cales and Gentiles that I came to the land of Spain.</p>

<p><i>Antonio</i>.&mdash;And who sent you on this errand?</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;You would scarcely understand me were I
to inform you. Know, however, that there are many in
foreign lands who lament the darkness which envelops Spain, and
the scenes of cruelty, robbery, and murder which deform it.</p>

<p><i>Antonio</i>.&mdash;Are they Caloré or
Busné?</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;What matters it? Both Caloré
and Busné are sons of the same God.</p>

<p><i>Antonio</i>.&mdash;You lie, brother, they are not of one
father nor of one Errate. You speak of robbery, cruelty,
and murder. There are too many Busné, brother; if
there were no Busné there would be neither robbery nor
murder. The Caloré neither rob nor murder each
other, the Busné do; nor are they cruel to their animals,
their law forbids them. When I was a child I was beating a
burra, but my father stopped my hand, and chided me.
&ldquo;Hurt not the animal,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;for within it
is the soul of your own sister!&rdquo;</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;And do you believe in this wild doctrine,
O Antonio?</p>

<p><i>Antonio</i>.&mdash;Sometimes I do, sometimes I do
not. There are some who believe in nothing; not even that
they live! Long since, I knew an old Caloro, he was old,
very old, upwards of a hundred years,&mdash;and I once heard him
say, that all we thought we saw was a lie; that there was no
world, no men nor women, no horses nor mules, no olive
trees. But whither are we straying? I asked what
induced you to come to this country&mdash;you tell me the glory
of God and Tebleque. Disparate! tell that to the
Busné. You have good reasons for coming, no doubt,
else you would not be here. Some say you are a spy of the
Londoné, perhaps you are; I care not. Rise, brother,
and tell me whether any one is coming down the pass.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I see a distant object,&rdquo; I replied; &ldquo;like a
speck on the side of the hill.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The Gypsy started up, and we both fixed our eyes on the
object: the distance was so great that it was at first with
difficulty that we could distinguish whether it moved or
not. A quarter of an hour, however, dispelled all doubts,
for within this time it had nearly reached the bottom of the
hill, and we could descry a figure seated on an animal of some
kind.</p>

<p>&ldquo;It is a woman,&rdquo; said I, at length, &ldquo;mounted
on a grey donkey.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Then it is my messenger,&rdquo; said Antonio,
&ldquo;for it can be no other.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The woman and the donkey were now upon the plain, and for some
time were concealed from us by the copse and brushwood which
intervened. They were not long, however, in making their
appearance at the distance of about a hundred yards. The
donkey was a beautiful creature of a silver grey, and came
frisking along, swinging her tail, and moving her feet so quick
that they scarcely seemed to touch the ground. The animal
no sooner perceived us than she stopped short, turned round, and
attempted to escape by the way she had come; her rider, however,
detained her, whereupon the donkey kicked violently, and would
probably have flung the former, had she not sprung nimbly to the
ground. The form of the woman was entirely concealed by the
large wrapping man&rsquo;s cloak which she wore. I ran to
assist her, when she turned her face full upon me, and I
instantly recognized the sharp clever features of Antonia, whom I
had seen at Badajoz, the daughter of my guide. She said
nothing to me, but advancing to her father, addressed something
to him in a low voice, which I did not hear. He started
back, and vociferated &ldquo;All!&rdquo; &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo;
said she in a louder tone, probably repeating the words which I
had not caught before, &ldquo;All are captured.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The Gypsy remained for some time like one astounded and,
unwilling to listen to their discourse, which I imagined might
relate to business of Egypt, I walked away amidst the
thickets. I was absent for some time, but could
occasionally hear passionate expressions and oaths. In
about half an hour I returned; they had left the road, but I
found then behind the broom clump, where the animals stood.
Both were seated on the ground; the features of the Gypsy were
peculiarly dark and grim; he held his unsheathed knife in his
hand, which he would occasionally plunge into the earth,
exclaiming, &ldquo;All! All!&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Brother,&rdquo; said he at last, &ldquo;I can go no
farther with you; the business which carried me to Castumba is
settled; you must now travel by yourself and trust to your baji
(<i>fortune</i>).&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I trust in Undevel,&rdquo; I replied, &ldquo;who wrote
my fortune long ago. But how am I to journey? I have
no horse, for you doubtless want your own.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The Gypsy appeared to reflect: &ldquo;I want the horse, it is
true, brother,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and likewise the macho; but
you shall not go <i>en pindre</i> (on foot); you shall purchase
the burra of Antonia, which I presented her when I sent her upon
this expedition.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;The burra,&rdquo; I replied, &ldquo;appears both savage
and vicious.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;She is both, brother, and on that account I bought her;
a savage and vicious beast has generally four excellent
legs. You are a Calo, brother, and can manage her; you
shall therefore purchase the savage burra, giving my daugher
Antonia a baria of gold. If you think fit, you can sell the
beast at Talavera or Madrid, for Estremenian bestis are highly
considered in Castumba.&rdquo;</p>

<p>In less than an hour I was on the other side of the pass,
mounted on the savage burra.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XI</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">The Pass of Mirabéte&mdash;Wolves and
Shepherds&mdash;Female Subtlety&mdash;Death by Wolves&mdash;The
Mystery Solved&mdash;The Mountains&mdash;The Dark Hour&mdash;The
Traveller of the Night&mdash;Abarbenel&mdash;Hoarded
Treasure&mdash;Force of Gold&mdash;The Archbishop&mdash;Arrival
at Madrid.</p>

<p>I proceeded down the pass of Mirabéte, occasionally
ruminating on the matter which had brought me to Spain, and
occasionally admiring one of the finest prospects in the world;
before me outstretched lay immense plains, bounded in the
distance by huge mountains, whilst at the foot of the hill which
I was now descending, rolled the Tagus, in a deep narrow stream,
between lofty banks; the whole was gilded by the rays of the
setting sun; for the day, though cold and wintry, was bright and
clear. In about an hour I reached the river at a place
where stood the remains of what had once been a magnificent
bridge, which had, however, been blown up in the Peninsular war
and never since repaired.</p>

<p>I crossed the river in a ferry-boat; the passage was rather
difficult, the current very rapid and swollen, owing to the
latter rains.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Am I in New Castile?&rdquo; I demanded of the ferryman,
on reaching the further bank. &ldquo;The raya is many
leagues from hence,&rdquo; replied the ferryman; &ldquo;you seem
a stranger. Whence do you come?&rdquo; &ldquo;From
England,&rdquo; I replied, and without waiting for an answer, I
sprang on the burra, and proceeded on my way. The burra
plied her feet most nimbly, and, shortly after nightfall, brought
me to a village at about two leagues&rsquo; distance from the
river&rsquo;s bank.</p>

<p>I sat down in the venta where I put up; there was a huge fire,
consisting of the greater part of the trunk of an olive tree; the
company was rather miscellaneous: a hunter with his escopeta; a
brace of shepherds with immense dogs, of that species for which
Estremadura is celebrated; a broken soldier, just returned from
the wars; and a beggar, who, after demanding charity for the
seven wounds of Maria Santissima, took a seat amidst us, and made
himself quite comfortable. The hostess was an active
bustling woman, and busied herself in cooking my supper, which
consisted of the game which I had purchased at Jaraicejo, and
which, on my taking leave of the Gypsy, he had counselled me to
take with me. In the meantime, I sat by the fire listening
to the conversation of the company.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I would I were a wolf,&rdquo; said one of the
shepherds; &ldquo;or, indeed, anything rather than what I
am. A pretty life is this of ours, out in the campo, among
the carascales, suffering heat and cold for a peseta a day.
I would I were a wolf; he fares better and is more respected than
the wretch of a shepherd.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;But he frequently fares scurvily,&rdquo; said I;
&ldquo;the shepherd and dogs fall upon him, and then he pays for
his temerity with the loss of his head.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;That is not often the case, se&ntilde;or
traveller,&rdquo; said the shepherd; &ldquo;he watches his
opportunity, and seldom runs into harm&rsquo;s way. And as
to attacking him, it is no very pleasant task; he has both teeth
and claws, and dog or man, who has once felt them, likes not to
venture a second time within his reach. These dogs of mine
will seize a bear singly with considerable alacrity, though he is
a most powerful animal, but I have seen them run howling away
from a wolf, even though there were two or three of us at hand to
encourage them.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;A dangerous person is the wolf,&rdquo; said the other
shepherd, &ldquo;and cunning as dangerous; who knows more than
he? He knows the vulnerable point of every animal; see, for
example, how he flies at the neck of a bullock, tearing open the
veins with his grim teeth and claws. But does he attack a
horse in this manner? I trow not.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Not he,&rdquo; said the other shepherd, &ldquo;he is
too good a judge; but he fastens on the haunches, and hamstrings
him in a moment. O the fear of the horse when he comes near
the dwelling of the wolf. My master was the other day
riding in the despoblado, above the pass, on his fine Andalusian
steed, which had cost him five hundred dollars; suddenly the
horse stopped, and sweated and trembled like a woman in the act
of fainting; my master could not conceive the reason, but
presently he heard a squealing and growling in the bushes,
whereupon he fired off his gun and scared the wolves, who
scampered away; but he tells me, that the horse has not yet
recovered from his fright.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Yet the mares know, occasionally, how to balk
him,&rdquo; replied his companion; &ldquo;there is great craft
and malice in mares, as there is in all females; see them feeding
in the campo with their young cria about them; presently the
alarm is given that the wolf is drawing near; they start wildly
and run about for a moment, but it is only for a
moment&mdash;amain they gather together, forming themselves into
a circle, in the centre of which they place the foals.
Onward comes the wolf, hoping to make his dinner on horse-flesh;
he is mistaken, however, the mares have balked him, and are as
cunning as himself: not a tail is to be seen&mdash;not a hinder
quarter&mdash;but there stands the whole troop, their fronts
towards him ready to receive him, and as he runs around them
barking and howling, they rise successively on their hind legs,
ready to stamp him to the earth, should he attempt to hurt their
cria or themselves.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Worse than the he-wolf,&rdquo; said the soldier,
&ldquo;is the female, for as the se&ntilde;or pastor has well
observed, there is more malice in women than in males: to see one
of these she-demons with a troop of the males at her heels is
truly surprising: where she turns, they turn, and what she does
that do they; for they appear bewitched, and have no power but to
imitate her actions. I was once travelling with a comrade
over the hills of Galicia, when we heard a howl.
&lsquo;Those are wolves,&rsquo; said my companion, &lsquo;let us
get out of the way;&rsquo; so we stepped from the path and
ascended the side of the hill a little way, to a terrace, where
grew vines, after the manner of Galicia: presently appeared a
large grey she-wolf, <i>deshonesta</i>, snapping and growling at
a troop of demons, who followed close behind, their tails
uplifted, and their eyes like fire-brands. What do you
think the perverse brute did? Instead of keeping to the
path, she turned in the very direction in which we were; there
was now no remedy, so we stood still. I was the first upon
the terrace, and by me she passed so close that I felt her hair
brush against my legs; she, however, took no notice of me, but
pushed on, neither looking to the right nor left, and all the
other wolves trotted by me without offering the slightest injury
or even so much as looking at me. Would that I could say as
much for my poor companion, who stood farther on, and was, I
believe, less in the demon&rsquo;s way than I was; she had nearly
passed him, when suddenly she turned half round and snapped at
him. I shall never forget what followed: in a moment a
dozen wolves were upon him, tearing him limb from limb, with
howlings like nothing in this world; in a few moments he was
devoured; nothing remained but a skull and a few bones; and then
they passed on in the same manner as they came. Good reason
had I to be grateful that my lady wolf took less notice of me
than my poor comrade.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Listening to this and similar conversation, I fell into a doze
before the fire, in which I continued for a considerable time,
but was at length aroused by a voice exclaiming in a loud tone,
&ldquo;All are captured!&rdquo; These were the exact words
which, when spoken by his daughter, confounded the Gypsy upon the
moor. I looked around me, the company consisted of the same
individuals to whose conversation I had been listening before I
sank into slumber; but the beggar was now the spokesman, and he
was haranguing with considerable vehemence.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I beg your pardon, Caballero,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;but
I did not hear the commencement of your discourse. Who are
those who have been captured?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;A band of accursed Gitanos, Caballero,&rdquo; replied
the beggar, returning the title of courtesy, which I had bestowed
upon him. &ldquo;During more than a fortnight they have
infested the roads on the frontier of Castile, and many have been
the gentleman travellers like yourself whom they have robbed and
murdered. It would seem that the Gypsy canaille must needs
take advantage of these troublous times, and form themselves into
a faction. It is said that the fellows of whom I am
speaking expected many more of their brethren to join them, which
is likely enough, for all Gypsies are thieves: but praised be
God, they have been put down before they became too
formidable. I saw them myself conveyed to the prison at
---. Thanks be to God. <i>Todos estan
presos</i>.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;The mystery is now solved,&rdquo; said I to myself, and
proceeded to despatch my supper, which was now ready.</p>

<p>The next day&rsquo;s journey brought me to a considerable
town, the name of which I have forgotten. It is the first
in New Castile, in this direction. I passed the night as
usual in the manger of the stable, close beside the Caballeria;
for, as I travelled upon a donkey, I deemed it incumbent upon me
to be satisfied with a couch in keeping with my manner of
journeying, being averse, by any squeamish and over delicate
airs, to generate a suspicion amongst the people with whom I
mingled that I was aught higher than what my equipage and outward
appearance might lead them to believe. Rising before
daylight, I again proceeded on my way, hoping ere night to be
able to reach Talavera, which I was informed was ten leagues
distant. The way lay entirely over an unbroken level, for
the most part covered with olive trees. On the left,
however, at the distance of a few leagues, rose the mighty
mountains which I have already mentioned. They run eastward
in a seemingly interminable range, parallel with the route which
I was pursuing; their tops and sides were covered with dazzling
snow, and the blasts which came sweeping from them across the
wide and melancholy plains were of bitter keenness.</p>

<p>&ldquo;What mountains are those?&rdquo; I inquired of a
barber-surgeon, who, mounted like myself on a grey burra, joined
me about noon, and proceeded in my company for several
leagues. &ldquo;They have many names, Caballero,&rdquo;
replied the barber; &ldquo;according to the names of the
neighbouring places so they are called. Yon portion of them
is styled the Serrania of Plasencia; and opposite to Madrid they
are termed the Mountains of Guadarama, from a river of that name,
which descends from them; they run a vast way, Caballero, and
separate the two kingdoms, for on the other side is Old
Castile. They are mighty mountains, and though they
generate much cold, I take pleasure in looking at them, which is
not to be wondered at, seeing that I was born amongst them,
though at present, for my sins, I live in a village of the
plain. Caballero, there is not another such range in Spain;
they have their secrets too&mdash;their mysteries&mdash;strange
tales are told of those hills, and of what they contain in their
deep recesses, for they are a broad chain, and you may wander
days and days amongst them without coming to any termino.
Many have lost themselves on those hills, and have never again
been heard of. Strange things are told of them: it is said
that in certain places there are deep pools and lakes, in which
dwell monsters, huge serpents as long as a pine tree, and horses
of the flood, which sometimes come out and commit mighty
damage. One thing is certain, that yonder, far away to the
west, in the heart of those hills, there is a wonderful valley,
so narrow that only at midday is the face of the sun to be
descried from it. That valley lay undiscovered and unknown
for thousands of years; no person dreamed of its existence, but
at last, a long time ago, certain hunters entered it by chance,
and then what do you think they found, Caballero? They
found a small nation or tribe of unknown people, speaking an
unknown language, who, perhaps, had lived there since the
creation of the world, without intercourse with the rest of their
fellow creatures, and without knowing that other beings besides
themselves existed! Caballero, did you never hear of the
valley of the Batuecas? Many books have been written about
that valley and those people. Caballero, I am proud of
yonder hills; and were I independent, and without wife or
children, I would purchase a burra like that of your own, which I
see is an excellent one, and far superior to mine, and travel
amongst them till I knew all their mysteries, and had seen all
the wondrous things which they contain.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Throughout the day I pressed the burra forward, only stopping
once in order to feed the animal; but, notwithstanding that she
played her part very well, night came on, and I was still about
two leagues from Talavera. As the sun went down, the cold
became intense; I drew the old Gypsy cloak, which I still wore,
closer around me, but I found it quite inadequate to protect me
from the inclemency of the atmosphere. The road, which lay
over a plain, was not very distinctly traced, and became in the
dusk rather difficult to find, more especially as cross roads
leading to different places were of frequent occurrence. I,
however, proceeded in the best manner I could, and when I became
dubious as to the course which I should take, I invariably
allowed the animal on which I was mounted to decide. At
length the moon shone out faintly, when suddenly by its beams I
beheld a figure moving before me at a slight distance. I
quickened the pace of the burra, and was soon close at its
side. It went on, neither altering its pace nor looking
round for a moment. It was the figure of a man, the tallest
and bulkiest that I had hitherto seen in Spain, dressed in a
manner strange and singular for the country. On his head
was a hat with a low crown and broad brim, very much resembling
that of an English waggoner; about his body was a long loose
tunic or slop, seemingly of coarse ticken, open in front, so as
to allow the interior garments to be occasionally seen; these
appeared to consist of a jerkin and short velveteen
pantaloons. I have said that the brim of the hat was broad,
but broad as it was, it was insufficient to cover an immense bush
of coal-black hair, which, thick and curly, projected on either
side; over the left shoulder was flung a kind of satchel, and in
the right hand was held a long staff or pole.</p>

<p>There was something peculiarly strange about the figure, but
what struck me the most was the tranquillity with which it moved
along, taking no heed of me, though of course aware of my
proximity, but looking straight forward along the road, save when
it occasionally raised a huge face and large eyes towards the
moon, which was now shining forth in the eastern quarter.</p>

<p>&ldquo;A cold night,&rdquo; said I at last. &ldquo;Is
this the way to Talavera?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;It is the way to Talavera, and the night is
cold.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I am going to Talavera,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;as I
suppose you are yourself.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I am going thither, so are you,
<i>Bueno</i>.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The tones of the voice which delivered these words were in
their way quite as strange and singular as the figure to which
the voice belonged; they were not exactly the tones of a Spanish
voice, and yet there was something in them that could hardly be
foreign; the pronunciation also was correct; and the language,
though singular, faultless. But I was most struck with the
manner in which the last word, <i>bueno</i>, was spoken. I
had heard something like it before, but where or when I could by
no means remember. A pause now ensued; the figure stalking
on as before with the most perfect indifference, and seemingly
with no disposition either to seek or avoid conversation.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Are you not afraid,&rdquo; said I at last, &ldquo;to
travel these roads in the dark? It is said that there are
robbers abroad.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Are you not rather afraid,&rdquo; replied the figure,
&ldquo;to travel these roads in the dark?&mdash;you who are
ignorant of the country, who are a foreigner, an
Englishman!&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;How is it that you know me to be an Englishman?&rdquo;
demanded I, much surprised.</p>

<p>&ldquo;That is no difficult matter,&rdquo; replied the figure;
&ldquo;the sound of your voice was enough to tell me
that.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;You speak of voices,&rdquo; said I; &ldquo;suppose the
tone of your own voice were to tell me who you are?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;That it will not do,&rdquo; replied my companion;
&ldquo;you know nothing about me&mdash;you can know nothing about
me.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Be not sure of that, my friend; I am acquainted with
many things of which you have little idea.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Por exemplo,&rdquo; said the figure.</p>

<p>&ldquo;For example,&rdquo; said I; &ldquo;you speak two
languages.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The figure moved on, seemed to consider a moment, and then
said slowly <i>bueno</i>.</p>

<p>&ldquo;You have two names,&rdquo; I continued; &ldquo;one for
the house and the other for the street; both are good, but the
one by which you are called at home is the one which you like
best.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The man walked on about ten paces, in the same manner as he
had previously done; all of a sudden he turned, and taking the
bridle of the burra gently in his hand, stopped her. I had
now a full view of his face and figure, and those huge features
and Herculean form still occasionally revisit me in my
dreams. I see him standing in the moonshine, staring me in
the face with his deep calm eyes. At last he said:</p>

<p>&ldquo;Are you then one of us?&rdquo;</p>
<div class="gapspace"></div>
<p>It was late at night when we arrived at Talavera. We
went to a large gloomy house, which my companion informed me was
the principal posada of the town. We entered the kitchen,
at the extremity of which a large fire was blazing.
&ldquo;Pepita,&rdquo; said my companion to a handsome girl, who
advanced smiling towards us; &ldquo;a brasero and a private
apartment; this cavalier is a friend of mine, and we shall sup
together.&rdquo; We were shown to an apartment in which
were two alcoves containing beds. After supper, which
consisted of the very best, by the order of my companion, we sat
over the brasero and commenced talking.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Of course you have conversed with
Englishmen before, else you could not have recognized me by the
tone of my voice.</p>

<p><i>Abarbenel</i>.&mdash;I was a young lad when the war of the
Independence broke out, and there came to the village in which
our family lived an English officer in order to teach discipline
to the new levies. He was quartered in my father&rsquo;s
house, where he conceived a great affection for me. On his
departure, with the consent of my father, I attended him through
the Castiles, partly as companion, partly as domestic. I
was with him nearly a year, when he was suddenly summoned to
return to his own country. He would fain have taken me with
him, but to that my father would by no means consent. It is
now five-and-twenty years since I last saw an Englishman; but you
have seen how I recognized you even in the dark night.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;And what kind of life do you pursue, and
by what means do you obtain support?</p>

<p><i>Abarbenel</i>.&mdash;I experience no difficulty. I
live much in the same way as I believe my forefathers lived;
certainly as my father did, for his course has been mine.
At his death I took possession of the herencia, for I was his
only child. It was not requisite that I should follow any
business, for my wealth was great; yet, to avoid remark, I
followed that of my father, who was a longanizero. I have
occasionally dealt in wool: but lazily, lazily&mdash;as I had no
stimulus for exertion. I was, however, successful in many
instances, strangely so; much more than many others who toiled
day and night, and whose whole soul was in the trade.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Have you any children? Are you
married?</p>

<p><i>Abarbenel</i>.&mdash;I have no children though I am
married. I have a wife and an amiga, or I should rather say
two wives, for I am wedded to both. I however call one my
amiga, for appearance sake, for I wish to live in quiet, and am
unwilling to offend the prejudices of the surrounding people.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;You say you are wealthy. In what
does your wealth consist?</p>

<p><i>Abarbenel</i>.&mdash;In gold and silver, and stones of
price; for I have inherited all the hoards of my
forefathers. The greater part is buried under ground;
indeed, I have never examined the tenth part of it. I have
coins of silver and gold older than the times of Ferdinand the
Accursed and Jezebel; I have also large sums employed in
usury. We keep ourselves close, however, and pretend to be
poor, miserably so; but on certain occasions, at our festivals,
when our gates are barred, and our savage dogs are let loose in
the court, we eat our food off services such as the Queen of
Spain cannot boast of, and wash our feet in ewers of silver,
fashioned and wrought before the Americas were discovered, though
our garments are at all times coarse, and our food for the most
part of the plainest description.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Are there more of you than yourself and
your two wives?</p>

<p><i>Abarbenel</i>.&mdash;There are my two servants, who are
likewise of us; the one is a youth, and is about to leave, being
betrothed to one at some distance; the other is old; he is now
upon the road, following me with a mule and car.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;And whither are you bound at present?</p>

<p><i>Abarbenel</i>.&mdash;To Toledo, where I ply my trade
occasionally of longanizero. I love to wander about, though
I seldom stray far from home. Since I left the Englishman
my feet have never once stepped beyond the bounds of New
Castile. I love to visit Toledo, and to think of the times
which have long since departed; I should establish myself there,
were there not so many accursed ones, who look upon me with an
evil eye.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Are you known for what you are? Do
the authorities molest you?</p>

<p><i>Abarbenel</i>.&mdash;People of course suspect me to be what
I am; but as I conform outwardly in most respects to their ways,
they do not interfere with me. True it is that sometimes,
when I enter the church to hear the mass, they glare at me over
the left shoulder, as much as to say&mdash;&ldquo;What do you
here?&rdquo; And sometimes they cross themselves as I pass
by; but as they go no further, I do not trouble myself on that
account. With respect to the authorities, they are not bad
friends of mine. Many of the higher class have borrowed
money from me on usury, so that I have them to a certain extent
in my power, and as for the low alguazils and corchetes, they
would do any thing to oblige me in consideration of a few
dollars, which I occasionally give them; so that matters upon the
whole go on remarkably well. Of old, indeed, it was far
otherwise; yet, I know not how it was, though other families
suffered much, ours always enjoyed a tolerable share of
tranquillity. The truth is, that our family has always
known how to guide itself wonderfully. I may say there is
much of the wisdom of the snake amongst us. We have always
possessed friends; and with respect to enemies, it is by no means
safe to meddle with us; for it is a rule of our house never to
forgive an injury, and to spare neither trouble nor expense in
bringing ruin and destruction upon the heads of our evil
doers.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Do the priests interfere with you?</p>

<p><i>Abarbenel</i>.&mdash;They let me alone, especially in our
own neighbourhood. Shortly after the death of my father,
one hot-headed individual endeavoured to do me an evil turn, but
I soon requited him, causing him to be imprisoned on a charge of
blasphemy, and in prison he remained a long time, till he went
mad and died.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Have you a head in Spain, in whom is
rested the chief authority?</p>

<p><i>Abarbenel</i>.&mdash;Not exactly. There are, however,
certain holy families who enjoy much consideration; my own is one
of these&mdash;the chiefest, I may say. My grandsire was a
particularly holy man; and I have heard my father say, that one
night an archbishop came to his house secretly, merely to have
the satisfaction of kissing his head.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;How can that be; what reverence could an
archbishop entertain for one like yourself or your grandsire?</p>

<p><i>Abarbenel</i>.&mdash;More than you imagine. He was
one of us, at least his father was, and he could never forget
what he had learned with reverence in his infancy. He said
he had tried to forget it, but he could not; that the <i>ruah</i>
was continually upon him, and that even from his childhood he had
borne its terrors with a troubled mind, till at last he could
bear himself no longer; so he went to my grandsire, with whom he
remained one whole night; he then returned to his diocese, where
he shortly afterwards died, in much renown for sanctity.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;What you say surprises me. Have you
reason to suppose that many of you are to be found amongst the
priesthood?</p>

<p><i>Abarbenel</i>.&mdash;Not to suppose, but to know it.
There are many such as I amongst the priesthood, and not amongst
the inferior priesthood either; some of the most learned and
famed of them in Spain have been of us, or of our blood at least,
and many of them at this day think as I do. There is one
particular festival of the year at which four dignified
ecclesiastics are sure to visit me; and then, when all is made
close and secure, and the fitting ceremonies have been gone
through, they sit down upon the floor and curse.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Are you numerous in the large towns?</p>

<p><i>Abarbenel</i>.&mdash;By no means; our places of abode are
seldom the large towns; we prefer the villages, and rarely enter
the large towns but on business. Indeed we are not a
numerous people, and there are few provinces of Spain which
contain more than twenty families. None of us are poor, and
those among us who serve, do so more from choice than necessity,
for by serving each other we acquire different trades. Not
unfrequently the time of service is that of courtship also, and
the servants eventually marry the daughters of the house.</p>

<p>We continued in discourse the greater part of the night; the
next morning I prepared to depart. My companion, however,
advised me to remain where I was for that day. &ldquo;And
if you respect my counsel,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;you will not
proceed farther in this manner. To-night the diligence will
arrive from Estremadura, on its way to Madrid. Deposit
yourself therein; it is the safest and most speedy mode of
travelling. As for your animal, I will myself purchase
her. My servant is here, and has informed me that she will
be of service to us. Let us, therefore, pass the day
together in communion, like brothers, and then proceed on our
separate journeys.&rdquo; We did pass the day together; and
when the diligence arrived I deposited myself within, and on the
morning of the second day arrived at Madrid.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XII</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Lodging at Madrid&mdash;My
Hostess&mdash;British
Ambassador&mdash;Mendizabal&mdash;Baltasar&mdash;Duties of a
National&mdash;Young Blood&mdash;The Execution&mdash;Population
of Madrid&mdash;The Higher Orders&mdash;The Lower
Classes&mdash;The Bull-fighter&mdash;The Crabbed
Gitáno.</p>

<p>It was the commencement of February when I reached
Madrid. After staying a few days at a posada, I removed to
a lodging which I engaged at No. 3, in the Calle de la Zarza, a
dark dirty street, which, however, was close to the Puerta del
Sol, the most central point of Madrid, into which four or five of
the principal streets debouche, and which is, at all times of the
year, the great place of assemblage for the idlers of the
capital, poor or rich.</p>

<p>It was rather a singular house in which I had taken up my
abode. I occupied the front part of the first floor; my
apartments consisted of an immense parlour, and a small chamber
on one side in which I slept; the parlour, notwithstanding its
size, contained very little furniture: a few chairs, a table, and
a species of sofa, constituted the whole. It was very cold
and airy, owing to the draughts which poured in from three large
windows, and from sundry doors. The mistress of the house,
attended by her two daughters, ushered me in. &ldquo;Did
you ever see a more magnificent apartment?&rdquo; demanded the
former; &ldquo;is it not fit for a king&rsquo;s son? Last
winter it was occupied by the great General Espartero.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The hostess was an exceedingly fat woman, a native of
Valladolid, in Old Castile. &ldquo;Have you any other
family,&rdquo; I demanded, &ldquo;besides these
daughters?&rdquo; &ldquo;Two sons,&rdquo; she replied;
&ldquo;one of them an officer in the army, father of this
urchin,&rdquo; pointing to a wicked but clever looking boy of
about twelve, who at that moment bounded into the room;
&ldquo;the other is the most celebrated national in Madrid: he is
a tailor by trade, and his name is Baltasar. He has much
influence with the other nationals, on account of the liberality
of his opinions, and a word from him is sufficient to bring them
all out armed and furious to the Puerta del Sol. He is,
however, at present confined to his bed, for he is very
dissipated and fond of the company of bull-fighters and people
still worse.&rdquo;</p>

<p>As my principal motive for visiting the Spanish capital was
the hope of obtaining permission from the government to print the
New Testament in the Castilian language, for circulation in
Spain, I lost no time, upon my arrival, in taking what I
considered to be the necessary steps.</p>

<p>I was an entire stranger at Madrid, and bore no letters of
introduction to any persons of influence, who might have assisted
me in this undertaking, so that, notwithstanding I entertained a
hope of success, relying on the assistance of the Almighty, this
hope was not at all times very vivid, but was frequently overcast
with the clouds of despondency.</p>

<p>Mendizabal was at this time prime minister of Spain, and was
considered as a man of almost unbounded power, in whose hands
were placed the destinies of the country. I therefore
considered that if I could by any means induce him to favour my
views, I should have no reason to fear interruption from other
quarters, and I determined upon applying to him.</p>

<p>Before talking this step, however, I deemed it advisable to
wait upon Mr. Villiers, the British ambassador at Madrid; and
with the freedom permitted to a British subject, to ask his
advice in this affair. I was received with great kindness,
and enjoyed a conversation with him on various subjects before I
introduced the matter which I had most at heart. He said
that if I wished for an interview with Mendizabal, he would
endeavour to procure me one, but, at the same time, told me
frankly that he could not hope that any good would arise from it,
as he knew him to be violently prejudiced against the British and
Foreign Bible Society, and was far more likely to discountenance
than encourage any efforts which they might be disposed to make
for introducing the Gospel into Spain. I, however, remained
resolute in my desire to make the trial, and before I left him,
obtained a letter of introduction to Mendizabal.</p>

<p>Early one morning I repaired to the palace, in a wing of which
was the office of the Prime Minister; it was bitterly cold, and
the Guadarama, of which there is a noble view from the
palace-plain, was covered with snow. For at least three
hours I remained shivering with cold in an ante-room, with
several other aspirants for an interview with the man of
power. At last his private secretary made his appearance,
and after putting various questions to the others, addressed
himself to me, asking who I was and what I wanted. I told
him that I was an Englishman, and the bearer of a letter from the
British Minister. &ldquo;If you have no objection, I will
myself deliver it to His Excellency,&rdquo; said he; whereupon I
handed it to him and he withdrew. Several individuals were
admitted before me; at last, however, my own turn came, and I was
ushered into the presence of Mendizabal.</p>

<p>He stood behind a table covered with papers, on which his eyes
were intently fixed. He took not the slightest notice when
I entered, and I had leisure enough to survey him: he was a huge
athletic man, somewhat taller than myself, who measure six feet
two without my shoes; his complexion was florid, his features
fine and regular, his nose quite aquiline, and his teeth
splendidly white: though scarcely fifty years of age, his hair
was remarkably grey; he was dressed in a rich morning gown, with
a gold chain round his neck, and morocco slippers on his
feet.</p>

<p>His secretary, a fine intellectual looking man, who, as I was
subsequently informed, had acquired a name both in English and
Spanish literature, stood at one end of the table with papers in
his hands.</p>

<p>After I had been standing about a quarter of an hour,
Mendizabal suddenly lifted up a pair of sharp eyes, and fixed
them upon me with a peculiarly scrutinizing glance.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I have seen a glance very similar to that amongst the
Beni Israel,&rdquo; thought I to myself. . . .</p>
<div class="gapspace"></div>
<p>My interview with him lasted nearly an hour. Some
singular discourse passed between us: I found him, as I had been
informed, a bitter enemy to the Bible Society, of which he spoke
in terms of hatred and contempt, and by no means a friend to the
Christian religion, which I could easily account for. I was
not discouraged, however, and pressed upon him the matter which
brought me thither, and was eventually so far successful, as to
obtain a promise, that at the expiration of a few months, when he
hoped the country would be in a more tranquil state, I should be
allowed to print the Scriptures.</p>

<p>As I was going away he said, &ldquo;Yours is not the first
application I have had; ever since I have held the reins of
government I have been pestered in this manner, by English
calling themselves Evangelical Christians, who have of late come
flocking over into Spain. Only last week a hunchbacked
fellow found his way into my cabinet whilst I was engaged in
important business, and told me that Christ was coming. . . . And
now you have made your appearance, and almost persuaded me to
embroil myself yet more with the priesthood, as if they did not
abhor me enough already. What a strange infatuation is this
which drives you over lands and waters with Bibles in your
hands. My good sir, it is not Bibles we want, but rather
guns and gunpowder, to put the rebels down with, and above all,
money, that we may pay the troops; whenever you come with these
three things you shall have a hearty welcome, if not, we really
can dispense with your visits, however great the
honour.&rdquo;</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;There will be no end to the troubles of
this afflicted country until the gospel have free
circulation.</p>

<p><i>Mendizabal</i>.&mdash;I expected that answer, for I have
not lived thirteen years in England without forming some
acquaintance with the phraseology of you good folks. Now,
now, pray go; you see how engaged I am. Come again whenever
you please, but let it not be within the next three months.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Don Jorge,&rdquo; said my hostess, coming into my
apartment one morning, whilst I sat at breakfast with my feet
upon the brasero, &ldquo;here is my son Baltasarito, the
national; he has risen from his bed, and hearing that there is an
Englishman in the house, he has begged me to introduce him, for
he loves Englishmen on account of the liberality of their
opinions; there he is, what do you think of him?&rdquo;</p>

<p>I did not state to his mother what I thought; it appeared to
me, however, that she was quite right calling him Baltasarito,
which is the diminutive of Baltasar, forasmuch as that ancient
and sonorous name had certainly never been bestowed on a more
diminutive personage: he might measure about five feet one inch,
though he was rather corpulent for his height; his face looked
yellow and sickly, he had, however, a kind of fanfaronading air,
and his eyes, which were of dark brown, were both sharp and
brilliant. His dress, or rather his undress, was somewhat
shabby: he had a foraging cap on his head, and in lieu of a
morning gown, he wore a sentinel&rsquo;s old great coat.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I am glad to make your acquaintance, se&ntilde;or
nacional,&rdquo; said I to him, after his mother had departed,
and Baltasar had taken his seat, and of course lighted a paper
cigar at the brasero. &ldquo;I am glad to have made your
acquaintance, more especially as your lady mother has informed me
that you have great influence with the nationals. I am a
stranger in Spain, and may want a friend; fortune has been kind
to me in procuring me one who is a member of so powerful a
body.&rdquo;</p>

<p><i>Baltasar</i>.&mdash;Yes, I have a great deal to say with
the other nationals; there is none in Madrid better known than
Baltasar, or more dreaded by the Carlists. You say you may
stand in need of a friend; there is no fear of my failing you in
any emergency. Both myself and any of the other nationals
will be proud to go out with you as padrinos, should you have any
affair of honour on your hands. But why do you not become
one of us? We would gladly receive you into our body.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Is the duty of a national particularly
hard?</p>

<p><i>Baltasar</i>.&mdash;By no means; we have to do duty about
once every fifteen days, and then there is occasionally a review,
which does not last long. No! the duties of a national are
by no means onerous, and the privileges are great. I have
seen three of my brother nationals walk up and down the Prado of
a Sunday, with sticks in their hands, cudgelling all the
suspicious characters, and it is our common practice to scour the
streets at night, and then if we meet any person who is obnoxious
to us, we fall upon him, and with a knife or a bayonet generally
leave him wallowing in his blood on the pavement: no one but a
national would be permitted to do that.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Of course none but persons of liberal
opinions are to be found amongst the nationals?</p>

<p><i>Baltasar</i>.&mdash;Would it were so! There are some
amongst us, Don Jorge, who are no better than they should be;
they are few, however, and for the most part well known.
Theirs is no pleasant life, for when they mount guard with the
rest they are scouted, and not unfrequently cudgelled. The
law compels all of a certain age either to serve in the army or
to become national soldiers on which account some of these Godos
are to be found amongst us.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Are there many in Madrid of the Carlist
opinion?</p>

<p><i>Baltasar</i>.&mdash;Not among the young people; the greater
part of the Madrilenian Carlists capable of bearing arms departed
long ago to join the ranks of the factious in the Basque
provinces. Those who remain are for the most part
grey-beards and priests, good for nothing but to assemble in
private coffee-houses, and to prate treason together. Let
them prate, Don Jorge; let them prate; the destinies of Spain do
not depend on the wishes of ojalateros and pasteleros, but on the
hands of stout gallant nationals like myself and friends, Don
Jorge.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;I am sorry to learn from your lady
mother, that you are strangely dissipated.</p>

<p><i>Baltasar</i>.&mdash;Ho, ho, Don Jorge, she has told you
that, has she; what would you have, Don Jorge? I am young,
and young blood will have its course. I am called Baltasar
the gay by all the other nationals, and it is on account of my
gaiety and the liberality of my opinions that I am so popular
among them. When I mount guard I invariably carry my guitar
with me, and then there is sure to be a function at the
guard-house. We send for wine, Don Jorge, and the nationals
become wild, Don Jorge, dancing and drinking through the night,
whilst Baltasarito strums the guitar and sings them songs of
Germania:</p>

<blockquote><p>&ldquo;Una romi sin pachi<br />
Le peno á su chindomar,&rdquo; &amp;c., &amp;c.</p>
</blockquote>

<p>That is Gitano, Don Jorge; I learnt it from the toreros of
Andalusia, who all speak Gitano, and are mostly of Gypsy
blood. I learnt it from them; they are all friends of mine,
Montes Sevilla and Poquito Pan. I never miss a function of
bulls, Don Jorge. Baltasar is sure to be there with his
amiga. Don Jorge, there are no bull-functions in the
winter, or I would carry you to one, but happily to-morrow there
is an execution, a funcion de la horca; and there we will go, Don
Jorge.</p>

<p>We did go to see this execution, which I shall long
remember. The criminals were two young men, brothers; they
suffered for a most atrocious murder, having in the dead of night
broke open the house of an aged man, whom they put to death, and
whose property they stole. Criminals in Spain are not
hanged as they are in England, or guillotined as in France, but
strangled upon a wooden stage. They sit down on a kind of
chair with a post behind, to which is affixed an iron collar with
a screw; this iron collar is made to clasp the neck of the
prisoner, and on a certain signal it is drawn tighter and tighter
by means of the screw, until life becomes extinct. After we
had waited amongst the assembled multitude a considerable time,
the first of the culprits appeared; he was mounted on an ass,
without saddle or stirrups, his legs being allowed to dangle
nearly to the ground. He was dressed in yellow
sulphur-coloured robes, with a high-peaked conical red hat on his
head, which was shaven. Between his hands he held a
parchment, on which was written something, I believe the
confession of faith. Two priests led the animal by the
bridle; two others walked on either side, chanting litanies,
amongst which I distinguished the words of heavenly peace and
tranquillity, for the culprit had been reconciled to the church,
had confessed and received absolution, and had been promised
admission to heaven. He did not exhibit the least symptom
of fear, but dismounted from the animal and was led, not
supported, up the scaffold, where he was placed on the chair, and
the fatal collar put round his neck. One of the priests
then in a loud voice commenced saying the Belief, and the culprit
repeated the words after him. On a sudden, the executioner,
who stood behind, commenced turning the screw, which was of
prodigious force, and the wretched man&mdash;was almost instantly
a corpse; but, as the screw went round, the priest began to
shout, &ldquo;<i>pax et misericordia et tranquillitas</i>,&rdquo;
and still as he shouted, his voice became louder and louder, till
the lofty walls of Madrid rang with it: then stooping down, he
placed his mouth close to the culprit&rsquo;s ear, still
shouting, just as if he would pursue the spirit through its
course to eternity, cheering it on its way. The effect was
tremendous. I myself was so excited that I involuntarily
shouted &ldquo;<i>misericordia</i>,&rdquo; and so did many
others. God was not thought of; Christ was not thought of;
only the priest was thought of, for he seemed at that moment to
be the first being in existence, and to have the power of opening
and shutting the gates of heaven or of hell, just as he should
think proper. A striking instance of the successful working
of the Popish system, whose grand aim has ever been to keep
people&rsquo;s minds as far as possible from God, and to centre
their hopes and fears in the priesthood. The execution of
the second culprit was precisely similar; he ascended the
scaffold a few minutes after his brother had breathed his
last.</p>

<p>I have visited most of the principal capitals of the world,
but upon the whole none has ever so interested me as this city of
Madrid, in which I now found myself. I will not dwell upon
its streets, its edifices, its public squares, its fountains,
though some of these are remarkable enough: but Petersburg has
finer streets, Paris and Edinburgh more stately edifices, London
far nobler squares, whilst Shiraz can boast of more costly
fountains, though not cooler waters. But the
population! Within a mud wall, scarcely one league and a
half in circuit, are contained two hundred thousand human beings,
certainly forming the most extraordinary vital mass to be found
in the entire world; and be it always remembered that this mass
is strictly Spanish. The population of Constantinople is
extraordinary enough, but to form it twenty nations have
contributed; Greeks, Armenians, Persians, Poles, Jews, the
latter, by the by, of Spanish origin, and speaking amongst
themselves the old Spanish language; but the huge population of
Madrid, with the exception of a sprinkling of foreigners, chiefly
French tailors, glove-makers and peruquiers, is strictly Spanish,
though a considerable portion are not natives of the place.
Here are no colonies of Germans, as at Saint Petersburg; no
English factories, as at Lisbon; no multitudes of insolent
Yankees lounging through the streets as at the Havannah, with an
air which seems to say, the land is our own whenever we choose to
take it; but a population which, however strange and wild, and
composed of various elements, is Spanish, and will remain so as
long as the city itself shall exist. Hail, ye aguadores of
Asturia! who, in your dress of coarse duffel and leathern
skull-caps, are seen seated in hundreds by the fountain sides,
upon your empty water-casks, or staggering with them filled to
the topmost stories of lofty houses. Hail, ye caleseros of
Valencia! who, lolling lazily against your vehicles, rasp tobacco
for your paper cigars whilst waiting for a fare. Hail to
you, beggars of La Mancha! men and women, who, wrapped in coarse
blankets, demand charity indifferently at the gate of the palace
or the prison. Hail to you, valets from the mountains,
mayordomos and secretaries from Biscay and Guipuscoa, toreros
from Andalusia, riposteros from Galicia, shopkeepers from
Catalonia! Hail to ye, Castilians, Estremenians and
Aragonese, of whatever calling! And lastly, genuine sons of
the capital, rabble of Madrid, ye twenty thousand manolos, whose
terrible knifes, on the second morning of May, worked such grim
havoc amongst the legions of Murat!</p>

<p>And the higher orders&mdash;the ladies and gentlemen, the
cavaliers and se&ntilde;oras; shall I pass them by in
silence? The truth is I have little to say about them; I
mingled but little in their society, and what I saw of them by no
means tended to exalt them in my imagination. I am not one
of those who, wherever they go, make it a constant practice to
disparage the higher orders, and to exalt the populace at their
expense. There are many capitals in which the high
aristocracy, the lords and ladies, the sons and daughters of
nobility, constitute the most remarkable and the most interesting
part of the population. This is the case at Vienna, and
more especially at London. Who can rival the English
aristocrat in lofty stature, in dignified bearing, in strength of
hand, and valour of heart? Who rides a nobler horse?
Who has a firmer seat? And who more lovely than his wife,
or sister, or daughter? But with respect to the Spanish
aristocracy, the ladies and gentlemen, the cavaliers and
se&ntilde;oras, I believe the less that is said of them on the
points to which I have just alluded the better. I confess,
however, that I know little about them; they have, perhaps, their
admirers, and to the pens of such I leave their panegyric.
Le Sage has described them as they were nearly two centuries
ago. His description is anything but captivating, and I do
not think that they have improved since the period of the
sketches of the immortal Frenchman. I would sooner talk of
the lower class, not only of Madrid but of all Spain. The
Spaniard of the lower class has much more interest for me,
whether manolo, labourer, or muleteer. He is not a common
being; he is an extraordinary man. He has not, it is true,
the amiability and generosity of the Russian mujik, who will give
his only rouble rather than the stranger shall want; nor his
placid courage, which renders him insensible to fear, and at the
command of his Tsar, sends him singing to certain death. <a
name="citation127"></a><a href="#footnote127"
class="citation">[127]</a> There is more hardness and less
self-devotion in the disposition of the Spaniard; he possesses,
however, a spirit of proud independence, which it is impossible
but to admire. He is ignorant, of course; but it is
singular that I have invariably found amongst the low and
slightly educated classes far more liberality of sentiment than
amongst the upper. It has long been the fashion to talk of
the bigotry of the Spaniards, and their mean jealousy of
foreigners. This is true to a certain extent: but it
chiefly holds good with respect to the upper classes. If
foreign valour or talent has never received its proper meed in
Spain, the great body of the Spaniards are certainly not in
fault. I have heard Wellington calumniated in this proud
scene of his triumphs, but never by the old soldiers of Aragon
and the Asturias, who assisted to vanquish the French at
Salamanca and the Pyrenees. I have heard the manner of
riding of an English jockey criticized, but it was by the idiotic
heir of Medina Celi, and not by a picador of the Madrilenian bull
ring.</p>

<p>Apropos of bull-fighters:&mdash;Shortly after my arrival, I
one day entered a low tavern in a neighbourhood notorious for
robbery and murder, and in which for the last two hours I had
been wandering on a voyage of discovery. I was fatigued,
and required refreshment. I found the place thronged with
people, who had all the appearance of ruffians. I saluted
them, upon which they made way for me to the bar, taking off
their sombreros with great ceremony. I emptied a glass of
val de pe&ntilde;as, and was about to pay for it and depart, when
a horrible looking fellow, dressed in a buff jerkin, leather
breeches, and jackboots, which came half way up his thighs, and
having on his head a white hat, the rims of which were at least a
yard and a half in circumference, pushed through the crowd, and
confronting me, roared:&mdash;</p>

<p>&ldquo;<i>Otra copita</i>! <i>vamos Inglesito</i>: <i>Otra
copita</i>!&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Thank you, my good sir, you are very kind, you appear
to know me, but I have not the honour of knowing you.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Not know me!&rdquo; replied the being. &ldquo;I
am Sevilla, the torero. I know you well; you are the friend
of Baltasarito, the national, who is a friend of mine, and a very
good subject.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Then turning to the company, he said in a sonorous tone,
laying a strong emphasis on the last syllable of every word,
according to the custom of the gente rufianesca throughout
Spain:</p>

<p>&ldquo;Cavaliers, and strong men, this cavalier is the friend
of a friend of mine. <i>Es mucho hombre</i>. There is
none like him in Spain. He speaks the crabbed Gitano though
he is an Inglesito.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;We do not believe it,&rdquo; replied several grave
voices. &ldquo;It is not possible.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;It is not possible, say you? I tell you it
is. Come forward, Balseiro, you who have been in prison all
your life, and are always boasting that you can speak the crabbed
Gitano, though I say you know nothing of it&mdash;come forward
and speak to his worship in the crabbed Gitano.&rdquo;</p>

<p>A low, slight, but active figure stepped forward. He was
in his shirt sleeves, and wore a montero cap; his features were
handsome, but they were those of a demon.</p>

<p>He spoke a few words in the broken Gypsy slang of the prison,
inquiring of me whether I had ever been in the condemned cell,
and whether I knew what a Gitana <a name="citation128"></a><a
href="#footnote128" class="citation">[128]</a> was?</p>

<p>&ldquo;Vamos Inglesito,&rdquo; shouted Sevilla in a voice of
thunder; &ldquo;answer the monro in the crabbed
Gitano.&rdquo;</p>

<p>I answered the robber, for such he was, and one, too, whose
name will live for many a year in the ruffian histories of
Madrid; I answered him in a speech of some length, in the dialect
of the Estremenian Gypsies.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I believe it is the crabbed Gitano,&rdquo; muttered
Balseiro. &ldquo;It is either that or English, for I
understand not a word of it.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Did I not say to you,&rdquo; cried the bull-fighter,
&ldquo;that you knew nothing of the crabbed Gitano? But
this Inglesito does. I understood all he said. Vaya,
there is none like him for the crabbed Gitano. He is a good
ginete, too; next to myself, there is none like him, only he
rides with stirrup leathers too short. Inglesito, if you
have need of money, I will lend you my purse. All I have is
at your service, and that is not a little; I have just gained
four thousand chulés by the lottery. Courage,
Englishman! Another cup. I will pay all. I,
Sevilla!&rdquo;</p>

<p>And he clapped his hand repeatedly on his breast, reiterating
&ldquo;I, Sevilla! I&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XIII</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Intrigues at Court&mdash;Quesada and
Galiano&mdash;Dissolution of the Cortes&mdash;The
Secretary&mdash;Aragonese Pertinacity&mdash;The Council of
Trent&mdash;The Asturian&mdash;The Three Thieves&mdash;Benedict
Mol&mdash;The Men of Lucerne&mdash;The Treasure.</p>

<p>Mendizabal had told me to call upon him again at the end of
three months, giving me hopes that he would not then oppose
himself to the publication of the New Testament; before, however,
the three months had elapsed, he had fallen into disgrace, and
had ceased to be prime minister.</p>

<p>An intrigue had been formed against him, at the head of which
were two quondam friends of his, and fellow-townsmen,
Gaditanians, Isturitz and Alcala Galiano; both of them had been
egregious liberals in their day, and indeed principal members of
those cortes which, on the Angouleme invasion, had hurried
Ferdinand from Madrid to Cadiz, and kept him prisoner there until
that impregnable town thought proper to surrender, and both of
them had been subsequently refugees in England, where they had
spent a considerable number of years.</p>

<p>These gentlemen, however, finding themselves about this time
exceedingly poor, and not seeing any immediate prospect of
advantage from supporting Mendizabal; considering themselves,
moreover, quite as good men as he, and as capable of governing
Spain in the present emergency; determined to secede from the
party of their friend, whom they had hitherto supported, and to
set up for themselves.</p>

<p>They therefore formed an opposition to Mendizabal in the
cortes; the members of this opposition assumed the name of
moderados, in contradistinction to Mendizabal and his followers,
who were ultra liberals. The moderados were encouraged by
the Queen Regent Christina, who aimed at a little more power than
the liberals were disposed to allow her, and who had a personal
dislike to the minister. They were likewise encouraged by
Cordova, who at that time commanded the army, and was displeased
with Mendizabal, inasmuch as the latter did not supply the
pecuniary demands of the general with sufficient alacrity, though
it is said that the greater part of what was sent for the payment
of the troops was not devoted to that purpose, but, was invested
in the French funds in the name and for the use and behoof of the
said Cordova.</p>

<p>It is, however, by no means my intention to write an account
of the political events which were passing around me at this
period; suffice it to say, that Mendizabal finding himself
thwarted in all his projects by the regent and the general, the
former of whom would adopt no measure which he recommended,
whilst the latter remained inactive and refused to engage the
enemy, which by this time had recovered from the check caused by
the death of Zumalacarregui, and was making considerable
progress, resigned and left the field for the time open to his
adversaries, though he possessed an immense majority in the
cortes, and had the voice of the nation, at least the liberal
part of it, in his favour.</p>

<p>Thereupon, Isturitz became head of the cabinet, Galiano
minister of marine, and a certain Duke of Rivas minister of the
interior. These were the heads of the moderado government,
but as they were by no means popular at Madrid, and feared the
nationals, they associated with themselves one who hated the
latter body and feared nothing, a man of the name of Quesada, a
very stupid individual, but a great fighter, who, at one period
of his life, had commanded a legion or body of men called the
Army of the Faith, whose exploits both on the French and Spanish
side of the Pyrenees are too well known to require
recapitulation. This person was made captain general of
Madrid.</p>

<p>By far the most clever member of this government was Galiano,
whose acquaintance I had formed shortly after my arrival.
He was a man of considerable literature, and particularly well
versed in that of his own country. He was, moreover, a
fluent, elegant, and forcible speaker, and was to the moderado
party within the cortes what Quesada was without, namely, their
horses and chariots. Why he was made minister of marine is
difficult to say, as Spain did not possess any; perhaps, however,
from his knowledge of the English language, which he spoke and
wrote nearly as well as his own tongue, having indeed during his
sojourn in England chiefly supported himself by writing for
reviews and journals, an honourable occupation, but to which few
foreign exiles in England would be qualified to devote
themselves.</p>

<p>He was a very small and irritable man, and a bitter enemy to
every person who stood in the way of his advancement. He
hated Mendizabal with undisguised rancour, and never spoke of him
but in terms of unmeasured contempt. &ldquo;I am afraid
that I shall have some difficulty in inducing Mendizabal to give
me permission to print the Testament,&rdquo; said I to him one
day. &ldquo;Mendizabal is a jackass,&rdquo; replied
Galiano. &ldquo;Caligula made his horse consul, which I
suppose induced Lord&mdash;to send over this huge burro of the
Stock Exchange to be our minister.&rdquo;</p>

<p>It would be very ungrateful on my part were I not to confess
my great obligations to Galiano, who assisted me to the utmost of
his power in the business which had brought me to Spain.
Shortly after the ministry was formed, I went to him and said,
&ldquo;that now or never was the time to make an effort in my
behalf.&rdquo; &ldquo;I will do so,&rdquo; said he, in a
waspish tone; for he always spoke waspishly whether to friend or
foe; &ldquo;but you must have patience for a few days, we are
very much occupied at present. We have been outvoted in the
cortes, and this afternoon we intend to dissolve them. It
is believed that the rascals will refuse to depart, but Quesada
will stand at the door ready to turn them out, should they prove
refractory. Come along, and you will perhaps see a
funcion.&rdquo;</p>

<p>After an hour&rsquo;s debate, the cortes were dissolved
without it being necessary to call in the aid of the redoubtable
Quesada, and Galiano forthwith gave me a letter to his colleague
the Duke of Rivas, in whose department he told me was vested the
power either of giving or refusing the permission to print the
book in question. The duke was a very handsome young man,
of about thirty, an Andalusian by birth, like his two
colleagues. He had published several works, tragedies, I
believe, and enjoyed a certain kind of literary reputation.
He received me with the greatest affability; and having heard
what I had to say, he replied with a most captivating bow, and a
genuine Andalusian grimace: &ldquo;Go to my secretary; go to my
secretary&mdash;<i>el hara por usted el gusio</i>.&rdquo;
So I went to the secretary, whose name was Oliban, an Aragonese,
who was not handsome, and whose manners were neither elegant nor
affable. &ldquo;You want permission to print the
Testament?&rdquo; &ldquo;I do,&rdquo; said I.
&ldquo;And you have come to His Excellency about it,&rdquo;
continued Oliban. &ldquo;Very true,&rdquo; I replied.
&ldquo;I suppose you intend to print it without
notes.&rdquo; &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo; &ldquo;Then His
Excellency cannot give you permission,&rdquo; said the Aragonese
secretary: &ldquo;it was determined by the Council of Trent that
no part of the Scripture should be printed in any Christian
country without the notes of the church.&rdquo; &ldquo;How
many years was that ago?&rdquo; I demanded. &ldquo;I do not
know how many years ago it was,&rdquo; said Oliban; &ldquo;but
such was the decree of the Council of Trent.&rdquo;
&ldquo;Is Spain at present governed according to the decrees of
the Council of Trent?&rdquo; I inquired. &ldquo;In some
points she is,&rdquo; answered the Aragonese, &ldquo;and this is
one. But tell me who are you? Are you known to the
British minister?&rdquo; &ldquo;O yes, and he takes a great
interest in the matter.&rdquo; &ldquo;Does he?&rdquo; said
Oliban; &ldquo;that indeed alters the case: if you can show me
that His Excellency takes in interest in this business, I
certainly shall not oppose myself to it.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The British minister performed all I could wish, and much more
than I could expect; he had an interview with the Duke of Rivas,
with whom he had much discourse upon my affair: the duke was all
smiles and courtesy. He moreover wrote a private letter to
the duke, which he advised me to present when I next paid him a
visit, and, to crown all, he wrote a letter directed to myself,
in which he did me the honour to say that he had a regard for me,
and that nothing would afford him greater pleasure than to hear
that I had obtained the permission which I was seeking. So
I went to the duke, and delivered the letter. He was ten
times more kind and affable than before: he read the letter,
smiled most sweetly, and then, as if seized with sudden
enthusiasm, he extended his arms in a manner almost theatrical,
exclaiming, &ldquo;<i>Al secretario</i>, <i>el hara por usted el
gusto</i>.&rdquo; Away I hurried to the secretary, who
received me with all the coolness of an icicle: I related to him
the words of his principal, and then put into his hand the letter
of the British minister to myself. The secretary read it
very deliberately, and then said that it was evident His
Excellency did take an interest in the matter. He then
asked me my name, and taking a sheet of paper, sat down as if for
the purpose of writing the permission. I was in
ecstasy&mdash;all of a sudden, however, he stopped, lifted up his
head, seemed to consider a moment, and then putting his pen
behind his ear, he said, &ldquo;Amongst the decrees of the
Council of Trent is one to the effect&rdquo; . . .</p>

<p>&ldquo;Oh dear!&rdquo; said I.</p>

<p>&ldquo;A singular person is this Oliban,&rdquo; said I to
Galiano; &ldquo;you cannot imagine what trouble he gives me: he
is continually talking about the Council of Trent.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I wish he was in the Trent up to the middle,&rdquo;
said Galiano, who, as I have observed already, spoke excellent
English; &ldquo;I wish he was there for talking such
nonsense. However,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;we must not
offend Oliban, he is one of us, and has done us much service; he
is, moreover, a very clever man, but he is an Aragonese, and when
one of that nation once gets an idea into his head, it is the
most difficult thing in the world to dislodge it; however, we
will go to him; he is an old friend of mine, and I have no doubt
but that we shall be able to make him listen to
reason.&rdquo; So the next day I called upon Galiano, at
his marine or admiralty office (what shall I call it?), and from
thence we proceeded to the bureau of the interior, a magnificent
edifice, which had formerly been the casa of the Inquisition,
where we had an interview with Oliban, whom Galiano took aside to
the window, and there held with him a long conversation, which,
as they spoke in whispers, and the room was immensely large, I
did not hear. At length Galiano came to me and said,
&ldquo;There is some difficulty with respect to this business of
yours, but I have told Oliban that you are a friend of mine, and
he says that that is sufficient; remain with him now, and he will
do anything to oblige you; your affair is
settled&mdash;farewell&rdquo;; whereupon he departed and I
remained with Oliban, who proceeded forthwith to write something,
which having concluded, he took out a box of cigars, and having
lighted one and offered me another, which I declined as I do not
smoke, he placed his feet against the table, and thus proceeded
to address me, speaking in the French language.</p>

<p>&ldquo;It is with great pleasure that I see you in this
capital, and, I may say, upon this business. I consider it
a disgrace to Spain that there is no edition of the Gospel in
circulation, at least such a one as would be within the reach of
all classes of society, the highest or poorest; one unencumbered
with notes and commentaries, human devices, swelling it to an
unwieldy bulk. I have no doubt that such an edition as you
propose to print, would have a most beneficial influence on the
minds of the people, who, between ourselves, know nothing of pure
religion; how should they? seeing that the Gospel has always been
sedulously kept from them, just as if civilization could exist
where the light of the Gospel beameth not. The moral
regeneration of Spain depends upon the free circulation of the
Scriptures; to which alone England, your own happy country, is
indebted for its high state of civilization, and the unmatched
prosperity which it at present enjoys; all this I admit, in fact,
reason compels me to do so, but&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Now for it,&rdquo; thought I.</p>

<p>&ldquo;But&rdquo;&mdash;and then he began to talk once more of
the wearisome Council of Trent, and I found that his writing in
the paper, the offer of the cigar, and the long and prosy
harangue were&mdash;what shall I call it?&mdash;mere
&phi;&lambda;&upsilon;&alpha;&rho;&#943;&alpha;.</p>

<p>By this time the spring was far advanced, the sides though not
the tops of the Guadarama hills had long since lost their snows;
the trees of the Prado had donned their full foliage, and all the
Campina in the neighbourhood of Madrid smiled and was happy: the
summer heats had not commenced, and the weather was truly
delicious.</p>

<p>Towards the west, at the foot of the hill on which stands
Madrid, is a canal running parallel with the Manzanares for some
leagues, from which it is separated by pleasant and fertile
meadows. The banks of this canal, which was begun by Carlos
Tercero, and has never been completed, are planted with beautiful
trees, and form the most delightful walk in the neighbourhood of
the capital. Here I would loiter for hours looking at the
shoals of gold and silver fish which basked on the surface of the
green sunny waters, or listening, not to the warbling of
birds&mdash;for Spain is not the land of feathered
choristers&mdash;but to the prattle of the narangero or man who
sold oranges and water by a little deserted watch tower just
opposite the wooden bridge that crosses the canal, which
situation he had chosen as favourable for his trade, and there
had placed his stall. He was an Asturian by birth, about
fifty years of age, and about five feet high. As I
purchased freely of his fruit, he soon conceived a great
friendship for me, and told me his history; it contained,
however, nothing very remarkable, the leading incident being an
adventure which had befallen him amidst the mountains of Granada,
where, falling into the hands of certain Gypsies, they stripped
him naked, and then dismissed him with a sound cudgelling.
&ldquo;I have wandered throughout Spain,&rdquo; said he,
&ldquo;and I have come to the conclusion that there are but two
places worth living in, Malaga and Madrid. At Malaga
everything is very cheap, and there is such an abundance of fish,
that I have frequently seen them piled in heaps on the sea-shore:
and as for Madrid, money is always stirring at the Corte, and I
never go supperless to bed; my only care is to sell my oranges,
and my only hope that when I die I shall be buried
yonder.&rdquo;</p>

<p>And he pointed across the Manzanares, where, on the declivity
of a gentle hill, at about a league&rsquo;s distance, shone
brightly in the sunshine the white walls of the Campo Santo, or
common burying ground of Madrid.</p>

<p>He was a fellow of infinite drollery, and, though he could
scarcely read or write, by no means ignorant of the ways of the
world; his knowledge of individuals was curious and extensive,
few people passing his stall with whose names, character, and
history he was not acquainted. &ldquo;Those two
gentry,&rdquo; said he, pointing to a magnificently dressed
cavalier and lady, who had dismounted from a carriage, and arm in
arm were coming across the wooden bridge, followed by two
attendants; &ldquo;those gentry are the Infante Francisco Paulo,
and his wife the Neapolitana, sister of our Christina; he is a
very good subject, but as for his wife&mdash;vaya&mdash;the
veriest scold in Madrid; she can say carrajo with the most
ill-conditioned carrier of La Mancha, giving the true emphasis
and genuine pronunciation. Don&rsquo;t take off your hat to
her, amigo&mdash;she has neither formality nor politeness&mdash;I
once saluted her, and she took no more notice of me than if I had
not been what I am, an Asturian and a gentleman, of better blood
than herself. Good day, Se&ntilde;or Don Francisco.
Que tal (<i>how goes it</i>)? very fine weather
this&mdash;<i>vaya su merced con Dios</i>. Those three
fellows who just stopped to drink water are great thieves, true
sons of the prison; I am always civil to them, for it would not
do to be on ill terms; they pay me or not, just as they think
proper. I have been in some trouble on their account: about
a year ago they robbed a man a little farther on beyond the
second bridge. By the way, I counsel you, brother, not to
go there, as I believe you often do&mdash;it is a dangerous
place. They robbed a gentleman and ill-treated him, but his
brother, who was an escribano, was soon upon their trail, and had
them arrested; but he wanted someone to identify them, and it
chanced that they had stopped to drink water at my stall, just as
they did now. This the escribano heard of, and forthwith
had me away to the prison to confront me with them. I knew
them well enough, but I had learnt in my travels when to close my
eyes and when to open them; so I told the escribano that I could
not say that I had ever seen them before. He was in a great
rage and threatened to imprison me; I told him he might and that
I cared not. Vaya, I was not going to expose myself to the
resentment of those three and to that of their friends; I live
too near the Hay Market for that. Good day, my young
masters.&mdash;Murcian oranges, as you see; the genuine
dragon&rsquo;s blood. Water sweet and cold. Those two
boys are the children of Gabiria, comptroller of the
queen&rsquo;s household, and the richest man in Madrid; they are
nice boys, and buy much fruit. It is said their father
loves them more than all his possessions. The old woman who
is lying beneath yon tree is the Tia Lucilla; she has committed
murders, and as she owes me money, I hope one day to see her
executed. This man was of the Walloon
guard;&mdash;Se&ntilde;or Don Benito Mol, how do you
do?&rdquo;</p>

<p>This last named personage instantly engrossed my attention; he
was a bulky old man, somewhat above the middle height, with white
hair and ruddy features; his eyes were large and blue, and
whenever he fixed them on any one&rsquo;s countenance, were full
of an expression of great eagerness, as if he were expecting the
communication of some important tidings. He was dressed
commonly enough, in a jacket and trousers of coarse cloth of a
russet colour, on his head was an immense sombrero, the brim of
which had been much cut and mutilated, so as in some places to
resemble the jags or denticles of a saw. He returned the
salutation of the orange-man, and bowing to me, forthwith
produced two scented wash-balls which he offered for sale in a
rough dissonant jargon, intended for Spanish, but which seemed
more like the Valencian or Catalan.</p>

<p>Upon my asking him who he was, the following conversation
ensued between us:</p>

<p>&ldquo;I am a Swiss of Lucerne, Benedict Mol by name, once a
soldier in the Walloon guard, and now a soap-boiler, at your
service.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;You speak the language of Spain very
imperfectly,&rdquo; said I; &ldquo;how long have you been in the
country?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Forty-five years,&rdquo; replied Benedict; &ldquo;but
when the guard was broken up, I went to Minorca, where I lost the
Spanish language without acquiring the Catalan.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;You have been a soldier of the king of Spain,&rdquo;
said I; &ldquo;how did you like the service?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Not so well, but that I should have been glad to leave
it forty years ago; the pay was bad, and the treatment
worse. I will now speak Swiss to you, for, if I am not much
mistaken, you are a German man, and understand the speech of
Lucerne; I should soon have deserted from the service of Spain,
as I did from that of the Pope, whose soldier I was in my early
youth before I came here; but I had married a woman of Minorca,
by whom I had two children; it was this that detained me in those
parts so long; before, however, I left Minorca, my wife died, and
as for my children, one went east, the other west, and I know not
what became of them; I intend shortly to return to Lucerne, and
live there like a duke.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Have you, then, realized a large capital in
Spain?&rdquo; said I, glancing at his hat and the rest of his
apparel.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Not a cuart, not a cuart; these two wash-balls are all
that I possess.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Perhaps you are the son of good parents, and have lands
and money in your own country wherewith to support
yourself.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Not a heller, not a heller; my father was hangman of
Lucerne, and when he died, his body was seized to pay his
debts.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Then doubtless,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;you intend to ply
your trade of soap-boiling at Lucerne; you are quite right, my
friend, I know of no occupation more honourable or
useful.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I have no thoughts of plying my trade at
Lucerne,&rdquo; replied Bennet; &ldquo;and now, as I see you are
a German man, Lieber Herr, and as I like your countenance and
your manner of speaking, I will tell you in confidence that I
know very little of my trade, and have already been turned out of
several fabriques as an evil workman; the two wash-balls that I
carry in my pocket are not of my own making. <i>In
kurtzen</i>, I know little more of soap-boiling than I do of
tailoring, horse-farriery, or shoe-making, all of which I have
practised.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Then I know not how you can hope to live like a hertzog
in your native canton, unless you expect that the men of Lucerne,
in consideration of your services to the Pope and to the king of
Spain, will maintain you in splendour at the public
expense.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Lieber Herr,&rdquo; said Benedict, &ldquo;the men of
Lucerne are by no means fond of maintaining the soldiers of the
Pope and the king of Spain at their own expense; many of the
guard who have returned thither beg their bread in the streets,
but when I go, it shall be in a coach drawn by six mules, with a
treasure, a mighty schatz which lies in the church of Saint James
of Compostella, in Galicia.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I hope you do not intend to rob the church,&rdquo; said
I; &ldquo;if you do, however, I believe you will be
disappointed. Mendizabal and the liberals have been
beforehand with you. I am informed that at present no other
treasure is to be found in the cathedrals of Spain than a few
paltry ornaments and plated utensils.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;My good German Herr,&rdquo; said Benedict, &ldquo;it is
no church schatz, and no person living, save myself, knows of its
existence: nearly thirty years ago, amongst the sick soldiers who
were brought to Madrid, was one of my comrades of the Walloon
Guard, who had accompanied the French to Portugal; he was very
sick and shortly died. Before, however, he breathed his
last, he sent for me, and upon his deathbed told me that himself
and two other soldiers, both of whom had since been killed, had
buried in a certain church at Compostella a great booty which
they had made in Portugal: it consisted of gold moidores and of a
packet of huge diamonds from the Brazils; the whole was contained
in a large copper kettle. I listened with greedy ears, and
from that moment, I may say, I have known no rest, neither by day
nor night, thinking of the schatz. It is very easy to find,
for the dying man was so exact in his description of the place
where it lies, that were I once at Compostella, I should have no
difficulty in putting my hand upon it; several times I have been
on the point of setting out on the journey, but something has
always happened to stop me. When my wife died, I left
Minorca with a determination to go to Saint James, but on
reaching Madrid, I fell into the hands of a Basque woman, who
persuaded me to live with her, which I have done for several
years; she is a great hax, <a name="citation138"></a><a
href="#footnote138" class="citation">[138]</a> and says that if I
desert her she will breathe a spell which shall cling to me for
ever. <i>Dem Got sey dank</i>,&mdash;she is now in the
hospital, and daily expected to die. This is my history,
Lieber Herr.&rdquo;</p>

<p>I have been the more careful in relating the above
conversation, as I shall have frequent occasion to mention the
Swiss in the course of these journals; his subsequent adventures
were highly extraordinary, and the closing one caused a great
sensation in Spain.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XIV</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">State of Spain&mdash;Isturitz&mdash;Revolution
of the Granja&mdash;The Disturbance&mdash;Signs of
Mischief&mdash;Newspaper Reporters&mdash;Quesada&rsquo;s
Onslaught&mdash;The Closing Scene&mdash;Flight of the
Moderados&mdash;The Coffee Bowl.</p>

<p>In the meantime the affairs of the moderados did not proceed
in a very satisfactory manner; they were unpopular at Madrid, and
still more so in the other large towns of Spain, in most of which
juntas had been formed, which, taking the local administration
into their own hands, declared themselves independent of the
queen and her ministers, and refused to pay taxes; so that the
government was within a short time reduced to great straits for
money; the army was unpaid, and the war languished; I mean on the
part of the Christinos, for the Carlists were pushing it on with
considerable vigour; parties of their guerillas scouring the
country in all directions, whilst a large division, under the
celebrated Gomez, was making the entire circuit of Spain.
To crown the whole, an insurrection was daily expected at Madrid,
to prevent which the nationals were disarmed, which measure
tended greatly to increase their hatred against the moderado
government, and especially against Quesada, with whom it was
supposed to have originated.</p>

<p>With respect to my own matters, I lost no opportunity of
pushing forward my application; the Aragonese secretary, however,
still harped upon the Council of Trent, and succeeded in baffling
all my efforts. He appeared to have inoculated his
principal with his own ideas upon the subject, for the duke, when
he beheld me at his levees, took no farther notice of me than by
a contemptuous glance; and once, when I stepped up for the
purpose of addressing him, disappeared through a side door, and I
never saw him again, for I was disgusted with the treatment which
I had received, and forebore paying any more visits at the Casa
de la Inquisicion. Poor Galiano still proved himself my
unshaken friend, but candidly informed me that there was no hope
of my succeeding in the above quarter. &ldquo;The
duke,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;says that your request cannot be
granted; and the other day, when I myself mentioned it in the
council, began to talk of the decision of Trent, and spoke of
yourself as a plaguy pestilent fellow; whereupon I answered him
with some acrimony, and there ensued a bit of a function between
us, at which Isturitz laughed heartily. By the by,&rdquo;
continued he, &ldquo;what need have you of a regular permission,
which it does not appear that any one has authority to
grant. The best thing that you can do under all
circumstances is to commit the work to the press, with an
understanding that you shall not be interfered with when you
attempt to distribute it. I strongly advise you to see Isturitz
himself upon the matter. I will prepare him for the
interview, and will answer that he receives you
civilly.&rdquo;</p>

<p>In fact, a few days afterwards, I had an interview with
Isturitz at the palace, and for the sake of brevity I shall
content myself with saying that I found him perfectly well
disposed to favour my views. &ldquo;I have lived long in
England,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;the Bible is free there, and I
see no reason why it should not be free in Spain also. I am
not prepared to say that England is indebted for her prosperity
to the knowledge which all her children, more or less, possess of
the sacred writings; but of one thing I am sure, namely, that the
Bible has done no harm in that country, nor do I believe that it
will effect any in Spain; print it, therefore, by all means, and
circulate it as extensively as possible.&rdquo; I retired,
highly satisfied with my interview, having obtained, if not a
written permission to print the sacred volume, what, under all
circumstances, I considered as almost equivalent, an
understanding that my biblical pursuits would be tolerated in
Spain; and I had fervent hope that whatever was the fate of the
present ministry, no future one, particularly a liberal one,
would venture to interfere with me, more especially as the
English ambassador was my friend, and was privy to all the steps
I had taken throughout the whole affair.</p>

<p>Two or three things connected with the above interview with
Isturitz struck me as being highly remarkable. First of
all, the extreme facility with which I obtained admission to the
presence of the prime minister of Spain. I had not to wait,
or indeed to send in my name, but was introduced at once by the
door-keeper. Secondly, the air of loneliness which pervaded
the place, so unlike the bustle, noise, and activity which I
observed when I waited on Mendizabal. In this instance,
there were no eager candidates for an interview with the great
man; indeed, I did not behold a single individual, with the
exception of Isturitz and the official. But that which made
the most profound impression upon me, was the manner of the
minister himself, who, when I entered, sat upon a sofa, with his
arms folded, and his eyes directed to the ground. When he
spoke there was extreme depression in the tones of his voice, his
dark features wore an air of melancholy, and he exhibited all the
appearance of a person meditating to escape from the miseries of
this life by the most desperate of all acts&mdash;suicide.</p>

<p>And a few days showed that he had, indeed, cause for much
melancholy meditation: in less than a week occurred the
revolution of the Granja, as it is called. The Granja, or
Grange, is a royal country seat, situated amongst pine forests,
on the other side of the Guadarama hills, about twelve leagues
distant from Madrid. To this place the queen regent
Christina had retired, in order to be aloof from the discontent
of the capital, and to enjoy rural air and amusements in this
celebrated retreat, a monument of the taste and magnificence of
the first Bourbon who ascended the throne of Spain. She was
not, however, permitted to remain long in tranquillity; her own
guards were disaffected, and more inclined to the principles of
the constitution of 1823 than to those of absolute monarchy,
which the moderados were attempting to revive again in the
government of Spain. Early one morning, a party of these
soldiers, headed by a certain Sergeant Garcia, entered her
apartment, and proposed that she should subscribe her hand to
this constitution, and swear solemnly to abide by it.
Christina, however, who was a woman of considerable spirit,
refused to comply with this proposal, and ordered them to
withdraw. A scene of violence and tumult ensued, but the
regent still continuing firm, the soldiers at length led her down
to one of the courts of the palace, where stood her well-known
paramour, Mu&ntilde;os, bound and blindfolded. &ldquo;Swear
to the constitution, you she-rogue,&rdquo; vociferated the
swarthy sergeant. &ldquo;Never!&rdquo; said the spirited
daughter of the Neapolitan Bourbons. &ldquo;Then your
cortejo shall die!&rdquo; replied the sergeant. &ldquo;Ho!
ho! my lads; get ready your arms, and send four bullets through
the fellow&rsquo;s brain.&rdquo; Mu&ntilde;os was forthwith
led to the wall, and compelled to kneel down, the soldiers
levelled their muskets and another moment would have consigned
the unfortunate wight to eternity, when Christina, forgetting
everything but the feelings of her woman&rsquo;s heart, suddenly
started forward with a shriek, exclaiming: &ldquo;Hold,
hold! I sign, I sign!&rdquo;</p>

<p>The day after this event I entered the Puerta del Sol at about
noon. There is always a crowd there about this hour, but it
is generally a very quiet motionless crowd, consisting of
listless idlers calmly smoking their cigars, or listening to or
retailing the&mdash;in general&mdash;very dull news of the
capital; but on the day of which I am speaking the mass was no
longer inert. There was much gesticulation and
vociferation, and several people were running about shouting,
&ldquo;<i>Viva la constitucion</i>!&rdquo;&mdash;a cry which, a
few days previously, would have been visited on the utterer with
death, the city having for some weeks past been subjected to the
rigour of martial law. I occasionally heard the words,
&ldquo;<i>La Granja</i>! <i>La Granja</i>!&rdquo;
Which words were sure to be succeeded by the shout of
&ldquo;<i>Viva la constitucion</i>!&rdquo; Opposite the
Casa de Postas were drawn up in a line about a dozen mounted
dragoons, some of whom were continually waving their caps in the
air and joining the common cry, in which they were encouraged by
their commander, a handsome young officer, who flourished his
sword, and more than once cried out with great glee, &ldquo;Long
live the constitutional queen! Long live the
constitution!&rdquo;</p>

<p>The crowd was rapidly increasing, and several nationals made
their appearance in their uniforms, but without their arms, of
which they had been deprived, as I have already stated.
&ldquo;What has become of the moderado government?&rdquo; said I
to Baltasar, whom I suddenly observed amongst the crowd, dressed
as when I had first seen him, in his old regimental great coat
and foraging cap; &ldquo;have the ministers been deposed and
others put in their place?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Not yet, Don Jorge,&rdquo; said the little
soldier-tailor; &ldquo;not yet; the scoundrels still hold out,
relying on the brute bull Quesada and a few infantry, who still
continue true to them; but there is no fear, Don Jorge; the queen
is ours, thanks to the courage of my friend Garcia, and if the
brute bull should make his appearance&mdash;ho! ho! Don Jorge,
you shall see something&mdash;I am prepared for him, ho!
ho!&rdquo; and thereupon he half opened his great coat, and
showed me a small gun, which he bore beneath it in a sling, and
then moving away with a wink and a nod, disappeared amongst the
crowd.</p>

<p>Presently I perceived a small body of soldiers advancing up
the Calle Mayor, or principal street which runs from the Puerta
del Sol in the direction of the palace; they might be about
twenty in number, and an officer marched at their head with a
drawn sword; the men appeared to have been collected in a hurry,
many of them being in fatigue dress, with foraging caps on their
heads. On they came, slowly marching; neither their officer
nor themselves paying the slightest attention to the cries of the
crowd which thronged about them, shouting &ldquo;Long live the
constitution!&rdquo; save and except by an occasional surly side
glance: on they marched with contracted brows and set teeth, till
they came in front of the cavalry, where they halted and drew up
in a rank.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Those men mean mischief,&rdquo; said I to my friend
D---, of the <i>Morning Chronicle</i>, who at this moment joined
me; &ldquo;and depend upon it, that if they are ordered they will
commence firing, caring nothing whom they hit,&mdash;but what can
those cavalry fellows behind them mean, who are evidently of the
other opinion by their shouting, why don&rsquo;t they charge at
once this handful of foot people and overturn them? Once
down, the crowd would wrest from them their muskets in a
moment. You are a liberal, which I am not; why do you not
go to that silly young man who commands the horse and give him a
word of counsel in time?&rdquo;</p>

<p>D--- turned upon me his broad red good-humoured English
countenance, with a peculiarly arch look, as much as to
say&mdash;(whatever you think most applicable, gentle reader),
then taking me by the arm, &ldquo;Let us get,&rdquo; said he,
&ldquo;out of this crowd and mount to some window, where I can
write down what is about to take place, for I agree with you that
mischief is meant.&rdquo; Just opposite the post office was
a large house, in the topmost story of which we beheld a paper
displayed, importing that apartments were to let; whereupon we
instantly ascended the common stair, and having agreed with the
mistress of the étage for the use of the front room for
the day, we bolted the door, and the reporter, producing his
pocket-book and pencil, prepared to take notes of the coming
events, which were already casting their shadow before.</p>

<p>What most extraordinary men are these reporters of newspapers
in general, I mean English newspapers; surely if there be any
class of individuals who are entitled to the appellation of
cosmopolites, it is these; who pursue their avocation in all
countries indifferently, and accommodate themselves at will to
the manners of all classes of society: their fluency of style as
writers is only surpassed by their facility of language in
conversation, and their attainments in classical and polite
literature only by their profound knowledge of the world,
acquired by an early introduction into its bustling scenes.
The activity, energy, and courage which they occasionally display
in the pursuit of information are truly remarkable. I saw
them during the three days at Paris, mingled with canaille and
gamins behind the barriers, whilst the mitraille was flying in
all directions, and the desperate cuirassiers were dashing their
fierce horses against these seemingly feeble bulwarks.
There stood they, dotting down their observations in their
pocket-books as unconcernedly as if reporting the proceedings of
a reform meeting in Covent Garden or Finsbury Square; whilst in
Spain, several of them accompanied the Carlist and Christino
guerillas in some of their most desperate raids and expeditions,
exposing themselves to the danger of hostile bullets, the
inclemency of winter, and the fierce heat of the summer sun.</p>

<p>We had scarcely been five minutes at the window, when we
suddenly heard the clattering of horses&rsquo; feet hastening
down the street called the Calle de Carretas. The house in
which we had stationed ourselves was, as I have already observed,
just opposite to the post office, at the left of which this
street debouches from the north into the Puerta del Sol: as the
sounds became louder and louder, the cries of the crowd below
diminished, and a species of panic seemed to have fallen upon
all: once or twice, however, I could distinguish the words
Quesada! Quesada! The foot soldiers stood calm and
motionless, but I observed that the cavalry, with the young
officer who commanded them, displayed both confusion and fear,
exchanging with each other some hurried words; all of a sudden
that part of the crowd which stood near the mouth of the Calle de
Carretas fell back in great disorder, leaving a considerable
space unoccupied, and the next moment Quesada, in complete
general&rsquo;s uniform, and mounted on a bright bay thorough
bred English horse, with a drawn sword in his hand, dashed at
full gallop into the area, in much the same manner as I have seen
a Manchegan bull rush into the amphitheatre when the gates of his
pen are suddenly flung open.</p>

<p>He was closely followed by two mounted officers, and at a
short distance by as many dragoons. In almost less time
than is sufficient to relate it, several individuals in the crowd
were knocked down and lay sprawling upon the ground, beneath the
horses of Quesada and his two friends, for as to the dragoons,
they halted as soon as they had entered the Puerta del Sol.
It was a fine sight to see three men, by dint of valour and good
horsemanship, strike terror into at least as many thousands: I
saw Quesada spur his horse repeatedly into the dense masses of
the crowd, and then extricate himself in the most masterly
manner. The rabble were completely awed and gave way,
retiring by the Calle del Comercio and the street of
Alcala. All at once, Quesada singled out two nationals, who
were attempting to escape, and setting spurs to his horse, turned
them in a moment, and drove them in another direction, striking
them in a contemptuous manner with the flat of his sabre.
He was crying out, &ldquo;Long live the absolute queen!&rdquo;
when, just beneath me, amidst a portion of the crowd which had
still maintained its ground, perhaps from not having the means of
escaping, I saw a small gun glitter for a moment, then there was
a sharp report, and a bullet had nearly sent Quesada to his long
account, passing so near to the countenance of the general as to
graze his hat. I had an indistinct view for a moment of a
well-known foraging cap just about the spot from whence the gun
had been discharged, then there was a rush of the crowd, and the
shooter, whoever he was, escaped discovery amidst the confusion
which arose.</p>

<p>As for Quesada, he seemed to treat the danger from which he
had escaped with the utmost contempt. He glared about him
fiercely for a moment, then leaving the two nationals, who
sneaked away like whipped hounds, he went up to the young officer
who commanded the cavalry, and who had been active in raising the
cry of the constitution, and to him he addressed a few words with
an air of stern menace; the youth evidently quailed before him,
and probably in obedience to his orders, resigned the command of
the party, and rode slowly away with a discomfited air; whereupon
Quesada dismounted and walked slowly backwards and forwards
before the Casa de Postas with a mien which seemed to bid
defiance to mankind.</p>

<p>This was the glorious day of Quesada&rsquo;s existence, his
glorious and last day. I call it the day of his glory, for
he certainly never before appeared under such brilliant
circumstances, and he never lived to see another sun set.
No action of any conqueror or hero on record is to be compared
with this closing scene of the life of Quesada, for who, by his
single desperate courage and impetuosity, ever before stopped a
revolution in full course? Quesada did: he stopped the
revolution at Madrid for one entire day, and brought back the
uproarious and hostile mob of a huge city to perfect order and
quiet. His burst into the Puerta del Sol was the most
tremendous and successful piece of daring ever witnessed. I
admired so much the spirit of the &ldquo;brute bull&rdquo; that I
frequently, during his wild onset, shouted &ldquo;Viva
Quesada!&rdquo; for I wished him well. Not that I am of any
political party or system. No, no! I have lived too
long with Rommany Chals and Petulengres <a
name="citation145"></a><a href="#footnote145"
class="citation">[145]</a> to be of any politics save Gypsy
politics; and it is well known that, during elections, the
children of Roma side with both parties so long as the event is
doubtful, promising success to each; and then when the fight is
done, and the battle won, invariably range themselves in the
ranks of the victorious. But I repeat that I wished well to
Quesada, witnessing, as I did, his stout heart and good
horsemanship. Tranquillity was restored to Madrid
throughout the remainder of the day; the handful of infantry
bivouacked in the Puerta del Sol. No more cries of long
live the constitution were heard; and the revolution in the
capital seemed to have been effectually put down. It is
probable, indeed, that had the chiefs of the moderado party but
continued true to themselves for forty-eight hours longer, their
cause would have triumphed, and the revolutionary soldiers at the
Granja would have been glad to restore the Queen Regent to
liberty, and to have come to terms, as it was well known that
several regiments, who still continued loyal, were marching upon
Madrid. The moderados, however, were not true to
themselves; that very night their hearts failed them, and they
fled in various directions. Isturitz and Galiano to France;
and the Duke of Rivas to Gibraltar: the panic of his colleagues
even infected Quesada, who, disguised as a civilian, took to
flight. He was not, however, so successful as the rest, but
was recognised at a village about three leagues from Madrid, and
cast into prison by some friends of the constitution.
Intelligence of his capture was instantly transmitted to the
capital, and a vast mob of the nationals, some on foot, some on
horseback, and others in cabriolets, instantly set out.
&ldquo;The nationals are coming,&rdquo; said a paisano to
Quesada. &ldquo;Then,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I am
lost,&rdquo; and forthwith prepared himself for death.</p>

<p>There is a celebrated coffee-house in the Calle d&rsquo;Alcala
at Madrid, capable of holding several hundred individuals.
On the evening of the day in question, I was seated there,
sipping a cup of the brown beverage, when I heard a prodigious
noise and clamour in the street; it proceeded from the nationals,
who were returning from their expedition. In a few minutes
I saw a body of them enter the coffee-house marching arm in arm,
two by two, stamping on the ground with their feet in a kind of
measure, and repeating in loud chorus as they walked round the
spacious apartment, the following grisly stanza:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote><p>&ldquo;Que es lo que abaja<br />
Por aquel cerro?<br />
Ta ra ra ra ra.<br />
Son los huesos de Quesada,<br />
Que los trae un perro&mdash;<br />
Ta ra ra ra ra.&rdquo; <a name="citation146"></a><a
href="#footnote146" class="citation">[146]</a></p>
</blockquote>

<p>A huge bowl of coffee was then called for, which was placed
upon a table, around which gathered the national soldiers: there
was silence for a moment, which was interrupted by a voice
roaring out, &ldquo;<i>el panuelo</i>!&rdquo; A blue
kerchief was forthwith produced, which appeared to contain a
substance of some kind; it was untied, and a gory hand and three
or four dissevered fingers made their appearance, and with these
the contents of the bowl were stirred up. &ldquo;Cups!
cups!&rdquo; cried the nationals.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Ho, ho, Don Jorge,&rdquo; cried Baltasarito, coming up
to me with a cup of coffee, &ldquo;pray do me the favour to drink
upon this glorious occasion. This is a pleasant day for
Spain, and for the gallant nationals of Madrid. I have seen
many a bull funcion, but none which has given me so much pleasure
as this. Yesterday the brute had it all his own way, but
to-day the toreros have prevailed, as you see, Don Jorge.
Pray drink; for I must now run home to fetch my pajandi to play
my brethren a tune, and sing a copla. What shall it
be? Something in Gitano?</p>

<blockquote><p>&ldquo;Una noche sinava en tucue.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>

<p>You shake your head, Don Jorge. Ha, ha; I am young, and
youth is the time for pleasure; well, well, out of compliment to
you, who are an Englishman and a monro, it shall not be that, but
something liberal, something patriotic, the Hymn of
Riego&mdash;Hasta despues, Don Jorge!&rdquo;</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XV</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">The Steamer&mdash;Cape Finisterre&mdash;The
Storm&mdash;Arrival at Cadiz&mdash;The New
Testament&mdash;Seville&mdash;Italica&mdash;The
Amphitheatre&mdash;The Prisoners&mdash;The Encounter&mdash;Baron
Taylor&mdash;The Street and Desert.</p>

<p>At the commencement of November, I again found myself on the
salt water, on my way to Spain. I had returned to England
shortly after the events which have been narrated in the last
chapter, for the purpose of consulting with my friends, and for
planning the opening of a biblical campaign in Spain. It
was now determined by us to print the New Testament, with as
little delay as possible, at Madrid; and I was to be entrusted
with the somewhat arduous task of its distribution. My stay
in England was very short, for time was precious, and I was eager
to return to the field of action.</p>

<p>I embarked in the Thames, on board the M--- steamer. We
had a most unpleasant passage to Falmouth; the ship was crowded
with passengers, most of them poor consumptive individuals, and
other invalids fleeing from the cold blasts of England&rsquo;s
winter to the sunny shores of Portugal and Madeira. In a
more uncomfortable vessel, especially steam ship, it has never
been my fate to make a voyage. The berths were small and
insupportably close, and of these wretched holes mine was amongst
the worst, the rest having been bespoken before I arrived on
board; so that to avoid the suffocation which seemed to threaten
me should I enter it, I lay upon the floor of one of the cabins
throughout the voyage. We remained at Falmouth twenty-four
hours, taking in coal, and repairing the engine, which had
sustained considerable damage.</p>

<p>On Monday, the seventh, we again started, and made for the Bay
of Biscay. The sea was high and the wind strong and
contrary; nevertheless, on the morning of the fourth day, we were
in sight of the rocky coast to the north of Cape
Finisterre. I must here observe, that this was the first
voyage that the captain who commanded the vessel had ever made on
board of her, and that he knew little or nothing of the coast
towards which we were bearing. He was a person picked up in
a hurry, the former captain having resigned his command on the
ground that the ship was not seaworthy, and that the engines were
frequently unserviceable. I was not acquainted with these
circumstances at the time, or perhaps I should have felt more
alarmed than I did, when I saw the vessel approaching nearer and
nearer the shore, till at last we were only a few hundred yards
distant. As it was, however, I felt very much surprised;
for having passed it twice before, both times in steam vessels,
and having seen with what care the captains endeavoured to
maintain a wide offing, I could not conceive the reason of our
being now so near this dangerous region. The wind was
blowing hard towards the shore, if that can be called a shore
which consists of steep abrupt precipices, on which the surf was
breaking with the noise of thunder, tossing up clouds of spray
and foam to the height of a cathedral. We coasted slowly
along, rounding several tall forelands, some of them piled up by
the hand of nature in the most fantastic shapes. About
nightfall Cape Finisterre was not far ahead,&mdash;a bluff,
brown, granite mountain, whose frowning head may be seen far away
by those who traverse the ocean. The stream which poured
round its breast was terrific, and though our engines plied with
all their force, we made little or no way.</p>

<p>By about eight o&rsquo;clock at night the wind had increased
to a hurricane, the thunder rolled frightfully, and the only
light which we had to guide us on our way was the red forked
lightning, which burst at times from the bosom of the big black
clouds which lowered over our heads. We were exerting
ourselves to the utmost to weather the cape, which we could
descry by the lightning on our lee, its brow being frequently
brilliantly lighted up by the flashes which quivered around it,
when suddenly, with a great crash, the engine broke, and the
paddles, on which depended our lives, ceased to play.</p>

<p>I will not attempt to depict the scene of horror and confusion
which ensued; it may be imagined, but never described. The
captain, to give him his due, displayed the utmost coolness and
intrepidity; he and the whole crew made the greatest exertions to
repair the engine, and when they found their labour in vain,
endeavoured, by hoisting the sails, and by practising all
possible manœuvres, to preserve the ship from impending
destruction; but all was of no avail, we were hard on a lee
shore, to which the howling tempest was impelling us. About
this time I was standing near the helm, and I asked the steersman
if there was any hope of saving the vessel, or our lives.
He replied, &ldquo;Sir, it is a bad affair, no boat could live
for a minute in this sea, and in less than an hour the ship will
have her broadside on Finisterre, where the strongest man-of-war
ever built must go to shivers instantly&mdash;none of us will see
the morning.&rdquo; The captain, likewise, informed the
other passengers in the cabin to the same effect, telling them to
prepare themselves; and having done so, he ordered the door to be
fastened, and none to be permitted to come on deck. I,
however, kept my station, though almost drowned with water,
immense waves continually breaking over our windward side and
flooding the ship. The water casks broke from their
lashings, and one of them struck me down, and crushed the foot of
the unfortunate man at the helm, whose place was instantly taken
by the captain. We were now close to the rocks, when a
horrid convulsion of the elements took place. The lightning
enveloped us as with a mantle, the thunders were louder than the
roar of a million cannon, the dregs of the ocean seemed to be
cast up, and in the midst of all this turmoil, the wind, without
the slightest intimation, <i>veered right about</i>, and pushed
us from the horrible coast faster than it had previously driven
us towards it.</p>

<p>The oldest sailors on board acknowledged that they had never
witnessed so providential an escape. I said, from the
bottom of my heart, &ldquo;Our Father&mdash;hallowed be thy
name.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The next day we were near foundering, for the sea was
exceedingly high, and our vessel, which was not intended for
sailing, laboured terribly, and leaked much. The pumps were
continually working. She likewise took fire, but the flames
were extinguished. In the evening the steam-engine was
partially repaired, and we reached Lisbon on the thirteenth,
where in a few days we completed our repairs.</p>

<p>I found my excellent friend W--- in good health. During
my absence he had been doing everything in his power to further
the sale of the sacred volume in Portuguese: his zeal and
devotedness were quite admirable. The distracted state of
the country, however, during the last six months, had sadly
impeded his efforts. The minds of the people had been so
engrossed with politics, that they found scarcely any time to
think of the welfare of their souls. The political history
of Portugal had of late afforded a striking parallel to that of
the neighbouring country. In both a struggle for supremacy
had arisen between the court and the democratic party; in both
the latter had triumphed, whilst two distinguished individuals
had fallen a sacrifice to the popular fury&mdash;Freire in
Portugal, and Quesada in Spain. The news which reached me
at Lisbon from the latter country was rather startling. The
hordes of Gomez were ravaging Andalusia, which I was about to
visit on my way to Madrid; Cordova had been sacked and abandoned
after a three days&rsquo; occupation by the Carlists. I was
told that if I persisted in my attempt to enter Spain in the
direction which I proposed, I should probably fall into their
hands at Seville. I had, however, no fears, and had full
confidence that the Lord would open the path before me to
Madrid.</p>

<p>The vessel being repaired, we again embarked, and in two days
arrived in safety at Cadiz. I found great confusion
reigning there; numerous bands of the factious were reported to
be hovering in the neighbourhood. An attack was not deemed
improbable, and the place had just been declared in a state of
siege. I took up my abode at the French hotel in the Calle
de la Niveria, and was allotted a species of cockloft, or garret,
to sleep in, for the house was filled with guests, being a place
of much resort, on account of the excellent table d&rsquo;hote
which is kept there. I dressed myself and walked about the
town. I entered several coffee-houses: the din of tongues
in all was deafening. In one no less than six orators were
haranguing at the same time on the state of the country, and the
probability of an intervention on the part of England and
France. As I was listening to one of them, he suddenly
called upon me for my opinion, as I was a foreigner, and
seemingly just arrived. I replied that I could not venture
to guess what steps the two governments would pursue under the
present circumstances, but thought that it would be as well if
the Spaniards would exert themselves more and call less on
Jupiter. As I did not wish to engage in any political
conversation, I instantly quitted the house, and sought those
parts of the town where the lower classes principally reside.</p>

<p>I entered into discourse with several individuals, but found
them very ignorant; none could read or write, and their ideas
respecting religion were anything but satisfactory,&mdash;most
professing a perfect indifference. I afterwards went into a
bookseller&rsquo;s shop and made inquiries respecting the demand
for literature, which, he informed me, was small. I
produced a London edition of the New Testament in Spanish, and
asked the bookseller whether he thought a book of that
description would sell in Cadiz. He said that both the type
and paper were exceedingly beautiful, but that it was a work not
sought after, and very little known. I did not pursue my
inquiries in other shops, for I reflected that I was not likely
to receive a very favourable opinion from booksellers respecting
a publication in which they had no interest. I had,
moreover, but two or three copies of the New Testament with me,
and could not have supplied them had they even given me an
order.</p>

<p>Early on the twenty-fourth, I embarked for Seville in the
small Spanish steamer the <i>Betis</i>: the morning was wet, and
the aspect of nature was enveloped in a dense mist, which
prevented my observing surrounding objects. After
proceeding about six leagues, we reached the north-eastern
extremity of the Bay of Cadiz, and passed by Saint Lucar, an
ancient town near to the spot where the Guadalquivir disembogues
itself. The mist suddenly disappeared, and the sun of Spain
burst forth in full brilliancy, enlivening all around, and
particularly myself, who had till then been lying on the deck in
a dull melancholy stupor. We entered the mouth of
&ldquo;The Great River,&rdquo; for that is the English
translation of Oued al Kiber, as the Moors designated the ancient
Betis. We came to anchor for a few minutes at a little
village called Bonan&ccedil;a, at the extremity of the first
reach of the river, where we received several passengers, and
again proceeded. There is not much in the appearance of the
Guadalquivir to interest the traveller: the banks are low and
destitute of trees, the adjacent country is flat, and only in the
distance is seen a range of tall blue sierras. The water is
turbid and muddy, and in colour closely resembling the contents
of a duck-pool; the average width of the stream is from a hundred
and fifty to two hundred yards, but it is impossible to move
along this river without remembering that it has borne the Roman,
the Vandal, and the Arab, and has been the witness of deeds which
have resounded through the world and been the themes of immortal
songs. I repeated Latin verses and fragments of old Spanish
ballads till we reached Seville, at about nine o&rsquo;clock of a
lovely moonlight night.</p>

<p>Seville contains ninety thousand inhabitants, and is situated
on the eastern bank of the Guadalquivir, about eighteen leagues
from its mouth; it is surrounded with high Moorish walls, in a
good state of preservation, and built of such durable materials
that it is probable they will for many centuries still bid
defiance to the encroachments of time. The most remarkable
edifices are the cathedral and Alcazar, or palace of the Moorish
kings; the tower of the former, called La Giralda, belongs to the
period of the Moors, and formed part of the grand mosque of
Seville: it is computed to be one hundred ells in height, and is
ascended not by stairs or ladders but by a vaulted pathway, in
the manner of an inclined plane: this path is by no means steep,
so that a cavalier might ride up to the top, a feat which
Ferdinand the Seventh is said to have accomplished. The
view from the summit is very extensive, and on a fine clear day
the mountain ridge, called the Sierra de Ronda, may be
discovered, though upwards of twenty leagues distant. The
cathedral itself is a noble Gothic structure, reputed the finest
of the kind in Spain. In the chapels allotted to the
various saints are some of the most magnificent paintings which
Spanish art has produced; indeed the Cathedral of Seville is at
the present time far more rich in splendid paintings than at any
former period; possessing many very recently removed from some of
the suppressed convents, particularly from the Capuchin and San
Francisco.</p>

<p>No one should visit Seville without paying particular
attention to the Alcazar, that splendid specimen of Moorish
architecture. It contains many magnificent halls,
particularly that of the ambassadors, so called, which is in
every respect more magnificent than the one of the same name
within the Alhambra of Granada. This palace was a favourite
residence of Peter the Cruel, who carefully repaired it without
altering its Moorish character and appearance. It probably
remains in much the same state as at the time of his death.</p>

<p>On the right side of the river is a large suburb, called
Triana, communicating with Seville by means of a bridge of boats;
for there is no permanent bridge across the Guadalquivir, owing
to the violent inundations to which it is subject. This
suburb is inhabited by the dregs of the populace, and abounds
with Gitanos or Gypsies. About a league and a half to the
north-west stands the village of Santo Ponce: at the foot and on
the side of some elevated ground higher up are to be seen
vestiges of ruined walls and edifices, which once formed part of
Italica, the birth-place of Silius Italicus and Trajan, from
which latter personage Triana derives its name.</p>

<p>One fine morning I walked thither, and having ascended the
hill, I directed my course northward. I soon reached what
had once been bagnios, and a little farther on, in a kind of
valley between two gentle declivities, the amphitheatre.
This latter object is by far the most considerable relic of
ancient Italica; it is oval in its form, with two gateways
fronting the east and west.</p>

<p>On all sides are to be seen the time-worn broken granite
benches, from whence myriads of human beings once gazed down on
the area below, where the gladiator shouted, and the lion and the
leopard yelled: all around, beneath these flights of benches, are
vaulted excavations from whence the combatants, part human part
bestial, darted forth by their several doors. I spent many hours
in this singular place, forcing my way through the wild fennel
and brushwood into the caverns, now the haunts of adders and
other reptiles, whose hissings I heard. Having sated my
curiosity, I left the ruins, and returning by another way,
reached a place where lay the carcass of a horse half devoured;
upon it, with lustrous eyes, stood an enormous vulture, who, as I
approached, slowly soared aloft till he alighted on the eastern
gate of the amphitheatre, from whence he uttered a hoarse cry, as
if in anger that I had disturbed him from his feast of
carrion.</p>

<p>Gomez had not hitherto paid a visit to Seville: when I arrived
he was said to be in the neighbourhood of Ronda. The city
was under watch and ward: several gates had been blocked up with
masonry, trenches dug, and redoubts erected, but I am convinced
that the place would not have held out six hours against a
resolute attack. Gomez had proved himself to be a most
extraordinary man, and with his small army of Aragonese and
Basques had, within the last four months, made the tour of
Spain. He had very frequently been hemmed in by forces
three times the number of his own, in places whence escape
appeared impossible, but he had always battled his enemies, whom
he seemed to laugh at. The most absurd accounts of
victories gained over him were continually issuing from the press
at Seville; amongst others, it was stated that his army had been
utterly defeated, himself killed, and that twelve hundred
prisoners were on their way to Saville. I saw these
prisoners: instead of twelve hundred desperadoes, they consisted
of about twenty poor lame ragged wretches, many of them boys from
fourteen to sixteen years of age. They were evidently camp
followers, who, unable to keep up with the army, had been picked
up straggling in the plains and amongst the hills.</p>

<p>It subsequently appeared that no battle had occurred, and that
the death of Gomez was a fiction. The grand defect of Gomez
consisted in not knowing how to take advantage of circumstances:
after defeating Lopez, he might have marched to Madrid and
proclaimed Don Carlos there, and after sacking Cordova he might
have captured Seville.</p>

<p>There were several booksellers&rsquo; shops at Seville, in two
of which I found copies of the New Testament in Spanish, which
had been obtained from Gibraltar about two years before, since
which time six copies had been sold in one shop and four in the
other. The person who generally accompanied me in my walks
about the town and the neighbourhood, was an elderly Genoese, who
officiated as a kind of valet de place in the Posada del Turco,
where I had taken up my residence. On learning from me that
it was my intention to bring out an edition of the New Testament
at Madrid, he observed that copies of the work might be
extensively circulated in Andalusia. &ldquo;I have been
accustomed to bookselling,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;and at one
time possessed a small shop of my own in this place. Once
having occasion to go to Gibraltar, I procured several copies of
the Scriptures; some, it is true, were seized by the officers of
the customs, but the rest I sold at a high price, and with
considerable profit to myself.&rdquo;</p>

<p>I had returned from a walk in the country, on a glorious
sunshiny morning of the Andalusian winter, and was directing my
steps towards my lodging: as I was passing by the portal of a
large gloomy house near the gate of Xeres, two individuals
dressed in zamarras emerged from the archway, and were about to
cross my path, when one, looking in my face, suddenly started
back, exclaiming in the purest and most melodious French:
&ldquo;What do I see? If my eyes do not deceive me&mdash;it
is himself. Yes, the very same as I saw him first at
Bayonne; then long subsequently beneath the brick wall at
Novogorod; then beside the Bosphorus; and last
at&mdash;at&mdash;Oh, my respectable and cherished friend, where
was it that I had last the felicity of seeing your
well-remembered and most remarkable physiognomy?&rdquo;</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;It was in the south of Ireland, if I
mistake not. Was it not there that I introduced you to the
sorcerer who tamed the savage horses by a single whisper into
their ear? But tell me what brings you to Spain and
Andalusia, the last place where I should have expected to find
you?</p>

<p><i>Baron Taylor</i>.&mdash;And wherefore, my most respectable
B---? Is not Spain the land of the arts; and is not
Andalusia of all Spain that portion which has produced the
noblest monuments of artistic excellence and inspiration?
Surely you know enough of me to be aware that the arts are my
passion; that I am incapable of imagining a more exalted
enjoyment than to gaze in adoration on a noble picture. O
come with me! for you too have a soul capable of appreciating
what is lovely and exalted; a soul delicate and sensitive.
Come with me, and I will show you a Murillo, such as ---.
But first allow me to introduce you to your compatriot. My
dear Monsieur W., turning to his companion (an English gentleman
from whom and from his family I subsequently experienced
unbounded kindness and hospitality on various occasions, and at
different periods at Seville), allow me to introduce to you my
most cherished and respectable friend, one who is better
acquainted with Gypsy ways than the Chef des Bohémiens
à Triana, one who is an expert whisperer and
horse-sorcerer, and who, to his honour I say it, can wield hammer
and tongs, and handle a horse-shoe with the best of the smiths
amongst the Alpujarras of Granada.</p>

<p>In the course of my travels I have formed various friendships
and acquaintances, but no one has more interested me than Baron
Taylor, and there is no one for whom I entertain a greater esteem
and regard. To personal and mental accomplishments of the
highest order he unites a kindness of heart rarely to be met
with, and which is continually inducing him to seek for
opportunities of doing good to his fellow creatures, and of
contributing to their happiness; perhaps no person in existence
has seen more of the world and life in its various phases than
himself. His manners are naturally to the highest degree
courtly, yet he nevertheless possesses a disposition so pliable
that he finds no difficulty in accommodating himself to all kinds
of company, in consequence of which he is a universal
favourite. There is a mystery about him, which, wherever he
goes, serves not a little to increase the sensation naturally
created by his appearance and manner. Who he is, no one
pretends to assert with downright positiveness: it is whispered,
however, that he is a scion of royalty; and who can gaze for a
moment upon that most graceful figure, that most intelligent but
singularly moulded countenance, and those large and expressive
eyes, without feeling as equally convinced that he is of no
common lineage, as that he is no common man. Though
possessed of talents and eloquence which would speedily have
enabled him to attain to an illustrious position in the state, he
has hitherto, and perhaps wisely, contented himself with
comparative obscurity, chiefly devoting himself to the study of
the arts and of literature, of both of which he is a most
bounteous patron.</p>

<p>He has, notwithstanding, been employed by the illustrious
house to which he is said to be related in more than one delicate
and important mission, both in the East and the West, in which
his efforts have uniformly been crowned with complete
success. He was now collecting masterpieces of the Spanish
school of painting, which were destined to adorn the saloons of
the Tuileries.</p>

<p>He has visited most portions of the earth, and it is
remarkable enough that we are continually encountering each other
in strange places and under singular circumstances.
Whenever he descries me, whether in the street or the desert, the
brilliant hall or amongst Bedouin haimas, at Novogorod or
Stambul, he flings up his arms and exclaims, &ldquo;O ciel!
I have again the felicity of seeing my cherished and most
respectable B---.&rdquo;</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XVI</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Departure for
Cordova&mdash;Carmona&mdash;German
Colonies&mdash;Language&mdash;The Sluggish Horse&mdash;Nocturnal
Welcome&mdash;Carlist Landlord&mdash;Good
Advice&mdash;Gomez&mdash;The Old Genoese&mdash;The Two
Opinions.</p>

<p>After a sojourn of about fourteen days at Seville, I departed
for Cordova. The diligence had for some time past ceased
running, owing to the disturbed state of the province. I
had therefore no resource but to proceed thither on
horseback. I hired a couple of horses, and engaged the old
Genoese, of whom I have already had occasion to speak, to attend
me as far as Cordova, and to bring them back.
Notwithstanding we were now in the depths of winter, the weather
was beautiful, the days sunny and brilliant, though the nights
were rather keen. We passed by the little town of Alcala,
celebrated for the ruins of an immense Moorish castle, which
stand on a rocky hill, overhanging a picturesque river. The
first night we slept at Carmona, another Moorish town, distant
about seven leagues from Seville. Early in the morning we
again mounted and departed. Perhaps in the whole of Spain
there is scarcely a finer Moorish monument of antiquity than the
eastern side of this town of Carmona, which occupies the brow of
a lofty hill, and frowns over an extensive vega or plain, which
extends for leagues unplanted and uncultivated, producing nothing
but brushwood and carasco. Here rise tall and dusky walls,
with square towers at short distances, of so massive a structure
that they would seem to bid defiance alike to the tooth of time
and the hand of man. This town, in the time of the Moors,
was considered the key to Seville, and did not submit to the
Christian arms till after a long and desperate siege: the capture
of Seville followed speedily after. The vega upon which we
now entered forms a part of the grand despoblado or desert of
Andalusia, once a smiling garden, but which became what it now is
on the expulsion of the Moors from Spain, when it was drained
almost entirely of its population. The towns and villages
from hence to the Sierra Morena, which divides Andalusia from La
Mancha, are few and far between, and even of these several date
from the middle of the last century, when an attempt was made by
a Spanish minister to people this wilderness with the children of
a foreign land.</p>

<p>At about midday we arrived at a place called Moncloa, which
consisted of a venta, and a desolate-looking edifice which had
something of the appearance of a chateau: a solitary palm tree
raised its head over the outer wall. We entered the venta,
tied our horses to the manger, and having ordered barley for
them, we sat down before a large fire, which burned in the middle
of the venta. The host and hostess also came and sat down
beside us. &ldquo;They are evil people,&rdquo; said the old
Genoese to me in Italian, &ldquo;and this is an evil house; it is
a harbouring place for thieves, and murders have been committed
here, if all tales be true.&rdquo; I looked at these two
people attentively; they were both young, the man apparently
about twenty-five years of age. He was a short thick-made
churl, evidently of prodigious strength; his features were rather
handsome, but with a gloomy expression, and his eyes were full of
sullen fire. His wife somewhat resembled him, but had a
countenance more open and better tempered; but what struck me as
most singular in connexion with these people, was the colour of
their hair and complexion; the latter was fair and ruddy, and the
former of a bright auburn, both in striking contrast to the black
hair and swarthy visages which in general distinguish the natives
of this province. &ldquo;Are you an Andalusian?&rdquo; said
I to the hostess. &ldquo;I should almost conclude you to be
a German.&rdquo;</p>

<p><i>Hostess</i>.&mdash;And your worship would not be very
wrong. It is true that I am a Spaniard, being born in
Spain, but it is equally true that I am of German blood, for my
grandparents came from Germany, even like those of this
gentleman, my lord and husband.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;And what chance brought your grandparents
into this country?</p>

<p><i>Hostess</i>.&mdash;Did your worship never hear of the
German colonies? There are many of them in these
parts. In old times the land was nearly deserted, and it
was very dangerous for travellers to journey along the waste,
owing to the robbers. So along time ago, nearly a hundred
years, as I am told, some potent lord sent messengers to Germany,
to tell the people there what a goodly land there was in these
parts uncultivated for want of hands, and to promise every
labourer who would consent to come and till it, a house and a
yoke of oxen, with food and provision for one year. And in
consequence of this invitation a great many poor families left
the German land and came hither, and settled down in certain
towns and villages which had been prepared for them, which places
were called German colonies, and this name they still retain.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;And how many of these colonies may there
be?</p>

<p><i>Hostess</i>.&mdash;There are several, both on this side of
Cordova and the other. The nearest is Luisiana, about two
leagues from hence, from which place both my husband and myself
come; the next is Carlota, which is some ten leagues distant, and
these are the only colonies of our people which I have seen; but
there are others farther on, and some, as I have heard say, in
the very heart of the Sierra Morena.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;And do the colonists still retain the
language of their forefathers?</p>

<p><i>Hostess</i>.&mdash;We speak Spanish, or rather Andalusian,
and no other language. A few, indeed, amongst the very old
people, retain a few words of German, which they acquired from
their fathers, who were born in the other country: but the last
person amongst the colonists who could understand a conversation
in German, was the aunt of my mother, who came over when a
girl. When I was a child I remember her conversing with a
foreign traveller, a countryman of hers, in a language which I
was told was German, and they understood each other, though the
old woman confessed that she had lost many words: she has now
been dead several years.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Of what religion are the colonists?</p>

<p><i>Hostess</i>.&mdash;They are Christians, like the Spaniards,
and so were their fathers before them. Indeed, I have heard
that they came from a part of Germany where the Christian
religion is as much practised as in Spain itself.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;The Germans are the most honest people in
the world: being their legitimate descendants you have of course
no thieves amongst you.</p>

<p>The hostess glanced at me for a moment, then looked at her
husband and smiled: the latter, who had hitherto been smoking
without uttering a word, though with a peculiarly surly and
dissatisfied countenance, now flung the remainder of his cigar
amongst the embers, then springing up he muttered
&ldquo;Disparate!&rdquo; and &ldquo;Conversacion!&rdquo; and went
abroad.</p>

<p>&ldquo;You touched them in the sore place, Signor,&rdquo; said
the Genoese, after we had left Moncloa some way behind us.
&ldquo;Were they honest people they would not keep that venta;
and as for the colonists, I know not what kind of people they
might be when they first came over, but at present their ways are
not a bit better than those of the Andalusians, but rather worse,
if there is any difference at all.&rdquo;</p>

<p>A short time before sunset of the third day after our
departure from Seville, we found ourselves at the Cuesta del
Espinal, or hill of the thorn tree, at about two leagues from
Cordova;&mdash;we could just descry the walls of the city, upon
which the last beams of the descending luminary were
resting. As the neighbourhood in which we were was,
according to the account of my guide, generally infested with
robbers, we used our best endeavours to reach the town before the
night should have entirely closed in. We did not succeed,
however, and before we had proceeded half the distance, pitchy
darkness overtook us. Throughout the journey we had been
considerably delayed by the badness of our horses, especially
that of my attendant, which appeared to pay no regard to whip or
spur; his rider also was no horseman, it being thirty years, as
he at length confessed to me, since he last mounted in a
saddle. Horses soon become aware of the powers of their
riders, and the brute in question was disposed to take great
advantage of the fears and weakness of the old man. There
is a remedy, however, for most things in this world. I
became so wearied at last at the snail&rsquo;s pace at which we
were proceeding, that I fastened the bridle of the sluggish horse
to the crupper of mine, then sparing neither spur nor cudgel, I
soon forced my own horse into a kind of trot, which compelled the
other to make some use of his legs. He twice attempted to
fling himself down, to the great terror of his aged rider, who
frequently entreated me to stop and permit him to dismount.
I, however, took no notice of what he said, but continued
spurring and cudgelling with unabated activity, and with such
success, that in less than half an hour we saw lights close
before us, and presently came to a river and a bridge, which
crossing, we found ourselves at the gate of Cordova, without
having broken either our horses&rsquo; knees or our own
necks.</p>

<p>We passed through the entire length of the town ere we reached
the posada; the streets were dark and almost entirely
deserted. The posada was a large building, the windows of
which were well fenced with rejas, or iron grating: no light
gleamed from them, and the silence of death not only seemed to
pervade the house, but the street in which it was situated.
We knocked for a long time at the gate without receiving any
answer; we then raised our voices and shouted. At last some
one from within inquired what we wanted. &ldquo;Open the
door and you will see,&rdquo; we replied. &ldquo;I shall do
no such thing,&rdquo; answered the individual from within,
&ldquo;until I know who you are.&rdquo; &ldquo;We are
travellers,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;from Seville.&rdquo;
&ldquo;Travellers, are you,&rdquo; said the voice; &ldquo;why did
you not tell me so before? I am not porter at this house to
keep out travellers. Jesus Maria knows we have not so many
of them that we need repulse any. Enter, cavalier, and
welcome, you and your company.&rdquo;</p>

<p>He opened the gate and admitted us into a spacious courtyard,
and then forthwith again secured the gate with various bolts and
bars. &ldquo;Are you afraid that the Carlists should pay
you a visit,&rdquo; I demanded, &ldquo;that you take so much
precaution?&rdquo; &ldquo;It is not the Carlists we are
afraid of,&rdquo; replied the porter; &ldquo;they have been here
already, and did us no damage whatever. It is certain
scoundrels of this town that we are afraid of, who have a spite
against the master of the house, and would murder both him and
his family, could they but find an opportunity.&rdquo;</p>

<p>I was about to inquire the cause of this enmity, when a thick
bulky man, bearing a light in his hand, came running down a stone
staircase, which led into the interior of the building. Two
or three females, also bearing lights, followed him. He
stopped on the lowest stair. &ldquo;Whom have we
here?&rdquo; he exclaimed; then advancing the lamp which he bore,
the light fell full upon my face. &ldquo;Ola!&rdquo; he
exclaimed; &ldquo;Is it you? Only think,&rdquo; said he,
turning to the female who stood next him, a dark-featured person,
stout as himself, and about his own age, which might border upon
fifty; &ldquo;Only think, my dear, that at the very moment we
were wishing for a guest an Englishman should be standing before
our doors; for I should know an Englishman at a mile&rsquo;s
distance, even in the dark. Juanito,&rdquo; cried he to the
porter, &ldquo;open not the gate any more to-night, whoever may
ask for admission. Should the nationals come to make any
disturbance, tell them that the son of Belington
(<i>Wellington</i>) is in the house ready to attack them sword in
hand unless they retire; and should other travellers arrive,
which is not likely, inasmuch as we have seen none for a month
past, say that we have no room, all our apartments being occupied
by an English gentleman and his company.&rdquo;</p>

<p>I soon found that my friend the posadero was a most egregious
Carlist. Before I had finished supper&mdash;during which
both himself and all his family were present, surrounding the
little table at which I sat, and observing my every motion,
particularly the manner in which I handled my knife and fork and
conveyed the food to my mouth&mdash;he commenced talking
politics: &ldquo;I am of no particular opinion, Don Jorge,&rdquo;
said he, for he had inquired my name in order that he might
address me in a suitable manner; &ldquo;I am of no particular
opinion, and I hold neither for King Carlos nor for the Chica
Isabel: nevertheless, I lead the life of a dog in this accursed
Christino town, which I would have left long ago, had it not been
the place of my birth, and did I but know whither to betake
myself. Ever since the troubles have commenced, I have been
afraid to stir into the street, for no sooner do the canaille of
the town see me turning round a corner, than they forthwith
exclaim, &lsquo;Halloo, the Carlist!&rsquo; and then there is a
run and a rush, and stones and cudgels are in great requisition:
so that unless I can escape home, which is no easy matter, seeing
that I weigh eighteen stone, my life is poured out in the street,
which is neither decent nor convenient, as I think you will
acknowledge, Don Jorge! You see that young man,&rdquo; he
continued, pointing to a tall swarthy youth who stood behind my
chair, officiating as waiter; &ldquo;he is my fourth son, is
married, and does not live in the house, but about a hundred
yards down the street. He was summoned in a hurry to wait
upon your worship, as is his duty: know, however, that he has
come at the peril of his life: before he leaves this house he
must peep into the street to see if the coast is clear, and then
he must run like a partridge to his own door. Carlists! why
should they call my family and myself Carlists? It is true
that my eldest son was a friar, and when the convents were
suppressed betook himself to the royal ranks, in which he has
been fighting upwards of three years; could I help that?
Nor was it my fault, I trow, that my second son enlisted the
other day with Gomez and the royalists when they entered
Cordova. God prosper him, I say; but I did not bid him
go! So far from being a Carlist, it was I who persuaded
this very lad who is present to remain here, though he would fain
have gone with his brother, for he is a brave lad and a true
Christian. Stay at home, said I, for what can I do without
you? Who is to wait upon the guests when it pleases God to
send them. Stay at home, at least till your brother, my
third son, comes back, for, to my shame be it spoken, Don Jorge,
I have a son a soldier and a sergeant in the Christino armies,
sorely against his own inclination, poor fellow, for he likes not
the military life, and I have been soliciting his discharge for
years; indeed, I have counselled him to maim himself, in order
that he might procure his liberty forthwith; so I said to this
lad, Stay at home, my child, till your brother comes to take your
place and prevent our bread being eaten by strangers, who would
perhaps sell me and betray me; so my son staid at home as you
see, Don Jorge, at my request, and yet they call me a
Carlist?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Gomez and his bands have lately been in Cordova,&rdquo;
said I; &ldquo;of course you were present at all that occurred:
how did they comport themselves?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Bravely well,&rdquo; replied the innkeeper,
&ldquo;bravely well, and I wish they were here still. I
hold with neither side, as I told you before, Don Jorge, but I
confess I never felt greater pleasure in my life than when they
entered the gate; and then to see the dogs of nationals flying
through the streets to save their lives&mdash;that was a sight,
Don Jorge&mdash;those who met me then at the corner forgot to
shout &lsquo;Halloo, Carlista!&rsquo; and I heard not a word
about cudgelling; some jumped from the wall and ran no one knows
where, whilst the rest retired to the house of the Inquisition,
which they had fortified, and there they shut themselves
up. Now you must know, Don Jorge, that all the Carlist
chiefs lodged at my house, Gomez, Cabrera, and the Sawyer; and it
chanced that I was talking to my Lord Gomez in this very room in
which we are now, when in came Cabrera in a mighty fury&mdash;he
is a small man, Don Jorge, but he is as active as a wild cat and
as fierce. &lsquo;The canaille,&rsquo; said he, &lsquo;in
the Casa of the Inquisition refuse to surrender; give but the
order, General, and I will scale the walls with my men and put
them all to the sword&rsquo;; but Gomez said, &lsquo;No, we must
not spill blood if we can avoid it; order a few muskets to be
fired at them, that will be sufficient!&rsquo; And so it
proved, Don Jorge, for after a few discharges their hearts failed
them, and they surrendered at discretion: whereupon their arms
were taken from them and they were permitted to return to their
own houses; but as soon as ever the Carlists departed, these
fellows became as bold as ever, and it is now once more,
&lsquo;Halloo, Carlista!&rsquo; when they see me turning the
corner, and it is for fear of them that my son must run like a
partridge to his own home, now that he has done waiting on your
worship, lest they meet him in the street and kill him with their
knives!&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;You tell me that you were acquainted with Gomez: what
kind of man might he be?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;A middle-sized man,&rdquo; replied the innkeeper;
&ldquo;grave and dark. But the most remarkable personage in
appearance of them all was the Sawyer: he is a kind of giant, so
tall, that when he entered the doorway he invariably struck his
head against the lintel. The one I liked least of all was
one Palillos, who is a gloomy savage ruffian whom I knew when he
was a postillion. Many is the time that he has been at my
house of old; he is now captain of the Manchegan thieves, for
though he calls himself a royalist, he is neither more nor less
than a thief: it is a disgrace to the cause that such as he
should be permitted to mix with honourable and brave men; I hate
that fellow, Don Jorge: it is owing to him that I have so few
customers. Travellers are, at present, afraid to pass
through La Mancha, lest they fall into his hands. I wish he
were hanged, Don Jorge, and whether by Christinos or Royalists, I
care not.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;You recognized me at once for an Englishman,&rdquo;
said I, &ldquo;do many of my countrymen visit Cordova?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;<i>Toma</i>!&rdquo; said the landlord, &ldquo;they are
my best customers; I have had Englishmen in this house of all
grades, from the son of Belington to a young medico, who cured my
daughter, the chica here, of the ear-ache. How should I not
know an Englishman? There were two with Gomez, serving as
volunteers. <i>Vaya que gente</i>; what noble horses they
rode, and how they scattered their gold about; they brought with
them a Portuguese, who was much of a gentleman but very poor; it
was said that he was one of Don Miguel&rsquo;s people, and that
these Englishmen supported him for the love they bore to royalty;
he was continually singing</p>

<blockquote><p>&lsquo;El Rey chegou&mdash;El Rey chegou,<br />
E en Belem desembarcou!&rsquo; <a name="citation163"></a><a
href="#footnote163" class="citation">[163]</a></p>
</blockquote>

<p>Those were merry days, Don Jorge. By the by, I forgot to
ask your worship of what opinion you are?&rdquo;</p>

<p>The next morning, whilst I was dressing, the old Genoese
entered my room: &ldquo;Signore,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I am come
to bid you farewell. I am about to return to Seville
forthwith with the horses.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Wherefore in such a hurry,&rdquo; I replied;
&ldquo;assuredly you had better tarry till to-morrow; both the
animals and yourself require rest; repose yourselves to-day and I
will defray the expense.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Thank you, Signore, but we will depart forthwith, for
there is no tarrying in this house.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;What is the matter with the house?&rdquo; I
inquired.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I find no fault with the house,&rdquo; replied the
Genoese, &ldquo;it is the people who keep it of whom I
complain. About an hour since, I went down to get my
breakfast, and there, in the kitchen, I found the master and all
his family: well, I sat down and called for chocolate, which they
brought me, but ere I could dispatch it, the master fell to
talking politics. He commenced by telling me that he held
with neither side, but he is as rank a Carlist as Carlos Quinto:
for no sooner did he find that I was of the other opinion, than
he glared at me like a wild beast. You must know, Signore,
that in the time of the old constitution I kept a coffee-house at
Seville, which was frequented by all the principal liberals, and
was, indeed, the cause of my ruin: for as I admired their
opinions, I gave my customers whatever credit they required, both
with regard to coffee and liqueurs, so that by the time the
constitution was put down and despotism re-established, I had
trusted them with all I had. It is possible that many of
them would have paid me, for I believe they harboured no evil
intention; but the persecution came, the liberals took to flight,
and, as was natural enough, thought more of providing for their
own safety than of paying me for my coffee and liqueurs;
nevertheless, I am a friend to their system, and never hesitate
to say so. So the landlord, as I told your worship before,
when he found that I was of this opinion, glared at me like a
wild beast: &lsquo;Get out of my house,&rsquo; said he,
&lsquo;for I will have no spies here,&rsquo; and thereupon he
spoke disrespectfully of the young Queen Isabel and of Christina,
who, notwithstanding she is a Neapolitan, I consider as my
countrywoman. Hearing this, your worship, I confess that I
lost my temper and returned the compliment, by saying that Carlos
was a knave and the Princess of Beira no better than she should
be. I then prepared to swallow the chocolate, but ere I
could bring it to my lips, the woman of the house, who is a still
ranker Carlist than her husband, if that be possible, coming up
to me struck the cup into the air as high as the ceiling,
exclaiming, &lsquo;Begone, dog of a negro, you shall taste
nothing more in my house; may you be hanged even as a swine is
hanged.&rsquo; So your worship sees that it is impossible
for me to remain here any longer. I forgot to say that the
knave of a landlord told me that you had confessed yourself to be
of the same politics as himself, or he would not have harboured
you.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;My good man,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;I am invariably of
the politics of the people at whose table I sit, or beneath whose
roof I sleep, at least I never say anything which can lead them
to suspect the contrary; by pursuing which system I have more
than once escaped a bloody pillow, and having the wine I drank
spiced with sublimate.&rdquo;</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XVII</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Cordova&mdash;Moors of Barbary&mdash;The
English&mdash;An Old Priest&mdash;The Roman Breviary&mdash;The
Dovecote&mdash;The Holy Office&mdash;Judaism&mdash;Desecration of
Dovecotes&mdash;The Innkeeper&rsquo;s Proposal.</p>

<p>Little can be said with respect to the town of Cordova, which
is a mean dark gloomy place, full of narrow streets and alleys,
without squares or public buildings worthy of attention, save and
except its far-famed cathedral; its situation, however, is
beautiful and picturesque. Before it runs the Guadalquivir,
which, though in this part shallow and full of sandbanks, is
still a delightful stream; whilst behind it rise the steep sides
of the Sierra Morena, planted up to the top with olive
groves. The town or city is surrounded on all sides by
lofty Moorish walls, which may measure about three quarters of a
league in circumference; unlike Seville, and most other towns in
Spain, it has no suburbs.</p>

<p>I have said that Cordova has no remarkable edifices, save its
cathedral; yet this is perhaps the most extraordinary place of
worship in the world. It was originally, as is well known,
a mosque, built in the brightest days of Arabian dominion in
Spain; in shape it was quadrangular, with a low roof, supported
by an infinity of small and delicately rounded marble pillars,
many of which still remain, and present at first sight the
appearance of a marble grove; the greater part, however, were
removed when the Christians, after the expulsion of the Moslems,
essayed to convert the mosque into a cathedral, which they
effected in part by the erection of a dome, and by clearing an
open space for a choir. As it at present exists, the temple
appears to belong partly to Mahomet, and partly to the Nazarene;
and though this jumbling together of massive Gothic architecture
with the light and delicate style of the Arabians produces an
effect somewhat bizarre, it still remains a magnificent and
glorious edifice, and well calculated to excite feelings of awe
and veneration within the bosoms of those who enter it.</p>

<p>The Moors of Barbary seem to care but little for the exploits
of their ancestors: their minds are centred in the things of the
present day, and only so far as those things regard themselves
individually. Disinterested enthusiasm, that truly
distinguishing mark of a noble mind, and admiration for what is
great, good, and grand, they appear to be totally incapable of
feeling. It is astonishing with what indifference they
stray amongst the relics of ancient Moorish grandeur in
Spain. No feelings of exultation seem to be excited by the
proof of what the Moor once was, nor of regret at the
consciousness of what he now is. More interesting to them
are their perfumes, their papouches, their dates, and their silks
of Fez and Maraks, to dispose of which they visit Andalusia; and
yet the generality of these men are far from being ignorant, and
have both heard and read of what was passing in Spain in the old
time. I was once conversing with a Moor at Madrid, with
whom I was very intimate, about the Alhambra of Granada, which he
had visited. &ldquo;Did you not weep,&rdquo; said I,
&ldquo;when you passed through the courts, and thought of the,
Abencerrages?&rdquo; &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I
did not weep; wherefore should I weep?&rdquo; &ldquo;And
why did you visit the Alhambra?&rdquo; I demanded. &ldquo;I
visited it,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;because being at Granada on
my own affairs, one of your countrymen requested me to accompany
him thither, that I might explain some of the inscriptions.
I should certainly not have gone of my own accord, for the hill
on which it stands is steep.&rdquo; And yet this man could
compose verses, and was by no means a contemptible poet.
Once at Cordova, whilst I was in the cathedral, three Moors
entered it, and proceeded slowly across its floor in the
direction of a gate, which stood at the opposite side; they took
no farther notice of what was around them than by slightly
glancing once or twice at the pillars, one of them exclaiming,
&ldquo;<i>Huaije del Mselmeen</i>, <i>huaije del
Mselmeen</i>&rdquo; (things of the Moors, things of the Moors);
and showed no other respect for the place where Abderrahman the
Magnificent prostrated himself of old, than facing about on
arriving at the farther door and making their egress backwards;
yet these men were hajis and talebs, men likewise of much gold
and silver, men who had read, who had travelled, who had seen
Mecca, and the great city of Negroland.</p>

<p>I remained in Cordova much longer than I had originally
intended, owing to the accounts which I was continually hearing
of the unsafe state of the roads to Madrid. I soon
ransacked every nook and cranny of this ancient town, formed
various acquaintances amongst the populace, which is my general
practice on arriving at a strange place. I more than once
ascended the side of the Sierra Morena, in which excursions I was
accompanied by the son of my host,&mdash;the tall lad of whom I
have already spoken. The people of the house, who had
imbibed the idea that I was of the same way of thinking as
themselves, were exceedingly courteous; it is true, that in
return I was compelled to listen to a vast deal of Carlism, in
other words, high treason against the ruling powers in Spain, to
which, however, I submitted with patience. &ldquo;Don
Jorgito,&rdquo; said the landlord to me one day, &ldquo;I love
the English; they are my best customers. It is a pity that
there is not greater union between Spain and England, and that
more English do not visit us. Why should there not be a
marriage? The king will speedily be at Madrid. Why
should there not be bodas between the son of Don Carlos and the
heiress of England?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;It would certainly tend to bring a considerable number
of English to Spain,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;and it would not be
the first time that the son of a Carlos has married a Princess of
England.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The host mused for a moment, and then exclaimed,
&ldquo;Carracho, Don Jorgito, if this marriage could be brought
about, both the king and myself should have cause to fling our
caps in the air.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The house or posada in which I had taken up my abode was
exceedingly spacious, containing an infinity of apartments, both
large and small, the greater part of which were, however,
unfurnished. The chamber in which I was lodged stood at the
end of an immensely long corridor, of the kind so admirably
described in the wondrous tale of Udolfo. For a day or two
after my arrival I believed myself to be the only lodger in the
house. One morning, however, I beheld a strange-looking old
man seated in the corridor, by one of the windows, reading
intently in a small thick volume. He was clad in garments
of coarse blue cloth, and wore a loose spencer over a waistcoat
adorned with various rows of small buttons of mother of pearl; he
had spectacles upon his nose. I could perceive,
notwithstanding he was seated, that his stature bordered upon the
gigantic. &ldquo;Who is that person?&rdquo; said I to the
landlord, whom I presently met; &ldquo;is he also a guest of
yours?&rdquo; &ldquo;Not exactly, Don Jorge de mi
alma,&rdquo; replied he, &ldquo;I can scarcely call him a guest,
inasmuch as I gain nothing by him, though he is staying at my
house. You must know, Don Jorge, that he is one of two
priests who officiate at a large village at some slight distance
from this place. So it came to pass, that when the soldiers
of Gomez entered the village, his reverence went to meet them,
dressed in full canonicals, with a book in his hand, and he, at
their bidding, proclaimed Carlos Quinto in the
market-place. The other priest, however, was a desperate
liberal, a downright negro, and upon him the royalists laid their
hands, and were proceeding to hang him. His reverence,
however, interfered, and obtained mercy for his colleague, on
condition that he should cry <i>Viva Carlos Quinto</i>! which the
latter did in order to save his life. Well; no sooner had
the royalists departed from these parts than the black priest
mounts his mule, comes to Cordova, and informs against his
reverence, notwithstanding that he had saved his life. So
his reverence was seized and brought hither to Cordova, and would
assuredly have been thrown into the common prison as a Carlist,
had I not stepped forward and offered to be surety that he should
not quit the place, but should come forward at any time to answer
whatever charge might be brought against him; and he is now in my
house, though guest I cannot call him, for he is not of the
slightest advantage to me, as his very food is daily brought from
the country, and that consists only of a few eggs and a little
milk and bread. As for his money, I have never seen the
colour of it, notwithstanding they tell me that he has buenas
pesetas. However, he is a holy man, is continually reading
and praying and is, moreover, of the right opinion. I
therefore keep him in my house, and would be bail for him were he
twenty times more of a skinflint than he seems to be.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The next day, as I was again passing through the corridor, I
observed the old man in the same place, and saluted him. He
returned my salutation with much courtesy, and closing the book,
placed it upon his knee as if willing to enter into
conversation. After exchanging a word or two, I took up the
book for the purpose of inspecting it.</p>

<p>&ldquo;You will hardly derive much instruction from that book,
Don Jorge,&rdquo; said the old man; &ldquo;you cannot understand
it, for it is not written in English.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Nor in Spanish,&rdquo; I replied. &ldquo;But with
respect to understanding the book, I cannot see what difficulty
there can be in a thing so simple; it is only the Roman breviary
written in the Latin tongue.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Do the English understand Latin?&rdquo; exclaimed
he. &ldquo;Vaya! Who would have thought that it was
possible for Lutherans to understand the language of the
church? Vaya! the longer one lives the more one
learns.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;How old may your reverence be?&rdquo; I inquired.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I am eighty years, Don Jorge; eighty years, and
somewhat more.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Such was the first conversation which passed between his
reverence and myself. He soon conceived no inconsiderable
liking for me, and favoured me with no little of his
company. Unlike our friend the landlord, I found him by no
means inclined to talk politics, which the more surprised me,
knowing, as I did, the decided and hazardous part which he had
taken on the late Carlist irruption into the neighbourhood.
He took, however, great delight in discoursing on ecclesiastical
subjects and the writings of the fathers.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I have got a small library at home, Don Jorge, which
consists of all the volumes of the fathers which I have been able
to pick up, and I find the perusal of them a source of great
amusement and comfort. Should these dark days pass by, Don
Jorge, and you should be in these parts, I hope you will look in
upon me, and I will show you my little library of the fathers,
and likewise my dovecote, where I rear numerous broods of
pigeons, which are also a source of much solace and at the same
time of profit.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I suppose by your dovecote,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;you
mean your parish, and by rearing broods of pigeons, you allude to
the care you take of the souls of your people, instilling therein
the fear of God, and obedience to his revealed law, which
occupation must of course afford you much solace and spiritual
profit.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I was not speaking metaphorically, Don Jorge,&rdquo;
replied my companion; &ldquo;and by rearing doves, I mean neither
more nor less than that I supply the market of Cordova with
pigeons, and occasionally that of Seville; for my birds are very
celebrated, and plumper or fatter flesh than theirs I believe
cannot be found in the whole kingdom. Should you come into
my village, you will doubtless taste them, Don Jorge, at the
venta where you will put up, for I suffer no dovecotes but my own
within my district. With respect to the souls of my
parishioners, I trust I do my duty&mdash;I trust I do, as far as
in my power lies. I always took great pleasure in these
spiritual matters, and it was on that account that I attached
myself to the Santa Casa of Cordova, the duties of which I
assisted to perform for a long period.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Your reverence has been an inquisitor?&rdquo; I
exclaimed, somewhat startled.</p>

<p>&ldquo;From my thirtieth year until the time of the
suppression of the holy office in these afflicted
kingdoms.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;You both surprise and delight me,&rdquo; I
exclaimed. &ldquo;Nothing could have afforded me greater
pleasure than to find myself conversing with a father formerly
attached to the holy house of Cordova.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The old man looked at me steadfastly; &ldquo;I understand you,
Don Jorge. I have long seen that you are one of us.
You are a learned and holy man; and though you think fit to call
yourself a Lutheran and an Englishman, I have dived into your
real condition. No Lutheran would take the interest in
church matters which you do, and with respect to your being an
Englishman, none of that nation can speak Castilian, much less
Latin. I believe you to be one of us&mdash;a missionary
priest, and I am especially confirmed in that idea by your
frequent conversations and interviews with the Gitanos; you
appear to be labouring among them. Be, however, on your
guard, Don Jorge, trust not to Egyptian faith; they are evil
penitents, whom I like not. I would not advise you to trust
them.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I do not intend,&rdquo; I replied; &ldquo;especially
with money. But to return to more important
matters:&mdash;of what crimes did this holy house of Cordova take
cognizance?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;You are of course aware of the matters on which the
holy office exercises its functions. I need scarcely
mention sorcery, Judaism, and certain carnal
misdemeanours.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;With respect to sorcery,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;what is
your opinion of it? Is there in reality such a
crime?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;<i>Que se io</i> <a name="citation170"></a><a
href="#footnote170" class="citation">[170]</a>?&rdquo; said the
old man, shrugging up his shoulders. &ldquo;How should I
know? The church has power, Don Jorge, or at least it had
power, to punish for anything, real or unreal; and as it was
necessary to punish in order to prove that it had the power of
punishing, of what consequence whether it punished for sorcery or
any other crime.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Did many cases of sorcery occur within your own sphere
of knowledge?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;One or two, Don Jorge; they were by no means
frequent. The last that I remember was a case which
occurred in a convent at Seville: a certain nun was in the habit
of flying through the windows and about the garden over the tops
of the orange trees; declarations of various witnesses were
taken, and the process was arranged with much formality; the
fact, I believe, was satisfactorily proved: of one thing I am
certain, that the nun was punished.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Were you troubled with much Judaism in these
parts?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Wooh! Nothing gave so much trouble to the Santa
Casa as this same Judaism. Its shoots and ramifications are
numerous, not only in these parts, but in all Spain; and it is
singular enough, that even among the priesthood, instances of
Judaism of both kinds were continually coming to our knowledge,
which it was of course our duty to punish.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Is there more than one species of Judaism?&rdquo; I
demanded.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I have always arranged Judaism under two heads,&rdquo;
said the old man, &ldquo;the black and the white: by the black, I
mean the observance of the law of Moses in preference to the
precepts of the church; then there is the white Judaism, which
includes all kinds of heresy, such as Lutheranism, freemasonry,
and the like.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I can easily conceive,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;that many
of the priesthood favoured the principles of the reformation, and
that the minds of not a few had been led astray by the deceitful
lights of modern philosophy, but it is almost inconceivable to me
that there should be Jews amongst the priesthood who follow in
secret the rites and observances of the old law, though I confess
that I have been assured of the fact ere now.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Plenty of Judaism amongst the priesthood, whether of
the black or white species; no lack of it, I assure you, Don
Jorge; I remember once searching the house of an ecclesiastic who
was accused of the black Judaism, and after much investigation,
we discovered beneath the floor a wooden chest, in which was a
small shrine of silver, inclosing three books in black hogskin,
which, on being opened, were found to be books of Jewish
devotion, written in Hebrew characters, and of great antiquity;
and on being questioned, the culprit made no secret of his guilt,
but rather gloried in it, saying that there was no God but one,
and denouncing the adoration of Maria Santissima as rank
idolatry.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;And between ourselves, what is your own opinion of the
adoration of this same Maria Santissima?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;What is my opinion! <i>Que se io</i>?&rdquo; said
the old man, shrugging up his shoulders still higher than on the
former occasion; &ldquo;but I will tell you; I think, on
consideration, that it is quite right and proper; why not?
Let any one pay a visit to my church, and look at her as she
stands there, <i>tan bonita</i>, <i>tan guapita</i>&mdash;so well
dressed and so genteel&mdash;with such pretty colours, such red
and white, and he would scarcely ask me why Maria Santissima
should not be adored. Moreover, Don Jorgito mio, this is a
church matter and forms an important part of the church
system.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;And now, with respect to carnal misdemeanours.
Did you take much cognizance of them?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Amongst the laity, not much; we, however, kept a
vigilant eye upon our own body, but, upon the whole, were rather
tolerant in these matters, knowing that the infirmities of human
nature are very great indeed: we rarely punished, save in cases
where the glory of the church and loyalty to Maria Santissima
made punishment absolutely imperative.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;And what cases might those be?&rdquo; I demanded.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I allude to the desecration of dovecotes, Don Jorge,
and the introduction therein of strange flesh, for purposes
neither seemly nor convenient.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Your reverence will excuse me for not yet perfectly
understanding.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I mean, Don Jorge, certain acts of flagitiousness
practised by the clergy in lone and remote palomares
(<i>dovecotes</i>) in olive grounds and gardens; actions
denounced, I believe, by the holy Pablo in his first letter to
Pope Sixtus. <a name="citation171"></a><a href="#footnote171"
class="citation">[171]</a> You understand me now, Don
Jorge, for you are learned in church matters.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I think I understand you,&rdquo; I replied.</p>

<p>After remaining several days more at Cordova, I determined to
proceed on my journey to Madrid, though the roads were still said
to be highly insecure. I, however, saw but little utility
in tarrying and awaiting a more tranquil state of affairs, which
might never arrive. I therefore consulted with the landlord
respecting the best means of making the journey. &ldquo;Don
Jorgito,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;I think I can tell you.
You say you are anxious to depart, and I never wish to keep
guests in my house longer than is agreeable to them; to do so,
would not become a Christian innkeeper: I leave such conduct to
Moors, Christinos, and Negroes. I will further you on your
journey, Don Jorge: I have a plan in my head, which I had
resolved to propose to you before you questioned me. There
is my wife&rsquo;s brother, who has two horses which he
occasionally lets out for hire; you shall hire them, Don Jorge,
and he himself shall attend you to take care of you, and to
comfort you, and to talk to you, and you shall pay him forty
dollars for the journey. Moreover, as there are thieves
upon the route, and <i>malos sujetos</i>, such as Palillos and
his family, you shall make an engagement and a covenant, Don
Jorge, that provided you are robbed and stripped on the route,
and the horses of my wife&rsquo;s brother are taken from him by
the thieves, you shall, on arriving at Madrid, make good any
losses to which my wife&rsquo;s brother may be subject in
following you. This is my plan, Don Jorge, which no doubt
will meet with your worship&rsquo;s approbation, as it is devised
solely for your benefit, and not with any view of lucre or
interest either to me or mine. You will find my
wife&rsquo;s brother pleasant company on the route: he is a very
respectable man, and one of the right opinion, and has likewise
travelled much; for between ourselves, Don Jorge, he is something
of a Contrabandista and frequently smuggles diamonds and precious
stones from Portugal, which he disposes of sometimes in Cordova
and sometimes at Madrid. He is acquainted with all the
short cuts, all the atajos, Don Jorge, and is much respected in
all the ventas and posadas on the way; so now give me your hand
upon the bargain, and I will forthwith repair to my wife&rsquo;s
brother to tell him to get ready to set out with your worship the
day after to-morrow.&rdquo;</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XVIII</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Departure from Cordova&mdash;The
Contrabandista&mdash;Jewish Cunning&mdash;Arrival at Madrid.</p>

<p>One fine morning, I departed from Cordova, in company with the
Contrabandista; the latter was mounted on a handsome animal,
something between a horse and a pony, which he called a jaca, of
that breed for which Cordova is celebrated. It was of a
bright bay colour, with a star in its forehead, with strong but
elegant limbs, and a long black tail, which swept the
ground. The other animal, which was destined to carry me to
Madrid, was not quite so prepossessing in its appearance: in more
than one respect it closely resembled a hog, particularly in the
curving of its back, the shortness of its neck, and the manner in
which it kept its head nearly in contact with the ground: it had
also the tail of a hog, and meandered over the ground much like
one. Its coat more resembled coarse bristles than hair, and
with respect to size, I have seen many a Westphalian hog quite as
tall. I was not altogether satisfied with the idea of
exhibiting myself on the back of this most extraordinary
quadruped, and looked wistfully on the respectable animal on
which my guide had thought proper to place himself; he
interpreted my glances, and gave me to understand that as he was
destined to carry the baggage, he was entitled to the best horse;
a plea too well grounded on reason for me to make any objection
to it.</p>

<p>I found the Contrabandista by no means such pleasant company
on the road as I had been led to suppose he would prove from the
representation of my host of Cordova. Throughout the day he
sat sullen and silent, and rarely replied to my questions, save
by a monosyllable; at night, however, after having eaten well and
drank proportionably at my expense, he would occasionally become
more sociable and communicative. &ldquo;I have given up
smuggling,&rdquo; said he, on one of these occasions,
&ldquo;owing to a trick which was played upon me the last time
that I was at Lisbon: a Jew whom I had been long acquainted with
palmed upon me a false brilliant for a real stone. He
effected it in the most extraordinary manner, for I am not such a
novice as not to know a true diamond when I see one; but the Jew
appears to have had two, with which he played most adroitly,
keeping the valuable one for which I bargained, and substituting
therefor another which, though an excellent imitation, was not
worth four dollars. I did not discover the trick until I
was across the border, and upon my hurrying back, the culprit was
not to be found; his priest, however, told me that he was just
dead and buried, which was of course false, as I saw him laughing
in the corners of his eyes. I renounced the contraband
trade from that moment.&rdquo;</p>

<p>It is not my intention to describe minutely the various
incidents of this journey. Leaving at our right the
mountains of Jaen, we passed through Andujar and Bailen, and on
the third day reached Carolina, a small but beautiful town on the
skirts of the Sierra Morena, inhabited by the descendants of
German colonists. Two leagues from this place, we entered
the defile of Despe&ntilde;a Perros, which, even in quiet times,
has an evil name, on account of the robberies which are
continually being perpetrated within its recesses, but at the
period of which I am speaking, it was said to be swarming with
banditti. We of course expected to be robbed, perhaps
stripped and otherwise ill-treated; but Providence here
manifested itself. It appeared that, the day before our
arrival, the banditti of the pass had committed a dreadful
robbery and murder, by which they gained forty thousand
rials. This booty probably contented them for a time;
certain it is that we were not interrupted: we did not even see a
single individual in the pass, though we occasionally heard
whistles and loud cries. We entered La Mancha, where I
expected to fall into the hands of Palillos and Orejita.
Providence again showed itself. It had been delicious
weather, suddenly the Lord breathed forth a frozen blast, the
severity of which was almost intolerable; no human beings but
ourselves ventured forth. We traversed snow-covered plains,
and passed through villages and towns to all appearance
deserted. The robbers kept close in their caves and hovels,
but the cold nearly killed us. We reached Aranjuez late on
Christmas Day, and I got into the house of an Englishman, where I
swallowed nearly a pint of brandy; it affected me no more than
warm water.</p>

<p>On the following day we arrived at Madrid, where we had the
good fortune to find everything tranquil and quiet. The
Contrabandista continued with me for two days, at the end of
which time he returned to Cordova upon the uncouth animal on
which I had ridden throughout the journey. I had myself
purchased the jaca, whose capabilities I had seen on the route,
and which I imagined might prove useful in future journeys.
The Contrabandista was so satisfied with the price which I gave
him for his beast, and the general treatment which he had
experienced at my hands during the time of his attendance upon
me, that he would fain have persuaded me to retain him as a
servant, assuring me that, in the event of my compliance, he
would forget his wife and children and follow me through the
world. I declined, however, to accede to his request,
though I was in need of a domestic; I therefore sent him back to
Cordova, where, as I subsequently learned, he died suddenly,
about a week after his return.</p>

<p>The manner of his death was singular: one day he took out his
purse, and, after counting his money, said to his wife, &ldquo;I
have made ninety-five dollars by this journey with the Englishman
and by the sale of the jaca; this I could easily double by one
successful venture in the smuggling lay. To-morrow I will
depart for Lisbon to buy diamonds. I wonder if the beast
requires to be shod?&rdquo; He then started up and made for
the door, with the intention of going to the stable; ere,
however, his foot had crossed the threshold, he fell dead on the
floor. Such is the course of the world. Well said the
wise king: Let no one boast of the morrow.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XIX</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Arrival at Madrid&mdash;Maria
Diaz&mdash;Printing of the Testament&mdash;My
Project&mdash;Andalusian Steed&mdash;Servant Wanted&mdash;An
Application&mdash;Antonio Buchini&mdash;General
Cordova&mdash;Principles of Honour.</p>

<p>On my arrival at Madrid I did not repair to my former lodgings
in the Calle de la Zarza, but took others in the Calle de
Santiago, in the vicinity of the palace. The name of the
hostess (for there was, properly speaking, no host) was Maria
Diaz, of whom I shall take the present opportunity of saying
something in particular.</p>

<p>She was a woman of about thirty-five years of age, rather
good-looking, and with a physiognomy every lineament of which
bespoke intelligence of no common order. Her eyes were keen
and penetrating, though occasionally clouded with a somewhat
melancholy expression. There was a particular calmness and
quiet in her general demeanour, beneath which, however, slumbered
a firmness of spirit and an energy of action which were instantly
displayed whenever necessary. A Spaniard and, of course, a
Catholic, she was possessed of a spirit of toleration and
liberality which would have done honour to individuals much her
superior in station. In this woman, during the remainder of
my sojourn in Spain, I found a firm and constant friend, and
occasionally a most discreet adviser: she entered into all my
plans, I will not say with enthusiasm, which, indeed, formed no
part of her character, but with cordiality and sincerity,
forwarding them to the utmost of her ability. She never
shrank from me in the hour of danger and persecution, but stood
my friend, notwithstanding the many inducements which were held
out to her by my enemies to desert or betray me. Her
motives were of the noblest kind, friendship and a proper feeling
of the duties of hospitality; no prospect, no hope of
self-interest, however remote, influenced this admirable woman in
her conduct towards me. Honour to Maria Diaz, the quiet,
dauntless, clever Castilian female. I were an ingrate not
to speak well of her, for richly has she deserved an eulogy in
the humble pages of <i>The Bible in Spain</i>.</p>

<p>She was a native of Villa Seca, a hamlet of New Castile,
situated in what is called the Sagra, at about three
leagues&rsquo; distance from Toledo: her father was an architect
of some celebrity, particularly skilled in erecting
bridges. At a very early age she married a respectable
yeoman of Villa Seca, Lopez by name, by whom she had three
sons. On the death of her father, which occurred about five
years previous to the time of which I am speaking, she removed to
Madrid, partly for the purpose of educating her children, and
partly in the hope of obtaining from the government a
considerable sum of money for which it stood indebted to her
father, at the time of his decease, for various useful and
ornamental works, principally in the neighbourhood of
Aranjuez. The justness of her claim was at once
acknowledged; but, alas! no money was forthcoming, the royal
treasury being empty. Her hopes of earthly happiness were
now concentrated in her children. The two youngest were
still of a very tender age; but the eldest, Juan José
Lopez, a lad of about sixteen, was bidding fair to realize the
warmest hopes of his affectionate mother; he had devoted himself
to the arts, in which he made such progress that he had already
become the favourite pupil of his celebrated namesake Lopez, the
best painter of modern Spain. Such was Maria Diaz, who,
according to a custom formerly universal in Spain, and still very
prevalent, retained the name of her maidenhood though
married. Such was Maria Diaz and her family.</p>

<p>One of my first cares was to wait on Mr. Villiers, who
received me with his usual kindness. I asked him whether he
considered that I might venture to commence printing the
Scriptures without any more applications to government. His
reply was satisfactory: &ldquo;You obtained the permission of the
government of Isturitz,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;which was a much
less liberal one than the present. I am a witness to the
promise made to you by the former ministers, which I consider
sufficient. You had best commence and complete the work as
soon as possible, without any fresh application; and should any
one attempt to interrupt you, you have only to come to me, whom
you may command at any time.&rdquo; So I went away with a
light heart, and forthwith made preparation for the execution of
the object which had brought me to Spain.</p>

<p>I shall not enter here into unnecessary details, which could
possess but little interest for the reader; suffice it to say
that, within three months from this time, an edition of the New
Testament, consisting of five thousand copies, was published at
Madrid. The work was printed at the establishment of Mr.
Borrego, a well-known writer on political economy, and proprietor
and editor of an influential newspaper called El
Espa&ntilde;ol. To this gentleman I had been recommended by
Isturitz himself, on the day of my interview with him. That
unfortunate minister had, indeed, the highest esteem for Borrego,
and had intended raising him to the station of minister of
finance, when the revolution of the Granja occurring, of course
rendered abortive this project, with perhaps many others of a
similar kind which he might have formed.</p>

<p>The Spanish version of the New Testament which was thus
published, had been made many years before by a certain Padre
Filipe Scio, confessor of Ferdinand the Seventh, and had even
been printed, but so encumbered by notes and commentaries as to
be unfitted for general circulation, for which, indeed, it was
never intended. In the present edition, the notes were of
course omitted, and the inspired word, and that alone, offered to
the public. It was brought out in a handsome octavo volume,
and presented, upon the whole, a rather favourable specimen of
Spanish typography.</p>

<p>The mere printing, however, of the New Testament at Madrid
could be attended with no utility whatever, unless measures, and
energetic ones, were taken for the circulation of the sacred
volume.</p>

<p>In the case of the New Testament, it would not do to follow
the usual plan of publication in Spain, namely, to entrust the
work to the booksellers of the capital, and rest content with the
sale which they and their agents in the provincial towns might be
able to obtain for it, in the common routine of business; the
result generally being, the circulation of a few dozen copies in
the course of the year; as the demand for literature of every
kind in Spain was miserably small.</p>

<p>The Christians of England had already made considerable
sacrifices in the hope of disseminating the word of God largely
amongst the Spaniards, and it was now necessary to spare no
exertion to prevent that hope becoming abortive. Before the
book was ready, I had begun to make preparations for putting a
plan into execution, which had occupied my thoughts occasionally
during my former visit to Spain, and which I had never
subsequently abandoned. I had mused on it when off Cape
Finisterre in the tempest; in the cut-throat passes of the
Morena; and on the plains of La Mancha, as I jogged along a
little way ahead of the Contrabandista.</p>

<p>I had determined, after depositing a certain number of copies
in the shops of the booksellers of Madrid, to ride forth,
Testament in hand, and endeavour to circulate the word of God
amongst the Spaniards, not only of the towns but of the villages;
amongst the children not only of the plains but of the hills and
mountains. I intended to visit Old Castile, and to traverse
the whole of Galicia and the Asturias,&mdash;to establish
Scripture dépots in the principal towns, and to visit the
people in secret and secluded spots,&mdash;to talk to them of
Christ, to explain to them the nature of his book, and to place
that book in the hands of those whom I should deem capable of
deriving benefit from it. I was aware that such a journey
would be attended with considerable danger, and very possibly the
fate of St. Stephen might overtake me; but does the man deserve
the name of a follower of Christ who would shrink from danger of
any kind in the cause of Him whom he calls his Master?
&ldquo;He who loses his life for my sake, shall find it,&rdquo;
are words which the Lord himself uttered. These words were
fraught with consolation to me, as they doubtless are to every
one engaged in propagating the gospel in sincerity of heart, in
savage and barbarian lands.</p>

<p>I now purchased another horse; for these animals, at the time
of which I am speaking, were exceedingly cheap. A royal
requisition was about to be issued for five thousand, the
consequence being, that an immense number were for sale, for, by
virtue of this requisition, the horses of any person not a
foreigner could be seized for the benefit of the service.
It was probable that, when the number was made up, the price of
horses would be treble what it then was, which consideration
induced me to purchase this animal before I exactly wanted
him. He was a black Andalusian stallion of great power and
strength, and capable of performing a journey of a hundred
leagues in a week&rsquo;s time, but he was unbroke, savage, and
furious. A cargo of Bibles, however, which I hoped
occasionally to put on his back, would, I had no doubt,
thoroughly tame him, especially when labouring up the flinty
hills of the north of Spain. I wished to have purchased a
mule, but, though I offered thirty pounds for a sorry one, I
could not obtain her; whereas the cost of both the horses, tall
powerful stately animals, scarcely amounted to that sum.</p>

<p>The state of the surrounding country at this time was not very
favourable for venturing forth: Cabrera was within nine leagues
of Madrid, with an army nearly ten thousand strong; he had beaten
several small detachments of the queen&rsquo;s troops, and had
ravaged La Mancha with fire and sword, burning several towns;
bands of affrighted fugitives were arriving every hour, bringing
tidings of woe and disaster, and I was only surprised that the
enemy did not appear, and by taking Madrid, which was almost at
his mercy, put an end to the war at once. But the truth is,
that the Carlist generals did not wish the war to cease, for as
long as the country was involved in bloodshed and anarchy, they
could plunder and exercise that lawless authority so dear to men
of fierce and brutal passions. Cabrera, moreover, was a
dastardly wretch, whose limited mind was incapable of harbouring
a single conception approaching to grandeur; whose heroic deeds
were confined to cutting down defenceless men, and to forcing and
disembowelling unhappy women; and yet I have seen this wretched
fellow termed by French journals (Carlist of course) the young,
the heroic general. Infamy on the cowardly assassin!
The shabbiest corporal of Napoleon would have laughed at his
generalship, and half a battalion of Austrian grenadiers would
have driven him and his rabble army headlong into the Ebro.</p>

<p>I now made preparations for my journey into the north. I
was already provided with horses well calculated to support the
fatigues of the road and the burdens which I might deem necessary
to impose upon them. One thing, however, was still lacking,
indispensable to a person about to engage on an expedition of
this description; I mean a servant to attend me. Perhaps
there is no place in the world where servants more abound than at
Madrid, or at least fellows eager to proffer their services in
the expectation of receiving food and wages, though, with respect
to the actual service which they are capable of performing, not
much can be said; but I was in want of a servant of no common
description, a shrewd active fellow, of whose advice, in cases of
emergency, I could occasionally avail myself; courageous withal,
for it certainly required some degree of courage to follow a
master bent on exploring the greater part of Spain, and who
intended to travel, not under the protection of muleteers and
carmen, but on his own cabalgaduras. Such a servant,
perhaps, I might have sought for years without finding; chance,
however, brought one to my hand at the very time I wanted him,
without it being necessary for me to make any laborious
perquisitions. I was one day mentioning the subject to Mr.
Borrego, at whose establishment I had printed the New Testament,
and inquiring whether he thought that such an individual was to
be found in Madrid, adding that I was particularly anxious to
obtain a servant who, besides Spanish, could speak some other
language, that occasionally we might discourse without being
understood by those who might overhear us. &ldquo;The very
description of person,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;that you appear
to be in need of, quitted me about half an hour ago, and, it is
singular enough, came to me in the hope that I might be able to
recommend him to a master. He has been twice in my service:
for his talent and courage I will answer; and I believe him to be
trustworthy, at least to masters who may chime in with his
humour, for I must inform you that he is a most extraordinary
fellow, full of strange likes and antipathies, which he will
gratify at any expense, either to himself or others.
Perhaps he will attach himself to you, in which case you will
find him highly valuable; for if he please he can turn his hand
to any thing, and is not only acquainted with two but half a
dozen languages.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Is he a Spaniard?&rdquo; I inquired.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I will send him to you to-morrow,&rdquo; said Borrego,
&ldquo;you will best learn from his own mouth who and what he
is.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The next day, as I had just sat down to my &ldquo;sopa,&rdquo;
my hostess informed me that a man wished to speak to me.
&ldquo;Admit him,&rdquo; said I, and he almost instantly made his
appearance. He was dressed respectably in the French
fashion, and had rather a juvenile look, though I subsequently
learned that he was considerably above forty. He was
somewhat above the middle stature, and might have been called
well made, had it not been for his meagreness, which was rather
remarkable. His arms were long and bony, and his whole form
conveyed an idea of great activity united with no slight degree
of strength: his hair was wiry, but of jetty blackness; his
forehead low; his eyes small and grey, expressive of much
subtlety and no less malice, strangely relieved by a strong dash
of humour; the nose was handsome, but the mouth was immensely
wide, and his under jaw projected considerably. A more
singular physiognomy I had never seen, and I continued staring at
him for some time in silence. &ldquo;Who are you?&rdquo; I
at last demanded.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Domestic in search of a master,&rdquo; answered the man
in good French, but in a strange accent. &ldquo;I come
recommended to you, my Lor, by Monsieur B.&rdquo;</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Of what nation may you be? Are you
French or Spanish?</p>

<p><i>Man</i>.&mdash;God forbid that I should be either, mi Lor,
<i>j&rsquo;ai l&rsquo;honneur d&rsquo;etre de la nation
Grecque</i>, my name is Antonio Buchini, native of Pera the Belle
near to Constantinople.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;And what brought you to Spain?</p>

<p><i>Buchini</i>.&mdash;<i>Mi Lor</i>, <i>je vais vous raconter
mon histoire du commencement jusqu&rsquo;ici</i>:&mdash;my father
was a native of Sceira in Greece, from whence at an early age he
repaired to Pera, where he served as janitor in the hotels of
various ambassadors, by whom he was much respected for his
fidelity. Amongst others of these gentlemen, he served him
of your own nation: this occurred at the time that there was war
between England and the Porte. <a name="citation181"></a><a
href="#footnote181" class="citation">[181]</a> Monsieur the
Ambassador had to escape for his life, leaving the greater part
of his valuables to the care of my father, who concealed them at
his own great risk, and when the dispute was settled, restored
them to Monsieur, even to the most inconsiderable trinket.
I mention this circumstance to show you that I am of a family
which cherishes principles of honour, and in which confidence may
be placed. My father married a daughter of Pera, <i>et moi
je suis l&rsquo;unique fruit de ce mariage</i>. Of my
mother I know nothing, as she died shortly after my birth.
A family of wealthy Jews took pity on my forlorn condition and
offered to bring me up, to which my father gladly consented; and
with them I continued several years, until I was a <i>beau
garcon</i>; they were very fond of me, and at last offered to
adopt me, and at their death to bequeath me all they had, on
condition of my becoming a Jew. <i>Mais la circoncision
n&rsquo;etoit guere a mon gout</i>; especially that of the Jews,
for I am a Greek, am proud, and have principles of honour.
I quitted them, therefore, saying that if ever I allowed myself
to be converted, it should be to the faith of the Turks, for they
are men, are proud, and have principles of honour like
myself. I then returned to my father, who procured me
various situations, none of which were to my liking, until I was
placed in the house of Monsieur Zea.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;You mean, I suppose, Zea Bermudez, who
chanced to be at Constantinople.</p>

<p><i>Buchini</i>.&mdash;Just so, mi Lor, and with him I
continued during his stay. He put great confidence in me,
more especially as I spoke the pure Spanish language, which I
acquired amongst the Jews, who, as I have heard Monsieur Zea say,
speak it better than the present natives of Spain.</p>

<p>I shall not follow the Greek step by step throughout his
history, which was rather lengthy: suffice it to say, that he was
brought by Zea Bermudez from Constantinople to Spain, where he
continued in his service for many years, and from whose house he
was expelled for marrying a Guipuscoan damsel, who was fille de
chambre to Madame Zea; since which time it appeared that he had
served an infinity of masters; sometimes as valet, sometimes as
cook, but generally in the last capacity. He confessed,
however, that he had seldom continued more than three days in the
same service, on account of the disputes which were sure to arise
in the house almost immediately after his admission, and for
which he could assign no other reason than his being a Greek, and
having principles of honour. Amongst other persons whom he
had served was General Cordova, who he said was a bad paymaster,
and was in the habit of maltreating his domestics.
&ldquo;But he found his match in me,&rdquo; said Antonio,
&ldquo;for I was prepared for him; and once, when he drew his
sword against me, I pulled out a pistol and pointed it in his
face. He grew pale as death, and from that hour treated me
with all kinds of condescension. It was only pretence,
however, for the affair rankled in his mind; he had determined
upon revenge, and on being appointed to the command of the army,
he was particularly anxious that I should attend him to the
camp. <i>Mais je lui ris au nez</i>, made the sign of the
cortamanga&mdash;asked for my wages, and left him; and well it
was that I did so, for the very domestic whom he took with him he
caused to be shot upon a charge of mutiny.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I am afraid,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;that you are of a
turbulent disposition, and that the disputes to which you have
alluded are solely to be attributed to the badness of your
temper.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;What would you have, Monsieur? <i>Moi je suis
Grec</i>, <i>je suis fier et j&rsquo;ai des principes
d&rsquo;honneur</i>. I expect to be treated with a certain
consideration, though I confess that my temper is none of the
best, and that at times I am tempted to quarrel with the pots and
pans in the kitchen. I think, upon the whole, that it will
be for your advantage to engage me, and I promise you to be on my
guard. There is one thing that pleases me relating to you,
you are unmarried. Now, I would rather serve a young
unmarried man for love and friendship, than a Benedict for fifty
dollars per month. Madame is sure to hate me, and so is her
waiting woman; and more particularly the latter, because I am a
married man. I see that mi Lor is willing to engage
me.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;But you say you are a married man,&rdquo; I replied;
&ldquo;how can you desert your wife, for I am about to leave
Madrid, and to travel into the remote and mountainous parts of
Spain.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;My wife will receive the moiety of my wages, while I am
absent, mi Lor, and therefore will have no reason to complain of
being deserted. Complain! did I say; my wife is at present
too well instructed to complain. She never speaks nor sits
in my presence unless I give her permission. Am I not a
Greek, and do I not know how to govern my own house? Engage
me, mi Lor, I am a man of many capacities: a discreet valet, an
excellent cook, a good groom and light rider; in a word, I am
&Rho;&omega;&mu;&alpha;&#970;&kappa;&#972;&sigmaf;. What
would you more?&rdquo;</p>

<p>I asked him his terms, which were extravagant, notwithstanding
his <i>principes d&rsquo;honneur</i>. I found, however,
that he was willing to take one half.</p>

<p>I had no sooner engaged him, than seizing the tureen of soup,
which had by this time become quite cold, he placed it on the top
of his forefinger, or rather on the nail thereof, causing it to
make various circumvolutions over his head, to my great
astonishment, without spilling a drop, then springing with it to
the door, he vanished, and in another moment made his appearance
with the puchera, which, after a similar bound and flourish, he
deposited on the table; then suffering his hands to sink before
him, he put one over the other and stood at his ease with
half-shut eyes, for all the world as if he had been in my service
twenty years.</p>

<p>And in this manner Antonio Buchini entered upon his
duties. Many was the wild spot to which he subsequently
accompanied me; many the wild adventure of which he was the
sharer. His behaviour was frequently in the highest degree
extraordinary, but he served me courageously and faithfully: such
a valet, take him for all in all,</p>

<blockquote><p>&ldquo;His like I ne&rsquo;er expect to see
again.&rdquo;</p>

<p><i>Kosko bakh Anton</i>.</p>
</blockquote>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XX</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Illness&mdash;Nocturnal Visit&mdash;A Master
Mind&mdash;The Whisper&mdash;Salamanca&mdash;Irish
Hospitality&mdash;Spanish Soldiers&mdash;The Scriptures
advertised.</p>

<p>But I am anxious to enter upon the narrative of my journey,
and shall therefore abstain from relating to my readers a great
many circumstances which occurred previously to my leaving Madrid
on this expedition. About the middle of May I had got
everything in readiness, and I bade farewell to my friends.
Salamanca was the first place which I intended to visit.</p>

<p>Some days previous to my departure I was very much indisposed,
owing to the state of the weather, for violent and biting winds
had long prevailed. I had been attacked with a severe cold,
which terminated in a disagreeable cough, which the many remedies
I successively tried seemed unable to subdue. I had made
preparations for departing on a particular day, but, owing to the
state of my health, I was apprehensive that I should be compelled
to defer my journey for a time. The last day of my stay in
Madrid, finding myself scarcely able to stand, I was fain to
submit to a somewhat desperate experiment, and by the advice of
the barber-surgeon who visited me, I determined to be bled.
Late on the night of that same day he took from me sixteen ounces
of blood, and having received his fee left me, wishing me a
pleasant journey, and assuring me, upon his reputation, that by
noon the next day I should be perfectly recovered.</p>

<p>A few minutes after his departure, whilst I was sitting alone,
meditating on the journey which I was about to undertake, and on
the ricketty state of my health, I heard a loud knock at the
street door of the house, on the third floor of which I was
lodged. In another minute Mr. S--- of the British Embassy
entered my apartment. After a little conversation, he
informed me that Mr. Villiers had desired him to wait upon me to
communicate a resolution which he had come to. Being
apprehensive that, alone and unassisted, I should experience
great difficulty in propagating the gospel of God to any
considerable extent in Spain, he was bent upon exerting to the
utmost his own credit and influence to further my views, which he
himself considered, if carried into proper effect, extremely well
calculated to operate beneficially on the political and moral
state of the country. To this end it was his intention to
purchase a very considerable number of copies of the New
Testament, and to dispatch them forthwith to the various British
consuls established in different parts of Spain, with strict and
positive orders to employ all the means which their official
situation should afford them to circulate the books in question
and to assure their being noticed. They were, moreover, to
be charged to afford me, whenever I should appear in their
respective districts, all the protection, encouragement, and
assistance which I should stand in need of.</p>

<p>I was of course much rejoiced on receiving this information,
for though I had long been aware that Mr. Villiers was at all
times willing to assist me, he having frequently given me
sufficient proof, I could never expect that he would come forward
in so noble, and, to say the least of it, considering his high
diplomatic situation, so bold and decided a manner. I
believe that this was the first instance of a British ambassador
having made the cause of the Bible Society a national one, or
indeed of having favoured it directly or indirectly. What
renders the case of Mr. Villiers more remarkable is, that on my
first arrival at Madrid I found him by no means well disposed
towards the Society. The Holy Spirit had probably illumined
his mind on this point. I hoped that by his means our
institution would shortly possess many agents in Spain, who, with
far more power and better opportunities than I myself could ever
expect to possess, would scatter abroad the seed of the gospel,
and make of a barren and thirsty wilderness a green and smiling
corn-field.</p>

<p>A word or two about the gentleman who paid me this nocturnal
visit. Though he has probably long since forgotten the
humble circulator of the Bible in Spain, I still bear in mind
numerous acts of kindness which I experienced at his hands.
Endowed with an intellect of the highest order, master of the
lore of all Europe, profoundly versed in the ancient tongues, and
speaking most of the modern dialects with remarkable
facility,&mdash;possessed, moreover, of a thorough knowledge of
mankind,&mdash;he brought with him into the diplomatic career
advantages such as few, even the most highly gifted, can boast
of. During his sojourn in Spain he performed many eminent
services for the government which employed him; services which, I
believe, it had sufficient discernment to see, and gratitude to
reward. He had to encounter, however, the full brunt of the
low and stupid malignity of the party who, shortly after the time
of which I am speaking, usurped the management of the affairs of
Spain. This party, whose foolish manœuvres he was
continually discomfiting, feared and hated him as its evil
genius, taking every opportunity of showering on his head
calumnies the most improbable and absurd. Amongst other
things, he was accused of having acted as an agent to the English
government in the affair of the Granja, bringing about that
revolution by bribing the mutinous soldiers, and more
particularly the notorious Sergeant Garcia. Such an
accusation will of course merely extract a smile from those who
are at all acquainted with the English character, and the general
line of conduct pursued by the English government. It was a
charge, however, universally believed in Spain, and was even
preferred in print by a certain journal, the official organ of
the silly Duke of Frias, one of the many prime ministers of the
moderado party who followed each other in rapid succession
towards the latter period of the Carlist and Christino
struggle. But when did a calumnious report ever fall to the
ground in Spain by the weight of its own absurdity? Unhappy
land, not until the pure light of the Gospel has illumined thee
wilt thou learn that the greatest of all gifts is charity.</p>

<p>The next day verified the prediction of the Spanish surgeon; I
had to a considerable degree lost my cough and fever, though,
owing to the loss of blood, I was somewhat feeble.
Precisely at twelve o&rsquo;clock the horses were led forth
before the door of my lodging in the Calle de Santiago, and I
prepared to mount: but my black entero of Andalusia would not
permit me to approach his side, and whenever I made the attempt,
commenced wheeling round with great rapidity.</p>

<p>&ldquo;<i>C&rsquo;est un mauvais signe</i>, <i>mon
maitre</i>,&rdquo; said Antonio, who, dressed in a green jerkin,
a Montero cap, booted and spurred, stood ready to attend me,
holding by the bridle the horse which I had purchased from the
contrabandista. &ldquo;It is a bad sign, and in my country
they would defer the journey till to-morrow.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Are there whisperers in your country?&rdquo; I
demanded; and taking the horse by the mane, I performed the
ceremony after the most approved fashion: the animal stood still,
and I mounted the saddle, exclaiming&mdash;</p>

<blockquote><p>&ldquo;The Rommany Chal to his horse did cry,<br
/>
As he placed the bit in his horse&rsquo;s jaw;<br />
Kosko gry! Rommany gry!<br />
Muk man kistur tute knaw.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>

<p>We then rode forth from Madrid by the gate of San Vincente,
directing our course to the lofty mountains which separate Old
from New Castile. That night we rested at Guadarama, a
large village at their foot, distant from Madrid about seven
leagues. Rising early on the following morning, we ascended
the pass and entered into Old Castile.</p>

<p>After crossing the mountains, the route to Salamanca lies
almost entirely over sandy and arid plains, interspersed here and
there with thin and scanty groves of pine. No adventure
worth relating occurred during this journey. We sold a few
Testaments in the villages through which we passed, more
especially at Pe&ntilde;aranda. About noon of the third
day, on reaching the brow of a hillock, we saw a huge dome before
us, upon which the fierce rays of the sun striking, produced the
appearance of burnished gold. It belonged to the cathedral
of Salamanca, and we flattered ourselves that we were already at
our journey&rsquo;s end; we were deceived, however, being still
four leagues distant from the town, whose churches and convents,
towering up in gigantic masses, can be distinguished at an
immense distance, flattering the traveller with an idea of
propinquity which does not in reality exist. It was not
till long after nightfall that we arrived at the city gate, which
we found closed and guarded, in apprehension of a Carlist attack;
and having obtained admission with some difficulty, we led our
horses along dark, silent, and deserted streets, till we found an
individual who directed us to a large, gloomy, and comfortless
posada, that of the Bull, which we, however, subsequently found
was the best which the town afforded.</p>

<p>A melancholy town is Salamanca; the days of its collegiate
glory are long since past by, never more to return: a
circumstance, however, which is little to be regretted; for what
benefit did the world ever derive from scholastic
philosophy? And for that alone was Salamanca ever
famous. Its halls are now almost silent, and grass is
growing in its courts, which were once daily thronged by at least
eight thousand students; a number to which, at the present day,
the entire population of the city does not amount. Yet,
with all its melancholy, what an interesting, nay, what a
magnificent place is Salamanca! How glorious are its
churches, how stupendous are its deserted convents, and with what
sublime but sullen grandeur do its huge and crumbling walls,
which crown the precipitous bank of the Tormes, look down upon
the lovely river and its venerable bridge.</p>

<p>What a pity that, of the many rivers in Spain, scarcely one is
navigable. The beautiful but shallow Tormes, instead of
proving a source of blessing and wealth to this part of Castile,
is of no further utility than to turn the wheels of various small
water mills, standing upon weirs of stone, which at certain
distances traverse the river.</p>

<p>My sojourn at Salamanca was rendered particularly pleasant by
the kind attentions and continual acts of hospitality which I
experienced from the inmates of the Irish College, to the rector
of which I bore a letter of recommendation from my kind and
excellent friend Mr. O&rsquo;Shea, the celebrated banker of
Madrid. It will be long before I forget these Irish, more
especially their head, Dr. Gartland, a genuine scion of the good
Hibernian tree, an accomplished scholar, and a courteous and
high-minded gentleman. Though fully aware who I was, he
held out the hand of friendship to the wandering heretic
missionary, although by so doing he exposed himself to the
rancorous remarks of the narrow-minded native clergy, who, in
their ugly shovel hats and long cloaks, glared at me askance as I
passed by their whispering groups beneath the piazzas of the
Plaza. But when did the fear of consequences cause an
Irishman to shrink from the exercise of the duties of
hospitality? However attached to his religion&mdash;and who
is so attached to the Romish creed as the Irishman?&mdash;I am
convinced that not all the authority of the Pope or the Cardinals
would induce him to close his doors on Luther himself, were that
respectable personage at present alive and in need of food and
refuge.</p>

<p>Honour to Ireland and her &ldquo;hundred thousand
welcomes!&rdquo; Her fields have long been the greenest in
the world; her daughters the fairest; her sons the bravest and
most eloquent. May they never cease to be so.</p>

<p>The posada where I had put up was a good specimen of the old
Spanish inn, being much the same as those described in the time
of Philip the Third or Fourth. The rooms were many and
large, floored with either brick or stone, generally with an
alcove at the end, in which stood a wretched flock bed.
Behind the house was a court, and in the rear of this a stable,
full of horses, ponies, mules, machos, and donkeys, for there was
no lack of guests, who, however, for the most part slept in the
stable with their caballerias, being either arrieros or small
peddling merchants who travelled the country with coarse cloth or
linen. Opposite to my room in the corridor lodged a wounded
officer, who had just arrived from San Sebastian on a galled
broken-kneed pony; he was an Estrimenian, and was returning to
his own village to be cured. He was attended by three
broken soldiers, lame or maimed, and unfit for service: they told
me that they were of the same village as his worship, and on that
account he permitted them to travel with him. They slept
amongst the litter, and throughout the day lounged about the
house smoking paper cigars. I never saw them eating, though
they frequently went to a dark cool corner, where stood a bota or
kind of water pitcher, which they held about six inches from
their black filmy lips, permitting the liquid to trickle down
their throats. They said they had no pay, and were quite
destitute of money, that <i>su merced</i> the officer
occasionally gave them a piece of bread, but that he himself was
poor and had only a few dollars. Brave guests for an inn,
thought I; yet, to the honour of Spain be it spoken, it is one of
the few countries in Europe where poverty is never insulted nor
looked upon with contempt. Even at an inn, the poor man is
never spurned from the door, and if not harboured, is at least
dismissed with fair words, and consigned to the mercies of God
and his mother. This is as it should be. I laugh at
the bigotry and prejudices of Spain; I abhor the cruelty and
ferocity which have cast a stain of eternal infamy on her
history; but I will say for the Spaniards, that in their social
intercourse no people in the world exhibit a juster feeling of
what is due to the dignity of human nature, or better understand
the behaviour which it behoves a man to adopt towards his fellow
beings. I have said that it is one of the few countries in
Europe where poverty is not treated with contempt, and I may add,
where the wealthy are not blindly idolized. In Spain the
very beggar does not feel himself a degraded being, for he kisses
no one&rsquo;s feet, and knows not what it is to be cuffed or
spitten upon; and in Spain the duke or the marquis can scarcely
entertain a very overweening opinion of his own consequence, as
he finds no one, with perhaps the exception of his French valet,
to fawn upon or flatter him.</p>

<p>During my stay at Salamanca, I took measures that the word of
God might become generally known in this celebrated city.
The principal bookseller of the town, Blanco, a man of great
wealth and respectability, consented to become my agent here, and
I in consequence deposited in his shop a certain number of New
Testaments. He was the proprietor of a small printing
press, where the official bulletin of the place was
published. For this bulletin I prepared an advertisement of
the work, in which, amongst other things, I said that the New
Testament was the only guide to salvation; I also spoke of the
Bible Society, and the great pecuniary sacrifices which it was
making with the view of proclaiming Christ crucified, and of
making his doctrine known. This step will perhaps be
considered by some as too bold, but I was not aware that I could
take any more calculated to arouse the attention of the
people&mdash;a considerable point. I also ordered numbers
of the same advertisement to be struck off in the shape of bills,
which I caused to be stuck up in various parts of the town.
I had great hope that by means of these a considerable number of
New Testaments would be sold. I intended to repeat this
experiment in Valladolid, Leon, St. Jago, and all the principal
towns which I visited, and to distribute them likewise as I rode
along: the children of Spain would thus be brought to know that
such a work as the New Testament is in existence, a fact of which
not five in one hundred were then aware, notwithstanding their so
frequently-repeated boasts of their Catholicity and
Christianity.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XXI</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Departure from Salamanca&mdash;Reception at
Pitiegua&mdash;The Dilemma&mdash;Sudden Inspiration&mdash;The
Good Presbyter&mdash;Combat of Quadrupeds&mdash;Irish
Christians&mdash;Plains of Spain&mdash;The Catalans&mdash;The
Fatal Pool&mdash;Valladolid&mdash;Circulation of the
Scriptures&mdash;Philippine Missions&mdash;English
College&mdash;A Conversation&mdash;The Gaoleress.</p>

<p>On Saturday, the tenth of June, I left Salamanca for
Valladolid. As the village where we intended to rest was
only five leagues distant, we did not sally forth till midday was
past. There was a haze in the heavens which overcast the
sun, nearly hiding his countenance from our view. My
friend, Mr. Patrick Cantwell, of the Irish College, was kind
enough to ride with me part of the way. He was mounted on a
most sorry-looking hired mule, which, I expected would be unable
to keep pace with the spirited horses of myself and man, for he
seemed to be twin brother of the mule of Gil Perez, on which his
nephew made his celebrated journey from Oviedo to
Pe&ntilde;aflor. I was, however, very much mistaken.
The creature on being mounted instantly set off at that rapid
walk which I have so often admired in Spanish mules, and which no
horse can emulate. Our more stately animals were speedily
left in the rear, and we were continually obliged to break into a
trot to follow the singular quadruped, who, ever and anon, would
lift his head high in the air, curl up his lip, and show his
yellow teeth, as if he were laughing at us, as perhaps he
was. It chanced that none of us was well acquainted with
the road; indeed, I could see nothing which was fairly entitled
to that appellation. The way from Salamanca to Valladolid
is amongst a medley of bridle-paths and drift-ways, where
discrimination is very difficult. It was not long before we
were bewildered, and travelled over more ground than was strictly
necessary. However, as men and women frequently passed on
donkeys and little ponies, we were not too proud to be set right
by them, and by dint of diligent inquiry we at length arrived at
Pitiegua, four leagues from Salamanca, a small village,
containing about fifty families, consisting of mud huts, and
situated in the midst of dusty plains, where corn was growing in
abundance. We asked for the house of the cura, an old man
whom I had seen the day before at the Irish College, and who, on
being informed that I was about to depart for Valladolid, had
exacted from me a promise that I would not pass through his
village without paying him a visit and partaking of his
hospitality.</p>

<p>A woman directed us to a cottage somewhat superior in
appearance to those contiguous. It had a small portico,
which, if I remember well, was overgrown with a vine. We
knocked loud and long at the door, but received no answer; the
voice of man was silent, and not even a dog barked. The
truth was, that the old curate was taking his siesta, and so were
his whole family, which consisted of one ancient female and a
cat. The good man was at last disturbed by our noise and
vociferation, for we were hungry, and consequently
impatient. Leaping from his couch, he came running to the
door in great hurry and confusion, and perceiving us, he made
many apologies for being asleep at a period when, he said, he
ought to have been on the lookout for his invited guest. He
embraced me very affectionately and conducted me into his
parlour, an apartment of tolerable size, hung round with shelves,
which were crowded with books. At one end there was a kind
of table or desk covered with black leather, with a large easy
chair, into which he pushed me, as I, with the true eagerness of
a bibliomaniac, was about to inspect his shelves; saying, with
considerable vehemence, that there was nothing there worthy of
the attention of an Englishman, for that his whole stock
consisted of breviaries and dry Catholic treatises on
divinity.</p>

<p>His care now was to furnish us with refreshments. In a
twinkling, with the assistance of his old attendant, he placed on
the table several plates of cakes and confectionery, and a number
of large uncouth glass bottles, which I thought bore a strong
resemblance to those of Schiedam, and indeed they were the very
same. &ldquo;There,&rdquo; said he, rubbing his hands;
&ldquo;I thank God that it is in my power to treat you in a way
which will be agreeable to you. In those bottles there is
Hollands thirty years old&rdquo;; and producing two large
tumblers, he continued, &ldquo;fill, my friends, and drink, drink
it every drop if you please, for it is of little use to myself,
who seldom drink aught but water. I know that you islanders
love it, and cannot live without it; therefore, since it does you
good, I am only sorry that there is no more.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Observing that we contented ourselves with merely tasting it,
he looked at us with astonishment, and inquired the reason of our
not drinking. We told him that we seldom drank ardent
spirits; and I added, that as for myself, I seldom tasted even
wine, but like himself, was content with the use of water.
He appeared somewhat incredulous, but told us to do exactly what
we pleased, and to ask for what was agreeable to us. We
told him that we had not dined, and should be glad of some
substantial refreshment. &ldquo;I am afraid,&rdquo; said
he, &ldquo;that I have nothing in the house which will suit you;
however, we will go and see.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Thereupon he led us through a small yard at the back part of
his house, which might have been called a garden, or orchard, if
it had displayed either trees or flowers; but it produced nothing
but grass, which was growing in luxuriance. At one end was
a large pigeon-house, which we all entered: &ldquo;for,&rdquo;
said the curate, &ldquo;if we could find some nice delicate
pigeons they would afford you an excellent dinner.&rdquo;
We were, however, disappointed; for after rummaging the nests, we
only found very young ones, unfitted for our purpose. The
good man became very melancholy, and said he had some misgivings
that we should have to depart dinnerless. Leaving the
pigeon-house, he conducted us to a place where there were several
skeps of bees, round which multitudes of the busy insects were
hovering, filling the air with their music. &ldquo;Next to
my fellow creatures,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;there is nothing
which I love so dearly as these bees; it is one of my delights to
sit watching them, and listening to their murmur.&rdquo; We
next went to several unfurnished rooms, fronting the yard, in one
of which were hanging several flitches of bacon, beneath which he
stopped, and looking up, gazed intently upon them. We told
him that if he had nothing better to offer, we should be very
glad to eat some slices of this bacon, especially if some eggs
were added. &ldquo;To tell the truth,&rdquo; said he,
&ldquo;I have nothing better, and if you can content yourselves
with such fare I shall be very happy; as for eggs you can have as
many as you wish, and perfectly fresh, for my hens lay every
day.&rdquo;</p>

<p>So, after every thing was prepared and arranged to our
satisfaction, we sat down to dine on the bacon and eggs, in a
small room, not the one to which he had ushered us at first, but
on the other side of the doorway. The good curate, though
he ate nothing, having taken his meal long before, sat at the
head of the table, and the repast was enlivened by his
chat. &ldquo;There, my friends,&rdquo; said he,
&ldquo;where you are now seated, once sat Wellington and
Crawford, after they had beat the French at Arapiles, and rescued
us from the thraldom of those wicked people. I never
respected my house so much as I have done since they honoured it
with their presence. They were heroes, and one was a
demigod.&rdquo; He then burst into a most eloquent
panegyric of El Gran Lord, as he termed him, which I should be
very happy to translate, were my pen capable of rendering into
English the robust thundering sentences of his powerful
Castilian. I had till then considered him a plain
uninformed old man, almost simple, and as incapable of much
emotion as a tortoise within its shell; but he had become at once
inspired: his eyes were replete with a bright fire, and every
muscle of his face was quivering. The little silk skull-cap
which he wore, according to the custom of the Catholic clergy,
moved up and down with his agitation, and I soon saw that I was
in the presence of one of those remarkable men who so frequently
spring up in the bosom of the Romish church, and who to a
child-like simplicity unite immense energy and power of
mind,&mdash;equally adapted to guide a scanty flock of ignorant
rustics in some obscure village in Italy or Spain, as to convert
millions of heathens on the shores of Japan, China, and
Paraguay.</p>

<p>He was a thin spare man, of about sixty-five, and was dressed
in a black cloak of very coarse materials, nor were his other
garments of superior quality. This plainness, however, in
the appearance of his outward man was by no means the result of
poverty; quite the contrary. The benefice was a very
plentiful one, and placed at his disposal annually a sum of at
least eight hundred dollars, of which the eighth part was more
than sufficient to defray the expenses of his house and himself;
the rest was devoted entirely to the purest acts of
charity. He fed the hungry wanderer, and dispatched him
singing on his way, with meat in his wallet and a peseta in his
purse, and his parishioners, when in need of money, had only to
repair to his study and were sure of an immediate supply.
He was, indeed, the banker of the village, and what he lent he
neither expected nor wished to be returned. Though under
the necessity of making frequent journeys to Salamanca, he kept
no mule, but contented himself with an ass, borrowed from the
neighbouring miller. &ldquo;I once kept a mule,&rdquo; said
he, &ldquo;but some years since it was removed without my
permission by a traveller whom I had housed for the night: for in
that alcove I keep two clean beds for the use of the wayfaring,
and I shall be very much pleased if yourself and friend will
occupy them, and tarry with me till the morning.&rdquo;</p>

<p>But I was eager to continue my journey, and my friend was no
less anxious to return to Salamanca. Upon taking leave of
the hospitable curate, I presented him with a copy of the New
Testament. He received it without uttering a single word,
and placed it on one of the shelves of his study; but I observed
him nodding significantly to the Irish student, perhaps as much
as to say, &ldquo;Your friend loses no opportunity of propagating
his book&rdquo;; for he was well aware who I was. I shall
not speedily forget the truly good presbyter, Anthonio Garcia de
Aguilar, Cura of Pitiegua.</p>

<p>We reached Pedroso shortly before nightfall. It was a
small village containing about thirty houses, and intersected by
a rivulet, or as it is called a regata. On its banks women
and maidens were washing their linen and singing couplets; the
church stood lone and solitary on the farther side. We
inquired for the posada, and were shown a cottage differing
nothing from the rest in general appearance. We called at
the door in vain, as it is not the custom of Castile for the
people of these halting places to go out to welcome their
visitors: at last we dismounted and entered the house, demanding
of a sullen-looking woman where we were to place the
horses. She said there was a stable within the house, but
we could not put the animals there as it contained malos machos
(<i>savage mules</i>) belonging to two travellers who would
certainly fight with our horses, and then there would be a
funcion, which would tear the house down. She then pointed
to an outhouse across the way, saying that we could stable them
there. We entered this place, which we found full of filth
and swine, with a door without a lock. I thought of the
fate of the cura&rsquo;s mule, and was unwilling to trust the
horses in such a place, abandoning them to the mercy of any
robber in the neighbourhood. I therefore entered the house,
and said resolutely, that I was determined to place them in the
stable. Two men were squatted on the ground, with an
immense bowl of stewed hare before them, on which they were
supping; these were the travelling merchants, the masters of the
mutes. I passed on to the stable, one of the men saying
softly, &ldquo;Yes, yes, go in and see what will
befall.&rdquo; I had no sooner entered the stable than I
heard a horrid discordant cry, something between a bray and a
yell, and the largest of the machos, tearing his head from the
manger to which he was fastened, his eyes shooting flames, and
breathing a whirlwind from his nostrils, flung himself on my
stallion. The horse, as savage as himself, reared on his
hind legs, and after the fashion of an English pugilist, repaid
the other with a pat on the forehead, which nearly felled
him. A combat instantly ensued, and I thought that the
words of the sullen woman would be verified by the house being
torn to pieces. It ended by my seizing the mute by the
halter, at the risk of my limbs, and hanging upon him with all my
weight, whilst Antonio, with much difficulty, removed the
horse. The man who had been standing at the entrance now
came forward, saying, &ldquo;This would not have happened if you
had taken good advice.&rdquo; Upon my stating to him the
unreasonableness of expecting that I would risk horses in a place
where they would probably be stolen before the morning, he
replied, &ldquo;True, true, you have perhaps done
right.&rdquo; He then refastened his macho, adding for
additional security a piece of whipcord, which he said rendered
escape impossible.</p>

<p>After supper I roamed about the village. I addressed two
or three labourers whom I found standing at their doors; they
appeared, however, exceedingly reserved, and with a gruff
&ldquo;<i>buenas noches</i>&rdquo; turned into their houses
without inviting me to enter. I at last found my way to the
church porch, where I continued some time in meditation. At
last I bethought myself of retiring to rest; before departing,
however, I took out and affixed to the porch of the church an
advertisement to the effect that the New Testament was to be
purchased at Salamanca. On returning to the house, I found
the two travelling merchants enjoying profound slumber on various
mantas or mule-cloths stretched on the floor. &ldquo;You
are a French merchant, I suppose, Caballero,&rdquo; said a man,
who it seemed was the master of the house, and whom I had not
before seen. &ldquo;You are a French merchant, I suppose,
and are on the way to the fair of Medina.&rdquo; &ldquo;I
am neither Frenchman nor merchant,&rdquo; I replied, &ldquo;and
though I purpose passing through Medina, it is not with the view
of attending the fair.&rdquo; &ldquo;Then you are one of
the Irish Christians from Salamanca, Caballero,&rdquo; said the
man; &ldquo;I hear you come from that town.&rdquo;
&ldquo;Why do you call them <i>Irish Christians</i>?&rdquo; I
replied. &ldquo;Are there pagans in their
country?&rdquo; &ldquo;We call them Christians,&rdquo; said
the man, &ldquo;to distinguish them from the Irish English, who
are worse than pagans, who are Jews and heretics.&rdquo; I
made no answer, but passed on to the room which had been prepared
for me, and from which, the door being ajar, I heard the
following conversation passing between the innkeeper and his
wife:&mdash;</p>

<p><i>Innkeeper</i>.&mdash;Muger, it appears to me that we have
evil guests in the house.</p>

<p><i>Wife</i>.&mdash;You mean the last comers, the Caballero and
his servant. Yes, I never saw worse countenances in my
life.</p>

<p><i>Innkeeper</i>.&mdash;I do not like the servant, and still
less the master. He has neither formality nor politeness:
he tells me that he is not French, and when I spoke to him of the
Irish Christians, he did not seem to belong to them. I more
than suspect that he is a heretic or a Jew at least.</p>

<p><i>Wife</i>.&mdash;Perhaps they are both. Maria
Santissima! what shall we do to purify the house when they are
gone?</p>

<p><i>Innkeeper</i>.&mdash;O, as for that matter, we must of
course charge it in the cuenta.</p>

<p>I slept soundly, and rather late in the morning arose and
breakfasted, and paid the bill, in which, by its extravagance, I
found the purification had not been forgotten. The
travelling merchants had departed at daybreak. We now led
forth the horses, and mounted; there were several people at the
door staring at us. &ldquo;What is the meaning of
this?&rdquo; said I to Antonio.</p>

<p>&ldquo;It is whispered that we are no Christians,&rdquo; said
Antonio; &ldquo;they have come to cross themselves at our
departure.&rdquo;</p>

<p>In effect, the moment that we rode forward a dozen hands at
least were busied in this evil-averting ceremony. Antonio
instantly turned and crossed himself in the Greek
fashion,&mdash;much more complex and difficult than the
Catholic.</p>

<p>&ldquo;<i>Mirad que Santiguo</i>! <i>que Santiguo de los
demonios</i>!&rdquo; <a name="citation196"></a><a
href="#footnote196" class="citation">[196]</a> exclaimed many
voices, whilst for fear of consequences we hastened away.</p>

<p>The day was exceedingly hot, and we wended our way slowly
along the plains of Old Castile. With all that pertains to
Spain, vastness and sublimity are associated: grand are its
mountains, and no less grand are its plains, which seem of
boundless extent, but which are not tame unbroken flats, like the
steppes of Russia. Rough and uneven ground is continually
occurring: here a deep ravine and gully worn by the wintry
torrent; yonder an eminence not unfrequently craggy and savage,
at whose top appears the lone solitary village. There is
little that is blithesome and cheerful, but much that is
melancholy. A few solitary rustics are occasionally seen
toiling in the fields&mdash;fields without limit or boundary,
where the green oak, the elm or the ash are unknown; where only
the sad and desolate pine displays its pyramid-like form, and
where no grass is to be found. And who are the travellers
of these districts? For the most part arrieros, with their
long trains of mules hung with monotonous tinkling bells.
Behold them with their brown faces, brown dresses, and broad
slouched hats;&mdash;the arrieros, the true lords of the roads of
Spain, and to whom more respect is paid in these dusty ways than
to dukes and condes;&mdash;the arrieros, sullen, proud, and
rarely courteous, whose deep voices may be sometimes heard at the
distance of a mile, either cheering the sluggish animals, or
shortening the dreary way with savage and dissonant songs.</p>

<p>Late in the afternoon, we reached Medina del Campo, formerly
one of the principal cities of Spain, though at present an
inconsiderable place. Immense ruins surround it in every
direction, attesting the former grandeur of this &ldquo;city of
the plain.&rdquo; The great square or market-place is a
remarkable spot, surrounded by a heavy massive piazza, over which
rise black buildings of great antiquity. We found the town
crowded with people awaiting the fair, which was to be held in a
day or two. We experienced some difficulty in obtaining
admission into the posada, which was chiefly occupied by Catalans
from Valladolid. These people not only brought with them
their merchandise but their wives and children. Some of
them appeared to be people of the worst description: there was
one in particular, a burly savage-looking fellow, of about forty,
whose conduct was atrocious; he sat with his wife, or perhaps
concubine, at the door of a room which opened upon the court: he
was continually venting horrible and obscene oaths, both in
Spanish and Catalan. The woman was remarkably handsome, but
robust and seemingly as savage as himself; her conversation
likewise was as frightful as his own. Both seemed to be
under the influence of an incomprehensible fury. At last,
upon some observation from the woman, he started up, and drawing
a long knife from his girdle, stabbed at her naked bosom; she,
however, interposed the palm of her hand, which was much
cut. He stood for a moment viewing the blood trickling upon
the ground, whilst she held up her wounded hand, then with an
astounding oath he hurried up the court to the Plaza. I
went up to the woman and said, &ldquo;What is the cause of
this? I hope the ruffian has not seriously injured
you.&rdquo; She turned her countenance upon me with the
glance of a demon, and at last with a sneer of contempt
exclaimed, &ldquo;<i>Carals</i>, <i>que es eso</i>? Cannot
a Catalan gentleman be conversing with his lady upon their own
private affairs without being interrupted by you?&rdquo;
She then bound up her hand with a handkerchief, and going into
the room brought a small table to the door, on which she placed
several things as if for the evening&rsquo;s repast, and then sat
down on a stool: presently returned the Catalan, and without a
word took his seat on the threshold; then, as if nothing had
occurred, the extraordinary couple commenced eating and drinking,
interlarding their meal with oaths and jests.</p>

<p>We spent the night at Medina, and departing early next
morning, passed through much the same country as the day before,
until about noon we reached a small venta, distant half a league
from the Duero; here we reposed ourselves during the heat of the
day, and then remounting, crossed the river by a handsome stone
bridge, and directed our course to Valladolid. The banks of
the Duero in this place have much beauty: they abound with trees
and brushwood, amongst which, as we passed along, various birds
were singing melodiously. A delicious coolness proceeded
from the water, which in some parts brawled over stones or
rippled fleetly over white sand, and in others glided softly over
blue pools of considerable depth. By the side of one of
these last, sat a woman of about thirty, neatly dressed as a
peasant; she was gazing upon the water into which she
occasionally flung flowers and twigs of trees. I stopped
for a moment to ask a question; she, however, neither looked up
nor answered, but continued gazing at the water as if lost to
consciousness of all beside. &ldquo;Who is that
woman?&rdquo; said I to a shepherd, whom I met the moment
after. &ldquo;She is mad, <i>la pobrecita</i>,&rdquo; said
he; &ldquo;she lost her child about a month ago in that pool, and
she has been mad ever since; they are going to send her to
Valladolid, to the Casa de los Locos. There are many who
perish every year in the eddies of the Duero; it is a bad river;
<i>vaya usted con la Virgen</i>, <i>Caballero</i>.&rdquo;
So I rode on through the pinares, or thin scanty pine forests,
which skirt the way to Valladolid in this direction.</p>

<p>Valladolid is seated in the midst of an immense valley, or
rather hollow which seems to have been scooped by some mighty
convulsion out of the plain ground of Castile. The
eminences which appear in the neighbourhood are not properly high
grounds, but are rather the sides of this hollow. They are
jagged and precipitous, and exhibit a strange and uncouth
appearance. Volcanic force seems at some distant period to
have been busy in these districts. Valladolid abounds with
convents, at present deserted, which afford some of the finest
specimens of architecture in Spain. The principal church,
though rather ancient, is unfinished: it was intended to be a
building of vast size, but the means of the founders were
insufficient to carry out their plan: it is built of rough
granite. Valladolid is a manufacturing town, but the
commerce is chiefly in the hands of the Catalans, of whom there
is a colony of nearly three hundred established here. It
possesses a beautiful alameda, or public walk, through which
flows the river Escurva. The population is said to amount
to sixty thousand souls.</p>

<p>We put up at the Posada de las Diligencias, a very magnificent
edifice: this posada, however, we were glad to quit on the second
day after our arrival, the accommodation being of the most
wretched description, and the incivility of the people great; the
master of the house, an immense tall fellow, with huge moustaches
and an assumed military air, being far too high a cavalier to
attend to the wants of his guests, with whom, it is true, he did
not appear to be overburdened, as I saw no one but Antonio and
myself. He was a leading man amongst the national guards of
Valladolid, and delighted in parading about the city on a clumsy
steed, which he kept in a subterranean stable.</p>

<p>Our next quarters were at the Trojan Horse, an ancient posada,
kept by a native of the Basque provinces, who at least was not
above his business. We found everything in confusion at
Valladolid, a visit from the factious being speedily
expected. All the gates were blockaded, and various forts
had been built to cover the approaches to the city. Shortly
after our departure the Carlists actually did arrive, under the
command of the Biscayan chief, Zariategui. They experienced
no opposition; the staunchest nationals retiring to the principal
fort, which they, however, speedily surrendered, not a gun being
fired throughout the affair. As for my friend the hero of
the inn, on the first rumour of the approach of the enemy, he
mounted his horse and rode off, and was never subsequently heard
of. On our return to Valladolid, we found the inn in other
and better hands, those of a Frenchman from Bayonne, from whom we
received as much civility as we had experienced rudeness from his
predecessor.</p>

<p>In a few days I formed the acquaintance of the bookseller of
the place, a kind-hearted simple man, who willingly undertook the
charge of vending the Testaments which I brought.</p>

<p>I found literature of every description at the lowest ebb at
Valladolid. My newly-acquired friend merely carried on
bookselling in connexion with other business; it being, as he
assured me, in itself quite insufficient to afford him a
livelihood. During the week, however, that I continued in
this city, a considerable number of copies were disposed of, and
a fair prospect opened that many more would be demanded. To
call attention to my books, I had recourse to the same plan which
I had adopted at Salamanca, the affixing of advertisements to the
walls. Before leaving the city, I gave orders that these
should be renewed every week; from pursuing which course I
expected that much manifold good would accrue, as the people
would have continual opportunities of learning that a book which
contains the living word was in existence, and within their
reach, which might induce them to secure it and consult it even
unto salvation.</p>
<div class="gapspace"></div>
<p>In Valladolid I found both an English and Scotch
College. From my obliging friends, the Irish at Salamanca,
I bore a letter of introduction to the rector of the
latter. I found this college an old gloomy edifice,
situated in a retired street. The rector was dressed in the
habiliments of a Spanish ecclesiastic, a character which he was
evidently ambitious of assuming. There was something dry
and cold in his manner, and nothing of that generous warmth and
eager hospitality which had so captivated me in the fine Irish
rector of Salamanca; he was, however, civil and polite, and
offered to show me the curiosities of the place. He
evidently knew who I was, and on that account was, perhaps, more
reserved than he otherwise would have been: not a word passed
between us on religious matters, which we seemed to avoid by
common consent. Under the auspices of this gentleman, I
visited the college of the Philippine Missions, which stands
beyond the gate of the city, where I was introduced to the
superior, a fine old man of seventy, very stout, in the
habiliments of a friar. There was an air of placid
benignity on his countenance which highly interested me: his
words were few and simple, and he seemed to have bid adieu to all
worldly passions. One little weakness was, however, still
clinging to him.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;This is a noble edifice in which you
dwell, Father; I should think it would contain at least two
hundred students.</p>

<p><i>Rector</i>.&mdash;More, my son; it is intended for more
hundreds than it now contains single individuals.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;I observe that some rude attempts have
been made to fortify it; the walls are pierced with loopholes in
every direction.</p>

<p><i>Rector</i>.&mdash;The nationals of Valladolid visited us a
few days ago, and committed much useless damage; they were rather
rude, and threatened me with their clubs: poor men, poor men.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;I suppose that even these missions, which
are certainly intended for a noble end, experience the sad
effects of the present convulsed state of Spain?</p>

<p><i>Rector</i>.&mdash;But too true: we at present receive no
assistance from the government, and are left to the Lord and
ourselves.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;How many aspirants for the mission are
you at present instructing?</p>

<p><i>Rector</i>.&mdash;Not one, my son; not one. They are
all fled. The flock is scattered and the shepherd left
alone.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Your reverence has doubtless taken an
active part in the mission abroad?</p>

<p><i>Rector</i>.&mdash;I was forty years in the Philippines, my
son, forty years amongst the Indians. Ah me! how I love
those Indians of the Philippines.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Can your reverence discourse in the
language of the Indians?</p>

<p><i>Rector</i>.&mdash;No, my son. We teach the Indians
Castilian. There is no better language, I believe. We
teach them Castilian, and the adoration of the Virgin. What
more need they know?</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;And what did your reverence think of the
Philippines as a country?</p>

<p><i>Rector</i>.&mdash;I was forty years in the Philippines, but
I know little of the country. I do not like the
country. I love the Indians. The country is not very
bad; it is, however, not worth Castile.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Is your reverence a Castilian?</p>

<p><i>Rector</i>.&mdash;I am an <i>Old</i> Castilian, my son.</p>

<p>From the house of the Philippine Missions my friend conducted
me to the English college; this establishment seemed in every
respect to be on a more magnificent scale than its Scottish
sister. In the latter there were few pupils, scarcely six
or seven, I believe, whilst in the English seminary I was
informed that between thirty and forty were receiving their
education. It is a beautiful building, with a small but
splendid church, and a handsome library. The situation is
light and airy: it stands by itself in an unfrequented part of
the city, and, with genuine English exclusiveness, is surrounded
by a high wall, which encloses a delicious garden. This is
by far the most remarkable establishment of the kind in the
Peninsula, and I believe the most prosperous. From the
cursory view which I enjoyed of its interior, I of course cannot
be expected to know much of its economy. I could not,
however, fail to be struck with the order, neatness, and system
which pervaded it. There was, however, an air of severe
monastic discipline, though I am far from asserting that such
actually existed. We were attended throughout by the
sub-rector, the principal being absent. Of all the
curiosities of this college, the most remarkable is the picture
gallery, which contains neither more nor less than the portraits
of a variety of scholars of this house who eventually suffered
martyrdom in England, in the exercise of their vocation in the
angry times of the Sixth Edward and fierce Elizabeth. Yes,
in this very house were many of those pale smiling half-foreign
priests educated, who, like stealthy grimalkins, traversed green
England in all directions; crept into old halls beneath
umbrageous rookeries, fanning the dying embers of Popery, with no
other hope nor perhaps wish than to perish disembowelled by the
bloody hands of the executioner, amongst the yells of a rabble as
bigoted as themselves: priests like Bedingfield and Garnet, and
many others who have left a name in English story.
Doubtless many a history, only the more wonderful for being true,
could be wrought out of the archives of the English Popish
seminary at Valladolid.</p>

<p>There was no lack of guests at the Trojan Horse, where we had
taken up our abode at Valladolid. Amongst others who
arrived during my sojourn was a robust buxom dame, exceedingly
well dressed in black silk, with a costly mantilla. She was
accompanied by a very handsome, but sullen and malicious-looking
urchin of about fifteen, who appeared to be her son. She
came from Toro, a place about a day&rsquo;s journey from
Valladolid, and celebrated for its wine. One night, as we
were seated in the court of the inn enjoying the fresco, the
following conversation ensued between us.</p>

<p><i>Lady</i>.&mdash;Vaya, vaya, what a tiresome place is
Valladolid! How different from Toro.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;I should have thought that it is at least
as agreeable as Toro, which is not a third part so large.</p>

<p><i>Lady</i>.&mdash;As agreeable as Toro! Vaya,
vaya! Were you ever in the prison of Toro, Sir
Cavalier?</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;I have never had that honour; the prison
is generally the last place which I think of visiting.</p>

<p><i>Lady</i>.&mdash;See the difference of tastes: I have been
to see the prison of Valladolid, and it seems as tiresome as the
town.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Of course, if grief and tediousness exist
anywhere, you will find them in the prison.</p>

<p><i>Lady</i>.&mdash;Not in that of Toro.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;What does that of Toro possess to
distinguish it from all others?</p>

<p><i>Lady</i>.&mdash;What does it possess? Vaya! Am
I not the carcelera? Is not my husband the alcayde?
Is not that son of mine a child of the prison?</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;I beg your pardon, I was not aware of
that circumstance; it of course makes much difference.</p>

<p><i>Lady</i>.&mdash;I believe you. I am a daughter of
that prison, my father was alcayde, and my son might hope to be
so, were he not a fool.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;His countenance then belies him
strangely: I should be loth to purchase that youngster for a
fool.</p>

<p><i>Gaoleress</i>.&mdash;You would have a fine bargain if you
did; he has more picardias than any Calabozero in Toro.
What I mean is, that he does not take to the prison as he ought
to do, considering what his fathers were before him. He has
too much pride&mdash;too many fancies; and he has at length
persuaded me to bring him to Valladolid, where I have arranged
with a merchant who lives in the Plaza to take him on
trial. I wish he may not find his way to the prison: if he
do, he will find that being a prisoner is a very different thing
from being a son of the prison.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;As there is so much merriment at Toro,
you of course attend to the comfort of your prisoners.</p>

<p><i>Gaoleress</i>.&mdash;Yes, we are very kind to them; I mean
to those who are caballeros; but as for those with vermin and
miseria, what can we do? It is a merry prison that of Toro;
we allow as much wine to enter as the prisoners can purchase and
pay duty for. This of Valladolid is not half so gay: there
is no prison like Toro. I learned there to play on the
guitar. An Andalusian cavalier taught me to touch the
guitar and to sing à la Gitana. Poor fellow, he was
my first novio. Juanito, bring me the guitar, that I may
play this gentleman a tune of Andalusia.</p>

<p>The carcelera had a fine voice, and touched the favourite
instrument of the Spaniards in a truly masterly manner. I
remained listening to her performance for nearly an hour, when I
retired to my apartment and my repose. I believe that she
continued playing and singing during the greater part of the
night, for as I occasionally awoke I could still hear her; and,
even in my slumbers, the strings were ringing in my ears.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XXII</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Due&ntilde;as&mdash;Children of
Egypt&mdash;Jockeyism&mdash;The Baggage Pony&mdash;The
Fall&mdash;Palencia&mdash;Carlist Priests&mdash;The
Lookout&mdash;Priestly Sincerity&mdash;Leon&mdash;Antonio
alarmed&mdash;Heat and Dust.</p>

<p>After a sojourn of about ten days at Valladolid, we directed
our course towards Leon. We arrived about noon at
Due&ntilde;as, a town at the distance of six short leagues from
Valladolid. It is in every respect a singular place: it
stands on a rising ground, and directly above it towers a steep
conical mountain of calcareous earth, crowned by a ruined
castle. Around Due&ntilde;as are seen a multitude of caves
scooped in the high banks and secured with strong doors.
These are cellars, in which is deposited the wine, of which
abundance is grown in the neighbourhood, and which is chiefly
sold to the Navarrese and the mountaineers of Santander, who
arrive in cars drawn by oxen, and convey it away in large
quantities. We put up at a mean posada in the suburb for
the purpose of refreshing our horses. Several cavalry
soldiers were quartered there, who instantly came forth, and
began, with the eyes of connoisseurs, to inspect my Andalusian
entero. &ldquo;A capital horse that would be for our
troop,&rdquo; said the corporal; &ldquo;what a chest he
has. By what right do you travel with that horse,
Se&ntilde;or, when so many are wanted for the Queen&rsquo;s
service? He belongs to the requiso.&rdquo; &ldquo;I
travel with him by right of purchase, and being an
Englishman,&rdquo; I replied. &ldquo;Oh, your worship is an
Englishman,&rdquo; answered the corporal; &ldquo;that, indeed,
alters the matter; the English in Spain are allowed to do what
they please with their own, which is more than the Spaniards
are. Cavalier, I have seen your countrymen in the Basque
provinces; Vaya, what riders! what horses! They do not
fight badly either. But their chief skill is in riding: I
have seen them dash over barrancos to get at the factious, who
thought themselves quite secure, and then they would fall upon
them on a sudden and kill them to a man. In truth, your
worship, this is a fine horse, I must look at his
teeth.&rdquo;</p>

<p>I looked at the corporal&mdash;his nose and eyes were in the
horse&rsquo;s mouth: the rest of the party, who might amount to
six or seven, were not less busily engaged. One was
examining his forefeet, another his hind; one fellow was pulling
at his tail with all his might, while another pinched the
windpipe, for the purpose of discovering whether the animal was
at all touched there. At last perceiving that the corporal
was about to remove the saddle that he might examine the back of
the animal, I exclaimed:&mdash;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Stay, ye chabés of Egypt, ye forget that ye are
hundunares, and are no longer paruguing grastes in the
chardy.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The corporal at these words turned his face full upon me, and
so did all the rest. Yes, sure enough, there were the
countenances of Egypt, and the fixed filmy stare of eye. We
continued looking at each other for a minute at least, when the
corporal, a villainous-looking fellow, at last said, in the
richest gypsy whine imaginable, &ldquo;the erray know us, the
poor Caloré! And he an Englishman!
Bullati! I should not have thought that there was
e&rsquo;er a Busno would know us in these parts, where Gitanos
are never seen. Yes, your worship is right; we are all here
of the blood of the Caloré; we are from Melegrana
(Granada), your worship; they took us from thence and sent us to
the wars. Your worship is right, the sight of that horse
made us believe we were at home again in the mercado of Granada;
he is a countryman of ours, a real Andalou. Por dios, your
worship, sell us that horse; we are poor Caloré, but we
can buy him.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;You forget that you are soldiers,&rdquo; said I.
&ldquo;How should you buy my horse?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;We are soldiers, your worship,&rdquo; said the
corporal, &ldquo;but we are still Caloré; we buy and sell
bestis; the captain of our troop is in league with us. We
have been to the wars, but not to fight; we left that to the
Busné. We have kept together, and like true
Caloré, have stood back to back. We have made money
in the wars, your worship. <i>No tenga usted cuidao</i> (be
under no apprehension). We can buy your horse.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Here he pulled out a purse, which contained at least ten
ounces of gold.</p>

<p>&ldquo;If I were willing to sell,&rdquo; I replied,
&ldquo;what would you give me for that horse?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Then your worship wishes to sell your horse&mdash;that
alters the matter. We will give ten dollars for your
worship&rsquo;s horse. He is good for nothing.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;How is this?&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;You this
moment told me he was a fine horse&mdash;an Andalusian, and a
countryman of yours.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;No, Se&ntilde;or! we did not say that he was an
Andalou. We said he was an Estremou, and the worst of his
kind. He is eighteen years old, your worship, short-winded
and galled.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I do not wish to sell my horse,&rdquo; said I;
&ldquo;quite the contrary; I had rather buy than sell.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Your worship does not wish to sell your horse,&rdquo;
said the Gypsy. &ldquo;Stay, your worship, we will give
sixty dollars for your worship&rsquo;s horse.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I would not sell him for two hundred and sixty.
Meclis! Meclis! say no more. I know your Gypsy
tricks. I will have no dealings with you.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Did I not hear your worship say that you wished to buy
a horse?&rdquo; said the Gypsy.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I do not want to buy a horse,&rdquo; said I; &ldquo;if
I need any thing, it is a pony to carry our baggage; but it is
getting late. Antonio, pay the reckoning.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Stay, your worship, do not be in a hurry,&rdquo; said
the Gypsy: &ldquo;I have got the very pony which will suit
you.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Without waiting for my answer, he hurried into the stable,
from whence he presently returned, leading an animal by a
halter. It was a pony of about thirteen hands high, of a
dark red colour; it was very much galled all over, the marks of
ropes and thongs being visible on its hide. The figure,
however, was good, and there was an extraordinary brightness in
its eye.</p>

<p>&ldquo;There, your worship,&rdquo; said the Gypsy;
&ldquo;there is the best pony in all Spain.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;What do you mean by showing me this wretched
creature?&rdquo; said I.</p>

<p>&ldquo;This wretched creature,&rdquo; said the Gypsy,
&ldquo;is a better horse than your Andalou!&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Perhaps you would not exchange,&rdquo; said I,
smiling.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Se&ntilde;or, what I say is, that he shall run with
your Andalou, and beat him!&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;He looks feeble,&rdquo; said I; &ldquo;his work is well
nigh done.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Feeble as he is, Se&ntilde;or, you could not manage
him; no, nor any Englishman in Spain.&rdquo;</p>

<p>I looked at the creature again, and was still more struck with
its figure. I was in need of a pony to relieve occasionally
the horse of Antonio in carrying the baggage which we had brought
from Madrid, and though the condition of this was wretched, I
thought that by kind treatment I might possibly soon bring him
round.</p>

<p>&ldquo;May I mount this animal?&rdquo; I demanded.</p>

<p>&ldquo;He is a baggage pony, Se&ntilde;or, and is ill to
mount. He will suffer none but myself to mount him, who am
his master. When he once commences running, nothing will
stop him but the sea. He springs over hills and mountains,
and leaves them behind in a moment. If you will mount him,
Se&ntilde;or, suffer me to fetch a bridle, for you can never hold
him in with the halter.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;This is nonsense,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;You
pretend that he is spirited in order to enhance the price.
I tell you his work is done.&rdquo;</p>

<p>I took the halter in my hand and mounted. I was no
sooner on his back than the creature, who had before stood stone
still, without displaying the slightest inclination to move, and
who in fact gave no farther indication of existence than
occasionally rolling his eyes and pricking up an ear, sprang
forward like a racehorse, at a most desperate gallop. I had
expected that he might kick or fling himself down on the ground,
in order to get rid of his burden, but for this escapade I was
quite unprepared. I had no difficulty, however, in keeping
on his back, having been accustomed from my childhood to ride
without a saddle. To stop him, however, baffled all my
endeavours, and I almost began to pay credit to the words of the
Gypsy, who had said that he would run on until he reached the
sea. I had, however, a strong arm, and I tugged at the
halter until I compelled him to turn slightly his neck, which
from its stiffness might almost have been of wood; he, however,
did not abate his speed for a moment. On the left side of
the road down which he was dashing was a deep trench, just where
the road took a turn towards the right, and over this he sprang
in a sideward direction; the halter broke with the effort, the
pony shot forward like an arrow, whilst I fell back into the
dust.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Se&ntilde;or!&rdquo; said the Gypsy, coming up with the
most serious countenance in the world, &ldquo;I told you not to
mount that animal unless well bridled and bitted. He is a
baggage pony, and will suffer none to mount his back, with the
exception of myself who feed him.&rdquo; (Here he whistled,
and the animal, who was scurring over the field, and occasionally
kicking up his heels, instantly returned with a gentle
neigh.) &ldquo;Now, your worship, see how gentle he
is. He is a capital baggage pony, and will carry all you
have over the hills of Galicia.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;What do you ask for him?&rdquo; said I.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Se&ntilde;or, as your worship is an Englishman, and a
good ginete, and, moreover, understands the ways of the
Caloré, and their tricks and their language also, I will
sell him to you a bargain. I will take two hundred and
sixty dollars for him and no less.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;That is a large sum,&rdquo; said I.</p>

<p>&ldquo;No, Se&ntilde;or, not at all, considering that he is a
baggage pony, and belongs to the troop, and is not mine to
sell.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Two hours&rsquo; ride brought us to Palencia, a fine old town,
beautifully situated on the Carrion, and famous for its trade in
wool. We put up at the best posada which the place
afforded, and I forthwith proceeded to visit one of the principal
merchants of the town, to whom I was recommended by my banker in
Madrid. I was told, however, that he was taking his
siesta. &ldquo;Then I had better take my own,&rdquo; said
I, and returned to the posada. In the evening I went again,
when I saw him. He was a short bulky man about thirty, and
received me at first with some degree of bluntness; his manner,
however, presently became more kind, and at last he scarcely
appeared to know how to show me sufficient civility. His
brother had just arrived from Santander, and to him he introduced
me. This last was a highly-intelligent person, and had
passed many years of his life in England. They both
insisted upon showing me the town, and, indeed, led me all over
it, and about the neighbourhood. I particularly admired the
cathedral, a light, elegant, but ancient Gothic edifice.
Whilst we walked about the aisles, the evening sun, pouring its
mellow rays through the arched windows, illumined some beautiful
paintings of Murillo, with which the sacred edifice is
adorned. From the church my friends conducted me to a
fulling mill in the neighbourhood, by a picturesque walk.
There was no lack either of trees or water, and I remarked, that
the environs of Palencia were amongst the most pleasant places
that I had ever seen.</p>

<p>Tired at last with rambling, we repaired to a coffee-house,
where they regaled me with chocolate and sweet-meats. Such
was their hospitality; and of hospitality of this simple and
agreeable kind there is much in Spain.</p>

<p>On the next day we pursued our journey, a dreary one, for the
most part, over bleak and barren plains, interspersed with silent
and cheerless towns and villages, which stood at the distance of
two or three leagues from each other. About midday we
obtained a dim and distant view of an immense range of mountains,
which are in fact those which bound Castile on the north.
The day, however, became dim and obscure, and we speedily lost
sight of them. A hollow wind now arose and blew over these
desolate plains with violence, wafting clouds of dust into our
faces; the rays of the sun were few, and those red and
angry. I was tired of my journey, and when about four we
reached ---, a large village, half way between Palencia and Leon,
I declared my intention of stopping for the night. I
scarcely ever saw a more desolate place than this same town or
village of ---. The houses were for the most part large,
but the walls were of mud, like those of barns. We saw no
person in the long winding street to direct us to the venta, or
posada, till at last, at the farther end of the place, we
descried two black figures standing at a door, of whom, on making
inquiry, we learned that the door at which they stood was that of
the house we were in quest of. There was something strange
in the appearance of these two beings, who seemed the genii of
the place. One was a small slim man, about fifty, with
sharp, ill-natured features. He was dressed in coarse black
worsted stockings, black breeches, and an ample black coat with
long trailing skirts. I should at once have taken him for
an ecclesiastic, but for his hat, which had nothing clerical
about it, being a pinched diminutive beaver. His companion
was of low stature, and a much younger man. He was dressed
in similar fashion, save that he wore a dark blue cloak.
Both carried walking sticks in their hands, and kept hovering
about the door, now within and now without, occasionally looking
up the road, as if they expected some one.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Trust me, mon ma&icirc;tre,&rdquo; said Antonio to me,
in French, &ldquo;those two fellows are Carlist priests, and are
awaiting the arrival of the Pretender. <i>Les
imbeciles</i>!&rdquo;</p>

<p>We conducted our horses to the stable, to which we were shown
by the woman of the house. &ldquo;Who are those men?&rdquo;
said I to her.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The eldest is head curate to our pueblo,&rdquo; said
she; &ldquo;the other is brother to my husband. Pobrecito!
he was a friar in our convent before it was shut up and the
brethren driven forth.&rdquo;</p>

<p>We returned to the door. &ldquo;I suppose,
gentlemen,&rdquo; said the curate, &ldquo;that you are
Catalans. Do you bring any news from that
kingdom?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Why do you suppose we are Catalans?&rdquo; I
demanded.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Because I heard you this moment conversing in that
language.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I bring no news from Catalonia,&rdquo; said I.
&ldquo;I believe, however, that the greater part of that
principality is in the hands of the Carlists.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Ahem, brother Pedro! This gentleman says that the
greater part of Catalonia is in the hands of the royalists.
Pray, sir, where may Don Carlos be at present with his
army?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;He may be coming down the road this moment,&rdquo; said
I, &ldquo;for what I know;&rdquo; and, stepping out, I looked up
the way.</p>

<p>The two figures were at my side in a moment; Antonio followed,
and we all four looked intently up the road.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Do you see anything?&rdquo; said I at last to
Antonio.</p>

<p>&ldquo;<i>Non</i>, <i>mon maitre</i>.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Do you see anything, sir?&rdquo; said I to the
curate.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I see nothing,&rdquo; said the curate, stretching out
his neck.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I see nothing,&rdquo; said Pedro, the ex-friar;
&ldquo;I see nothing but the dust, which is becoming every moment
more blinding.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I shall go in, then,&rdquo; said I.
&ldquo;Indeed, it is scarcely prudent to be standing here looking
out for the Pretender: should the nationals of the town hear of
it, they might perhaps shoot us.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Ahem,&rdquo; said the curate, following me;
&ldquo;there are no nationals in this place: I would fain see
what inhabitant would dare become a national. When the
inhabitants of this place were ordered to take up arms as
nationals, they refused to a man, and on that account we had to
pay a mulet; therefore, friend, you may speak out if you have
anything to communicate; we are all of your opinion
here.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I am of no opinion at all,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;save
that I want my supper. I am neither for Rey nor
Roque. You say that I am a Catalan, and you know that
Catalans think only of their own affairs.&rdquo;</p>

<p>In the evening I strolled by myself about the village, which I
found still more forlorn and melancholy than it at first
appeared; perhaps, however, it had been a place of consequence in
its time. In one corner of it I found the ruins of a large
clumsy castle, chiefly built of flint stones: into these ruins I
attempted to penetrate, but the entrance was secured by a
gate. From the castle I found my way to the convent, a sad
desolate place, formerly the residence of mendicant brothers of
the order of St. Francis. I was about to return to the inn,
when I heard a loud buzz of voices, and, following the sound,
presently reached a kind of meadow, where, upon a small knoll,
sat a priest in full canonicals, reading in a loud voice a
newspaper, while around him, either erect or seated on the grass,
were assembled about fifty vecinos, for the most part dressed in
long cloaks, amongst whom I discovered my two friends the curate
and friar. A fine knot of Carlist quid-nuncs, said I to
myself, and turned away to another part of the meadow, where the
cattle of the village were grazing. The curate, on
observing me, detached himself instantly from the group, and
followed. &ldquo;I am told you want a pony,&rdquo; said he;
&ldquo;there now is mine feeding amongst those horses, the best
in all the kingdom of Leon.&rdquo; He then began with all
the volubility of a chalan to descant on the points of the
animal. Presently the friar joined us, who, observing his
opportunity, pulled me by the sleeve and whispered, &ldquo;Have
nothing to do with the curate, master, he is the greatest thief
in the neighbourhood; if you want a pony, my brother has a much
better, which he will dispose of cheaper.&rdquo; &ldquo;I
shall wait till I arrive at Leon,&rdquo; I exclaimed, and walked
away, musing on priestly friendship and sincerity.</p>

<p>From --- to Leon, a distance of eight leagues, the country
rapidly improved: we passed over several small streams, and
occasionally found ourselves amongst meadows in which grass was
growing in the richest luxuriance. The sun shone out
brightly, and I hailed his re-appearance with joy, though the
heat of his beams was oppressive. On arriving within two
leagues of Leon, we passed numerous cars and waggons, and bands
of people with horses and mules, all hastening to the celebrated
fair which is held in the city on St. John&rsquo;s or Mid-summer
day, and which took place within three days after our
arrival. This fair, though principally intended for the
sale of horses, is frequented by merchants from many parts of
Spain, who attend with goods of various kinds, and amongst them I
remarked many of the Catalans whom I had previously seen at
Medina and Valladolid.</p>

<p>There is nothing remarkable in Leon, which is an old gloomy
town, with the exception of its cathedral, in many respects a
counterpart of the church of Palencia, exhibiting the same light
and elegant architecture, but, unlike its beautiful sister,
unadorned with splendid paintings. The situation of Leon is
highly pleasant, in the midst of a blooming country, abounding
with trees, and watered by many streams, which have their source
in the mighty mountains in the neighbourhood. It is,
however, by no means a healthy place, especially in summer, when
the heats raise noxious exhalations from the waters, generating
many kinds of disorders, especially fevers.</p>

<p>I had scarcely been at Leon three days when I was seized with
a fever, against which I thought the strength even of my
constitution would have yielded, for it wore me almost to a
skeleton, and when it departed, at the end of about a week, left
me in such a deplorable state of weakness that I was scarcely
able to make the slightest exertion. I had, however,
previously persuaded a bookseller to undertake the charge of
vending the Testaments, and had published my advertisements as
usual, though without very sanguine hope of success, as Leon is a
place where the inhabitants, with very few exceptions, are
furious Carlists, and ignorant and blinded followers of the old
papal church. It is, moreover, a bishop&rsquo;s see, which
was once enjoyed by the prime counsellor of Don Carlos, whose
fierce and bigoted spirit still seems to pervade the place.
Scarcely had the advertisements appeared, when the clergy were in
motion. They went from house to house, banning and cursing,
and denouncing misery to whomsoever should either purchase or
read &ldquo;the accursed books,&rdquo; which had been sent into
the country by heretics for the purpose of perverting the
innocent minds of the population. They did more; they
commenced a process against the bookseller in the ecclesiastical
court. Fortunately this court is not at present in the
possession of much authority; and the bookseller, a bold and
determined man, set them at defiance, and went so far as to affix
an advertisement to the gate of the very cathedral.
Notwithstanding the cry raised against the book, several copies
were sold at Leon: two were purchased by ex-friars, and the same
number by parochial priests from neighbouring villages. I
believe the whole number disposed of during my stay amounted to
fifteen; so that my visit to this dark corner was not altogether
in vain, as the seed of the gospel has been sown, though
sparingly. But the palpable darkness which envelops Leon is
truly lamentable, and the ignorance of the people is so great,
that printed charms and incantations against Satan and his host,
and against every kind of misfortune, are publicly sold in the
shops, and are in great demand. Such are the results of
Popery, a delusion which, more than any other, has tended to
debase and brutalize the human mind.</p>

<p>I had scarcely risen from my bed where the fever had cast me,
when I found that Antonio had become alarmed. He informed
me that he had seen several soldiers in the uniform of Don Carlos
lurking at the door of the posada, and that they had been making
inquiries concerning me.</p>

<p>It was indeed a singular fact connected with Leon, that
upwards of fifty of these fellows, who had on various accounts
left the ranks of the Pretender, were walking about the streets
dressed in his livery, and with all the confidence which the
certainty of protection from the local authorities could afford
them should any one be disposed to interrupt them.</p>

<p>I learned moreover from Antonio, that the person in whose
house we were living was a notorious &ldquo;alcahuete,&rdquo; or
spy to the robbers in the neighbourhood, and that unless we took
our departure speedily and unexpectedly, we should to a certainty
be plundered on the road. I did not pay much attention to
these hints, but my desire to quit Leon was great, as I was
convinced that as long as I continued there I should be unable to
regain my health and vigour.</p>

<p>Accordingly, at three in the morning, we departed for
Galicia. We had scarcely proceeded half a league when we
were overtaken by a thunder-storm of tremendous violence.
We were at that time in the midst of a wood which extends to some
distance in the direction in which we were going. The trees
were bowed almost to the ground by the wind or torn up by the
roots, whilst the earth was ploughed up by the lightning, which
burst all around and nearly blinded us. The spirited
Andalusian on which I rode became furious, and bounded into the
air as if possessed. Owing to my state of weakness, I had
the greatest difficulty in maintaining my seat, and avoiding a
fall which might have been fatal. A tremendous discharge of
rain followed the storm, which swelled the brooks and streams and
flooded the surrounding country, causing much damage amongst the
corn. After riding about five leagues, we began to enter
the mountainous district which surrounds Astorga: the heat now
became almost suffocating; swarms of flies began to make their
appearance, and settling down upon the horses, stung them almost
to madness, whilst the road was very flinty and trying. It
was with great difficulty that we reached Astorga, covered with
mud and dust, our tongues cleaving to our palates with
thirst.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XXIII</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Astorga&mdash;The Inn&mdash;The
Maragatos&mdash;The Habits of the Maragatos&mdash;The Statue.</p>

<p>We went to a posada in the suburbs, the only one, indeed,
which the place afforded. The courtyard was full of
arrieros and carriers, brawling loudly; the master of the house
was fighting with two of his customers, and universal confusion
reigned around. As I dismounted I received the contents of
a wineglass in my face, of which greeting, as it was probably
intended for another, I took no notice. Antonio, however,
was not so patient, for on being struck with a cudgel, he
instantly returned the salute with his whip, scarifying the
countenance of a carman. In my endeavours to separate these
two antagonists, my horse broke loose, and rushing amongst the
promiscuous crowd, overturned several individuals and committed
no little damage. It was a long time before peace was
restored: at last we were shown to a tolerably decent
chamber. We had, however, no sooner taken possession of it,
than the waggon from Madrid arrived on its way to Coru&ntilde;a,
filled with dusty travellers, consisting of women, children,
invalid officers and the like. We were now forthwith
dislodged, and our baggage flung into the yard. On our
complaining of this treatment, we were told that we were two
vagabonds whom nobody knew; who had come without an arriero, and
had already set the whole house in confusion. As a great
favour, however, we were at length permitted to take up our abode
in a ruinous building down the yard, adjoining the stable, and
filled with rats and vermin. Here there was an old bed with
a tester, and with this wretched accommodation we were glad to
content ourselves, for I could proceed no farther, and was burnt
with fever. The heat of the place was intolerable, and I
sat on the staircase with my head between my hands, gasping for
breath: soon appeared Antonio with vinegar and water, which I
drank and felt relieved.</p>

<p>We continued in this suburb three days, during the greatest
part of which time I was stretched on the tester bed. I
once or twice contrived to make my way into the town, but found
no bookseller, nor any person willing to undertake the charge of
disposing of my Testaments. The people were brutal, stupid,
and uncivil, and I returned to my tester bed fatigued and
dispirited. Here I lay listening from time to time to the
sweet chimes which rang from the clock of the old
cathedral. The master of the house never came near me, nor
indeed, once inquired about me. Beneath the care of
Antonio, however, I speedily waxed stronger. &ldquo;<i>Mon
ma&icirc;tre</i>,&rdquo; said he to me one evening, &ldquo;I see
you are better; let us quit this bad town and worse posada
to-morrow morning. <i>Allons</i>, <i>mon maitre</i>!
<i>Il est temps de nous mettre en chemin pour Lugo et
Galice</i>.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Before proceeding, however, to narrate what befell us in this
journey to Lugo and Galicia, it will perhaps not be amiss to say
a few words concerning Astorga and its vicinity. It is a
walled town, containing about five or six thousand inhabitants,
with a cathedral and college, which last is, however, at present
deserted. It is situated on the confines, and may be called
the capital of a tract of land called the country of the
Maragatos, which occupies about three square leagues, and has for
its north-western boundary a mountain called Telleno, the
loftiest of a chain of hills which have their origin near the
mouth of the river Minho, and are connected with the immense
range which constitutes the frontier of the Asturias and
Guipuscoa.</p>

<p>The land is ungrateful and barren, and niggardly repays the
toil of the cultivator, being for the most part rocky, with a
slight sprinkling of red brick earth.</p>

<p>The Maragatos are perhaps the most singular caste to be found
amongst the chequered population of Spain. They have their
own peculiar customs and dress, and never intermarry with the
Spaniards. Their name is a clue to their origin, as it
signifies, &ldquo;Moorish Goths,&rdquo; and at the present day
their garb differs but little from that of the Moors of Barbary,
as it consists of a long tight jacket, secured at the waist by a
broad girdle, loose short trousers which terminate at the knee,
and boots and gaiters. Their heads are shaven, a slight
fringe of hair being only left at the lower part. If they
wore the turban or barret, they could scarcely be distinguished
from the Moors in dress, but in lieu thereof they wear the
sombrero, or broad slouching hat of Spain. There can be
little doubt that they are a remnant of those Goths who sided
with the Moors on their invasion of Spain, and who adopted their
religion, customs, and manner of dress, which, with the exception
of the first, are still to a considerable degree retained by
them. It is, however, evident that their blood has at no
time mingled with that of the wild children of the desert, for
scarcely amongst the hills of Norway would you find figures and
faces more essentially Gothic than those of the Maragatos.
They are strong athletic men, but loutish and heavy, and their
features, though for the most part well formed, are vacant and
devoid of expression. They are slow and plain of speech,
and those eloquent and imaginative sallies so common in the
conversation of other Spaniards, seldom or never escape them;
they have, moreover, a coarse thick pronunciation, and when you
hear them speak, you almost imagine that it is some German or
English peasant attempting to express himself in the language of
the Peninsula. They are constitutionally phlegmatic, and it
is very difficult to arouse their anger; but they are dangerous
and desperate when once incensed; and a person who knew them
well, told me that he would rather face ten Valencians, people
infamous for their ferocity and blood-thirstiness, than confront
one angry Maragato, sluggish and stupid though he be on other
occasions.</p>

<p>The men scarcely ever occupy themselves in husbandry, which
they abandon to the women, who plough the flinty fields and
gather in the scanty harvests. Their husbands and sons are
far differently employed: for they are a nation of arrieros or
carriers, and almost esteem it a disgrace to follow any other
profession. On every road of Spain, particularly those
north of the mountains which divide the two Castiles, may be seen
gangs of fives and sixes of these people lolling or sleeping
beneath the broiling sun, on gigantic and heavily laden mutes and
mules. In a word, almost the entire commerce of nearly one
half of Spain passes through the hands of the Maragatos, whose
fidelity to their trust is such, that no one accustomed to employ
them would hesitate to confide to them the transport of a ton of
treasure from the sea of Biscay to Madrid; knowing well that it
would not be their fault were it not delivered safe and
undiminished, even of a grain, and that bold must be the thieves
who would seek to wrest it from the far feared Maragatos, who
would cling to it whilst they could stand, and would cover it
with their bodies when they fell in the act of loading or
discharging their long carbines.</p>

<p>But they are far from being disinterested, and if they are the
most trustworthy of all the arrieros of Spain, they in general
demand for the transport of articles a sum at least double to
what others of the trade would esteem a reasonable recompense: by
this means they accumulate large sums of money, notwithstanding
that they indulge themselves in far superior fare to that which
contents in general the parsimonious Spaniard;&mdash;another
argument in favour of their pure Gothic descent; for the
Maragatos, like true men of the north, delight in swilling
liquors and battening upon gross and luscious meats, which help
to swell out their tall and goodly figures. Many of them
have died possessed of considerable riches, part of which they
have not unfrequently bequeathed to the erection or embellishment
of religious houses.</p>

<p>On the east end of the cathedral of Astorga, which towers over
the lofty and precipitous wall, a colossal figure of lead may be
seen on the roof. It is the statue of a Maragato carrier
who endowed the cathedral with a large sum. He is in his
national dress, but his head is averted from the lands of his
fathers, and whilst he waves in his hand a species of flag, he
seems to be summoning his race from their unfruitful region to
other climes, where a richer field is open to their industry and
enterprise.</p>

<p>I spoke to several of these men respecting the all-important
subject of religion; but I found &ldquo;their hearts gross, and
their ears dull of hearing, and their eyes closed.&rdquo;
There was one in particular to whom I showed the New Testament,
and whom I addressed for a considerable time. He listened
or seemed to listen patiently, taking occasionally copious
draughts from an immense jug of whitish wine which stood between
his knees. After I had concluded he said, &ldquo;To-morrow
I set out for Lugo, whither, I am told, yourself are going.
If you wish to send your chest, I have no objection to take it at
so much (naming an extravagant price). As for what you have
told me, I understand little of it, and believe not a word of it;
but in respect to the books which you have shown me, I will take
three or four. I shall not read them, it is true, but I
have no doubt that I can sell them at a higher price than you
demand.&rdquo;</p>

<p>So much for the Maragatos.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XXIV</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Departure from Astorga&mdash;The
Venta&mdash;The By-path&mdash;Narrow Escape&mdash;The Cup of
Water&mdash;Sun and Shade&mdash;Bembibre&mdash;Convent of the
Rocks&mdash;Sunset&mdash;Cacabelos&mdash;Midnight
Adventure&mdash;Villafrancs.</p>

<p>It was four o&rsquo;clock of a beautiful morning when we
sallied from Astorga, or rather from its suburbs, in which we had
been lodged: we directed our course to the north, in the
direction of Galicia. Leaving the mountain Telleno on our
left, we passed along the eastern skirts of the land of the
Maragatos, over broken uneven ground, enlivened here and there by
small green valleys and runnels of water. Several of the
Maragatan women, mounted on donkeys, passed us on their way to
Astorga, whither they were carrying vegetables. We saw
others in the fields handling their rude ploughs, drawn by lean
oxen. We likewise passed through a small village, in which
we, however, saw no living soul. Near this village we
entered the high road which leads direct from Madrid to
Coru&ntilde;a, and at last, having travelled near four leagues,
we came to a species of pass, formed on our left by a huge
lumpish hill (one of those which descend from the great mountain
Telleno), and on our right by one of much less altitude. In
the middle of this pass, which was of considerable breadth, a
noble view opened itself to us. Before us, at the distance
of about a league and a half, rose the mighty frontier chain, of
which I have spoken before; its blue sides and broken and
picturesque peaks still wearing a thin veil of the morning mist,
which the fierce rays of the sun were fast dispelling. It
seemed an enormous barrier, threatening to oppose our farther
progress, and it reminded me of the fables respecting the
children of Magog, who are said to reside in remotest Tartary,
behind a gigantic wall of rocks, which can only be passed by a
gate of steel a thousand cubits in height.</p>

<p>We shortly after arrived at Manzanal, a village consisting of
wretched huts, and exhibiting every sign of poverty and
misery. It was now time to refresh ourselves and horses,
and we accordingly put up at a venta, the last habitation in the
village, where, though we found barley for the animals, we had
much difficulty in procuring anything for ourselves. I was
at length fortunate enough to obtain a large jug of milk, for
there were plenty of cows in the neighbourhood, feeding in a
picturesque valley which we had passed by, where was abundance of
grass, and trees, and a rivulet broken by tiny cascades.
The jug might contain about half a gallon, but I emptied it in a
few minutes, for the thirst of fever was still burning within me,
though I was destitute of appetite. The venta had something
the appearance of a German baiting-house. It consisted of
an immense stable, from which was partitioned a kind of kitchen
and a place where the family slept. The master, a robust
young man, lolled on a large solid stone bench, which stood
within the door. He was very inquisitive respecting news,
but I could afford him none; whereupon he became communicative,
and gave me the history of his life, the sum of which was, that
he had been a courier in the Basque provinces, but about a year
since had been dispatched to this village, where he kept the
post-house. He was an enthusiastic liberal, and spoke in
bitter terms of the surrounding population, who, he said, were
all Carlists and friends of the friars. I paid little
attention to his discourse, for I was looking at a Maragato lad
of about fourteen, who served in the house as a kind of
ostler. I asked the master if we were still in the land of
the Maragatos; but he told me that we had left it behind nearly a
league, and that the lad was an orphan and was serving until he
could rake up a sufficient capital to become an arriero. I
addressed several questions to the boy, but the urchin looked
sullenly in my face, and either answered by monosyllables or was
doggedly silent. I asked him if he could read.
&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;as much as that brute of yours
who is tearing down the manger.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Quitting Manzanal, we continued our course. We soon
arrived at the verge of a deep valley amongst mountains, not
those of the chain which we had seen before us, and which we now
left to the right, but those of the Telleno range, just before
they unite with that chain. Round the sides of this valley,
which exhibited something of the appearance of a horse-shoe,
wound the road in a circuitous manner; just before us, however,
and diverging from the road, lay a footpath which seemed, by a
gradual descent, to lead across the valley, and to rejoin the
road on the other side, at the distance of about a furlong; and
into this we struck in order to avoid the circuit.</p>

<p>We had not gone far before we met two Galicians, on their way
to cut the harvests of Castile. One of them shouted,
&ldquo;Cavalier, turn back: in a moment you will be amongst
precipices, where your horses will break their necks, for we
ourselves could scarcely climb them on foot.&rdquo; The
other cried, &ldquo;Cavalier, proceed, but be careful, and your
horses, if sure-footed, will run no great danger: my comrade is a
fool.&rdquo; A violent dispute instantly ensued between the
two mountaineers, each supporting his opinion with loud oaths and
curses; but without stopping to see the result, I passed on, but
the path was now filled with stones and huge slaty rocks, on
which my horse was continually slipping. I likewise heard
the sound of water in a deep gorge, which I had hitherto not
perceived, and I soon saw that it would be worse than madness to
proceed. I turned my horse, and was hastening to regain the
path which I had left, when Antonio, my faithful Greek, pointed
out to me a meadow by which, he said, we might regain the high
road much lower down than if we returned on our steps. The
meadow was brilliant with short green grass, and in the middle
there was a small rivulet of water. I spurred my horse on,
expecting to be in the high road in a moment; the horse, however,
snorted and stared wildly, and was evidently unwilling to cross
the seemingly inviting spot. I thought that the scent of a
wolf, or some other wild animal might have disturbed him, but was
soon undeceived by his sinking up to the knees in a bog.
The animal uttered a shrill sharp neigh, and exhibited every sign
of the greatest terror, making at the same time great efforts to
extricate himself, and plunging forward, but every moment sinking
deeper. At last he arrived where a small vein of rock
showed itself: on this he placed his fore feet, and with one
tremendous exertion freed himself, from the deceitful soil,
springing over the rivulet and alighting on comparatively firm
ground, where he stood panting, his heaving sides covered with a
foamy sweat. Antonio, who had observed the whole scene,
afraid to venture forward, returned by the path by which we came,
and shortly afterwards rejoined me. This adventure brought
to my recollection the meadow with its footpath which tempted
Christian from the straight road to heaven, and finally conducted
him to the dominions of the giant Despair.</p>

<p>We now began to descend the valley by a broad and excellent
carretera or carriage road, which was cut out of the steep side
of the mountain on our right. On our left was the gorge,
down which tumbled the runnel of water which I have before
mentioned. The road was tortuous, and at every turn the
scene became more picturesque. The gorge gradually widened,
and the brook at its bottom, fed by a multitude of springs,
increased in volume and in sound, but it was soon far beneath us,
pursuing its headlong course till it reached level ground, where
it flowed in the midst of a beautiful but confined prairie.
There was something sylvan and savage in the mountains on the
farther side, clad from foot to pinnacle with trees, so closely
growing that the eye was unable to obtain a glimpse of the hill
sides, which were uneven with ravines and gulleys, the haunts of
the wolf, the wild boar, and the corso, or mountain-stag; the
latter of which, as I was informed by a peasant who was driving a
car of oxen, frequently descended to feed in the prairie, and
were there shot for the sake of their skins, for their flesh,
being strong and disagreeable, is held in no account.</p>

<p>But notwithstanding the wildness of these regions, the
handiworks of man were visible. The sides of the gorge,
though precipitous, were yellow with little fields of barley, and
we saw a hamlet and church down in the prairie below, whilst
merry songs ascended to our ears from where the mowers were
toiling with their scythes, cutting the luxuriant and abundant
grass. I could scarcely believe that I was in Spain, in
general so brown, so arid and cheerless, and I almost fancied
myself in Greece, in that land of ancient glory, whose mountain
and forest scenery Theocritus has so well described.</p>

<p>At the bottom of the valley we entered a small village, washed
by the brook, which had now swelled almost to a stream. A
more romantic situation I had never witnessed. It was
surrounded, and almost overhung by mountains, and embowered in
trees of various kinds; waters sounded, nightingales sang, and
the cuckoo&rsquo;s full note boomed from the distant branches,
but the village was miserable. The huts were built of slate
stones, of which the neighbouring hills seemed to be principally
composed, and roofed with the same, but not in the neat tidy
manner of English houses, for the slates were of all sizes, and
seemed to be flung on in confusion. We were spent with heat
and thirst, and sitting down on a stone bench, I entreated a
woman to give me a little water. The woman said she would,
but added that she expected to be paid for it. Antonio, on
hearing this, became highly incensed, and speaking Greek,
Turkish, and Spanish, invoked the vengeance of the Panhagia on
the heartless woman, saying, &ldquo;If I were to offer a
Mahometan gold for a draught of water he would dash it in my
face; and you are a Catholic, with the stream running at your
door.&rdquo; I told him to be silent, and giving the woman
two cuartos, repeated my request, whereupon she took a pitcher,
and going to the stream filled it with water. It tasted
muddy and disagreeable, but it drowned the fever which was
devouring me.</p>

<p>We again remounted and proceeded on our way, which, for a
considerable distance, lay along the margin of the stream, which
now fell in small cataracts, now brawled over stones, and at
other times ran dark and silent through deep pools overhung with
tall willows,&mdash;pools which seemed to abound with the finny
tribe, for large trout frequently sprang from the water, catching
the brilliant fly which skimmed along its deceitful
surface. The scene was delightful. The sun was
rolling high in the firmament, casting from its orb of fire the
most glorious rays, so that the atmosphere was flickering with
their splendour, but their fierceness was either warded off by
the shadow of the trees or rendered innocuous by the refreshing
coolness which rose from the waters, or by the gentle breezes
which murmured at intervals over the meadows, &ldquo;fanning the
cheek or raising the hair&rdquo; of the wanderer. The hills
gradually receded, till at last we entered a plain where tall
grass was waving, and mighty chestnut trees, in full blossom,
spread out their giant and umbrageous boughs. Beneath many
stood cars, the tired oxen prostrate on the ground, the crossbar
of the poll which they support pressing heavily on their heads,
whilst their drivers were either employed in cooking, or were
enjoying a delicious siesta in the grass and shade. I went
up to one of the largest of these groups and demanded of the
individuals whether they were in need of the Testament of Jesus
Christ. They stared at one another, and then at me, till at
last a young man, who was dangling a long gun in his hands as he
reclined, demanded of me what it was, at the same time inquiring
whether I was a Catalan, &ldquo;for you speak hoarse,&rdquo; said
he, &ldquo;and are tall and fair like that family.&rdquo; I
sat down amongst them and said that I was no Catalan, but that I
came from a spot in the Western Sea, many leagues distant, to
sell that book at half the price it cost; and that their
souls&rsquo; welfare depended on their being acquainted with
it. I then explained to them the nature of the New
Testament, and read to them the parable of the Sower. They
stared at each other again, but said that they were poor, and
could not buy books. I rose, mounted, and was going away,
saying to them: &ldquo;Peace bide with you.&rdquo;
Whereupon the young man with the gun rose, and saying,
&ldquo;<i>Caspita</i>! this is odd,&rdquo; snatched the book from
my hand and gave me the price I had demanded.</p>

<p>Perhaps the whole world might be searched in vain for a spot
whose natural charms could rival those of this plain or valley of
Bembibre, as it is called, with its wall of mighty mountains, its
spreading chestnut trees, and its groves of oaks and willows,
which clothe the banks of its stream, a tributary to the
Minho. True it is, that when I passed through it, the
candle of heaven was blazing in full splendour, and everything
lighted by its rays looked gay, glad, and blessed. Whether
it would have filled me with the same feelings of admiration if
viewed beneath another sky, I will not pretend to determine; but
it certainly possesses advantages which at no time could fail to
delight, for it exhibits all the peaceful beauties of an English
landscape blended with something wild and grand, and I thought
within myself that he must be a restless dissatisfied man, who,
born amongst those scenes, would wish to quit them. At the
time I would have desired no better fate than that of a shepherd
on the prairies, or a hunter in the hills of Bembibre.</p>

<p>Three hours passed away and we were in another
situation. We had halted and refreshed ourselves and horses
at Bembibre, a village of mud and slate, and which possessed
little to attract attention: we were now ascending, for the road
was over one of the extreme ledges of those frontier hills which
I have before so often mentioned; but the aspect of heaven had
blackened, clouds were rolling rapidly from the west over the
mountains, and a cold wind was moaning dismally.
&ldquo;There is a storm travelling through the air,&rdquo; said a
peasant, whom we overtook, mounted on a wretched mule; &ldquo;and
the Asturians had better be on the lookout, for it is speeding in
their direction.&rdquo; He had scarce spoken, when a light,
so vivid and dazzling that it seemed as if the whole lustre of
the fiery element were concentrated in it, broke around us,
filling the whole atmosphere, and covering rock, tree and
mountain with a glare not to be described. The mule of the
peasant tumbled prostrate, while the horse I rode reared himself
perpendicularly, and turning round, dashed down the hill at
headlong speed, which for some time it was impossible to
cheek. The lightning was followed by a peal almost as
terrible, but distant, for it sounded hollow and deep; the hills,
however, caught up its voice, seemingly repeating it from summit
to summit, till it was lost in interminable space. Other
flashes and peals succeeded, but slight in comparison, and a few
drops of rain descended. The body of the tempest seemed to
be over another region. &ldquo;A hundred families are
weeping where that bolt fell,&rdquo; said the peasant when I
rejoined him, &ldquo;for its blaze has blinded my mule at six
leagues&rsquo; distance.&rdquo; He was leading the animal
by the bridle, as its sight was evidently affected.
&ldquo;Were the friars still in their nest above there,&rdquo; he
continued, &ldquo;I should say that this was their doing, for
they are the cause of all the miseries of the land.&rdquo;</p>

<p>I raised my eyes in the direction in which he pointed.
Half way up the mountain, over whose foot we were wending, jutted
forth a black frightful crag, which at an immense altitude
overhung the road, and seemed to threaten destruction. It
resembled one of those ledges of the rocky mountains in the
picture of the Deluge, up to which the terrified fugitives have
scrambled from the eager pursuit of the savage and tremendous
billows, and from whence they gaze down in horror, whilst above
them rise still higher and giddier heights, to which they seem
unable to climb. Built on the very edge of this crag, stood
an edifice, seemingly devoted to the purposes of religion, as I
could discern the spire of a church rearing itself high over wall
and roof. &ldquo;That is the house of the Virgin of the
Rocks,&rdquo; said the peasant, &ldquo;and it was lately full of
friars, but they have been thrust out, and the only inmates now
are owls and ravens.&rdquo; I replied, that their life in
such a bleak exposed abode could not have been very enviable, as
in winter they must have incurred great risk of perishing with
cold. &ldquo;By no means,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;they had
the best of wood for their braseros and chimneys, and the best of
wine to warm them at their meals, which were not the most
sparing. Moreover, they had another convent down in the
vale yonder, to which they could retire at their
pleasure.&rdquo; On my asking him the reason of his
antipathy to the friars, he replied, that he had been their
vassal, and that they had deprived him every year of the flower
of what he possessed. Discoursing in this manner, we
reached a village just below the convent, where he left me,
having first pointed out to me a house of stone, with an image
over the door, which, he said, once also belonged to the canalla
(<i>rabble</i>) above.</p>

<p>The sun was setting fast, and eager to reach Villafranca,
where I had determined on resting, and which was still distant
three leagues and a half, I made no halt at this place. The
road was now down a rapid and crooked descent, which terminated
in a valley, at the bottom of which was a long and narrow bridge;
beneath it rolled a river, descending from a wide pass between
two mountains, for the chain was here cleft, probably by some
convulsion of nature. I looked up the pass, and on the
hills on both sides. Far above, on my right, but standing
forth bold and clear, and catching the last rays of the sun, was
the Convent of the Precipices, whilst directly over against it,
on the farther side of the valley, rose the perpendicular side of
the rival hill, which, to a considerable extent intercepting the
light, flung its black shadow over the upper end of the pass,
involving it in mysterious darkness. Emerging from the
centre of this gloom, with thundering sound, dashed a river,
white with foam, and bearing along with it huge stones and
branches of trees, for it was the wild Sil hurrying to the ocean
from its cradle in the heart of the Asturian hills, and probably
swollen by the recent rains.</p>

<p>Hours again passed away. It was now night, and we were
in the midst of woodlands, feeling our way, for the darkness was
so great that I could scarcely see the length of a yard before my
horse&rsquo;s head. The animal seemed uneasy, and would
frequently stop short, prick up his ears, and utter a low
mournful whine. Flashes of sheet lightning frequently
illumined the black sky, and flung a momentary glare over our
path. No sound interrupted the stillness of the night,
except the slow tramp of the horses&rsquo; hoofs, and
occasionally the croaking of frogs from some pool or
morass. I now bethought me that I was in Spain, the chosen
land of the two fiends, assassination and plunder, and how easily
two tired and unarmed wanderers might become their victims.</p>

<p>We at last cleared the woodlands, and after proceeding a short
distance, the horse gave a joyous neigh, and broke into a smart
trot. A barking of dogs speedily reached my ears, and we
seemed to be approaching some town or village. In effect we
were close to Cacabelos, a town about five miles distant from
Villafranca.</p>

<p>It was near eleven at night, and I reflected that it would be
far more expedient to tarry in this place till the morning than
to attempt at present to reach Villafranca, exposing ourselves to
all the horrors of darkness in a lonely and unknown road.
My mind was soon made up on this point; but I reckoned without my
host, for at the first posada which I attempted to enter, I was
told that we could not be accommodated, and still less our
horses, as the stable was full of water. At the second, and
there were but two, I was answered from the window by a gruff
voice, nearly in the words of the Scripture: &ldquo;Trouble me
not; the door is now shut, and my children are with me in bed; I
cannot arise to let you in.&rdquo; Indeed, we had no
particular desire to enter, as it appeared a wretched hovel,
though the poor horses pawed piteously against the door, and
seemed to crave admittance.</p>

<p>We had now no choice but to resume our doleful way to
Villafranca, which, we were told, was a short league distant,
though it proved a league and a half. We found it no easy
matter to quit the town, for we were bewildered amongst its
labyrinths, and could not find the outlet. A lad about
eighteen was, however, persuaded, by the promise of a peseta, to
guide us: whereupon he led us by many turnings to a bridge, which
he told us to cross, and to follow the road, which was that of
Villafranca; he then, having received his fee, hastened from
us.</p>

<p>We followed his directions, not, however, without a suspicion
that he might be deceiving us. The night had settled darker
down upon us, so that it was impossible to distinguish any
object, however nigh. The lightning had become more faint
and rare. We heard the rustling of trees, and occasionally
the barking of dogs, which last sound, however, soon ceased, and
we were in the midst of night and silence. My horse, either
from weariness, or the badness of the road, frequently stumbled;
whereupon I dismounted, and leading him by the bridle, soon left
Antonio far in the rear.</p>

<p>I had proceeded in this manner a considerable way, when a
circumstance occurred of a character well suited to the time and
place.</p>

<p>I was again amidst trees and bushes, when the horse stopping
short, nearly pulled me back. I know not how it was, but
fear suddenly came over me, which, though in darkness and in
solitude, I had not felt before. I was about to urge the
animal forward, when I heard a noise at my right hand, and
listened attentively. It seemed to be that of a person or
persons forcing their way through branches and brushwood.
It soon ceased, and I heard feet on the road. It was the
short staggering kind of tread of people carrying a very heavy
substance, nearly too much for their strength, and I thought I
heard the hurried breathing of men over-fatigued. There was
a short pause, during which I conceived they were resting in the
middle of the road; then the stamping recommenced, until it
reached the other side, when I again heard a similar rustling
amidst branches; it continued for some time and died gradually
away.</p>

<p>I continued my road, musing on what had just occurred, and
forming conjectures as to the cause. The lightning resumed
its flashing, and I saw that I was approaching tall black
mountains.</p>

<p>This nocturnal journey endured so long that I almost lost all
hope of reaching the town, and had closed my eyes in a doze,
though I still trudged on mechanically, leading the horse.
Suddenly a voice at a slight distance before me roared out,
&ldquo;<i>Quien vive</i>?&rdquo; for I had at last found my way
to Villafranca. It proceeded from the sentry in the suburb,
one of those singular half soldiers half guerillas, called
Miguelets, who are in general employed by the Spanish government
to clear the roads of robbers. I gave the usual answer,
&ldquo;<i>Espana</i>,&rdquo; and went up to the place where he
stood. After a little conversation, I sat down on a stone,
awaiting the arrival of Antonio, who was long in making his
appearance. On his arrival, I asked if any one had passed
him on the road, but he replied that he had seen nothing.
The night, or rather the morning, was still very dark, though a
small corner of the moon was occasionally visible. On our
inquiring the way to the gate, the Miguelet directed us down a
street to the left, which we followed. The street was
steep, we could see no gate, and our progress was soon stopped by
houses and wall. We knocked at the gates of two or three of
these houses (in the upper stories of which lights were burning),
for the purpose of being set right, but we were either
disregarded or not heard. A horrid squalling of cats, from
the tops of the houses and dark corners, saluted our ears, and I
thought of the night arrival of Don Quixote and his squire at
Toboso, and their vain search amongst the deserted streets for
the palace of Dulcinea. At length we saw light and heard
voices in a cottage at the other side of a kind of ditch.
Leading the horses over, we called at the door, which was opened
by an aged man, who appeared by his dress to be a baker, as
indeed he proved, which accounted for his being up at so late an
hour. On begging him to show us the way into the town, he
led us up a very narrow alley at the end of his cottage, saying
that he would likewise conduct us to the posada.</p>

<p>The alley led directly to what appeared to be the
market-place, at a corner house of which our guide stopped and
knocked. After a long pause an upper window was opened, and
a female voice demanded who we were. The old man replied,
that two travellers had arrived who were in need of
lodging. &ldquo;I cannot be disturbed at this time of
night,&rdquo; said the woman; &ldquo;they will be wanting supper,
and there is nothing in the house; they must go
elsewhere.&rdquo; She was going to shut the window, but I
cried that we wanted no supper, but merely resting place for
ourselves and horses&mdash;that we had come that day from
Astorga, and were dying with fatigue. &ldquo;Who is that
speaking?&rdquo; cried the woman. &ldquo;Surely that is the
voice of Gil, the German clock-maker from Pontevedra.
Welcome, old companion; you are come at the right time, for my
own is out of order. I am sorry I have kept you waiting,
but I will admit you in a moment.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The window was slammed to, presently a light shone through the
crevices of the door, a key turned in the lock, and we were
admitted.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XXV</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Villafranca&mdash;The Pass&mdash;Gallegan
Simplicity&mdash;The Frontier Guard&mdash;The
Horse-shoe&mdash;Gallegan Peculiarities&mdash;A Word on
Language&mdash;The Courier&mdash;Wretched Cabins&mdash;Host and
Guests&mdash;Andalusians.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Ave Maria,&rdquo; said the woman; &ldquo;whom have we
here? This is not Gil the clock-maker.&rdquo;
&ldquo;Whether it be Gil or Juan,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;we are in
need of your hospitality, and can pay for it.&rdquo; Our
first care was to stable the horses, who were much
exhausted. We then went in search of some accommodation for
ourselves. The house was large and commodious, and having
tasted a little water, I stretched myself on the floor of one of
the rooms on some mattresses which the woman produced, and in
less than a minute was sound asleep.</p>

<p>The sun was shining bright when I awoke. I walked forth
into the market-place, which was crowded with people, I looked
up, and could see the peaks of tall black mountains peeping over
the tops of the houses. The town lay in a deep hollow, and
appeared to be surrounded by hills on almost every side.
&ldquo;<i>Quel pays barbare</i>!&rdquo; said Antonio, who now
joined me; &ldquo;the farther we go, my master, the wilder
everything looks. I am half afraid to venture into Galicia;
they tell me that to get to it we must clamber up those hills:
the horses will founder.&rdquo; Leaving the market-place I
ascended the wall of the town, and endeavoured to discover the
gate by which we should have entered the preceding night; but I
was not more successful in the bright sunshine than in the
darkness. The town in the direction of Astorga appeared to
be hermetically sealed.</p>

<p>I was eager to enter Galicia, and finding that the horses were
to a certain extent recovered from the fatigue of the journey of
the preceding day, we again mounted and proceeded on our
way. Crossing a bridge, we presently found ourselves in a
deep gorge amongst the mountains, down which rushed an impetuous
rivulet, overhung by the high road which leads into
Galicia. We were in the far-famed pass of Fuencebadon.</p>

<p>It is impossible to describe this pass or the circumjacent
region, which contains some of the most extraordinary scenery in
all Spain; a feeble and imperfect outline is all that I can hope
to effect. The traveller who ascends it follows for nearly
a league the course of the torrent, whose banks are in some
places precipitous, and in others slope down to the waters, and
are covered with lofty trees, oaks, poplars, and chestnuts.
Small villages are at first continually seen, with low walls, and
roofs formed of immense slates, the eaves nearly touching the
ground; these hamlets, however, gradually become less frequent as
the path grows more steep and narrow, until they finally cease at
a short distance before the spot is attained where the rivulet is
abandoned, and is no more seen, though its tributaries may yet be
heard in many a gully, or descried in tiny rills dashing down the
steeps. Everything here is wild, strange, and beautiful:
the hill up which winds the path towers above on the right,
whilst on the farther side of a profound ravine rises an immense
mountain, to whose extreme altitudes the eye is scarcely able to
attain; but the most singular feature of this pass are the
hanging fields or meadows which cover its sides. In these,
as I passed, the grass was growing luxuriantly, and in many the
mowers were plying their scythes, though it seemed scarcely
possible that their feet could find support on ground so
precipitous: above and below were drift-ways, so small as to seem
threads along the mountain side. A car, drawn by oxen, is
creeping round yon airy eminence; the nearer wheel is actually
hanging over the horrid descent; giddiness seizes the brain, and
the eye is rapidly withdrawn. A cloud intervenes, and when
again you turn to watch their progress, the objects of your
anxiety have disappeared. Still more narrow becomes the
path along which you yourself are toiling, and its turns more
frequent. You have already come a distance of two leagues,
and still one-third of the ascent remains unsurmounted. You
are not yet in Galicia; and you still hear Castilian, coarse and
unpolished, it is true, spoken in the miserable cabins placed in
the sequestered nooks which you pass by in your route.</p>

<p>Shortly before we reached the summit of the pass thick mists
began to envelop the tops of the hills, and a drizzling rain
descended. &ldquo;These mists,&rdquo; said Antonio,
&ldquo;are what the Gallegans call bretima; and it is said there
is never any lack of them in their country.&rdquo;
&ldquo;Have you ever visited the country before?&rdquo; I
demanded. &ldquo;Non, mon ma&icirc;tre; but I have
frequently lived in houses where the domestics were in part
Gallegans, on which account I know not a little of their ways,
and even something of their language.&rdquo; &ldquo;Is the
opinion which you have formed of them at all in their
favour?&rdquo; I inquired. &ldquo;By no means, mon
ma&icirc;tre; the men in general seem clownish and simple, yet
they are capable of deceiving the most clever filou of Paris; and
as for the women, it is impossible to live in the same house with
them, more especially if they are Camareras, and wait upon the
Se&ntilde;ora; they are continually breeding dissensions and
disputes in the house, and telling tales of the other
domestics. I have already lost two or three excellent
situations in Madrid, solely owing to these Gallegan
chambermaids. We have now come to the frontier, mon
ma&icirc;tre, for such I conceive this village to be.&rdquo;</p>

<p>We entered the village, which stood on the summit of the
mountain, and as our horses and ourselves were by this time much
fatigued, we looked round for a place in which to obtain
refreshment. Close by the gate stood a building which, from
the circumstance of a mule or two and a wretched pony standing
before it, we concluded was the posada, as in effect it proved to
be. We entered: several soldiers were lolling on heaps of
coarse hay, with which the place, which much resembled a stable,
was half filled. All were exceedingly ill-looking fellows,
and very dirty. They were conversing with each other in a
strange-sounding dialect, which I supposed to be Gallegan.
Scarcely did they perceive us when two or three of them, starting
from their couch, ran up to Antonio, whom they welcomed with much
affection, calling him <i>companheiro</i>. &ldquo;How came
you to know these men?&rdquo; I demanded in French.
&ldquo;<i>Ces messieurs sont presque tous de ma
connoissance</i>,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;<i>et</i>, <i>entre
nous</i>, <i>ce sont des veritables vauriens</i>; they are almost
all robbers and assassins. That fellow, with one eye, who
is the corporal, escaped a little time ago from Madrid, more than
suspected of being concerned in an affair of poisoning; but he is
safe enough here in his own country, and is placed to guard the
frontier, as you see; but we must treat them civilly, mon
ma&icirc;tre; we must give them wine, or they will be
offended. I know them, mon ma&icirc;tre&mdash;I know
them. Here, hostess, bring an azumbre of wine.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Whilst Antonio was engaged in treating his friends, I led the
horses to the stable; this was through the house, inn, or
whatever it might be called. The stable was a wretched
shed, in which the horses sank to their fetlocks in mud and
puddle. On inquiring for barley, I was told that I was now
in Galicia, where barley was not used for provender, and was very
rare. I was offered in lieu of it Indian corn, which,
however, the horses ate without hesitation. There was no
straw to be had; coarse hay, half green, being the
substitute. By trampling about in the mud of the stable my
horse soon lost a shoe, for which I searched in vain.
&ldquo;Is there a blacksmith in the village?&rdquo; I demanded of
a shock-headed fellow who officiated as ostler.</p>

<p><i>Ostler</i>.&mdash;Si, Senhor; but I suppose you have
brought horse-shoes with you, or that large beast of yours cannot
be shod in this village.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;What do you mean? Is the blacksmith
unequal to his trade? Cannot he put on a horse-shoe?</p>

<p><i>Ostler</i>.&mdash;Si, Senhor; he can put on a horse-shoe if
you give it him; but there are no horse-shoes in Galicia, at
least in these parts.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Is it not customary then to shoe the
horses in Galicia?</p>

<p><i>Ostler</i>.&mdash;Senhor, there are no horses in Galicia,
there are only ponies; and those who bring horses to Galicia, and
none but madmen ever do, must bring shoes to fit them; only shoes
of ponies are to be found here.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;What do you mean by saying that only
madmen bring horses to Galicia?</p>

<p><i>Ostler</i>.&mdash;Senhor, no horse can stand the food of
Galicia and the mountains of Galicia long, without falling sick;
and then if he does not die at once, he will cost you in farriers
more than he is worth; besides, a horse is of no use here, and
cannot perform amongst the broken ground the tenth part of the
service which a little pony mare can. By the by, Senhor, I
perceive that yours is an entire horse; now out of twenty ponies
that you see on the roads of Galicia, nineteen are mares; the
males are sent down into Castile to be sold. Senhor, your
horse will become heated on our roads, and will catch the bad
glanders, for which there is no remedy. Senhor, a man must
be mad to bring any horse to Galicia, but twice mad to bring an
entero, as you have done.</p>

<p>&ldquo;A strange country this of Galicia,&rdquo; said I, and
went to consult with Antonio.</p>

<p>It appeared that the information of the ostler was literally
true with regard to the horse-shoe; at least the blacksmith of
the village, to whom we conducted the animal, confessed his
inability to shoe him, having none that would fit his hoof: he
said it was very probable that we should be obliged to lead the
animal to Lugo, which, being a cavalry station, we might perhaps
find there what we wanted. He added, however, that the
greatest part of the cavalry soldiers were mounted on the ponies
of the country, the mortality amongst the horses brought from the
level ground into Galicia being frightful. Lugo was ten
leagues distant: there seemed, however, to be no remedy at hand
but patience, and, having refreshed ourselves, we proceeded,
leading our horses by the bridle.</p>

<p>We were now on level ground, being upon the very top of one of
the highest mountains in Galicia. This level continued for
about a league, when we began to descend. Before we had
crossed the plain, which was overgrown with furze and brushwood,
we came suddenly upon half a dozen fellows armed with muskets and
wearing a tattered uniform. We at first supposed them to be
banditti: they were, however, only a party of soldiers who had
been detached from the station we had just quitted to escort one
of the provincial posts or couriers. They were clamorous
for cigars, but offered us no farther incivility. Having no
cigars to bestow, I gave them in lieu thereof a small piece of
silver. Two of the worst looking were very eager to be
permitted to escort us to Nogales, the village where we proposed
to spend the night. &ldquo;By no means permit them, mon
ma&icirc;tre,&rdquo; said Antonio, &ldquo;they are two famous
assassins of my acquaintance; I have known them at Madrid: in the
first ravine they will shoot and plunder us.&rdquo; I
therefore civilly declined their offer and departed.
&ldquo;You seem to be acquainted with all the cut-throats in
Galicia,&rdquo; said I to Antonio, as we descended the hill.</p>

<p>&ldquo;With respect to those two fellows,&rdquo; he replied,
&ldquo;I knew them when I lived as cook in the family of General
Q---, who is a Gallegan: they were sworn friends of the
repostero. All the Gallegans in Madrid know each other,
whether high or low makes no difference; there, at least, they
are all good friends, and assist each other on all imaginable
occasions; and if there be a Gallegan domestic in a house, the
kitchen is sure to be filled with his countrymen, as the cook
frequently knows to his cost, for they generally contrive to eat
up any little perquisites which he may have reserved for himself
and family.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Somewhat less than half way down the mountain we reached a
small village. On observing a blacksmith&rsquo;s shop, we
stopped, in the faint hope of finding a shoe for the horse, who,
for want of one, was rapidly becoming lame. To our great
joy we found that the smith was in possession of one single
horse-shoe, which some time previously he had found upon the
way. This, after undergoing much hammering and alteration,
was pronounced by the Gallegan vulcan to be capable of serving in
lieu of a better; whereupon we again mounted, and slowly
continued our descent.</p>

<p>Shortly ere sunset we arrived at Nogales, a hamlet situate in
a narrow valley at the foot of the mountain, in traversing which
we had spent the day. Nothing could be more picturesque
than the appearance of this spot: steep hills, thickly clad with
groves and forests of chestnuts, surrounded it on every side; the
village itself was almost embowered in trees, and close beside it
ran a purling brook. Here we found a tolerably large and
commodious posada.</p>

<p>I was languid and fatigued, but felt little desire to
sleep. Antonio cooked our supper, or rather his own, for I
had no appetite. I sat by the door, gazing on the
wood-covered heights above me, or on the waters of the rivulet,
occasionally listening to the people who lounged about the house,
conversing in the country dialect. What a strange tongue is
the Gallegan, with its half singing half whining accent, and with
its confused jumble of words from many languages, but chiefly
from the Spanish and Portuguese. &ldquo;Can you understand
this conversation?&rdquo; I demanded of Antonio, who had by this
time rejoined me. &ldquo;I cannot, mon ma&icirc;tre,&rdquo;
he replied; &ldquo;I have acquired at various times a great many
words amongst the Gallegan domestics in the kitchens where I have
officiated as cook, but am quite unable to understand any long
conversation. I have heard the Gallegans say that in no two
villages is it spoken in one and the same manner, and that very
frequently they do not understand each other. The worst of
this language is, that everybody on first hearing it thinks that
nothing is more easy than to understand it, as words are
continually occurring which he has heard before: but these merely
serve to bewilder and puzzle him, causing him to misunderstand
everything that is said; whereas, if he were totally ignorant of
the tongue, he would occasionally give a shrewd guess at what was
meant, as I myself frequently do when I hear Basque spoken,
though the only word which I know of that language is
<i>jaunguicoa</i>.&rdquo;</p>

<p>As the night closed in I retired to bed, where I remained four
or five hours, restless and tossing about; the fever of Leon
still clinging to my system. It was considerably past
midnight when, just as I was sinking into a slumber, I was
aroused by a confused noise in the village, and the glare of
lights through the lattice of the window of the room where I lay;
presently entered Antonio, half dressed. &ldquo;Mon
ma&icirc;tre,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;the grand post from Madrid
to Coru&ntilde;a has just arrived in the village, attended by a
considerable escort, and an immense number of travellers.
The road they say, between here and Lugo, is infested with
robbers and Carlists, who are committing all kinds of atrocities;
let us, therefore, avail ourselves of the opportunity, and by
midday to-morrow we shall find ourselves safe in
Lugo.&rdquo; On hearing these words, I instantly sprang out
of bed and dressed myself, telling Antonio to prepare the horses
with all speed.</p>

<p>We were soon mounted and in the street, amidst a confused
throng of men and quadrupeds. The light of a couple of
flambeaux, which were borne before the courier, shone on the arms
of several soldiers, seemingly drawn up on either side of the
road; the darkness, however, prevented me from distinguishing
objects very clearly. The courier himself was mounted on a
little shaggy pony; before and behind him were two immense
portmanteaux, or leather sacks, the ends of which nearly touched
the ground. For about a quarter of an hour there was much
hubbub, shouting, and trampling, at the end of which period the
order was given to proceed. Scarcely had we left the
village when the flambeaux were extinguished, and we were left in
almost total darkness; for some time we were amongst woods and
trees, as was evident from the rustling of leaves on every
side. My horse was very uneasy and neighed fearfully,
occasionally raising himself bolt upright. &ldquo;If your
horse is not more quiet, cavalier, we shall be obliged to shoot
him,&rdquo; said a voice in an Andalusian accent; &ldquo;he
disturbs the whole cavalcade.&rdquo; &ldquo;That would be a
pity, sergeant,&rdquo; I replied, &ldquo;for he is a Cordovese by
the four sides; he is not used to the ways of this barbarous
country.&rdquo; &ldquo;Oh, he is a Cordovese,&rdquo; said
the voice, &ldquo;vaya, I did not know that; I am from Cordova
myself. Pobrecito! let me pat him&mdash;yes, I know by his
coat that he is my countryman&mdash;shoot him, indeed! vaya, I
would fain see the Gallegan devil who would dare to harm
him. Barbarous country, <i>io lo creo</i>: neither oil nor
olives, bread nor barley. You have been at Cordova.
Vaya; oblige me, cavalier, by taking this cigar.&rdquo;</p>

<p>In this manner we proceeded for several hours, up hill and
down dale, but generally at a very slow pace. The soldiers who
escorted us from time to time sang patriotic songs, breathing
love and attachment to the young Queen Isabel, and detestation of
the grim tyrant Carlos. One of the stanzas which reached my
ears, ran something in the following style:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote><p>&ldquo;Don Carlos is a hoary churl,<br />
 Of cruel heart and cold;<br />
But Isabel&rsquo;s a harmless girl,<br />
 Of only six years old.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>

<p>At last the day began to break, and I found myself amidst a
train of two or three hundred people, some on foot, but the
greater part mounted, either on mules or the pony mares: I could
not distinguish a single horse except my own and
Antonio&rsquo;s. A few soldiers were thinly scattered along
the road. The country was hilly, but less mountainous and
picturesque than the one which we had traversed the preceding
day; it was for the most part partitioned into small fields,
which were planted with maize. At the distance of every two
or three leagues we changed our escort, at some village where was
stationed a detachment. The villages were mostly an
assemblage of wretched cabins; the roofs were thatched, dank, and
moist, and not unfrequently covered with rank vegetation.
There were dunghills before the doors, and no lack of pools and
puddles. Immense swine were stalking about, intermingled
with naked children. The interior of the cabins
corresponded with their external appearance: they were filled
with filth and misery.</p>

<p>We reached Lugo about two hours past noon: during the last two
or three leagues, I became so overpowered with weariness, the
result of want of sleep and my late illness, that I was
continually dozing in my saddle, so that I took but little notice
of what was passing. We put up at a large posada without
the wall of the town, built upon a steep bank, and commanding an
extensive view of the country towards the east. Shortly
after our arrival, the rain began to descend in torrents, and
continued without intermission during the next two days, which
was, however, to me but a slight source of regret, as I passed
the entire time in bed, and I may almost say in slumber. On
the evening of the third day I arose.</p>

<p>There was much bustle in the house, caused by the arrival of a
family from Coru&ntilde;a; they came in a large jaunting car,
escorted by four carabineers. The family was rather
numerous, consisting of a father, son, and eleven daughters, the
eldest of whom might be about eighteen. A shabby-looking
fellow, dressed in a jerkin and wearing a high-crowned hat,
attended as domestic. They arrived very wet and shivering,
and all seemed very disconsolate, especially the father, who was
a well-looking middle-aged man. &ldquo;Can we be
accommodated?&rdquo; he demanded in a gentle voice of the man of
the house; &ldquo;can we be accommodated in this
fonda?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Certainly, your worship,&rdquo; replied the other;
&ldquo;our house is large. How many apartments does your
worship require for your family?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;One will be sufficient,&rdquo; replied the
stranger.</p>

<p>The host, who was a gouty personage and leaned upon a stick,
looked for a moment at the traveller, then at every member of his
family, not forgetting the domestic, and, without any farther
comment than a slight shrug, led the way to the door of an
apartment containing two or three flock beds, and which on my
arrival I had objected to as being small, dark, and incommodious;
this he flung open, and demanded whether it would serve.</p>

<p>&ldquo;It is rather small,&rdquo; replied the gentleman;
&ldquo;I think, however, that it will do.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I am glad of it,&rdquo; replied the host.
&ldquo;Shall we make any preparations for the supper of your
worship and family?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;No, I thank you,&rdquo; replied the stranger, &ldquo;my
own domestic will prepare the slight refreshment we are in need
of.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The key was delivered to the domestic, and the whole family
ensconced themselves in their apartment: before, however, this
was effected, the escort were dismissed, the principal carabineer
being presented with a peseta. The man stood surveying the
gratuity for about half a minute, as it glittered in the palm of
his hand; then with an abrupt <i>Vamos</i>! he turned upon his
heel, and without a word of salutation to any person, departed
with the men under his command.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Who can these strangers be?&rdquo; said I to the host,
as we sat together in a large corridor open on one side, and
which occupied the entire front of the house.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I know not,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;but by their
escort I suppose they are people holding some official
situation. They are not of this province, however, and I
more than suspect them to be Andalusians.&rdquo;</p>

<p>In a few minutes the door of the apartment occupied by the
strangers was opened, and the domestic appeared bearing a cruse
in his hand. &ldquo;Pray, Se&ntilde;or Patron,&rdquo;
demanded he, &ldquo;where can I buy some oil?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;There is oil in the house,&rdquo; replied the host,
&ldquo;if you want to purchase any; but if, as is probable, you
suppose that we shall gain a cuarto by selling it, you will find
some over the way. It is as I suspected,&rdquo; continued
the host, when the man had departed on his errand, &ldquo;they
are Andalusians, and are about to make what they call gaspacho,
on which they will all sup. Oh, the meanness of these
Andalusians! they are come here to suck the vitals of Galicia,
and yet envy the poor innkeeper the gain of a cuarto in the oil
which they require for their gaspacho. I tell you one
thing, master, when that fellow returns, and demands bread and
garlic to mix with the oil, I will tell him there is none in the
house: as he has bought the oil abroad, so he may the bread and
garlic; aye, and the water too for that matter.&rdquo;</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XXVI</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Lugo&mdash;The Baths&mdash;A Family
History&mdash;Miguelets&mdash;The Three Heads&mdash;A
Farrier&mdash;English Squadron&mdash;Sale of
Testaments&mdash;Coruna&mdash;The Recognition&mdash;Luigi
Piozzi&mdash;The Speculation&mdash;A Blank Prospect&mdash;John
Moore.</p>

<p>At Lugo I found a wealthy bookseller, to whom I brought a
letter of recommendation from Madrid. He willingly
undertook the sale of my books. The Lord deigned to favour
my feeble exertions in his cause at Lugo. I brought thither
thirty Testaments, all of which were disposed of in one day; the
bishop of the place, for Lugo is an episcopal see, purchasing two
copies for himself, whilst several priests and ex-friars, instead
of following the example of their brethren at Leon, by
persecuting the work, spoke well of it and recommended its
perusal. I was much grieved that my stock of these holy
books was exhausted, there being a great demand; and had I been
able to supply them, quadruple the quantity might have been sold
during the few days that I continued at Lugo.</p>

<p>Lugo contains about six thousand inhabitants. It is
situated on lofty ground, and is defended by ancient walls.
It possesses no very remarkable edifice, and the cathedral church
itself is a small mean building. In the centre of the town
is the principal square, a light cheerful place, not surrounded
by those heavy cumbrous buildings with which the Spaniards both
in ancient and modern times have encircled their plazas. It
is singular enough that Lugo, at present a place of very little
importance, should at one period have been the capital of Spain:
yet such it was in the time of the Romans, who, as they were a
people not much guided by caprice, had doubtless very excellent
reasons for the preference which they gave to the locality.</p>

<p>There are many Roman remains in the vicinity of this place,
the most remarkable of which are the ruins of the ancient
medicinal baths, which stand on the southern side of the river
Minho, which creeps through the valley beneath the town.
The Minho in this place is a dark and sullen stream, with high,
precipitous, and thickly wooded banks.</p>

<p>One evening I visited the baths, accompanied by my friend the
bookseller. They had been built over warm springs which
flow into the river. Notwithstanding their ruinous
condition, they were crowded with sick, hoping to derive benefit
from the waters, which are still famed for their sanative
power. These patients exhibited a strange spectacle as,
wrapped in flannel gowns much resembling shrouds, they lay
immersed in the tepid waters amongst disjointed stones, and
overhung with steam and reek.</p>

<p>Three or four days after my arrival I was seated in the
corridor which, as I have already observed, occupied the entire
front of the house. The sky was unclouded, and the sun
shone most gloriously, enlivening every object around.
Presently the door of the apartment in which the strangers were
lodged opened, and forth walked the whole family, with the
exception of the father, who, I presumed, was absent on
business. The shabby domestic brought up the rear, and on
leaving the apartment, carefully locked the door, and secured the
key in his pocket. The one son and the eleven daughters
were all dressed remarkably well: the boy something after the
English fashion, in jacket and trousers, the young ladies in
spotless white: they were, upon the whole, a very good-looking
family, with dark eyes and olive complexions, but the eldest
daughter was remarkably handsome. They arranged themselves
upon the benches of the corridor, the shabby domestic sitting
down amongst them without any ceremony whatever. They
continued for some time in silence, gazing with disconsolate
looks upon the houses of the suburb and the dark walls of the
town, until the eldest daughter, or se&ntilde;orita as she was
called, broke silence with an &ldquo;<i>Ay Dios
mio</i>!&rdquo;</p>

<p><i>Domestic</i>.&mdash;<i>Ay Dios mio</i>! we have found our
way to a pretty country.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;I really can see nothing so very bad in
the country, which is by nature the richest in all Spain, and the
most abundant. True it is that the generality of the
inhabitants are wretchedly poor, but they themselves are to
blame, and not the country.</p>

<p><i>Domestic</i>.&mdash;Cavalier, the country is a horrible
one, say nothing to the contrary. We are all frightened,
the young ladies, the young gentleman, and myself; even his
worship is frightened, and says that we are come to this country
for our sins. It rains every day, and this is almost the
first time that we have seen the sun since our arrival, it rains
continually, and one cannot step out without being up to the
ankles in fango; and then, again, there is not a house to be
found.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;I scarcely understand you. There
appears to be no lack of houses in this neighbourhood.</p>

<p><i>Domestic</i>.&mdash;Excuse me, sir. His worship hired
yesterday a house, for which he engaged to pay fourteen pence
daily; but when the se&ntilde;orita saw it, she wept, and said it
was no house, but a hog-sty, so his worship paid one day&rsquo;s
rent and renounced his bargain. Fourteen pence a day! why,
in our country, we can have a palace for that money.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;From what country do you come?</p>

<p><i>Domestic</i>.&mdash;Cavalier, you appear to be a decent
gentleman, and I will tell you our history. We are from
Andalusia, and his worship was last year receiver-general for
Granada: his salary was fourteen thousand rials, with which we
contrived to live very commodiously&mdash;attending the bull
funcions regularly, or if there were no bulls, we went to see the
novillos, and now and then to the opera. In a word, sir, we
had our diversions and felt at our ease; so much so, that his
worship was actually thinking of purchasing a pony for the young
gentleman, who is fourteen, and must learn to ride now or
never. Cavalier, the ministry was changed, and the new
comers, who were no friends to his worship, deprived him of his
situation. Cavalier, they removed us from that blessed
country of Granada, where our salary was fourteen thousand rials,
and sent us to Galicia, to this fatal town of Lugo, where his
worship is compelled to serve for ten thousand, which is quite
insufficient to maintain us in our former comforts.
Good-bye, I trow, to bull funcions, and novillos, and the
opera. Good-bye to the hope of a horse for the young
gentleman. Cavalier, I grow desperate: hold your tongue,
for God&rsquo;s sake! for I can talk no more.</p>

<p>On hearing this history I no longer wondered that the
receiver-general was eager to save a cuarto in the purchase of
the oil for the gaspacho of himself and family of eleven
daughters, one son, and a domestic.</p>

<p>We staid one week at Lugo, and then directed our steps to
Coru&ntilde;a, about twelve leagues distant. We arose
before daybreak in order to avail ourselves of the escort of the
general post, in whose company we travelled upwards of six
leagues. There was much talk of robbers, and flying parties
of the factious, on which account our escort was
considerable. At the distance of five or six leagues from
Lugo, our guard, in lieu of regular soldiers, consisted of a body
of about fifty Miguelets. They had all the appearance of
banditti, but a finer body of ferocious fellows I never
saw. They were all men in the prime of life, mostly of tall
stature, and of Herculean brawn and limbs. They wore huge
whiskers, and walked with a fanfaronading air, as if they courted
danger, and despised it. In every respect they stood in
contrast to the soldiers who had hitherto escorted us, who were
mere feeble boys from sixteen to eighteen years of age, and
possessed of neither energy nor activity. The proper dress
of the Miguelet, if it resembles anything military, is something
akin to that anciently used by the English marines. They
wear a peculiar kind of hat, and generally leggings, or gaiters,
and their arms are the gun and bayonet. The colour of their
dress is mostly dark brown. They observe little or no
discipline whether on a march or in the field of action.
They are excellent irregular troops, and when on actual service
are particularly useful as skirmishers. Their proper duty,
however, is to officiate as a species of police, and to clear the
roads of robbers, for which duty they are in one respect
admirably calculated, having been generally robbers themselves at
one period of their lives. Why these people are called
Miguelets it is not easy to say, but it is probable that they
have derived this appellation from the name of their original
leader. I regret that the paucity of my own information
will not allow me to enter into farther particulars with respect
to this corps, concerning which I have little doubt that many
remarkable things might be said.</p>

<p>Becoming weary of the slow travelling of the post, I
determined to brave all risk, and to push forward. In this,
however, I was guilty of no slight imprudence, as by so doing I
was near falling into the hands of robbers. Two fellows
suddenly confronted me with presented carbines, which they
probably intended to discharge into my body, but they took fright
at the noise of Antonio&rsquo;s horse, who was following a little
way behind. The affair occurred at the bridge of
Castellanos, a spot notorious for robbery and murder, and well
adapted for both, for it stands at the bottom of a deep dell
surrounded by wild desolate hills. Only a quarter of an
hour previous I had passed three ghastly heads stuck on poles
standing by the wayside; they were those of a captain of banditti
and two of his accomplices, who had been seized and executed
about two months before. Their principal haunt was the
vicinity of the bridge, and it was their practice to cast the
bodies of the murdered into the deep black water which runs
rapidly beneath. Those three heads will always live in my
remembrance, particularly that of the captain, which stood on a
higher pole than the other two: the long hair was waving in the
wind, and the blackened, distorted features were grinning in the
sun. The fellows whom I met were the relics of the
band.</p>

<p>We arrived at Betanzos late in the afternoon. This town
stands on a creek at some distance from the sea, and about three
leagues from Coru&ntilde;a. It is surrounded on three sides
by lofty hills. The weather during the greater part of the
day had been dull and lowering, and we found the atmosphere of
Betanzos insupportably close and heavy. Sour and
disagreeable odours assailed our olfactory organs from all
sides. The streets were filthy&mdash;so were the houses,
and especially the posada. We entered the stable; it was
strewed with rotten sea-weeds and other rubbish, in which pigs
were wallowing; huge and loathsome flies were buzzing
around. &ldquo;What a pest-house!&rdquo; I exclaimed.
But we could find no other stable, and were therefore obliged to
tether the unhappy animals to the filthy mangers. The only
provender that could be obtained was Indian corn. At
nightfall I led them to drink at a small river which passes
through Betanzos. My entero swallowed the water greedily;
but as we returned towards the inn, I observed that he was sad,
and that his head drooped. He had scarcely reached the
stall, when a deep hoarse cough assailed him. I remembered
the words of the ostler in the mountains, &ldquo;the man must be
mad who brings a horse to Galicia, and doubly so he who brings an
entero.&rdquo; During the greater part of the day the
animal had been much heated, walking amidst a throng of at least
a hundred pony mares. He now began to shiver
violently. I procured a quart of anise brandy, with which,
assisted by Antonio, I rubbed his body for nearly an hour, till
his coat was covered with a white foam; but his cough increased
perceptibly, his eyes were becoming fixed, and his members
rigid. &ldquo;There is no remedy but bleeding,&rdquo; said
I. &ldquo;Run for a farrier.&rdquo; The farrier
came. &ldquo;You must bleed the horse,&rdquo; I shouted;
&ldquo;take from him an azumbre of blood.&rdquo; The
farrier looked at the animal, and made for the door.
&ldquo;Where are you going?&rdquo; I demanded.
&ldquo;Home,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;But we want you
here.&rdquo; &ldquo;I know you do,&rdquo; was his answer;
&ldquo;and on that account I am going.&rdquo; &ldquo;But
you must bleed the horse, or he will die.&rdquo; &ldquo;I
know he will,&rdquo; said the farrier, &ldquo;but I will not
bleed him.&rdquo; &ldquo;Why?&rdquo; I demanded.
&ldquo;I will not bleed him, but under one
condition.&rdquo; &ldquo;What is that?&rdquo;
&ldquo;What is it!&mdash;that you pay me an ounce of
gold.&rdquo; &ldquo;Run for the red morocco case,&rdquo;
said I to Antonio. It was brought; I took out a large
fleam, and with the assistance of a stone, drove it into the
principal artery horse&rsquo;s leg. The blood at first
refused to flow; with much rubbing, it began to trickle, and then
to stream; it continued so for half an hour. &ldquo;The
horse is fainting, mon ma&icirc;tre,&rdquo; said Antonio.
&ldquo;Hold him up,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;and in another ten
minutes we will stop the vein.&rdquo;</p>

<p>I closed the vein, and whilst doing so I looked up into the
farrier&rsquo;s face, arching my eyebrows.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Carracho! what an evil wizard,&rdquo; muttered the
farrier, as he walked away. &ldquo;If I had my knife here I
would stick him.&rdquo; We bled the horse again, during the
night, which second bleeding I believe saved him. Towards
morning he began to eat his food.</p>

<p>The next day we departed for Coru&ntilde;a, leading our horses
by the bridle: the day was magnificent, and our walk
delightful. We passed along beneath tall umbrageous trees,
which skirted the road from Betanzos to within a short distance
of Coru&ntilde;a. Nothing could be more smiling and
cheerful than the appearance of the country around. Vines
were growing in abundance in the vicinity of the villages through
which we passed, whilst millions of maize plants upreared their
tall stalks and displayed their broad green leaves in the
fields. After walking about three hours, we obtained a view
of the bay of Coru&ntilde;a, in which, even at the distance of a
league, we could distinguish three or four immense ships riding
at anchor. &ldquo;Can these vessels belong to
Spain?&rdquo; I demanded of myself. In the very next
village, however, we were informed that the preceding evening an
English squadron had arrived, for what reason nobody could
say. &ldquo;However,&rdquo; continued our informant,
&ldquo;they have doubtless some design upon Galicia. These
foreigners are the ruin of Spain.&rdquo;</p>

<p>We put up in what is called the Calle Real, in an excellent
fonda, or posada, kept by a short, thick, comical-looking person,
a Genoese by birth. He was married to a tall, ugly, but
good-tempered Basque woman, by whom he had been blessed with a
son and daughter. His wife, however, had it seems of late
summoned all her female relations from Guipuscoa, who now filled
the house to the number of nine, officiating as chambermaids,
cooks, and scullions: they were all very ugly, but good-natured,
and of immense volubility of tongue. Throughout the whole
day the house resounded with their excellent Basque and very bad
Castilian. The Genoese, on the contrary, spoke little, for
which he might have assigned a good reason; he had lived thirty
years in Spain, and had forgotten his own language without
acquiring Spanish, which he spoke very imperfectly.</p>

<p>We found Coru&ntilde;a full of bustle and life, owing to the
arrival of the English squadron. On the following day,
however, it departed, being bound for the Mediterranean on a
short cruise, whereupon matters instantly returned to their usual
course.</p>

<p>I had a dépot of five hundred Testaments at
Coru&ntilde;a, from which it was my intention to supply the
principal towns of Galicia. Immediately on my arrival I
published advertisements, according to my usual practice, and the
book obtained a tolerable sale&mdash;seven or eight copies per
day on the average. Some people, perhaps, on perusing these
details, will be tempted to exclaim, &ldquo;These are small
matters, and scarcely worthy of being mentioned.&rdquo; But
let such bethink them, that till within a few months previous to
the time of which I am speaking, the very existence of the gospel
was almost unknown in Spain, and that it must necessarily be a
difficult task to induce a people like the Spaniards, who read
very little, to purchase a work like the New Testament, which,
though of paramount importance to the soul, affords but slight
prospect of amusement to the frivolous and carnally minded.
I hoped that the present was the dawning of better and more
enlightened times, and rejoiced in the idea that Testaments,
though but few in number, were being sold in unfortunate
benighted Spain, from Madrid to the furthermost parts of Galicia,
a distance of nearly four hundred miles.</p>

<p>Coru&ntilde;a stands on a peninsula, having on one side the
sea, and on the other the celebrated bay, generally called the
Groyne. It is divided into the old and new town, the latter
of which was at one time probably a mere suburb. The old
town is a desolate ruinous place, separated from the new by a
wide moat. The modern town is a much more agreeable spot,
and contains one magnificent street, the Calle Real, where the
principal merchants reside. One singular feature of this
street is, that it is laid entirely with flags of marble, along
which troop ponies and cars as if it were a common pavement.</p>

<p>It is a saying amongst the inhabitants of Coru&ntilde;a, that
in their town there is a street so clean, that puchera may be
eaten off it without the slightest inconvenience. This may
certainly be the fact after one of those rains which so
frequently drench Galicia, when the appearance of the pavement of
the street is particularly brilliant. Coru&ntilde;a was at
one time a place of considerable commerce, the greater part of
which has latterly departed to Santander, a town which stands a
considerable distance down the Bay of Biscay.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Are you going to Saint James, Giorgio? If so, you
will perhaps convey a message to my poor countryman,&rdquo; said
a voice to me one morning in broken English, as I was standing at
the door of my posada, in the royal street of Coru&ntilde;a.</p>

<p>I looked round and perceived a man standing near me at the
door of a shop contiguous to the inn. He appeared to be
about sixty-five, with a pale face and remarkably red nose.
He was dressed in a loose green great coat, in his mouth was a
long clay pipe, in his hand a long painted stick.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Who are you, and who is your countryman?&rdquo; I
demanded; &ldquo;I do not know you.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I know you, however,&rdquo; replied the man; &ldquo;you
purchased the first knife that I ever sold in the market-place of
N---.&rdquo;</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Ah, I remember you now, Luigi Piozzi; and
well do I remember also, how, when a boy, twenty years ago, I
used to repair to your stall, and listen to you and your
countrymen discoursing in Milanese.</p>

<p><i>Luigi</i>.&mdash;Ah, those were happy times to me.
Oh, how they rushed back on my remembrance when I saw you ride up
to the door of the posada. I instantly went in, closed my
shop, lay down upon my bed and wept.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;I see no reason why you should so much
regret those times. I knew you formerly in England as an
itinerant pedlar, and occasionally as master of a stall in the
market-place of a country town. I now find you in a seaport
of Spain, the proprietor, seemingly, of a considerable
shop. I cannot see why you should regret the
difference.</p>

<p><i>Luigi</i> (dashing his pipe on the ground).&mdash;Regret
the difference! Do you know one thing? England is the
heaven of the Piedmontese and Milanese, and especially those of
Como. We never lie down to rest but we dream of it, whether
we are in our own country or in a foreign land, as I am
now. Regret the difference, Giorgio! Do I hear such
words from your lips, and you an Englishman? I would rather
be the poorest tramper on the roads of England, than lord of all
within ten leagues of the shore of the lake of Como, and much the
same say all my countrymen who have visited England, wherever
they now be. Regret the difference! I have ten
letters, from as many countrymen in America, who say they are
rich and thriving, and principal men and merchants; but every
night, when their heads are reposing on their pillows, their
souls <i>auslandra</i>, hurrying away to England, and its green
lanes and farm-yards. And there they are with their boxes
on the ground, displaying their looking-glasses and other goods
to the honest rustics and their dames and their daughters, and
selling away and chaffering and laughing just as of old.
And there they are again at nightfall in the hedge alehouses,
eating their toasted cheese and their bread, and drinking the
Suffolk ale, and listening to the roaring song and merry jest of
the labourers. Now, if they regret England so who are in
America, which they own to be a happy country, and good for those
of Piedmont and of Como, how much more must I regret it, when,
after the lapse of so many years, I find myself in Spain, in this
frightful town of Coru&ntilde;a, driving a ruinous trade, and
where months pass by without my seeing a single English face, or
hearing a word of the blessed English tongue.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;With such a predilection for England,
what could have induced you to leave it and come to Spain?</p>

<p><i>Luigi</i>.&mdash;I will tell you: about sixteen years ago a
universal desire seized our people in England to become something
more than they had hitherto been, pedlars and trampers; they
wished, moreover, for mankind are never satisfied, to see other
countries: so the greater part forsook England. Where
formerly there had been ten, at present scarcely lingers
one. Almost all went to America, which, as I told you
before, is a happy country, and specially good for us men of
Como. Well, all my comrades and relations passed over the
sea to the West. I, too, was bent on travelling; but
whither? Instead of going towards the West with the rest,
to a country where they have all thriven, I must needs come by
myself to this land of Spain; a country in which no foreigner
settles without dying of a broken heart sooner or later. I
had an idea in my head that I could make a fortune at once, by
bringing a cargo of common English goods, like those which I had
been in the habit of selling amongst the villagers of
England. So I freighted half a ship with such goods, for I
had been successful in England in my little speculations, and I
arrived at Coru&ntilde;a. Here at once my vexations began:
disappointment followed disappointment. It was with the
utmost difficulty that I could obtain permission to land my
goods, and this only at a considerable sacrifice in bribes and
the like; and when I had established myself here, I found that
the place was one of no trade, and that my goods went off very
slowly, and scarcely at prime cost. I wished to remove to
another place, but was informed that, in that case, I must leave
my goods behind, unless I offered fresh bribes, which would have
ruined me; and in this way I have gone on for fourteen years,
selling scarcely enough to pay for my shop and to support
myself. And so I shall doubtless continue till I die, or my
goods are exhausted. In an evil day I left England and came
to Spain.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Did you not say that you had a countryman
at St. James?</p>

<p><i>Luigi</i>.&mdash;Yes, a poor honest fellow, who, like
myself, by some strange chance found his way to Galicia. I
sometimes contrive to send him a few goods, which he sells at St.
James at a greater profit than I can here. He is a happy
fellow, for he has never been in England, and knows not the
difference between the two countries. Oh, the green English
hedgerows! and the alehouses! and, what is much more, the fair
dealing and security. I have travelled all over England and
never met with ill usage, except once down in the north amongst
the Papists, upon my telling them to leave all their mummeries
and go to the parish church as I did, and as all my countrymen in
England did; for know one thing, Signor Giorgio, not one of us
who have lived in England, whether Piedmontese or men of Como,
but wished well to the Protestant religion, if he had not
actually become a member of it.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;What do you propose to do at present,
Luigi? What are your prospects?</p>

<p><i>Luigi</i>.&mdash;My prospects are a blank, Giorgio; my
prospects are a blank. I propose nothing but to die in
Coru&ntilde;a, perhaps in the hospital, if they will admit
me. Years ago I thought of fleeing, even if I left all
behind me, and either returning to England, or betaking myself to
America; but it is too late now, Giorgio, it is too late.
When I first lost all hope, I took to drinking, to which I was
never before inclined, and I am now what I suppose you see.</p>

<p>&ldquo;There is hope in the Gospel,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;even
for you. I will send you one.&rdquo;</p>

<p>There is a small battery of the old town which fronts the
east, and whose wall is washed by the waters of the bay. It
is a sweet spot, and the prospect which opens from it is
extensive. The battery itself may be about eighty yards
square; some young trees are springing up about it, and it is
rather a favourite resort of the people of Coru&ntilde;a.</p>

<p>In the centre of this battery stands the tomb of Moore, built
by the chivalrous French, in commemoration of the fall of their
heroic antagonist. It is oblong and surmounted by a slab,
and on either side bears one of the simple and sublime epitaphs
for which our rivals are celebrated, and which stand in such
powerful contrast with the bloated and bombastic inscriptions
which deform the walls of Westminster Abbey:</p>

<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">&ldquo;JOHN MOORE,<br
/>
<span class="smcap">leader of the english armies</span>,<br />
<span class="smcap">slain in battle</span>,<br />
1809.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>

<p>The tomb itself is of marble, and around it is a quadrangular
wall, breast high, of rough Gallegan granite; close to each
corner rises from the earth the breech of an immense brass
cannon, intended to keep the wall compact and close. These
outer erections are, however, not the work of the French, but of
the English government.</p>

<p>Yes, there lies the hero, almost within sight of the glorious
hill where he turned upon his pursuers like a lion at bay and
terminated his career. Many acquire immortality without
seeking it, and die before its first ray has gilded their name;
of these was Moore. The harassed general, flying through
Castile with his dispirited troops before a fierce and terrible
enemy, little dreamed that he was on the point of attaining that
for which many a better, greater, though certainly not braver
man, had sighed in vain. His very misfortunes were the
means which secured him immortal fame; his disastrous route,
bloody death, and finally his tomb on a foreign strand, far from
kin and friends. There is scarcely a Spaniard but has heard
of this tomb, and speaks of it with a strange kind of awe.
Immense treasures are said to have been buried with the heretic
general, though for what purpose no one pretends to guess.
The demons of the clouds, if we may trust the Gallegans, followed
the English in their flight, and assailed them with water-spouts
as they toiled up the steep winding paths of Fuencebadon; whilst
legends the most wild are related of the manner in which the
stout soldier fell. Yes, even in Spain, immortality has
already crowned the head of Moore;&mdash;Spain, the land of
oblivion, where the Guadalete <a name="citation245"></a><a
href="#footnote245" class="citation">[245]</a> flows.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XXVII</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Compostella&mdash;Rey Romero&mdash;The
Treasure-seeker&mdash;Hopeful Project&mdash;The Church of
Refuge&mdash;Hidden Riches&mdash;The Canon&mdash;Spirit of
Localism&mdash;The Leper&mdash;Bones of St. James.</p>

<p>At the commencement of August, I found myself at St. James of
Compostella. To this place I travelled from Coru&ntilde;a
with the courier or weekly post, who was escorted by a strong
party of soldiers, in consequence of the distracted state of the
country, which was overrun with banditti. From
Coru&ntilde;a to St. James, the distance is but ten leagues; the
journey, however, endured for a day and a half. It was a
pleasant one, through a most beautiful country, with a rich
variety of hill and dale; the road was in many places shaded with
various kinds of trees clad in most luxuriant foliage.
Hundreds of travellers, both on foot and on horseback, availed
themselves of the security which the escort afforded: the dread
of banditti was strong. During the journey two or three
alarms were given; we, however, reached Saint James without
having been attacked.</p>

<p>Saint James stands on a pleasant level amidst mountains: the
most extraordinary of these is a conical hill, called the Pico
Sacro, or Sacred Peak, connected with which are many wonderful
legends. A beautiful old town is Saint James, containing
about twenty thousand inhabitants. Time has been when, with
the single exception of Rome, it was the most celebrated resort
of pilgrims in the world; its cathedral being said to contain the
bones of Saint James the elder, the child of the thunder, who,
according to the legend of the Romish church, first preached the
Gospel in Spain. Its glory, however, as a place of
pilgrimage is rapidly passing away.</p>

<p>The cathedral, though a work of various periods, and
exhibiting various styles of architecture, is a majestic
venerable pile, in every respect calculated to excite awe and
admiration; indeed, it is almost impossible to walk its long
dusky aisles, and hear the solemn music and the noble chanting,
and inhale the incense of the mighty censers, which are at times
swung so high by machinery as to smite the vaulted roof, whilst
gigantic tapers glitter here and there amongst the gloom, from
the shrine of many a saint, before which the worshippers are
kneeling, breathing forth their prayers and petitions for help,
love, and mercy, and entertain a doubt that we are treading the
floor of a house where God delighteth to dwell. Yet the
Lord is distant from that house; he hears not, he sees not, or if
he do, it is with anger. What availeth that solemn music,
that noble chanting, that incense of sweet savour? What
availeth kneeling before that grand altar of silver, surmounted
by that figure with its silver hat and breast-plate, the emblem
of one who, though an apostle and confessor, was at best an
unprofitable servant? What availeth hoping for remission of
sin by trusting in the merits of one who possessed none, or by
paying homage to others who were born and nurtured in sin, and
who alone, by the exercise of a lively faith granted from above,
could hope to preserve themselves from the wrath of the
Almighty?</p>

<p>Rise from your knees, ye children of Compostella, or if ye
bend, let it be to the Almighty alone, and no longer on the eve
of your patron&rsquo;s day address him in the following strain,
however sublime it may sound:</p>

<blockquote><p>&ldquo;Thou shield of that faith which in Spain we
revere,<br />
Thou scourge of each foeman who dares to draw near;<br />
Whom the Son of that God who the elements tames,<br />
Called child of the thunder, immortal Saint James!</p>

<p>&ldquo;From the blessed asylum of glory intense,<br />
Upon us thy sovereign influence dispense;<br />
And list to the praises our gratitude aims<br />
To offer up worthily, mighty Saint James.</p>

<p>&ldquo;To thee fervent thanks Spain shall ever outpour;<br />
In thy name though she glory, she glories yet more<br />
In thy thrice-hallowed corse, which the sanctuary claims<br />
Of high Compostella, O, blessed Saint James.</p>

<p>&ldquo;When heathen impiety, loathsome and dread,<br />
With a chaos of darkness our Spain overspread,<br />
Thou wast the first light which dispell&rsquo;d with its
flames<br />
The hell-born obscurity, glorious Saint James!</p>

<p>&ldquo;And when terrible wars had nigh wasted our force,<br />
All bright &rsquo;midst the battle we saw thee on horse,<br />
Fierce scattering the hosts, whom their fury proclaims<br />
To be warriors of Islam, victorious Saint James.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Beneath thy direction, stretch&rsquo;d prone at thy
feet,<br />
With hearts low and humble, this day we intreat<br />
Thou wilt strengthen the hope which enlivens our frames,<br />
The hope of thy favour and presence, Saint James.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Then praise to the Son and the Father above,<br />
And to that Holy Spirit which springs from their love;<br />
To that bright emanation whose vividness shames<br />
The sun&rsquo;s burst of splendour, and praise to Saint
James.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>

<p>At Saint James I met with a kind and cordial coadjutor in my
biblical labours in the bookseller of the place, Rey Romero, a
man of about sixty. This excellent individual, who was both
wealthy and respected, took up the matter with an enthusiasm
which doubtless emanated from on high, losing no opportunity of
recommending my book to those who entered his shop, which was in
the Azabacheria, and was a very splendid and commodious
establishment. In many instances, when the peasants of the
neighbourhood came with an intention of purchasing some of the
foolish popular story-books of Spain, he persuaded them to carry
home Testaments instead, assuring them that the sacred volume was
a better, more instructive, and even far more entertaining book
than those they came in quest of. He speedily conceived a
great fancy for me, and regularly came to visit me every evening
at my posada, and accompanied me in my walks about the town and
the environs. He was a man of considerable information, and
though of much simplicity, possessed a kind of good-natured
humour which was frequently highly diverting.</p>

<p>I was walking late one night alone in the Alameda of Saint
James, considering in what direction I should next bend my
course, for I had been already ten days in this place; the moon
was shining gloriously, and illumined every object around to a
considerable distance. The Alameda was quite deserted;
everybody, with the exception of myself, having for some time
retired. I sat down on a bench and continued my
reflections, which were suddenly interrupted by a heavy stumping
sound. Turning my eyes in the direction from which it
proceeded, I perceived what at first appeared a shapeless bulk
slowly advancing: nearer and nearer it drew, and I could now
distinguish the outline of a man dressed in coarse brown
garments, a kind of Andalusian hat, and using as a staff the long
peeled branch of a tree. He had now arrived opposite the
bench where I was seated, when, stopping, he took off his hat and
demanded charity in uncouth tones and in a strange jargon, which
had some resemblance to the Catalan. The moon shone on grey
locks and on a ruddy weather-beaten countenance which I at once
recognized: &ldquo;Benedict Mol,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;is it
possible that I see you at Compostella?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Och, mein Gott, es ist der Herr!&rdquo; replied
Benedict. &ldquo;Och, what good fortune, that the Herr is
the first person I meet at Compostella.&rdquo;</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;I can scarcely believe my eyes. Do
you mean to say that you have just arrived at this place?</p>

<p><i>Benedict</i>.&mdash;Ow yes, I am this moment arrived.
I have walked all the long way from Madrid.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;What motive could possibly bring you such
a distance?</p>

<p><i>Benedict</i>.&mdash;Ow, I am come for the schatz&mdash;the
treasure. I told you at Madrid that I was coming; and now I
have met you here, I have no doubt that I shall find it, the
schatz.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;In what manner did you support yourself
by the way?</p>

<p><i>Benedict</i>.&mdash;Ow, I begged, I bettled, and so
contrived to pick up some cuartos; and when I reached Toro, I
worked at my trade of soap-making for a time, till the people
said I knew nothing about it, and drove me out of the town.
So I went on and begged and bettled till I arrived at Orense,
which is in this country of Galicia. Ow, I do not like this
country of Galicia at all.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Why not?</p>

<p><i>Benedict</i>.&mdash;Why! because here they all beg and
bettle, and have scarce anything for themselves, much less for me
whom they know to be a foreign man. O the misery of
Galicia. When I arrive at night at one of their pigsties,
which they call posadas, and ask for bread to eat in the name of
God, and straw to lie down in, they curse me, and say there is
neither bread nor straw in Galicia; and sure enough, since I have
been here I have seen neither, only something that they call
broa, and a kind of reedy rubbish with which they litter the
horses: all my bones are sore since I entered Galicia.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;And yet you have come to this country,
which you call so miserable, in search of treasure?</p>

<p><i>Benedict</i>.&mdash;Ow yaw, but the schatz is buried; it is
not above ground; there is no money above ground in
Galicia. I must dig it up; and when I have dug it up I will
purchase a coach with six mules, and ride out of Galicia to
Lucerne; and if the Herr pleases to go with me, he shall be
welcome to go with me and the schatz.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;I am afraid that you have come on a
desperate errand. What do you propose to do? Have you
any money?</p>

<p><i>Benedict</i>.&mdash;Not a cuart; but I do not care now I
have arrived at Saint James. The schatz is nigh; and I
have, moreover, seen you, which is a good sign; it tells me that
the schatz is still here. I shall go to the best posada in
the place, and live like a duke till I have an opportunity of
digging up the schatz, when I will pay all scores.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Do nothing of the kind,&rdquo; I replied; &ldquo;find
out some place in which to sleep, and endeavour to seek some
employment. In the mean time, here is a trifle with which
to support yourself; but as for the treasure which you have come
to seek, I believe it only exists in your own
imagination.&rdquo; I gave him a dollar and departed.</p>

<p>I have never enjoyed more charming walks than in the
neighbourhood of Saint James. In these I was almost
invariably accompanied by my friend the good old
bookseller. The streams are numerous, and along their
wooded banks we were in the habit of straying and enjoying the
delicious summer evenings of this part of Spain. Religion
generally formed the topic of our conversation, but we not
unfrequently talked of the foreign lands which I had visited, and
at other times of matters which related particularly to my
companion. &ldquo;We booksellers of Spain,&rdquo; said he,
&ldquo;are all liberals; we are no friends to the monkish
system. How indeed should we be friends to it? It
fosters darkness, whilst we live by disseminating light. We
love our profession, and have all more or less suffered for it;
many of us, in the times of terror, were hanged for selling an
innocent translation from the French or English. Shortly
after the Constitution was put down by Angouleme and the French
bayonets, I was obliged to flee from Saint James and take refuge
in the wildest part of Galicia, near Corcuvion. Had I not
possessed good friends, I should not have been alive now; as it
was, it cost me a considerable sum of money to arrange
matters. Whilst I was away, my shop was in charge of the
ecclesiastical officers. They frequently told my wife that
I ought to be burnt for the books which I had sold. Thanks
be to God, those times are past, and I hope they will never
return.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Once, as we were walking through the streets of Saint James,
he stopped before a church and looked at it attentively. As
there was nothing remarkable in the appearance of this edifice, I
asked him what motive he had for taking such notice of it.
&ldquo;In the days of the friars,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;this
church was one of refuge, to which if the worst criminals
escaped, they were safe. All were protected there save the
negros, as they called us liberals.&rdquo; &ldquo;Even
murderers, I suppose?&rdquo; said I.
&ldquo;Murderers!&rdquo; he answered, &ldquo;far worse criminals
than they. By the by, I have heard that you English
entertain the utmost abhorrence of murder. Do you in
reality consider it a crime of very great magnitude?&rdquo;
&ldquo;How should we not,&rdquo; I replied; &ldquo;for every
other crime some reparation can be made; but if we take away
life, we take away all. A ray of hope with respect to this
world may occasionally enliven the bosom of any other criminal,
but how can the murderer hope?&rdquo; &ldquo;The friars
were of another way of thinking,&rdquo; replied the old man;
&ldquo;they always looked upon murder as a friolera; but not so
the crime of marrying your first cousin without dispensation, for
which, if we believe them, there is scarcely any atonement either
in this world or the next.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Two or three days after this, as we were seated in my
apartment in the posada, engaged in conversation, the door was
opened by Antonio, who, with a smile on his countenance, said
that there was a foreign <i>gentleman</i> below, who desired to
speak with me. &ldquo;Show him up,&rdquo; I replied;
whereupon almost instantly appeared Benedict Mol.</p>

<p>&ldquo;This is a most extraordinary person,&rdquo; said I to
the bookseller. &ldquo;You Galicians, in general, leave
your country in quest of money; he, on the contrary, is come
hither to find some.&rdquo;</p>

<p><i>Rey Romero</i>.&mdash;And he is right. Galicia is by
nature the richest province in Spain, but the inhabitants are
very stupid, and know not how to turn the blessings which
surround them to any account; but as a proof of what may be made
out of Galicia, see how rich the Catalans become who have settled
down here and formed establishments. There are riches all
around us, upon the earth and in the earth.</p>

<p><i>Benedict</i>.&mdash;Ow yaw, in the earth, that is what I
say. There is much more treasure below the earth than above
it.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Since I last saw you, have you discovered
the place in which you say the treasure is deposited?</p>

<p><i>Benedict</i>.&mdash;O yes, I know all about it now.
It is buried &rsquo;neath the sacristy in the church of San
Roque.</p>

<p>Myself.&mdash;How have you been able to make that
discovery?</p>

<p><i>Benedict</i>.&mdash;I will tell you: the day after my
arrival I walked about all the city in quest of the church, but
could find none which at all answered to the signs which my
comrade who died in the hospital gave me. I entered
several, and looked about, but all in vain; I could not find the
place which I had in my mind&rsquo;s eye. At last the
people with whom I lodge, and to whom I told my business, advised
me to send for a meiga.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;A meiga! What is that?</p>

<p><i>Benedict</i>.&mdash;Ow! a haxweib, a witch; the Gallegos
call them so in their jargon, of which I can scarcely understand
a word. So I consented, and they sent for the meiga.
Och! what a weib is that meiga! I never saw such a woman;
she is as large as myself, and has a face as round and red as the
sun. She asked me a great many questions in her Gallegan,
and when I had told her all she wanted to know, she pulled out a
pack of cards and laid them on the table in a particular manner,
and then she said that the treasure was in the church of San
Roque; and sure enough, when I went to that church, it answered
in every respect to the signs of my comrade who died in the
hospital. O she is a powerful hax, that meiga; she is well
known in the neighbourhood, and has done much harm to the
cattle. I gave her half the dollar I had from you for her
trouble.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Then you acted like a simpleton; she has
grossly deceived you. But even suppose that the treasure is
really deposited in the church you mention, it is not probable
that you will be permitted to remove the floor of the sacristy to
search for it.</p>

<p><i>Benedict</i>.&mdash;Ow, the matter is already well
advanced. Yesterday I went to one of the canons to confess
myself and to receive absolution and benediction; not that I
regard these things much, but I thought this would be the best
means of broaching the matter, so I confessed myself, and then I
spoke of my travels to the canon, and at last I told him of the
treasure, and proposed that if he assisted me we should share it
between us. Ow, I wish you had seen him; he entered at once
into the affair, and said that it might turn out a very
profitable speculation: and he shook me by the hand, and said
that I was an honest Swiss and a good Catholic. And I then
proposed that he should take me into his house and keep me there
till we had an opportunity of digging up the treasure
together. This he refused to do.</p>

<p><i>Rey Romero</i>.&mdash;Of that I have no doubt: trust one of
our canons for not committing himself so far until he sees very
good reason. These tales of treasure are at present rather
too stale: we have heard of them ever since the time of the
Moors.</p>

<p><i>Benedict</i>.&mdash;He advised me to go to the Captain
General and obtain permission to make excavations, in which case
he promised to assist me to the utmost of his power.</p>

<p>Thereupon the Swiss departed, and I neither saw nor heard
anything farther of him during the time that I continued at Saint
James.</p>

<p>The bookseller was never weary of showing me about his native
town, of which he was enthusiastically fond. Indeed, I have
never seen the spirit of localism, which is so prevalent
throughout Spain, more strong than at Saint James. If their
town did but flourish, the Santiagians seemed to care but little
if all others in Galicia perished. Their antipathy to the
town of Coru&ntilde;a was unbounded, and this feeling had of late
been not a little increased from the circumstance that the seat
of the provincial government had been removed from Saint James to
Coru&ntilde;a. Whether this change was advisable or not, it
is not for me, who am a foreigner, to say; my private opinion,
however, is by no means favourable to the alteration. Saint
James is one of the most central towns in Galicia, with large and
populous communities on every side of it, whereas Coru&ntilde;a
stands in a corner, at a considerable distance from the
rest. &ldquo;It is a pity that the vecinos of Coru&ntilde;a
cannot contrive to steal away from us our cathedral, even as they
have done our government,&rdquo; said a Santiagian; &ldquo;then,
indeed, they would be able to cut some figure. As it is,
they have not a church fit to say mass in.&rdquo; &ldquo;A
great pity, too, that they cannot remove our hospital,&rdquo;
would another exclaim; &ldquo;as it is, they are obliged to send
us their sick, poor wretches. I always think that the sick
of Coru&ntilde;a have more ill-favoured countenances than those
from other places; but what good can come from
Coru&ntilde;a?&rdquo;</p>

<p>Accompanied by the bookseller, I visited this hospital, in
which, however, I did not remain long; the wretchedness and
uncleanliness which I observed speedily driving me away.
Saint James, indeed, is the grand lazar-house for all the rest of
Galicia, which accounts for the prodigious number of horrible
objects to be seen in its streets, who have for the most part
arrived in the hope of procuring medical assistance, which, from
what I could learn, is very scantily and inefficiently
administered. Amongst these unhappy wretches I occasionally
observed the terrible leper, and instantly fled from him with a
&ldquo;God help thee,&rdquo; as if I had been a Jew of old.
Galicia is the only province of Spain where cases of leprosy are
still frequent; a convincing proof this, that the disease is the
result of foul feeding, and an inattention to cleanliness, as the
Gallegans, with regard to the comforts of life and civilized
habits, are confessedly far behind all the other natives of
Spain.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Besides a general hospital we have likewise a
leper-house,&rdquo; said the bookseller. &ldquo;Shall I
show it you? We have everything at Saint James. There
is nothing lacking; the very leper finds an inn
here.&rdquo; &ldquo;I have no objection to your showing me
the house,&rdquo; I replied, &ldquo;but it must be at a distance,
for enter it I will not.&rdquo; Thereupon he conducted me
down the road which leads towards Padron and Vigo, and pointing
to two or three huts, exclaimed &ldquo;That is our
leper-house.&rdquo; &ldquo;It appears a miserable
place,&rdquo; I replied: &ldquo;what accommodation may there be
for the patients, and who attends to their wants?&rdquo;
&ldquo;They are left to themselves,&rdquo; answered the
bookseller, &ldquo;and probably sometimes perish from neglect:
the place at one time was endowed and had rents which were
appropriated to its support, but even these have been sequestered
during the late troubles. At present, the least unclean of
the lepers generally takes his station by the road side, and begs
for the rest. See there he is now.&rdquo;</p>

<p>And sure enough the leper in his shining scales, and half
naked, was seated beneath a ruined wall. We dropped money
into the hat of the unhappy being, and passed on.</p>

<p>&ldquo;A bad disorder that,&rdquo; said my friend.
&ldquo;I confess that I, who have seen so many of them, am by no
means fond of the company of lepers. Indeed, I wish that
they would never enter my shop, as they occasionally do to
beg. Nothing is more infectious, as I have heard, than
leprosy: there is one very virulent species, however, which is
particularly dreaded here, the elephantine: those who die of it
should, according to law, be burnt, and their ashes scattered to
the winds: for if the body of such a leper be interred in the
field of the dead, the disorder is forthwith communicated to all
the corses even below the earth. Such, at least, is our
idea in these parts. Lawsuits are at present pending from
the circumstance of elephantides having been buried with the
other dead. Sad is leprosy in all its forms, but most so
when elephantine.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Talking of corses,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;do you believe
that the bones of St. James are veritably interred at
Compostella?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;What can I say,&rdquo; replied the old man; &ldquo;you
know as much of the matter as myself. Beneath the high
altar is a large stone slab or lid, which is said to cover the
mouth of a profound well, at the bottom of which it is believed
that the bones of the saint are interred; though why they should
be placed at the bottom of a well, is a mystery which I cannot
fathom. One of the officers of the church told me that at
one time he and another kept watch in the church during the
night, one of the chapels having shortly before been broken open
and a sacrilege committed. At the dead of night, finding
the time hang heavy on their hands, they took a crowbar and
removed the slab and looked down into the abyss below; it was
dark as the grave; whereupon they affixed a weight to the end of
a long rope and lowered it down. At a very great depth it
seemed to strike against something dull and solid like lead: they
supposed it might be a coffin; perhaps it was, but whose is the
question.&rdquo;</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XXVIII</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Skippers of Padron&mdash;Caldas de los
Reyes&mdash;Pontevedra&mdash;The Notary Public&mdash;Insane
Barber&mdash;An Introduction&mdash;Gallegan
Language&mdash;Afternoon Ride&mdash;Vigo&mdash;The
Stranger&mdash;Jews of the Desert&mdash;Bay of Vigo&mdash;Sudden
Interruption&mdash;The Governor.</p>

<p>After a stay of about a fortnight at Saint James, we again
mounted our horses and proceeded in the direction of Vigo.
As we did not leave Saint James till late in the afternoon, we
travelled that day no farther than Padron, a distance of only
three leagues. This place is a small port, situate at the
extremity of a firth which communicates with the sea. It is
called for brevity&rsquo;s sake, Padron, but its proper
appellation is Villa del Padron, or the town of the patron saint;
it having been, according to the legend, the principal residence
of Saint James during his stay in Galicia. By the Romans it
was termed Iria Flavia. It is a flourishing little town,
and carries on rather an extensive commerce, some of its tiny
barks occasionally finding their way across the Bay of Biscay,
and even so far as the Thames and London.</p>

<p>There is a curious anecdote connected with the skippers of
Padron, which can scarcely be considered as out of place here, as
it relates to the circulation of the Scriptures. I was one
day in the shop of my friend the bookseller at Saint James, when
a stout good-humoured-looking priest entered. He took up
one of my Testaments, and forthwith burst into a violent fit of
laughter. &ldquo;What is the matter?&rdquo; demanded the
bookseller. &ldquo;The sight of this book reminds me of a
circumstance&rdquo;: replied the other, &ldquo;about twenty years
ago, when the English first took it into their heads to be very
zealous in converting us Spaniards to their own way of thinking,
they distributed a great number of books of this kind amongst the
Spaniards who chanced to be in London; some of them fell into the
hands of certain skippers of Padron, and these good folks, on
their return to Galicia, were observed to have become on a sudden
exceedingly opinionated and fond of dispute. It was
scarcely possible to make an assertion in their hearing without
receiving a flat contradiction, especially when religious
subjects were brought on the carpet. &lsquo;It is
false,&rsquo; they would say; &lsquo;Saint Paul, in such a
chapter and in such a verse, says exactly the
contrary.&rsquo; &lsquo;What can you know concerning what
Saint Paul or any other saint has written?&rsquo; the priests
would ask them. &lsquo;Much more than you think,&rsquo;
they replied; &lsquo;we are no longer to be kept in darkness and
ignorance respecting these matters:&rsquo; and then they would
produce their books and read paragraphs, making such comments
that every person was scandalized; they cared nothing about the
Pope, and even spoke with irreverence of the bones of Saint
James. However, the matter was soon bruited about, and a
commission was dispatched from our see to collect the books and
burn them. This was effected, and the skippers were either
punished or reprimanded, since which I have heard nothing more of
them. I could not forbear laughing when I saw these books;
they instantly brought to my mind the skippers of Padron and
their religious disputations.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Our next day&rsquo;s journey brought us to Pontevedra.
As there was no talk of robbers in these parts, we travelled
without any escort and alone. The road was beautiful and
picturesque, though somewhat solitary, especially after we had
left behind us the small town of Caldas. There is more than
one place of this name in Spain; the one of which I am speaking
is distinguished from the rest by being called Caldas de los
Reyes, or the warm baths of the kings. It will not be amiss
to observe that the Spanish <i>Caldas</i> is synonymous with the
Moorish <i>Alhama</i>, a word of frequent occurrence both in
Spanish and African topography. Caldas seemed by no means
undeserving of its name: it stands on a confluence of springs,
and the place when we arrived was crowded with people who had
come to enjoy the benefit of the waters. In the course of
my travels I have observed that wherever warm springs are found,
vestiges of volcanoes are sure to be nigh; the smooth black
precipice, the divided mountain, or huge rocks standing by
themselves on the plain or on the hill side, as if Titans had
been playing at bowls. This last feature occurs near Caldas
de los Reyes, the side of the mountain which overhangs it in the
direction of the south being covered with immense granite stones,
apparently at some ancient period eructed from the bowels of the
earth. From Caldas to Pontevedra the route was hilly and
fatiguing, the heat was intense, and those clouds of flies, which
constitute one of the pests of Galicia, annoyed our horses to
such a degree that we were obliged to cut down branches from the
trees to protect their heads and necks from the tormenting stings
of these bloodthirsty insects. Whilst travelling in Galicia
at this period of the year on horseback, it is always advisable
to carry a fine net for the protection of the animal, a sure and
commodious means of defence, which appears, however, to be
utterly unknown in Galicia, where, perhaps, it is more wanted
than in any other part of the world.</p>

<p>Pontevedra, upon the whole, is certainly entitled to the
appellation of a magnificent town, some of its public edifices,
especially the convents, being such as are nowhere to be found
but in Spain and Italy. It is surrounded by a wall of hewn
stone, and stands at the end of a creek into which the river
Levroz disembogues. It is said to have been founded by a
colony of Greeks, whose captain was no less a personage than
Teucer the Telemonian. It was in former times a place of
considerable commerce; and near its port are to be seen the ruins
of a farol, or lighthouse, said to be of great antiquity.
The port, however, is at a considerable distance from the town,
and is shallow and incommodious. The whole country in the
neighbourhood of Pontevedra is inconceivably delicious, abounding
with fruits of every description, especially grapes, which in the
proper season are seen hanging from the &ldquo;parras&rdquo; in
luscious luxuriance. An old Andalusian author has said that
it produces as many oranges and citron trees as the neighbourhood
of Cordova. Its oranges are, however, by no means good, and
cannot compete with those of Andalusia. The Pontevedrians
boast that their land produces two crops every year, and that
whilst they are gathering in one they may be seen ploughing and
sowing another. They may well be proud of their country,
which is certainly a highly favoured spot.</p>

<p>The town itself is in a state of great decay, and
notwithstanding the magnificence of its public edifices, we found
more than the usual amount of Galician filth and misery.
The posada was one of the most wretched description, and to mend
the matter, the hostess was a most intolerable scold and
shrew. Antonio having found fault with the quality of some
provision which she produced, she cursed him most immoderately in
the country language, which was the only one she spoke, and
threatened, if he attempted to breed any disturbance in her
house, to turn the horses, himself, and his master forthwith out
of doors. Socrates himself, however, could not have
conducted himself on this occasion with greater forbearance than
Antonio, who shrugged his shoulders, muttered something in Greek,
and then was silent.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Where does the notary public live?&rdquo; I
demanded. Now the notary public vended books, and to this
personage I was recommended by my friend at Saint James. A
boy conducted me to the house of Se&ntilde;or Garcia, for such
was his name. I found him a brisk, active, talkative little
man of forty. He undertook with great alacrity the sale of
my Testaments, and in a twinkling sold two to a client who was
waiting in the office, and appeared to be from the country.
He was an enthusiastic patriot, but of course in a local sense,
for he cared for no other country than Pontevedra.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Those fellows of Vigo,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;say their
town is a better one than ours, and that it is more deserving to
be the capital of this part of Galicia. Did you ever hear
such folly? I tell you what, friend, I should not care if
Vigo were burnt, and all the fools and rascals within it.
Would you ever think of comparing Vigo with
Pontevedra?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know,&rdquo; I replied; &ldquo;I have
never been at Vigo, but I have heard say that the bay of Vigo is
the finest in the world.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Bay! my good sir. Bay! yes, the rascals have a
bay, and it is that bay of theirs which has robbed us all our
commerce. But what needs the capital of a district with a
bay? It is public edifices that it wants, where the
provincial deputies can meet to transact their business; now, so
far from there being a commodious public edifice, there is not a
decent house in all Vigo. Bay! yes, they have a bay, but
have they water fit to drink? Have they a fountain?
Yes, they have, and the water is so brackish that it would burst
the stomach of a horse. I hope, my dear sir, that you have
not come all this distance to take the part of such a gang of
pirates as those of Vigo.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I am not come to take their part,&rdquo; I replied;
&ldquo;indeed, I was not aware that they wanted my assistance in
this dispute. I am merely carrying to them the New
Testament, of which they evidently stand in much need, if they
are such knaves and scoundrels as you represent them.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Represent them, my dear sir. Does not the matter
speak for itself? Do they not say that their town is better
than ours, more fit to be the capital of a district, <i>que
disparate</i>! <i>que briboneria</i>! (what folly! what
rascality!)&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Is there a bookseller&rsquo;s shop at Vigo?&rdquo; I
inquired.</p>

<p>&ldquo;There was one,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;kept by an
insane barber. I am glad, for your sake, that it is broken
up, and the fellow vanished; he would have played you one of two
tricks; he would either have cut your throat with his razor,
under pretence of shaving you, or have taken your books and never
have accounted to you for the proceeds. Bay! I never could
see what right such an owl&rsquo;s nest as Vigo has to a
bay.&rdquo;</p>

<p>No person could exhibit greater kindness to another, than did
the notary public to myself, as soon as I had convinced him that
I had no intention of siding with the men of Vigo against
Pontevedra. It was now six o&rsquo;clock in the evening,
and he forthwith conducted me to a confectioner&rsquo;s shop,
where he treated me with an iced cream and a small cup of
chocolate. From hence we walked about the city, the notary
showing the various edifices, especially, the Convent of the
Jesuits: &ldquo;See that front,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;what do
you think of it?&rdquo;</p>

<p>I expressed to him the admiration which I really felt, and by
so doing entirely won the good notary&rsquo;s heart: &ldquo;I
suppose there is nothing like that at Vigo?&rdquo; said I.
He looked at me for a moment, winked, gave a short triumphant
chuckle, and then proceeded on his way, walking at a tremendous
rate. The Se&ntilde;or Garcia was dressed in all respects
as an English notary might be: he wore a white hat, brown frock
coat, drab breeches buttoned at the knees, white stockings, and
well blacked shoes. But I never saw an English notary walk
so fast: it could scarcely be called walking: it seemed more like
a succession of galvanic leaps and bounds. I found it
impossible to keep up with him: &ldquo;Where are you conducting
me?&rdquo; I at last demanded, quite breathless.</p>

<p>&ldquo;To the house of the cleverest man in Spain,&rdquo; he
replied, &ldquo;to whom I intend to introduce you; for you must
not think that Pontevedra has nothing to boast of but its
splendid edifices and its beautiful country; it produces more
illustrious minds than any other town in Spain. Did you
ever hear of the grand Tamerlane?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Oh, yes,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;but he did not come from
Pontevedra or its neighbourhood: he came from the steppes of
Tartary, near the river Oxus.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I know he did,&rdquo; replied the notary, &ldquo;but
what I mean to say is, that when Enrique the Third wanted an
ambassador to send to that African, the only man he could find
suited to the enterprise was a knight of Pontevedra, Don --- by
name. Let the men of Vigo contradict that fact if they
can.&rdquo;</p>

<p>We entered a large portal and ascended a splendid staircase,
at the top of which the notary knocked at a small door:
&ldquo;Who is the gentleman to whom you are about to introduce
me?&rdquo; demanded I.</p>

<p>&ldquo;It is the advocate ---,&rdquo; replied Garcia;
&ldquo;he is the cleverest man in Spain, and understands all
languages and sciences.&rdquo;</p>

<p>We were admitted by a respectable-looking female, to all
appearance a housekeeper, who, on being questioned, informed us
that the Advocate was at home, and forthwith conducted us to an
immense room, or rather library, the walls being covered with
books, except in two or three places, where hung some fine
pictures of the ancient Spanish school. There was a rich
mellow light in the apartment, streaming through a window of
stained glass, which looked to the west. Behind the table
sat the Advocate, on whom I looked with no little interest: his
forehead was high and wrinkled, and there was much gravity on his
features, which were quite Spanish. He was dressed in a
long robe, and might be about sixty; he sat reading behind a
large table, and on our entrance half raised himself and bowed
slightly.</p>

<p>The notary public saluted him most profoundly, and, in an
under voice, hoped that he might be permitted to introduce a
friend of his, an English gentleman, who was travelling through
Galicia.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I am very glad to see him,&rdquo; said the Advocate,
&ldquo;but I hope he speaks Castilian, else we can have but
little communication; for, although I can read both French and
Latin, I cannot speak them.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;He speaks, sir, almost as good Spanish,&rdquo; said the
notary, &ldquo;as a native of Pontevedra.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;The natives of Pontevedra,&rdquo; I replied,
&ldquo;appear to be better versed in Gallegan than in Castilian,
for the greater part of the conversation which I hear in the
streets is carried on in the former dialect.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;The last gentleman which my friend Garcia introduced to
me,&rdquo; said the Advocate, &ldquo;was a Portuguese, who spoke
little or no Spanish. It is said that the Gallegan and
Portuguese are very similar, but when we attempted to converse in
the two languages, we found it impossible. I understood
little of what he said, whilst my Gallegan was quite
unintelligible to him. Can you understand our country
dialect?&rdquo; he continued.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Very little of it,&rdquo; I replied; &ldquo;which I
believe chiefly proceeds from the peculiar accent and uncouth
enunciation of the Gallegans, for their language is certainly
almost entirely composed of Spanish and Portuguese
words.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;So you are an Englishman,&rdquo; said the
Advocate. &ldquo;Your countrymen have committed much damage
in times past in these regions, if we may trust our
histories.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;they sank your galleons and
burnt your finest men-of-war in Vigo Bay, and, under old Cobham,
levied a contribution of forty thousand pounds sterling on this
very town of Pontevedra.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Any foreign power,&rdquo; interrupted the notary
public, &ldquo;has a clear right to attack Vigo, but I cannot
conceive what plea your countrymen could urge for distressing
Pontevedra, which is a respectable town, and could never have
offended them.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Se&ntilde;or Cavalier,&rdquo; said the Advocate,
&ldquo;I will show you my library. Here is a curious work,
a collection of poems, written mostly in Gallegan, by the curate
of Fruime. He is our national poet, and we are very proud
of him.&rdquo;</p>

<p>We stopped upwards of an hour with the Advocate, whose
conversation, if it did not convince me that he was the cleverest
man in Spain, was, upon the whole, highly interesting, and who
certainly possessed an extensive store of general information,
though he was by no means the profound philologist which the
notary had represented him to be.</p>

<p>When I was about to depart from Pontevedra in the afternoon of
the next day, the Se&ntilde;or Garcia stood by the side of my
horse, and having embraced me, thrust a small pamphlet into my
hand: &ldquo;This book,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;contains a
description of Pontevedra. Wherever you go, speak well of
Pontevedra.&rdquo; I nodded. &ldquo;Stay,&rdquo; said he,
&ldquo;my dear friend, I have heard of your society, and will do
my best to further its views. I am quite disinterested, but
if at any future time you should have an opportunity of speaking
in print of Se&ntilde;or Garcia, the notary public of
Pontevedra,&mdash;you understand me,&mdash;I wish you would do
so.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I will,&rdquo; said I.</p>

<p>It was a pleasant afternoon&rsquo;s ride from Pontevedra to
Vigo, the distance being only four leagues. As we
approached the latter town, the country became exceedingly
mountainous, though scarcely anything could exceed the beauty of
the surrounding scenery. The sides of the hills were for
the most part clothed with luxuriant forests, even to the very
summits, though occasionally a flinty and naked peak would
present itself, rising to the clouds. As the evening came
on, the route along which we advanced became very gloomy, the
hills and forests enwrapping it in deep shade. It appeared,
however, to be well frequented: numerous cars were creaking along
it, and both horsemen and pedestrians were continually passing
us. The villages were frequent. Vines, supported on
parras, were growing, if possible, in still greater abundance
than in the neighbourhood of Pontevedra. Life and activity
seemed to pervade everything. The hum of insects, the
cheerful bark of dogs, the rude songs of Galicia, were blended
together in pleasant symphony. So delicious was my ride,
that I almost regretted when we entered the gate of Vigo.</p>

<p>The town occupies the lower part of a lofty hill, which, as it
ascends, becomes extremely steep and precipitous, and the top of
which is crowned with a strong fort or castle. It is a
small compact place, surrounded with low walls, the streets are
narrow, steep, and winding, and in the middle of the town is a
small square.</p>

<p>There is rather an extensive faubourg extending along the
shore of the bay. We found an excellent posada, kept by a
man and woman from the Basque provinces, who were both civil and
intelligent. The town seemed to be crowded, and resounded
with noise and merriment. The people were making a wretched
attempt at an illumination, in consequence of some victory lately
gained, or pretended to have been gained, over the forces of the
Pretender. Military uniforms were glancing about in every
direction. To increase the bustle, a troop of Portuguese
players had lately arrived from Oporto, and their first
representation was to take place this evening. &ldquo;Is
the play to be performed in Spanish?&rdquo; I demanded.
&ldquo;No,&rdquo; was the reply; &ldquo;and on that account every
person is so eager to go; which would not be the case if it were
in a language which they could understand.&rdquo;</p>

<p>On the morning of the next day I was seated at breakfast in a
large apartment which looked out upon the Plaza Mayor, or great
square of the good town of Vigo. The sun was shining very
brilliantly, and all around looked lively and gay.
Presently a stranger entered, and bowing profoundly, stationed
himself at the window, where he remained a considerable time in
silence. He was a man of very remarkable appearance, of
about thirty-five. His features were of perfect symmetry,
and I may almost say, of perfect beauty. His hair was the
darkest I had ever seen, glossy and shining; his eyes large,
black, and melancholy; but that which most struck me was his
complexion. It might be called olive, it is true, but it
was a livid olive. He was dressed in the very first style
of French fashion. Around his neck was a massive gold
chain, while upon his fingers were large rings, in one of which
was set a magnificent ruby. Who can that man be? thought
I;&mdash;Spaniard or Portuguese, perhaps a Creole. I asked
him an indifferent question in Spanish, to which he forthwith
replied in that language, but his accent convinced me that he was
neither Spaniard nor Portuguese.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I presume I am speaking to an Englishman, sir?&rdquo;
said he, in as good English as it was possible for one not an
Englishman to speak.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;You know me to be an Englishman; but I
should find some difficulty in guessing to what country you
belong.</p>

<p><i>Stranger</i>.&mdash;May I take a seat?</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;A singular question. Have you not
as much right to sit in the public apartment of an inn as
myself?</p>

<p><i>Stranger</i>.&mdash;I am not certain of that. The
people here are not in general very gratified at seeing me seated
by their side.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Perhaps owing to your political opinions,
or to some crime which it may have been your misfortune to
commit?</p>

<p><i>Stranger</i>.&mdash;I have no political opinions, and I am
not aware that I ever committed any particular crime,&mdash;I am
hated for my country and my religion.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Perhaps I am speaking to a Protestant,
like myself?</p>

<p><i>Stranger</i>.&mdash;I am no Protestant. If I were,
they would be cautious here of showing their dislike, for I
should then have a government and a consul to protect me. I
am a Jew&mdash;a Barbary Jew, a subject of Abderrahman.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;If that be the case, you can scarcely
complain of being looked upon with dislike in this country, since
in Barbary the Jews are slaves.</p>

<p><i>Stranger</i>.&mdash;In most parts, I grant you, but not
where I was born, which was far up the country, near the
deserts. There the Jews are free, and are feared, and are
as valiant men as the Moslems themselves; as able to tame the
steed, or to fire the gun. The Jews of our tribe are not
slaves, and I like not to be treated as a slave either by
Christian or Moor.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Your history must be a curious one, I
would fain hear it.</p>

<p><i>Stranger</i>.&mdash;My history I shall tell to no
one. I have travelled much, I have been in commerce and
have thriven. I am at present established in Portugal, but
I love not the people of Catholic countries, and least of all
these of Spain. I have lately experienced the most shameful
injustice in the Aduana of this town, and when I complained, they
laughed at me and called me Jew. Wherever he turns, the Jew
is reviled, save in your country, and on that account my blood
always warms when I see an Englishman. You are a stranger
here. Can I do aught for you? You may command me.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;I thank you heartily, but I am in need of
no assistance.</p>

<p><i>Stranger</i>.&mdash;Have you any bills, I will accept them
if you have?</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;I have no need of assistance; but you may
do me a favour by accepting of a book.</p>

<p><i>Stranger</i>.&mdash;I will receive it with thanks. I
know what it is. What a singular people? The same
dress, the same look, the same book. Pelham gave me one in
Egypt. Farewell! Your Jesus was a good man, perhaps a
prophet; but . . . farewell!</p>

<p>Well may the people of Pontevedra envy the natives of Vigo
their bay, with which, in many respects, none other in the world
can compare. On every side it is defended by steep and
sublime hills, save on the part of the west, where is the outlet
to the Atlantic; but in the midst of this outlet, up towers a
huge rocky wall, or island, which breaks the swell, and prevents
the billows of the western sea from pouring through in full
violence. On either side of this island is a passage, so
broad, that navies might pass through at all times in
safety. The bay itself is oblong, running far into the
land, and so capacious, that a thousand sail of the line might
ride in it uncrowded. The waters are dark, still, and deep,
without quicksands or shallows, so that the proudest man-of-war
might lie within a stone&rsquo;s throw of the town ramparts
without any fear of injuring her keel.</p>

<p>Of many a strange event, and of many a mighty preparation has
this bay been the scene. It was here that the bulky dragons
of the grand armada were mustered, and it was from hence that,
fraught with the pomp, power, and terror of old Spain, the
monster fleet, spreading its enormous sails to the wind, and bent
on the ruin of the Lutheran isle, proudly steered;&mdash;that
fleet, to build and man which half the forests of Galicia had
been felled, and all the mariners impressed from the thousand
bays and creeks of the stern Cantabrian shore. It was here
that the united flags of Holland and England triumphed over the
pride of Spain and France; when the burning timbers of exploded
war-ships soared above the tops of the Gallegan hills, and
blazing galleons sank with their treasure chests whilst drifting
in the direction of Sampayo. It was on the shores of this
bay that the English guards first emptied Spanish bodegas, whilst
the bombs of Cobham were crushing the roofs of the castle of
Castro, and the vecinos of Pontevedra buried their doubloons in
cellars, and flying posts were conveying to Lugo and Orensee the
news of the heretic invasion and the disaster of Vigo. All
these events occurred to my mind as I stood far up the hill, at a
short distance from the fort, surveying the bay.</p>

<p>&ldquo;What are you doing there, Cavalier?&rdquo; roared
several voices. &ldquo;Stay, Carracho! if you attempt to
run we will shoot you!&rdquo; I looked round and saw three
or four fellows in dirty uniforms, to all appearance soldiers,
just above me, on a winding path, which led up the hill.
Their muskets were pointed at me. &ldquo;What am I
doing? Nothing, as you see,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;save
looking at the bay; and as for running, this is by no means
ground for a course.&rdquo; &ldquo;You are our
prisoner,&rdquo; said they, &ldquo;and you must come with us to
the fort.&rdquo; &ldquo;I was just thinking of going
there,&rdquo; I replied, &ldquo;before you thus kindly invited
me. The fort is the very spot I was desirous of
seeing.&rdquo; I thereupon climbed up to the place where
they stood, when they instantly surrounded me, and with this
escort I was marched into the fort, which might have been a
strong place in its time, but was now rather ruinous.
&ldquo;You are suspected of being a spy,&rdquo; said the
corporal, who walked in front. &ldquo;Indeed,&rdquo; said
I. &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied the corporal, &ldquo;and
several spies have lately been taken and shot.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Upon one of the parapets of the fort stood a young man,
dressed as a subaltern officer, and to this personage I was
introduced. &ldquo;We have been watching you this half
hour,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;as you were taking
observations.&rdquo; &ldquo;Then you gave yourselves much
useless trouble,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;I am an Englishman,
and was merely looking at the bay. Have the kindness now to
show me the fort.&rdquo; . . .</p>

<p>After some conversation, he said, &ldquo;I wish to be civil to
people of your nation, you may therefore consider yourself at
liberty.&rdquo; I bowed, made my exit, and proceeded down
the hill. Just before I entered the town, however, the
corporal, who had followed me unperceived, tapped me on the
shoulder. &ldquo;You must go with me to the
governor,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;With all my heart,&rdquo;
I replied. The governor was shaving, when we were shown up
to him. He was in his shirt sleeves, and held a razor in
his hand. He looked very ill-natured, which was perhaps
owing to his being thus interrupted in his toilet. He asked
me two or three questions, and on learning that I had a passport,
and was the bearer of a letter to the English consul, he told me
that I was at liberty to depart. So I bowed to the governor
of the town, as I had done to the governor of the fort, and
making my exit proceeded to my inn.</p>

<p>At Vigo I accomplished but little in the way of distribution,
and after a sojourn of a few days, I returned in the direction of
Saint James.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XXIX</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Arrival at Padron&mdash;Projected
Enterprise&mdash;The Alquilador&mdash;Breach of Promise&mdash;An
Odd Companion&mdash;A Plain Story&mdash;Rugged Paths&mdash;The
Desertion&mdash;The Pony&mdash;A Dialogue&mdash;Unpleasant
Situation&mdash;The Estadea&mdash;Benighted&mdash;The
Hut&mdash;The Traveller&rsquo;s Pillow.</p>

<p>I arrived at Padron late in the evening, on my return from
Pontevedra and Vigo. It was my intention at this place to
send my servant and horses forward to Santiago, and to hire a
guide to Cape Finisterra. It would be difficult to assign
any plausible reason for the ardent desire which I entertained to
visit this place; but I remembered that last year I had escaped
almost by a miracle from shipwreck and death on the rocky sides
of this extreme point of the Old World, and I thought that to
convey the Gospel to a place so wild and remote, might perhaps be
considered an acceptable pilgrimage in the eyes of my
Maker. True it is that but one copy remained of those which
I had brought with me on this last journey, but this reflection,
far from discouraging me in my projected enterprise, produced the
contrary effect, as I called to mind that ever since the Lord
revealed himself to man, it has seemed good to him to accomplish
the greatest ends by apparently the most insufficient means; and
I reflected that this one copy might serve as an instrument of
more good than the four thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine
copies of the edition of Madrid.</p>

<p>I was aware that my own horses were quite incompetent to reach
Finisterra, as the roads or paths lie through stony ravines, and
over rough and shaggy hills, and therefore determined to leave
them behind with Antonio, whom I was unwilling to expose to the
fatigues of such a journey. I lost no time in sending for
an alquilador, or person who lets out horses, and informing him
of my intention. He said he had an excellent mountain pony
at my disposal, and that he himself would accompany me, but at
the same time observed, that it was a terrible journey for man
and horse, and that he expected to be paid accordingly. I
consented to give him what he demanded, but on the express
condition that he would perform his promise of attending me
himself, as I was unwilling to trust myself four or five days
amongst the hills with any low fellow of the town whom he might
select, and who it was very possible might play me some evil
turn. He replied by the term invariably used by the
Spaniards when they see doubt or distrust exhibited.
&ldquo;<i>No tenga usted cuidao</i>,&rdquo; I will go
myself. Having thus arranged the matter perfectly
satisfactorily, as I thought, I partook of a slight supper, and
shortly afterwards retired to repose.</p>

<p>I had requested the alquilador to call me the next morning at
three o&rsquo;clock; he however did not make his appearance till
five, having, I suppose, overslept himself, which was indeed my
own case. I arose in a hurry, dressed, put a few things in
a bag, not forgetting the Testament which I had resolved to
present to the inhabitants of Finisterra. I then sallied
forth and saw my friend the alquilador, who was holding by the
bridle the pony or jaco which was destined to carry me in my
expedition. It was a beautiful little animal, apparently
strong and full of life, without one single white hair in its
whole body, which was black as the plumage of the crow.</p>

<p>Behind it stood a strange-looking figure of the biped species,
to whom, however, at the moment, I paid little attention, but of
whom I shall have plenty to say in the sequel.</p>

<p>Having asked the horse-lender whether he was ready to proceed,
and being answered in the affirmative, I bade adieu to Antonio,
and putting the pony in motion, we hastened out of the town,
taking at first the road which leads towards Santiago.
Observing that the figure which I have previously alluded to was
following close at our heels, I asked the alquilador who it was,
and the reason of its following us; to which he replied that it
was a servant of his, who would proceed a little way with us and
then return. So on we went at a rapid rate, till we were
within a quarter of a mile of the Convent of the Esclavitud, a
little beyond which he had informed me that we should have to
turn off from the high road; but here he suddenly stopped short,
and in a moment we were all at a standstill. I questioned
the guide as to the reason of this, but received no answer.
The fellow&rsquo;s eyes were directed to the ground, and he
seemed to be counting with the most intense solicitude the prints
of the hoofs of the oxen, mules, and horses in the dust of the
road. I repeated my demand in a louder voice; when, after a
considerable pause, he somewhat elevated his eyes, without
however looking me in the face, and said that he believed that I
entertained the idea that he himself was to guide me to
Finisterra, which if I did, he was very sorry for, the thing
being quite impossible, as he was perfectly ignorant of the way,
and, moreover, incapable of performing such a journey over rough
and difficult ground, as he was no longer the man he had been,
and over and above all that, he was engaged that day to accompany
a gentleman to Pontevedra, who was at that moment expecting
him. &ldquo;But,&rdquo; continued he, &ldquo;as I am always
desirous of behaving like a caballero to everybody, I have taken
measures to prevent your being disappointed. This
person,&rdquo; pointing to the figure, &ldquo;I have engaged to
accompany you. He is a most trustworthy person, and is well
acquainted with the route to Finisterra, having been thither
several times with this very jaco on which you are mounted.
He will, besides, be an agreeable companion to you on the way, as
he speaks French and English very well, and has been all over the
world.&rdquo; The fellow ceased speaking at last; and I was
so struck with his craft, impudence, and villainy, that some time
elapsed before I could find an answer. I then reproached
him in the bitterest terms for his breach of promise, and said
that I was much tempted to return to the town instantly, complain
of him to the alcalde, and have him punished at any
expense. To which he replied, &ldquo;Sir Cavalier, by so
doing you will be nothing nearer Finisterra, to which you seem so
eager to get. Take my advice, spur on the jaco, for you see
it is getting late, and it is twelve long leagues from hence to
Corcuvion, where you must pass the night; and from thence to
Finisterra is no trifle. As for the man, <i>no tenga usted
cuidao</i>, he is the best guide in all Galicia, speaks English
and French, and will bear you pleasant company.&rdquo;</p>

<p>By this time I had reflected that by returning to Padron I
should indeed be only wasting time, and that by endeavouring to
have the fellow punished, no benefit would accrue to me;
moreover, as he seemed to be a scoundrel in every sense of the
word, I might as well proceed in the company of any person as in
his. I therefore signified my intention of proceeding, and
told him to go back in the Lord&rsquo;s name, and repent of his
sins. But having gained one point, he thought he had best
attempt another; so placing himself about a yard before the jaco,
he said that the price which I had agreed to pay him for the loan
of his horse (which by the by was the full sum he had demanded)
was by no means sufficient, and that before I proceeded I must
promise him two dollars more, adding that he was either drunk or
mad when he had made such a bargain. I was now thoroughly
incensed, and without a moment&rsquo;s reflection, spurred the
jaco, which flung him down in the dust, and passed over
him. Looking back at the distance of a hundred yards, I saw
him standing in the same place, his hat on the ground, gazing
after us, and crossing himself most devoutly. His servant,
or whatever he was, far from offering any assistance to his
principal, no sooner saw the jaco in motion than he ran on by its
side, without word or comment, farther than striking himself
lustily on the thigh with his right palm. We soon passed
the Esclavitud, and presently afterwards turned to the left into
a stony broken path leading to fields of maize. We passed
by several farm-houses, and at last arrived at a dingle, the
sides of which were plentifully overgrown with dwarf oaks, and
which slanted down to a small dark river shaded with trees, which
we crossed by a rude bridge. By this time I had had
sufficient time to scan my odd companion from head to foot.
His utmost height, had he made the most of himself, might perhaps
have amounted to five feet one inch; but he seemed somewhat
inclined to stoop. Nature had gifted him with an immense
head and placed it clean upon his shoulders, for amongst the
items of his composition it did not appear that a neck had been
included. Arms long and brawny swung at his sides, and the
whole of his frame was as strong built and powerful as a
wrestler&rsquo;s; his body was supported by a pair of short but
very nimble legs. His face was very long, and would have
borne some slight resemblance to a human countenance, had the
nose been more visible, for its place seemed to have been
entirely occupied by a wry mouth and large staring eyes.
His dress consisted of three articles: an old and tattered hat of
the Portuguese kind, broad at the crown and narrow at the eaves,
something which appeared to be a shirt, and dirty canvas
trousers. Willing to enter into conversation with him, and
remembering that the alquilador had informed me that he spoke
languages, I asked him, in English, if he had always acted in the
capacity of guide? Whereupon he turned his eyes with a
singular expression upon my face, gave a loud laugh, a long leap,
and clapped his hands thrice above his head. Perceiving
that he did not understand me, I repeated my demand in French,
and was again answered by the laugh, leap, and clapping. At
last he said in broken Spanish, &ldquo;Master mine, speak Spanish
in God&rsquo;s name, and I can understand you, and still better
if you speak Gallegan, but I can promise no more. I heard
what the alquilador told you, but he is the greatest embustero in
the whole land, and deceived you then as he did when he promised
to accompany you. I serve him for my sins; but it was an
evil hour when I left the deep sea and turned guide.&rdquo;
He then informed me that he was a native of Padron, and a mariner
by profession, having spent the greater part of his life in the
Spanish navy, in which service he had visited Cuba and many parts
of the Spanish Americas, adding, &ldquo;when my master told you
that I should bear you pleasant company by the way, it was the
only word of truth that has come from his mouth for a month; and
long before you reach Finisterra you will have rejoiced that the
servant, and not the master, went with you: he is dull and heavy,
but I am what you see.&rdquo; He then gave two or three
first-rate summersets, again laughed loudly, and clapped his
hands. &ldquo;You would scarcely think,&rdquo; he
continued, &ldquo;that I drove that little pony yesterday heavily
laden all the way from Coru&ntilde;a. We arrived at Padron
at two o&rsquo;clock this morning; but we are nevertheless both
willing and able to undertake a fresh journey. <i>No tenga
usted cuidao</i>, as my master said, no one ever complains of
that pony or of me.&rdquo; In this kind of discourse we
proceeded a considerable way through a very picturesque country,
until we reached a beautiful village at the skirt of a
mountain. &ldquo;This village,&rdquo; said my guide,
&ldquo;is called Los Angeles, because its church was built long
since by the angels; they placed a beam of gold beneath it, which
they brought down from heaven, and which was once a rafter of
God&rsquo;s own house. It runs all the way under the ground
from hence to the cathedral of Compostella.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Passing through the village, which he likewise informed me
possessed baths, and was much visited by the people of Santiago,
we shaped our course to the north-west, and by so doing doubled a
mountain which rose majestically over our heads, its top crowned
with bare and broken rocks, whilst on our right, on the other
side of a spacious valley, was a high range, connected with the
mountains to the northward of Saint James. On the summit of
this range rose high embattled towers, which my guide informed me
were those of Altamira, an ancient and ruined castle, formerly
the principal residence in this province of the counts of that
name. Turning now due west, we were soon at the bottom of a
steep and rugged pass, which led to more elevated regions.
The ascent cost us nearly half an hour, and the difficulties of
the ground were such, that I more than once congratulated myself
on having left my own horses behind, and being mounted on the
gallant little pony which, accustomed to such paths, scrambled
bravely forward, and eventually brought us in safety to the top
of the ascent.</p>

<p>Here we entered a Gallegan cabin, or choza, for the purpose of
refreshing the animal and ourselves. The quadruped ate some
maize, whilst we two bipeds regaled ourselves on some broa and
aguardiente, which a woman whom we found in the hut placed before
us. I walked out for a few minutes to observe the aspect of
the country, and on my return found my guide fast asleep on the
bench where I had left him. He sat bolt upright, his back
supported against the wall, and his legs pendulous, within three
inches of the ground, being too short to reach it. I
remained gazing upon him for at least five minutes, whilst he
enjoyed slumbers seemingly as quiet and profound as those of
death itself. His face brought powerfully to my mind some
of those uncouth visages of saints and abbots which are
occasionally seen in the niches of the walls of ruined
convents. There was not the slightest gleam of vitality in
his countenance, which for colour and rigidity might have been of
stone, and which was as rude and battered as one of the stone
heads at Icolmkill, which have braved the winds of twelve hundred
years. I continued gazing on his face till I became almost
alarmed, concluding that life might have departed from its
harassed and fatigued tenement. On my shaking him rather
roughly by the shoulder he slowly awoke, opening his eyes with a
stare and then closing them again. For a few moments he was
evidently unconscious of where he was. On my shouting to
him, however, and inquiring whether he intended to sleep all day
instead of conducting me to Finisterra, he dropped upon his legs,
snatched up his hat, which lay on the table, and instantly ran
out of the door, exclaiming, &ldquo;Yes, yes, I
remember&mdash;follow me, captain, and I will lead you to
Finisterra in no time.&rdquo; I looked after him, and
perceived that he was hurrying at a considerable pace in the
direction in which we had hitherto been proceeding.
&ldquo;Stop,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;stop! will you leave me here
with the pony? Stop, we have not paid the reckoning.
Stop!&rdquo; He, however, never turned his head for a
moment, and in less than a minute was out of sight. The
pony, which was tied to a crib at one end of the cabin, began now
to neigh terrifically, to plunge, and to erect its tail and mane
in a most singular manner. It tore and strained at the
halter till I was apprehensive that strangulation would
ensue. &ldquo;Woman,&rdquo; I exclaimed, &ldquo;where are
you, and what is the meaning of all this?&rdquo; But the
hostess had likewise disappeared, and though I ran about the
choza, shouting myself hoarse, no answer was returned. The
pony still continued to scream and to strain at the halter more
violently than ever. &ldquo;Am I beset with
lunatics?&rdquo; I cried, and flinging down a peseta on the
table, unloosed the halter, and attempted to introduce the bit
into the mouth of the animal. This, however, I found
impossible to effect. Released from the halter, the pony
made at once for the door, in spite of all the efforts which I
could make to detain it. &ldquo;If you abandon me,&rdquo;
said I, &ldquo;I am in a pretty situation; but there is a remedy
for everything!&rdquo; with which words I sprang into the saddle,
and in a moment more the creature was bearing me at a rapid
gallop in the direction, as I supposed, of Finisterra. My
position, however diverting to the reader, was rather critical to
myself. I was on the back of a spirited animal, over which
I had no control, dashing along a dangerous and unknown
path. I could not discover the slightest vestige of my
guide, nor did I pass anyone from whom I could derive any
information. Indeed, the speed of the animal was so great,
that even in the event of my meeting or overtaking a passenger, I
could scarcely have hoped to exchange a word with him.
&ldquo;Is the pony trained to this work?&rdquo; said I
mentally. &ldquo;Is he carrying me to some den of banditti,
where my throat will be cut, or does he follow his master by
instinct?&rdquo; Both of these suspicions I however soon
abandoned; the pony&rsquo;s speed relaxed, he appeared to have
lost the road. He looked about uneasily: at last, coming to
a sandy spot, he put his nostrils to the ground, and then
suddenly flung himself down, and wallowed in true pony
fashion. I was not hurt, and instantly made use of this
opportunity to slip the bit into his mouth, which previously had
been dangling beneath his neck; I then remounted in quest of the
road.</p>

<p>This I soon found, and continued my way for a considerable
time. The path lay over a moor, patched heath and furze,
and here and there strewn with large stones, or rather
rocks. The sun had risen high in the firmament, and burned
fiercely. I passed several people, men and women, who gazed
at me with surprise, wondering, probably, what a person of my
appearance could be about without a guide in so strange a
place. I inquired of two females whom I met whether they
had seen my guide; but they either did not or would not
understand me, and exchanging a few words with each other, in one
of the hundred dialects of the Gallegan, passed on. Having
crossed the moor, I came rather abruptly upon a convent,
overhanging a deep ravine, at the bottom of which brawled a rapid
stream.</p>

<p>It was a beautiful and picturesque spot: the sides of the
ravine were thickly clothed with wood, and on the other side a
tall, black hill uplifted itself. The edifice was large,
and apparently deserted. Passing by it, I presently reached
a small village, as deserted, to all appearance, as the convent,
for I saw not a single individual, nor so much as a dog to
welcome me with his bark. I proceeded, however, until I
reached a fountain, the waters of which gushed from a stone
pillar into a trough. Seated upon this last, his arms
folded, and his eyes fixed upon the neighbouring mountain, I
beheld a figure which still frequently recurs to my thoughts,
especially when asleep and oppressed by the nightmare. This
figure was my runaway guide.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Good day to you, my gentleman. The
weather is hot, and yonder water appears delicious. I am
almost tempted to dismount and regale myself with a slight
draught.</p>

<p><i>Guide</i>.&mdash;Your worship can do no better. The
day is, as you say, hot; you can do no better than drink a little
of this water. I have myself just drunk. I would not,
however, advise you to give that pony any, it appears heated and
blown.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;It may well be so. I have been
galloping at least two leagues in pursuit of a fellow who engaged
to guide me to Finisterra, but who deserted me in a most singular
manner, so much so, that I almost believe him to be a thief, and
no true man. You do not happen to have seen him?</p>

<p><i>Guide</i>.&mdash;What kind of a man might he be?</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;A short, thick fellow, very much like
yourself, with a hump upon his back, and, excuse me, of a very
ill-favoured countenance.</p>

<p><i>Guide</i>.&mdash;Ha, ha! I know him. He ran
with me to this fountain, where he has just left me. That
man, Sir Cavalier, is no thief. If he is any thing at all,
he is a Nuveiro,&mdash;a fellow who rides upon the clouds, and is
occasionally whisked away by a gust of wind. Should you
ever travel with that man again, never allow him more than one
glass of anise at a time, or he will infallibly mount into the
clouds and leave you, and then he will ride and run till he comes
to a water brook, or knocks his head against a
fountain&mdash;then one draught, and he is himself again.
So you are going to Finisterra, Sir Cavalier. Now it is
singular enough, that a cavalier much of your appearance engaged
me to conduct him there this morning. I however lost him on
the way. So it appears to me our best plan to travel
together until you find your own guide and I find my own
master.</p>

<p>It might be about two o&rsquo;clock in the afternoon, that we
reached a long and ruinous bridge, seemingly of great antiquity,
and which, as I was informed by my guide, was called the bridge
of Don Alonzo. It crossed a species of creek, or rather
frith, for the sea was at no considerable distance, and the small
town of Noyo lay at our right. &ldquo;When we have crossed
that bridge, captain,&rdquo; said my guide, &ldquo;we shall be in
an unknown country, for I have never been farther than Noyo, and
as for Finisterra, so far from having been there, I never heard
of such a place; and though I have inquired of two or three
people since we have been upon this expedition, they know as
little about it as I do. Taking all things, however, into
consideration, it appears to me that the best thing we can do is
to push forward to Corcuvion, which is five mad leagues from
hence, and which we may perhaps reach ere nightfall, if we can
find the way or get any one to direct us; for, as I told you
before, I know nothing about it.&rdquo; &ldquo;To fine
hands have I confided myself,&rdquo; said I: &ldquo;however, we
had best, as you say, push forward to Corcuvion, where,
peradventure, we may hear something of Finisterra, and find a
guide to conduct us.&rdquo; Whereupon, with a hop, skip,
and a jump, he again set forward at a rapid pace, stopping
occasionally at a choza, for the purpose, I suppose, of making
inquiries, though I understood scarcely anything of the jargon in
which he addressed the people, and in which they answered
him.</p>

<p>We were soon in an extremely wild and hilly country,
scrambling up and down ravines, wading brooks, and scratching our
hands and faces with brambles, on which grew a plentiful crop of
wild mulberries, to gather some of which we occasionally made a
stop. Owing to the roughness of the way we made no great
progress. The pony followed close at the back of the guide,
so near, indeed, that its nose almost touched his shoulder.
The country grew wilder and wilder, and since we had passed a
water mill, we had lost all trace of human habitation. The
mill stood at the bottom of a valley shaded by large trees, and
its wheels were turning with a dismal and monotonous noise.
&ldquo;Do you think we shall reach Corcuvion to-night?&rdquo;
said I to the guide, as we emerged from this valley to a savage
moor, which appeared of almost boundless extent.</p>

<p><i>Guide</i>.&mdash;I do not, I do not. We shall in no
manner reach Corcuvion to-night, and I by no means like the
appearance of this moor. The sun is rapidly sinking, and
then, if there come on a haze, we shall meet the
Estadéa.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;What do you mean by the
Estadéa?</p>

<p><i>Guide</i>.&mdash;What do I mean by the
Estadéa? My master asks me what I mean by the
Estadinha. <a name="citation274"></a><a href="#footnote274"
class="citation">[274]</a> I have met the Estadinha but
once, and it was upon a moor something like this. I was in
company with several women, and a thick haze came on, and
suddenly a thousand lights shone above our heads in the haze, and
there was a wild cry, and the women fell to the ground screaming
Estadéa! Estadéa! and I myself fell to the
ground crying out Estadinha! The Estadéa are the
spirits of the dead which ride upon the haze, bearing candles in
their hands. I tell you frankly, my master, that if we meet
the assembly of the souls, I shall leave you at once, and then I
shall run and run till I drown myself in the sea, somewhere about
Muros. We shall not reach Corcuvion this night; my only
hope is that we may find some choza upon these moors, where we
may hide our heads from the Estadinha.</p>

<p>The night overtook us ere we had traversed the moor; there
was, however, no haze, to the great joy of my guide, and a corner
of the moon partially illumined our steps. Our situation,
however, was dreary enough: we were upon the wildest heath of the
wildest province of Spain, ignorant of our way, and directing our
course we scarcely knew whither, for my guide repeatedly declared
to me, that he did not believe that such a place as Finisterra
existed, or if it did exist, it was some bleak mountain pointed
out in a map. When I reflected on the character of this
guide, I derived but little comfort or encouragement: he was at
best evidently half witted, and was by his own confession
occasionally seized with paroxysms which differed from madness in
no essential respect; his wild escapade in the morning of nearly
three leagues, without any apparent cause, and lastly his
superstitious and frantic fears of meeting the souls of the dead
upon this heath, in which event he intended, as he himself said,
to desert me and make for the sea, operated rather powerfully
upon my nerves. I likewise considered that it was quite
possible that we might be in the route neither of Finisterra nor
Corcuvion, and I therefore determined to enter the first cabin at
which we should arrive, in preference to running the risk of
breaking our necks by tumbling down some pit or precipice.
No cabin, however, appeared in sight: the moor seemed
interminable, and we wandered on until the moon disappeared, and
we were left in almost total darkness.</p>

<p>At length we arrived at the foot of a steep ascent, up which a
rough and broken pathway appeared to lead.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Can this be our way?&rdquo; said I to the guide.</p>

<p>&ldquo;There appears to be no other for us, captain,&rdquo;
replied the man; &ldquo;let us ascend it by all means, and when
we are at the top, if the sea be in the neighbourhood we shall
see it.&rdquo;</p>

<p>I then dismounted, for to ride up such a pass in such darkness
would have been madness. We clambered up in a line, first
the guide, next the pony, with his nose as usual on his
master&rsquo;s shoulder, of whom he seemed passionately fond, and
I bringing up the rear, with my left hand grasping the
animal&rsquo;s tail. We had many a stumble, and more than
one fall: once, indeed, we were all rolling down the side of the
hill together. In about twenty minutes we reached the
summit, and looked around us, but no sea was visible: a black
moor, indistinctly seen, seemed to spread on every side.</p>

<p>&ldquo;We shall have to take up our quarters here till
morning,&rdquo; said I.</p>

<p>Suddenly my guide seized me by the hand: &ldquo;There is lume,
Senhor,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;there is lume.&rdquo; I
looked in the direction in which he pointed, and, after straining
my eyes for some time, imagined that I perceived, far below and
at some distance, a faint glow. &ldquo;That is lume,&rdquo;
shouted the guide, &ldquo;and it proceeds from the chimney of a
choza.&rdquo;</p>

<p>On descending the eminence, we roamed about for a considerable
time, until we at last found ourselves in the midst of about six
or eight black huts. &ldquo;Knock at the door of one of
these,&rdquo; said I to the guide, &ldquo;and inquire of the
people whether they can shelter us for the night.&rdquo; He
did so, and a man presently made his appearance, bearing in his
hand a lighted firebrand.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Can you shelter a Cavalheiro from the night and the
Estadéa?&rdquo; said my guide.</p>

<p>&ldquo;From both, I thank God,&rdquo; said the man, who was an
athletic figure, without shoes and stockings, and who, upon the
whole, put me much in mind of a Munster peasant from the
bogs. &ldquo;Pray enter, gentlemen, we can accommodate you
both and your cavalgadura besides.&rdquo;</p>

<p>We entered the choza, which consisted of three compartments;
in the first we found straw, in the second cattle and ponies, and
in the third the family, consisting of the father and mother of
the man who admitted us, and his wife and children.</p>

<p>&ldquo;You are a Catalan, sir Cavalier, and are going to your
countryman at Corcuvion,&rdquo; said the man in tolerable
Spanish. &ldquo;Ah, you are brave people, you Catalans, and
fine establishments you have on the Gallegan shores; pity that
you take all the money out of the country.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Now, under all circumstances, I had not the slightest
objection to pass for a Catalan; and I rather rejoiced that these
wild people should suppose that I had powerful friends and
countrymen in the neighbourhood who were, perhaps, expecting
me. I therefore favoured their mistake, and began with a
harsh Catalan accent to talk of the fish of Galicia, and the high
duties on salt. The eye of my guide was upon me for an
instant, with a singular expression, half serious, half droll; he
however said nothing, but slapped his thigh as usual, and with a
spring nearly touched the roof of the cabin with his grotesque
head. Upon inquiry, I discovered that we were still two
long leagues distant from Corcuvion, and that the road lay over
moor and hill, and was hard to find. Our host now demanded
whether we were hungry, and upon being answered in the
affirmative, produced about a dozen eggs and some bacon.
Whilst our supper was cooking, a long conversation ensued between
my guide and the family, but as it was carried on in Gallegan, I
tried in vain to understand it. I believe, however, that it
principally related to witches and witchcraft, as the
Estadéa was frequently mentioned. After supper I
demanded where I could rest: whereupon the host pointed to a
trap-door in the roof, saying that above there was a loft where I
could sleep by myself, and have clean straw. For
curiosity&rsquo;s sake, I asked whether there was such a thing as
a bed in the cabin.</p>

<p>&ldquo;No,&rdquo; replied the man; &ldquo;nor nearer than
Corcuvion. I never entered one in my life, nor any one of
my family: we sleep around the hearth, or among the straw with
the cattle.&rdquo;</p>

<p>I was too old a traveller to complain, but forthwith ascended
by a ladder into a species of loft, tolerably large and nearly
empty, where I placed my cloak beneath my head, and lay down on
the boards, which I preferred to the straw, for more reasons than
one. I heard the people below talking in Gallegan for a
considerable time, and could see the gleams of the fire through
the interstices of the floor. The voices, however,
gradually died away, the fire sank low and could no longer be
distinguished. I dozed, started, dozed again, and dropped
finally into a profound sleep, from which I was only roused by
the crowing of the second cock.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XXX</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Autumnal Morning&mdash;The World&rsquo;s
End&mdash;Corcuvion&mdash;Duyo&mdash;The Cape&mdash;A
Whale&mdash;The Outer Bay&mdash;The Arrest&mdash;The
Fisher-Magistrate&mdash;Calros Rey&mdash;Hard of
Belief&mdash;Where is your Passport?&mdash;The Beach&mdash;A
Mighty Liberal&mdash;The Handmaid&mdash;The Grand
Baintham&mdash;Eccentric Book&mdash;Hospitality.</p>

<p>It was a beautiful autumnal morning when we left the choza and
pursued our way to Corcuvion. I satisfied our host by
presenting him with a couple of pesetas, and he requested as a
favour, that if on our return we passed that way, and were
overtaken by the night, we would again take up our abode beneath
his roof. This I promised, at the same time determining to
do my best to guard against the contingency; as sleeping in the
loft of a Gallegan hut, though preferable to passing the night on
a moor or mountain, is anything but desirable.</p>

<p>So we again started at a rapid pace along rough bridle-ways
and footpaths, amidst furze and brushwood. In about an hour
we obtained a view of the sea, and directed by a lad, whom we
found on the moor employed in tending a few miserable sheep, we
bent our course to the north-west, and at length reached the brow
of an eminence, where we stopped for some time to survey the
prospect which opened before us.</p>

<p>It was not without reason that the Latins gave the name of
Finnisterræ to this district. We had arrived exactly
at such a place as in my boyhood I had pictured to myself as the
termination of the world, beyond which there was a wild sea, or
abyss, or chaos. I now saw far before me an immense ocean,
and below me a long and irregular line of lofty and precipitous
coast. Certainly in the whole world there is no bolder
coast than the Gallegan shore, from the debouchement of the Minho
to Cape Finisterra. It consists of a granite wall of savage
mountains, for the most part serrated at the top, and
occasionally broken, where bays and firths like those of Vigo and
Pontevedra intervene, running deep into the land. These
bays and firths are invariably of an immense depth, and
sufficiently capacious to shelter the navies of the proudest
maritime nations.</p>

<p>There is an air of stern and savage grandeur in everything
around, which strongly captivates the imagination. This
savage coast is the first glimpse of Spain which the voyager from
the north catches, or he who has ploughed his way across the wide
Atlantic: and well does it seem to realize all his visions of
this strange land. &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he exclaims,
&ldquo;this is indeed Spain&mdash;stern flinty Spain&mdash;land
emblematic of those spirits to which she has given birth.
From what land but that before me could have proceeded those
portentous beings, who astounded the Old World and filled the New
with horror and blood: Alba and Philip, Cortez and Pizarro: stern
colossal spectres looming through the gloom of bygone years, like
yonder granite mountains through the haze, upon the eye of the
mariner. Yes, yonder is indeed Spain; flinty, indomitable
Spain; land emblematic of its sons!&rdquo;</p>

<p>As for myself, when I viewed that wide ocean and its savage
shore, I cried, &ldquo;Such is the grave, and such are its
terrific sides; those moors and wilds, over which I have passed,
are the rough and dreary journey of life. Cheered with
hope, we struggle along through all the difficulties of moor,
bog, and mountain, to arrive at&mdash;what? The grave and
its dreary sides. Oh, may hope not desert us in the last
hour: hope in the Redeemer and in God!&rdquo;</p>

<p>We descended from the eminence, and again lost sight of the
sea amidst ravines and dingles, amongst which patches of pine
were occasionally seen. Continuing to descend, we at last
came, not to the sea, but to the extremity of a long narrow
firth, where stood a village or hamlet; whilst at a small
distance, on the Western side of the firth, appeared one
considerably larger, which was indeed almost entitled to the
appellation of town. This last was Corcuvion; the first, if
I forget not, was called Ria de Silla. We hastened on to
Corcuvion, where I bade my guide make inquiries respecting
Finisterra. He entered the door of a wine-house, from which
proceeded much noise and vociferation, and presently returned,
informing me that the village of Finisterra was distant about a
league and a half. A man, evidently in a state of
intoxication, followed him to the door: &ldquo;Are you bound for
Finisterra, Cavalheiros?&rdquo; he shouted.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Yes, my friend,&rdquo; I replied, &ldquo;we are going
thither.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Then you are going amongst a flock of drunkards
(<i>fato de barrachos</i>),&rdquo; he answered. &ldquo;Take
care that they do not play you a trick.&rdquo;</p>

<p>We passed on, and striking across a sandy peninsula at the
back of the town, soon reached the shore of an immense bay, the
north-westernmost end of which was formed by the far-famed cape
of Finisterra, which we now saw before us stretching far into the
sea.</p>

<p>Along a beach of dazzling white sand, we advanced towards the
cape, the bourne of our journey. The sun was shining
brightly, and every object was illumined by his beams. The
sea lay before us like a vast mirror, and the waves which broke
upon the shore were so tiny as scarcely to produce a
murmur. On we sped along the deep winding bay, overhung by
gigantic hills and mountains. Strange recollections began
to throng upon my mind. It was upon this beach that,
according to the tradition of all ancient Christendom, Saint
James, the patron saint of Spain, preached the Gospel to the
heathen Spaniards. Upon this beach had once stood an
immense commercial city, the proudest in all Spain. This
now desolate bay had once resounded with the voices of myriads,
when the keels and commerce of all the then known world were
wafted to Duyo.</p>

<p>&ldquo;What is the name of this village?&rdquo; said I to a
woman, as we passed by five or six ruinous houses at the bend of
the bay, ere we entered upon the peninsula of Finisterra.</p>

<p>&ldquo;This is no village,&rdquo; said the Gallegan,
&ldquo;this is no village, Sir Cavalier, this is a city, this is
Duyo.&rdquo;</p>

<p>So much for the glory of the world! These huts were all
that the roaring sea and the tooth of time had left of Duyo, the
great city! Onward now to Finisterra.</p>

<p>It was midday when we reached the village of Finisterra,
consisting of about one hundred houses, and built on the southern
side of the peninsula, just before it rises into the huge bluff
head which is called the Cape. We sought in vain for an inn
or venta, where we might stable our beast; at one moment we
thought that we had found one, and had even tied the animal to
the manger. Upon our going out, however, he was instantly
untied and driven forth into the street. The few people
whom we saw appeared to gaze upon us in a singular manner.
We, however, took little notice of these circumstances, and
proceeded along the straggling street until we found shelter in
the house of a Castilian shopkeeper, whom some chance had brought
to this corner of Galicia,&mdash;this end of the world. Our
first care was to feed the animal, who now began to exhibit
considerable symptoms of fatigue. We then requested some
refreshment for ourselves; and in about an hour a tolerably
savoury fish, weighing about three pounds, and fresh from the
bay, was prepared for us by an old woman who appeared to
officiate as housekeeper. Having finished our meal, I and
my uncouth companion went forth and prepared to ascend the
mountain.</p>

<p>We stopped to examine a small dismantled fort or battery
facing the bay; and whilst engaged in this examination, it more
than once occurred to me that we were ourselves the objects of
scrutiny and investigation: indeed I caught a glimpse of more
than one countenance peering upon us through the holes and chasms
of the walls. We now commenced ascending Finisterra; and
making numerous and long detours, we wound our way up its flinty
sides. The sun had reached the top of heaven, whence he
showered upon us perpendicularly his brightest and fiercest
rays. My boots were torn, my feet cut, and the perspiration
streamed from my brow. To my guide, however, the ascent
appeared to be neither toilsome nor difficult. The heat of
the day for him had no terrors, no moisture was wrung from his
tanned countenance; he drew not one short breath; and hopped upon
the stones and rocks with all the provoking agility of a mountain
goat. Before we had accomplished one half of the ascent, I
felt myself quite exhausted. I reeled and staggered.
&ldquo;Cheer up, master mine, be of good cheer, and have no
care,&rdquo; said the guide. &ldquo;Yonder I see a wall of
stones; lie down beneath it in the shade.&rdquo; He put his
long and strong arm round my waist, and though his stature
compared with mine was that of a dwarf, he supported me, as if I
had been a child, to a rude wall which seemed to traverse the
greatest part of the hill, and served probably as a kind of
boundary. It was difficult to find a shady spot: at last he
perceived a small chasm, perhaps scooped by some shepherd as a
couch, in which to enjoy his siesta. In this he laid me
gently down, and taking off his enormous hat, commenced fanning
me with great assiduity. By degrees I revived, and after
having rested for a considerable time, I again attempted the
ascent, which, with the assistance of my guide, I at length
accomplished.</p>

<p>We were now standing at a great altitude between two bays: the
wilderness of waters before us. Of all the ten thousand
barks which annually plough those seas in sight of that old cape,
not one was to be descried. It was a blue shiny waste,
broken by no object save the black head of a spermaceti whale,
which would occasionally show itself at the top, casting up thin
jets of brine. The principal bay, that of Finisterra, as
far as the entrance, was beautifully variegated by an immense
shoal of sardinhas, on whose extreme skirts the monster was
probably feasting. From the northern side of the cape we
looked down upon a smaller bay, the shore of which was overhung
by rocks of various and grotesque shapes; this is called the
outer bay, or, in the language of the country, <i>Praia do mar de
fora</i>: a fearful place in seasons of wind and tempest, when
the long swell of the Atlantic pouring in, is broken into surf
and foam by the sunken rocks with which it abounds. Even in
the calmest day there is a rumbling and a hollow roar in that bay
which fill the heart with uneasy sensations.</p>

<p>On all sides there was grandeur and sublimity. After
gazing from the summit of the Cape for nearly an hour we
descended.</p>

<p>On reaching the house where we had taken up our temporary
habitation, we perceived that the portal was occupied by several
men, some of whom were reclining on the floor drinking wine out
of small earthen pans, which are much used in this part of
Galicia. With a civil salutation I passed on, and ascended
the staircase to the room in which we had taken our repast.
Here there was a rude and dirty bed, on which I flung myself,
exhausted with fatigue. I determined to take a little
repose, and in the evening to call the people of the place
together, to read a few chapters of the Scripture, and then to
address them with a little Christian exhortation. I was
soon asleep, but my slumbers were by no means tranquil. I
thought I was surrounded with difficulties of various kinds
amongst rocks and ravines, vainly endeavouring to extricate
myself; uncouth visages showed themselves amidst the trees and in
the hollows, thrusting out cloven tongues and uttering angry
cries. I looked around for my guide, but could not find
him; methought, however, that I heard his voice down a deep
dingle. He appeared to be talking of me. How long I
might have continued in these wild dreams I know not. I was
suddenly, however, seized roughly by the shoulder and nearly
dragged from the bed. I looked up in amazement, and by the
light of the descending sun I beheld hanging over me a wild and
uncouth figure; it was that of an elderly man, built as strong as
a giant, with much beard and whiskers, and huge bushy eyebrows,
dressed in the habiliments of a fisherman; in his hand was a
rusty musket.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Who are you and what do you want?</p>

<p><i>Figure</i>.&mdash;Who I am matters but little. Get up
and follow me; it is you I want.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;By what authority do you thus presume to
interfere with me?</p>

<p><i>Figure</i>.&mdash;By the authority of the justicia of
Finisterra. Follow me peaceably, Calros, or it will be the
worse for you.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Calros,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;what does the person
mean?&rdquo; I thought it, however, most prudent to obey
his command, and followed him down the staircase. The shop
and the portal were now thronged with the inhabitants of
Finisterra, men, women, and children; the latter for the most
part in a state of nudity, and with bodies wet and dripping,
having been probably summoned in haste from their gambols in the
brine. Through this crowd the figure whom I have attempted
to describe pushed his way with an air of authority.</p>

<p>On arriving in the street, he laid his heavy hand upon my arm,
not roughly however. &ldquo;It is Calros! it is
Calros!&rdquo; said a hundred voices; &ldquo;he has come to
Finisterra at last, and the justicia have now got hold of
him.&rdquo; Wondering what all this could mean, I attended
my strange conductor down the street. As we proceeded, the
crowd increased every moment, following and vociferating.
Even the sick were brought to the door to obtain a view of what
was going forward and a glance at the redoubtable Calros. I
was particularly struck by the eagerness displayed by one man, a
cripple, who, in spite of the entreaties of his wife, mixed with
the crowd, and having lost his crutch, hopped forward on one leg,
exclaiming,&mdash;&ldquo;<i>Carracho</i>! <i>tambien voy
yo</i>!&rdquo;</p>

<p>We at last reached a house of rather larger size than the
rest; my guide having led me into a long low room, placed me in
the middle of the floor, and then hurrying to the door, he
endeavoured to repulse the crowd who strove to enter with
us. This he effected, though not without considerable
difficulty, being once or twice compelled to have recourse to the
butt of his musket, to drive back unauthorized intruders. I
now looked round the room. It was rather scantily
furnished: I could see nothing but some tubs and barrels, the
mast of a boat, and a sail or two. Seated upon the tubs
were three or four men coarsely dressed, like fishermen or
shipwrights. The principal personage was a surly
ill-tempered-looking fellow of about thirty-five, whom eventually
I discovered to be the alcalde of Finisterra, and lord of the
house in which we now were. In a corner I caught a glimpse
of my guide, who was evidently in durance, two stout fishermen
standing before him, one with a musket and the other with a
boat-hook. After I had looked about me for a minute, the
alcalde, giving his whiskers a twist, thus addressed
me:&mdash;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Who are you, where is your passport, and what brings
you to Finisterra?&rdquo;</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;I am an Englishman. Here is my
passport, and I came to see Finisterra.</p>

<p>This reply seemed to discomfit them for a moment. They
looked at each other, then at my passport. At length the
alcalde, striking it with his finger, bellowed forth:</p>

<p>&ldquo;This is no Spanish passport; it appears to be written
in French.&rdquo;</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;I have already told you that I am a
foreigner. I of course carry a foreign passport.</p>

<p><i>Alcalde</i>.&mdash;Then you mean to assert that you are not
Calros Rey.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;I never heard before of such a king, nor
indeed of such a name.</p>

<p><i>Alcalde</i>.&mdash;Hark to the fellow: he has the audacity
to say that he has never heard of Calros the pretender, who calls
himself king.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;If you mean by Calros, the pretender Don
Carlos, all I can reply is, that you can scarcely be
serious. You might as well assert that yonder poor fellow,
my guide, whom I see you have made prisoner, is his nephew, the
infante Don Sebastian.</p>

<p><i>Alcalde</i>.&mdash;See, you have betrayed yourself; that is
the very person we suppose him to be.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;It is true that they are both
hunchbacks. But how can I be like Don Carlos? I have
nothing the appearance of a Spaniard, and am nearly a foot taller
than the pretender.</p>

<p><i>Alcalde</i>.&mdash;That makes no difference; you of course
carry many waistcoats about you, by means of which you disguise
yourself, and appear tall or low according to your pleasure.</p>

<p>This last was so conclusive an argument that I had of course
nothing to reply to it. The alcalde looked around him in
triumph, as if he had made some notable discovery.
&ldquo;Yes, it is Calros; it is Calros,&rdquo; said the crowd at
the door. &ldquo;It will be as well to have these men shot
instantly,&rdquo; continued the alcalde; &ldquo;if they are not
the two pretenders, they are at any rate two of the
factious.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I am by no means certain that they are either one or
the other,&rdquo; said a gruff voice.</p>

<p>The justicia of Finisterra turned their eyes in the direction
from which these words proceeded, and so did I. Our glances
rested upon the figure who held watch at the door. He had
planted the barrel of his musket on the floor, and was now
leaning his chin against the butt.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I am by no means certain that they are either one or
the other,&rdquo; repeated he, advancing forward. &ldquo;I
have been examining this man,&rdquo; pointing to myself,
&ldquo;and listening whilst he spoke, and it appears to me that
after all he may prove an Englishman; he has their very look and
voice. Who knows the English better than Antonio de la
Trava, and who has a better right? Has he not sailed in
their ships; has he not eaten their biscuit; and did he not stand
by Nelson when he was shot dead?&rdquo;</p>

<p>Here the alcalde became violently incensed. &ldquo;He is
no more an Englishman than yourself,&rdquo; he exclaimed;
&ldquo;if he were an Englishman would he have come in this
manner, skulking across the land? Not so I trow. He
would have come in a ship, recommended to some of us, or to the
Catalans. He would have come to trade, to buy; but nobody
knows him in Finisterra, nor does he know anybody: and the first
thing, moreover, that he does when he reaches this place is to
inspect the fort, and to ascend the mountain where, no doubt, he
has been marking out a camp. What brings him to Finisterra
if he is neither Calros nor a bribon of a faccioso?&rdquo;</p>

<p>I felt that there was a good deal of justice in some of these
remarks, and I was aware, for the first time, that I had, indeed,
committed a great imprudence in coming to this wild place, and
among these barbarous people, without being able to assign any
motive which could appear at all valid in their eyes. I
endeavoured to convince the alcalde that I had come across the
country for the purpose of making myself acquainted with the many
remarkable objects which it contained, and of obtaining
information respecting the character and condition of the
inhabitants. He could understand no such motives.
&ldquo;What did you ascend the mountain for?&rdquo;
&ldquo;To see prospects.&rdquo; &ldquo;Disparate! I have
lived at Finisterra forty years and never ascended that
mountain. I would not do it in a day like this for two
ounces of gold. You went to take altitudes, and to mark out
a camp.&rdquo; I had, however, a staunch friend in old
Antonio, who insisted, from his knowledge of the English, that
all I had said might very possibly be true. &ldquo;The
English,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;have more money than they know
what to do with, and on that account they wander all over the
world, paying dearly for what no other people care a groat
for.&rdquo; He then proceeded, notwithstanding the frowns
of the alcalde, to examine me in the English language. His
own entire knowledge of this tongue was confined to two
words&mdash;<i>knife</i> and <i>fork</i>, which words I rendered
into Spanish by their equivalents, and was forthwith pronounced
an Englishman by the old fellow, who, brandishing his musket,
exclaimed:&mdash;</p>

<p>&ldquo;This man is not Calros; he is what he declares himself
to be, an Englishman, and whosoever seeks to injure him, shall
have to do with Antonio de la Trava el valiente de
Finisterra.&rdquo; No person sought to impugn this verdict,
and it was at length determined that I should be sent to
Corcuvion, to be examined by the alcalde mayor of the
district. &ldquo;But,&rdquo; said the alcalde of
Finisterra, &ldquo;what is to be done with the other
fellow? He at least is no Englishman. Bring him
forward, and let us hear what he has to say for himself.
Now, fellow, who are you, and what is your master?&rdquo;</p>

<p><i>Guide</i>.&mdash;I am Sebastianillo, a poor broken mariner
of Padron, and my master for the present is the gentleman whom
you see, the most valiant and wealthy of all the English.
He has two ships at Vigo laden with riches. I told you so
when you first seized me up there in our posada.</p>

<p><i>Alcalde</i>.&mdash;Where is your passport?</p>

<p><i>Guide</i>.&mdash;I have no passport. Who would think
of bringing a passport to such a place as this, where I
don&rsquo;t suppose there are two individuals who can read?
I have no passport; my master&rsquo;s passport of course includes
me.</p>

<p><i>Alcalde</i>.&mdash;It does not. And since you have no
passport, and have confessed that your name is Sebastian, you
shall be shot. Antonio de la Trava, do you and the
musketeers lead this Sebastianillo forth, and shoot him before
the door.</p>

<p><i>Antonio de la Trava</i>.&mdash;With much pleasure,
Se&ntilde;or Alcalde, since you order it. With respect to
this fellow, I shall not trouble myself to interfere. He at
least is no Englishman. He has more the look of a wizard or
nuveiro; one of those devils who raise storms and sink
launches. Moreover, he says he is from Padron, and those of
that place are all thieves and drunkards. They once played
me a trick, and I would gladly be at the shooting of the whole
pueblo.</p>

<p>I now interfered, and said that if they shot the guide they
must shoot me too; expatiating at the same time on the cruelty
and barbarity of taking away the life of a poor unfortunate
fellow who, as might be seen at the first glance, was only half
witted; adding, moreover, that if any person was guilty in this
case it was myself, as the other could only be considered in the
light of a servant acting under my orders.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The safest plan after all,&rdquo; said the alcalde,
&ldquo;appears to be, to send you both prisoners to Corcuvion,
where the head alcalde can dispose of you as he thinks
proper. You must, however, pay for your escort; for it is
not to be supposed that the housekeepers of Finisterra have
nothing else to do than to ramble about the country with every
chance fellow who finds his way to this town.&rdquo;
&ldquo;As for that matter,&rdquo; said Antonio, &ldquo;I will
take charge of them both. I am the valiente of Finisterra,
and fear no two men living. Moreover, I am sure that the
captain here will make it worth my while, else he is no
Englishman. Therefore let us be quick and set out for
Corcuvion at once, as it is getting late. First of all,
however, captain, I must search you and your baggage. You
have no arms, of course? But it is best to make all
sure.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Long ere it was dark I found myself again on the pony, in
company with my guide, wending our way along the beach in the
direction of Corcuvion. Antonio de la Trava tramped heavily
on before, his musket on his shoulder.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Are you not afraid, Antonio, to be thus
alone with two prisoners, one of whom is on horseback? If
we were to try, I think we could overpower you.</p>

<p><i>Antonio de la Trava</i>.&mdash;I am the valiente de
Finisterra, and I fear no odds.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Why do you call yourself the valiente of
Finisterra?</p>

<p><i>Antonio de la Trava</i>.&mdash;The whole district call me
so. When the French came to Finisterra, and demolished the
fort, three perished by my hand. I stood on the mountain,
up where I saw you scrambling to-day. I continued firing at
the enemy, until three detached themselves in pursuit of
me. The fools! two perished amongst the rocks by the fire
of this musket, and as for the third, I beat his head to pieces
with the stock. It is on that account that they call me the
valiente of Finisterra.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;How came you to serve with the English
fleet? I think I heard you say that you were present when
Nelson fell.</p>

<p><i>Antonio de la Trava</i>.&mdash;I was captured by your
countrymen, captain; and as I had been a sailor from my
childhood, they were glad of my services. I was nine months
with them, and assisted at Trafalgar. I saw the English
admiral die. You have something of his face, and your
voice, when you spoke, sounded in my ears like his own. I
love the English, and on that account I saved you. Think
not that I would toil along these sands with you if you were one
of my own countrymen. Here we are at Duyo, captain.
Shall we refresh?</p>

<p>We did refresh, or rather Antonio de la Trava refreshed,
swallowing pan after pan of wine, with a thirst which seemed
unquenchable. &ldquo;That man was a greater wizard than
myself,&rdquo; whispered Sebastian, my guide, &ldquo;who told us
that the drunkards of Finisterra would play us a
trick.&rdquo; At length the old hero of the Cape slowly
rose, saying, that we must hasten on to Corcuvion, or the night
would overtake us by the way.</p>

<p>&ldquo;What kind of person is the alcalde to whom you are
conducting me?&rdquo; said I.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Oh, very different from him of Finisterra,&rdquo;
replied Antonio. &ldquo;This is a young Se&ntilde;orito,
lately arrived from Madrid. He is not even a
Gallegan. He is a mighty liberal, and it is owing chiefly
to his orders that we have lately been so much on the
alert. It is said that the Carlists are meditating a
descent on these parts of Galicia. Let them only come to
Finisterra, we are liberals there to a man, and the old valiente
is ready to play the same part as in the time of the
French. But, as I was telling you before, the alcalde to
whom I am conducting you is a young man, and very learned, and if
he thinks proper, he can speak English to you, even better than
myself, notwithstanding I was a friend of Nelson, and fought by
his side at Trafalgar.&rdquo;</p>

<p>It was dark night before we reached Corcuvion. Antonio
again stopped to refresh at a wine-shop, after which he conducted
us to the house of the alcalde. His steps were by this time
not particularly steady, and on arriving at the gate of the
house, he stumbled over the threshold and fell. He got up
with an oath, and instantly commenced thundering at the door with
the stock of his musket. &ldquo;Who is it?&rdquo; at length
demanded a soft female voice in Gallegan. &ldquo;The
valiente of Finisterra,&rdquo; replied Antonio; whereupon the
gate was unlocked, and we beheld before us a very pretty female
with a candle in her hand. &ldquo;What brings you here so
late, Antonio?&rdquo; she inquired. &ldquo;I bring two
prisoners, mi pulida,&rdquo; replied Antonio. &ldquo;Ave
Maria!&rdquo; she exclaimed, &ldquo;I hope they will do no
harm.&rdquo; &ldquo;I will answer for one,&rdquo; replied
the old man; &ldquo;but, as for the other, he is a nuveiro, and
has sunk more ships than all his brethren in Galicia. But
be not afraid, my beauty,&rdquo; he continued, as the female made
the sign of the cross: &ldquo;first lock the gate, and then show
me the way to the alcalde. I have much to tell
him.&rdquo; The gate was locked, and bidding us stay below
in the courtyard, Antonio followed the young woman up a stone
stair, whilst we remained in darkness below.</p>

<p>After the lapse of about a quarter of an hour we again saw the
candle gleam upon the staircase, and the young female
appeared. Coming up to me, she advanced the candle to my
features, on which she gazed very intently. After a long
scrutiny she went to my guide, and having surveyed him still more
fixedly, she turned to me, and said, in her best Spanish,
&ldquo;Senhor Cavalier, I congratulate you on your servant.
He is the best-looking mozo in all Galicia. Vaya! if he had
but a coat to his back, and did not go barefoot, I would accept
him at once as a novio; but I have unfortunately made a vow never
to marry a poor man, but only one who has got a heavy purse and
can buy me fine clothes. So you are a Carlist, I
suppose? Vaya! I do not like you the worse for that.
But, being so, how went you to Finisterra, where they are all
Christinos and negros? Why did you not go to my
village? None would have meddled with you there.
Those of my village are of a different stamp to the drunkards of
Finisterra. Those of my village never interfere with honest
people. Vaya! how I hate that drunkard of Finisterra who
brought you, he is so old and ugly; were it not for the love
which I bear to the Senhor Alcalde, I would at once unlock the
gate and bid you go forth, you and your servant, the buen
mozo.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Antonio now descended. &ldquo;Follow me,&rdquo; said he;
&ldquo;his worship the alcalde will be ready to receive you in a
moment.&rdquo; Sebastian and myself followed him upstairs
to a room where, seated behind a table, we beheld a young man of
low stature but handsome features and very fashionably
dressed. He appeared to be inditing a letter, which, when
he had concluded, he delivered to a secretary to be
transcribed. He then looked at me for a moment fixedly, and
the following conversation ensued between us:&mdash;</p>

<p><i>Alcalde</i>.&mdash;I see that you are an Englishman, and my
friend Antonio here informs me that you have been arrested at
Finisterra.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;He tells you true; and but for him I
believe that I should have fallen by the hands of those savage
fishermen.</p>

<p><i>Alcalde</i>.&mdash;The inhabitants of Finisterra are brave,
and are all liberals. Allow me to look at your
passport? Yes, all in form. Truly it was very
ridiculous that they should have arrested you as a Carlist.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Not only as a Carlist, but as Don Carlos
himself.</p>

<p><i>Alcalde</i>.&mdash;Oh! most ridiculous; mistake a
countryman of the grand Baintham for such a Goth!</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Excuse me, Sir, you speak of the grand
somebody.</p>

<p><i>Alcalde</i>.&mdash;The grand Baintham. He who has
invented laws for all the world. I hope shortly to see them
adopted in this unhappy country of ours.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Oh! you mean Jeremy Bentham. Yes! a
very remarkable man in his way.</p>

<p><i>Alcalde</i>.&mdash;In his way! In all ways. The
most universal genius which the world ever produced:&mdash;a
Solon, a Plato, and a Lope de Vega.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;I have never read his writings. I
have no doubt that he was a Solon; and as you say, a Plato.
I should scarcely have thought, however, that he could be ranked
as a poet with Lope de Vega.</p>

<p><i>Alcalde</i>.&mdash;How surprising! I see, indeed,
that you know nothing of his writings, though an
Englishman. Now, here am I, a simple alcalde of Galicia,
yet I possess all the writings of Baintham on that shelf, and I
study them day and night.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;You doubtless, Sir, possess the English
Language.</p>

<p><i>Alcalde</i>.&mdash;I do. I mean that part of it which
is contained in the writings of Baintham. I am most truly
glad to see a countryman of his in these Gothic
wildernesses. I understand and appreciate your motives for
visiting them: excuse the incivility and rudeness which you have
experienced. But we will endeavour to make you
reparation. You are this moment free: but it is late; I
must find you a lodging for the night. I know one close by
which will just suit you. Let us repair thither this
moment. Stay, I think I see a book in your hand.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;The New Testament.</p>

<p><i>Alcalde</i>.&mdash;What book is that?</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;A portion of the sacred writings, the
Bible.</p>

<p><i>Alcalde</i>.&mdash;Why do you carry such a book with
you?</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;One of my principal motives in visiting
Finisterra was to carry this book to that wild place.</p>

<p><i>Alcalde</i>.&mdash;Ha, ha! how very singular. Yes, I
remember. I have heard that the English highly prize this
eccentric book. How very singular that the countrymen of
the grand Baintham should set any value upon that old monkish
book.</p>

<p>It was now late at night, and my new friend attended me to the
lodging which he had destined for me, and which was at the house
of a respectable old female, where I found a clean and
comfortable room. On the way I slipped a gratuity into the
hand of Antonio, and on my arrival, formally, and in the presence
of the alcalde, presented him with the Testament, which I
requested he would carry back to Finisterra, and keep in
remembrance of the Englishman in whose behalf he had so
effectually interposed.</p>

<p><i>Antonio</i>.&mdash;I will do so, your worship; and when the
winds blow from the north-west, preventing our launches from
putting to sea, I will read your present. Farewell, my
captain, and when you next come to Finisterra I hope it will be
in a valiant English bark, with plenty of contrabando on board,
and not across the country on a pony, in company with nuveiros
and men of Padron.</p>

<p>Presently arrived the handmaid of the alcalde with a basket,
which she took into the kitchen, where she prepared an excellent
supper for her master&rsquo;s friend. On its being served
up the alcalde bade me farewell, having first demanded whether he
could in any way forward my plans.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I return to Saint James to-morrow,&rdquo; I replied,
&ldquo;and I sincerely hope that some occasion will occur which
will enable me to acquaint the world with the hospitality which I
have experienced from so accomplished a scholar as the Alcalde of
Corcuvion.&rdquo;</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XXXI</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Coruna&mdash;Crossing the
Bay&mdash;Ferrol&mdash;The Dockyard&mdash;Where are we
now?&mdash;Greek Ambassador&mdash;Lantern-light&mdash;The
Ravine&mdash;Viveiro&mdash;Evening&mdash;Marsh and
Quagmire&mdash;Fair Words and Fair Money&mdash;The Leathern
Girth&mdash;Eyes of Lynx&mdash;The Knavish Guide.</p>

<p>From Corcuvion I returned to Saint James and Coru&ntilde;a,
and now began to make preparation for directing my course to the
Asturias. In the first place I parted with my Andalusian
horse, which I considered unfit for the long and mountainous
journey I was about to undertake; his constitution having become
much debilitated from his Gallegan travels. Owing to horses
being exceedingly scarce at Coru&ntilde;a, I had no difficulty in
disposing of him at a far higher price than he originally cost
me. A young and wealthy merchant of Coru&ntilde;a, who was
a national guardsman, became enamoured of his glossy skin and
long mane and tail. For my own part, I was glad to part
with him for more reasons than one; he was both vicious and
savage, and was continually getting me into scrapes in the
stables of the posadas where we slept or baited. An old
Castilian peasant, whose pony he had maltreated, once said to me,
&ldquo;Sir Cavalier, if you have any love or respect for
yourself, get rid I beseech you of that beast, who is capable of
proving the ruin of a kingdom.&rdquo; So I left him behind
at Coru&ntilde;a, where I subsequently learned that he became
glandered and died. Peace to his memory!</p>

<p>From Coru&ntilde;a I crossed the bay to Ferrol, whilst Antonio
with our remaining horse followed by land, a rather toilsome and
circuitous journey, although the distance by water is scarcely
three leagues. I was very sea-sick during the passage, and
lay almost senseless at the bottom of the small launch in which I
had embarked, and which was crowded with people. The wind
was adverse, and the water rough. We could make no sail,
but were impelled along by the oars of five or six stout
mariners, who sang all the while Gallegan ditties. Suddenly
the sea appeared to have become quite smooth, and my sickness at
once deserted me. I rose upon my feet and looked
around. We were in one of the strangest places
imaginable. A long and narrow passage overhung on either
side by a stupendous barrier of black and threatening
rocks. The line of the coast was here divided by a natural
cleft, yet so straight and regular that it seemed not the work of
chance but design. The water was dark and sullen, and of
immense depth. This passage, which is about a mile in
length, is the entrance to a broad basin, at whose farther
extremity stands the town of Ferrol.</p>

<p>Sadness came upon me as soon as I entered this place.
Grass was growing in the streets, and misery and distress stared
me in the face on every side. Ferrol is the grand naval
arsenal of Spain, and has shared in the ruin of the once splendid
Spanish navy: it is no longer thronged with those thousand
shipwrights who prepared for sea the tremendous three-deckers and
long frigates, the greater part of which were destroyed at
Trafalgar. Only a few ill-paid and half-starved workmen
still linger about, scarcely sufficient to repair any guarda
costa which may put in dismantled by the fire of some English
smuggling schooner from Gibraltar. Half the inhabitants of
Ferrol beg their bread; and amongst these, as it is said, are not
unfrequently found retired naval officers, many of them maimed or
otherwise wounded, who are left to pine in indigence; their
pensions or salaries having been allowed to run three or four
years in arrear, owing to the exigencies of the times. A
crowd of importunate beggars followed me to the posada, and even
attempted to penetrate to the apartment to which I was
conducted. &ldquo;Who are you?&rdquo; said I to a woman who
flung herself at my feet, and who bore in her countenance evident
marks of former gentility. &ldquo;A widow, sir,&rdquo; she
replied, in very good French; &ldquo;a widow of a brave officer,
once admiral of this port.&rdquo; The misery and
degradation of modern Spain are nowhere so strikingly manifested
as at Ferrol.</p>

<p>Yet even here there is still much to admire.
Notwithstanding its present state of desolation, it contains some
good streets, and abounds with handsome houses. The alameda
is planted with nearly a thousand elms, of which almost all are
magnificent trees, and the poor Ferrolese, with the genuine
spirit of localism so prevalent in Spain, boast that their town
contains a better public walk than Madrid, of whose prado, when
they compare the two, they speak in terms of unmitigated
contempt. At one end of this alameda stands the church, the
only one in Ferrol. To this church I repaired the day after
my arrival, which was Sunday. I found it quite insufficient
to contain the number of worshippers who, chiefly from the
country, not only crowded the interior, but, bare-headed, were
upon their knees before the door to a considerable distance down
the walk.</p>

<p>Parallel with the alameda extends the wall of the naval
arsenal and dock. I spent several hours in walking about
these places, to visit which it is necessary to procure a written
permission from the captain-general of Ferrol. They filled
me with astonishment. I have seen the royal dockyards of
Russia and England, but for grandeur of design and costliness of
execution, they cannot for a moment compare with these wonderful
monuments of the bygone naval pomp of Spain. I shall not
attempt to describe them, but content myself with observing, that
the oblong basin, which is surrounded with a granite mole, is
capacious enough to permit a hundred first-rates to lie
conveniently in ordinary: but instead of such a force, I saw only
a sixty-gun frigate and two brigs lying in this basin, and to
this inconsiderable number of vessels is the present war marine
of Spain reduced.</p>

<p>I waited for the arrival of Antonio two or three days at
Ferrol, and still he came not: late one evening, however, as I
was looking down the street, I perceived him advancing, leading
our only horse by the bridle. He informed me that, at about
three leagues from Coru&ntilde;a, the heat of the weather and the
flies had so distressed the animal that it had fallen down in a
kind of fit, from which it had been only relieved by copious
bleeding, on which account he had been compelled to halt for a
day upon the road. The horse was evidently in a very feeble
state; and had a strange rattling in its throat, which alarmed me
at first. I however administered some remedies, and in a
few days deemed him sufficiently recovered to proceed.</p>

<p>We accordingly started from Ferrol; having first hired a pony
for myself, and a guide who was to attend us as far as Rivadeo,
twenty leagues from Ferrol, and on the confines of the
Asturias. The day at first was fine, but ere we reached
Novales, a distance of three leagues, the sky became overcast,
and a mist descended, accompanied by a drizzling rain. The
country through which we passed was very picturesque. At
about two in the afternoon we could descry through the mist the
small fishing town of Santa Marta on our left, with its beautiful
bay. Travelling along the summit of a line of hills, we
presently entered a chestnut forest, which appeared to be without
limit: the rain still descended, and kept up a ceaseless
pattering among the broad green leaves. &ldquo;This is the
commencement of the autumnal rains,&rdquo; said the guide.
&ldquo;Many is the wetting that you will get, my masters, before
you reach Oviedo.&rdquo; &ldquo;Have you ever been as far
as Oviedo?&rdquo; I demanded. &ldquo;No,&rdquo; he replied,
&ldquo;and once only to Rivadeo, the place to which I am now
conducting you, and I tell you frankly that we shall soon be in
wildernesses where the way is hard to find, especially at night,
and amidst rain and waters. I wish I were fairly back to
Ferrol, for I like not this route, which is the worst in Galicia,
in more respects than one; but where my master&rsquo;s pony goes,
there must I go too; such is the life of us guides.&rdquo;
I shrugged my shoulders at this intelligence, which was by no
means cheering, but made no answer. At length, about
nightfall, we emerged from the forest, and presently descended
into a deep valley at the foot of lofty hills.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Where are we now?&rdquo; I demanded of the guide, as we
crossed a rude bridge at the bottom of the valley, down which a
rivulet swollen by the rain foamed and roared. &ldquo;In
the valley of Coisa doiro,&rdquo; he replied; &ldquo;and it is my
advice that we stay here for the night, and do not venture among
those hills, through which lies the path to Viveiro; for as soon
as we get there, adios! I shall be bewildered, which will
prove the destruction of us all.&rdquo; &ldquo;Is there a
village nigh?&rdquo; &ldquo;Yes, the village is right
before us, and we shall be there in a moment.&rdquo; We
soon reached the village, which stood amongst some tall trees at
the entrance of a pass which led up amongst the hills.
Antonio dismounted and entered two or three of the cabins, but
presently came to me, saying, &ldquo;We cannot stay here, mon
ma&icirc;tre, without being devoured by vermin; we had better be
amongst the hills than in this place; there is neither fire nor
light in these cabins, and the rain is streaming through the
roofs.&rdquo; The guide, however, refused to proceed:
&ldquo;I could scarcely find my way amongst those hills by
daylight,&rdquo; he cried, surlily, &ldquo;much less at night,
midst storm and bretima.&rdquo; We procured some wine and
maize bread from one of the cottages. Whilst we were
partaking of these, Antonio said, &ldquo;Mon ma&icirc;tre, the
best thing we can do in our present situation, is to hire some
fellow of this village to conduct us through the hills to
Viveiro. There are no beds in this place, and if we lie
down in the litter in our damp clothes we shall catch a tertian
of Galicia. Our present guide is of no service, we must
therefore find another to do his duty.&rdquo; Without
waiting for a reply, he flung down the crust of broa which he was
munching and disappeared. I subsequently learned that he
went to the cottage of the alcalde, and demanded, in the
Queen&rsquo;s name, a guide for the Greek ambassador, who was
benighted on his way to the Asturias. In about ten minutes
I again saw him, attended by the local functionary, who, to my
surprise, made me a profound bow, and stood bare-headed in the
rain. &ldquo;His excellency,&rdquo; shouted Antonio,
&ldquo;is in need of a guide to Viveiro. People of our
description are not compelled to pay for any service which they
may require; however, as his excellency has bowels of compassion,
he is willing to give three pesetas to any competent person who
will accompany him to Viveiro, and as much bread and wine as he
can eat and drink on his arrival.&rdquo; &ldquo;His
excellency shall be served,&rdquo; said the alcalde;
&ldquo;however, as the way is long and the path is bad, and there
is much bretima amongst the hills, it appears to me that, besides
the bread and wine, his excellency can do no less than offer four
pesetas to the guide who may be willing to accompany him to
Viveiro; and I know no one better than my own son-in-law,
Juanito.&rdquo; &ldquo;Content, se&ntilde;or
alcalde,&rdquo; I replied; &ldquo;produce the guide, and the
extra peseta shall be forthcoming in due season.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Soon appeared Juanito with a lantern in his hand. We
instantly set forward. The two guides began conversing in
Gallegan. &ldquo;Mon ma&icirc;tre,&rdquo; said Antonio,
&ldquo;this new scoundrel is asking the old one what he thinks we
have got in our portmanteaus.&rdquo; Then, without awaiting
my answer, he shouted, &ldquo;Pistols, ye barbarians!
Pistols, as ye shall learn to your cost, if you do not cease
speaking in that gibberish and converse in
Castilian.&rdquo; The Gallegans were silent, and presently
the first guide dropped behind, whilst the other with the lantern
moved before. &ldquo;Keep in the rear,&rdquo; said Antonio
to the former, &ldquo;and at a distance: know one thing moreover,
that I can see behind as well as before. Mon
ma&icirc;tre,&rdquo; said he to me, &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t suppose
these fellows will attempt to do us any harm, more especially as
they do not know each other; it is well, however, to separate
them, for this is a time and place which might tempt any one to
commit robbery and murder too.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The rain still continued to fall uninterruptedly, the path was
rugged and precipitous, and the night was so dark that we could
only see indistinctly the hills which surrounded us. Once
or twice our guide seemed to have lost his way: he stopped,
muttered to himself, raised his lantern on high, and would then
walk slowly and hesitatingly forward. In this manner we
proceeded for three or four hours, when I asked the guide how far
we were from Viveiro. &ldquo;I do not know exactly where we
are, your worship,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;though I believe we
are in the route. We can scarcely, however, be less than
two mad leagues from Viveiro.&rdquo; &ldquo;Then we shall
not arrive there before morning,&rdquo; interrupted Antonio,
&ldquo;for a mad league of Galicia means at least two of Castile;
and perhaps we are doomed never to arrive there, if the way
thither leads down this precipice.&rdquo; As he spoke, the
guide seemed to descend into the bowels of the earth.
&ldquo;Stop,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;where are you
going?&rdquo; &ldquo;To Viveiro, Senhor,&rdquo; replied the
fellow; &ldquo;this is the way to Viveiro, there is no other; I
now know where we are.&rdquo; The light of the lantern
shone upon the dark red features of the guide, who had turned
round to reply, as he stood some yards down the side of a dingle
or ravine overgrown with thick trees, beneath whose leafy
branches a frightfully steep path descended. I dismounted
from the pony, and delivering the bridle to the other guide,
said, &ldquo;Here is your master&rsquo;s horse, if you please you
may lead him down that abyss, but as for myself I wash my hands
of the matter.&rdquo; The fellow, without a word of reply,
vaulted into the saddle, and with <i>a vamos</i>, <i>Perico</i>!
to the pony, impelled the creature to the descent.
&ldquo;Come, Senhor,&rdquo; said he with the lantern,
&ldquo;there is no time to be lost, my light will be presently
extinguished, and this is the worst bit in the whole
road.&rdquo; I thought it very probable that he was about
to lead us to some den of cut-throats, where we might be
sacrificed; but taking courage, I seized our own horse by the
bridle, and followed the fellow down the ravine amidst rocks and
brambles. The descent lasted nearly ten minutes, and ere we
had entirely accomplished it, the light in the lantern went out,
and we remained in nearly total darkness.</p>

<p>Encouraged, however, by the guide, who assured us there was no
danger, we at length reached the bottom of the ravine; here we
encountered a rill of water, through which we were compelled to
wade as high as the knee. In the midst of the water I
looked up and caught a glimpse of the heavens through the
branches of the trees, which all around clothed the shelving
sides of the ravine and completely embowered the channel of the
stream: to a place more strange and replete with gloom and horror
no benighted traveller ever found his way. After a short
pause we commenced scaling the opposite bank, which we did not
find so steep as the other, and a few minutes&rsquo; exertion
brought us to the top.</p>

<p>Shortly afterwards the rain abated, and the moon arising cast
a dim light through the watery mists; the way had become less
precipitous, and in about two hours we descended to the shore of
an extensive creek, along which we proceeded till we reached a
spot where many boats and barges lay with their keels upward upon
the sand. Presently we beheld before us the walls of
Viveiro, upon which the moon was shedding its sickly
lustre. We entered by a lofty and seemingly ruinous
archway, and the guide conducted us at once to the posada.</p>

<p>Every person in Viveiro appeared to be buried in profound
slumber; not so much as a dog saluted us with his bark.
After much knocking we were admitted into the posada, a large and
dilapidated edifice. We had scarcely housed ourselves and
horses when the rain began to fall with yet more violence than
before, attended with much thunder and lightning. Antonio
and I, exhausted with fatigue, betook ourselves to flock beds in
a ruinous chamber, into which the rain penetrated through many a
cranny, whilst the guides ate bread and drank wine till the
morning.</p>

<p>When I arose I was gladdened by the sight of a fine day.
Antonio forthwith prepared a savoury breakfast of stewed fowl, of
which we stood in much need after the ten league journey of the
preceding day over the ways which I have attempted to
describe. I then walked out to view the town, which
consists of little more than one long street, on the side of a
steep mountain thickly clad with forests and fruit trees.
At about ten we continued our journey, accompanied by our first
guide, the other having returned to Coisa doiro some hours
previously.</p>

<p>Our route throughout this day was almost constantly within
sight of the shores of the Cantabrian sea, whose windings we
followed. The country was barren, and in many parts covered
with huge stones: cultivated spots, however, were to be seen,
where vines were growing. We met with but few human
habitations. We however journeyed on cheerfully, for the
sun was once more shining in full brightness, gilding the wild
moors, and shining upon the waters of the distant sea, which lay
in unruffled calmness.</p>

<p>At evening fall we were in the neighbourhood of the shore,
with a range of wood-covered hills on our right. Our guide
led us towards a creek bordered by a marsh, but he soon stopped
and declared that he did not know whither he was conducting
us.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Mon ma&icirc;tre,&rdquo; said Antonio, &ldquo;let us be
our own guides; it is, as you see, of no use to depend upon this
fellow, whose whole science consists in leading people into
quagmires.&rdquo;</p>

<p>We therefore turned aside and proceeded along the marsh for a
considerable distance, till we reached a narrow path which led us
into a thick wood, where we soon became completely
bewildered. On a sudden, after wandering about a
considerable time, we heard the noise of water, and presently the
clack of a wheel. Following the sound, we arrived at a low
stone mill, built over a brook; here we stopped and shouted, but
no answer was returned. &ldquo;The place is
deserted,&rdquo; said Antonio; &ldquo;here, however, is a path,
which, if we follow it, will doubtless lead us to some human
habitation.&rdquo; So we went along the path, which, in
about ten minutes, brought us to the door of a cabin, in which we
saw lights. Antonio dismounted and opened the door:
&ldquo;Is there any one here who can conduct us to
Rivadeo?&rdquo; he demanded.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Senhor,&rdquo; answered a voice, &ldquo;Rivadeo is more
than five leagues from here, and, moreover, there is a river to
cross!&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Then to the next village,&rdquo; continued Antonio.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I am a vecino of the next village, which is on the way
to Rivadeo,&rdquo; said another voice, &ldquo;and I will lead you
thither, if you will give me fair words, and, what is better,
fair money.&rdquo;</p>

<p>A man now came forth, holding in his hand a large stick.
He strode sturdily before us, and in less than half an hour led
us out of the wood. In another half hour he brought us to a
group of cabins situated near the sea; he pointed to one of
these, and having received a peseta, bade us farewell.</p>

<p>The people of the cottage willingly consented to receive us
for the night: it was much more cleanly and commodious than the
wretched huts of the Gallegan peasantry in general. The
ground floor consisted of a keeping room and stable, whilst above
was a long loft, in which were some neat and comfortable flock
beds. I observed several masts and sails of boats.
The family consisted of two brothers with their wives and
families; one was a fisherman, but the other, who appeared to be
the principal person, informed me that he had resided for many
years in service at Madrid, and having amassed a small sum, he
had at length returned to his native village, where he had
purchased some land which he farmed. All the family used
the Castilian language in their common discourse, and on inquiry
I learned that the Gallegan was not much spoken in that
neighbourhood. I have forgotten the name of this village,
which is situated on the estuary of the Foz, which rolls down
from Mondonedo. In the morning we crossed this estuary in a
large boat with our horses, and about noon arrived at
Rivadeo.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Now, your worship,&rdquo; said the guide who had
accompanied us from Ferrol, &ldquo;I have brought you as far as I
bargained, and a hard journey it has been; I therefore hope you
will suffer Perico and myself to remain here to-night at your
expense, and to-morrow we will go back; at present we are both
sorely tired.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I never mounted a better pony than Perico,&rdquo; said
I, &ldquo;and never met with a worse guide than yourself.
You appear to be perfectly ignorant of the country, and have done
nothing but bring us into difficulties. You may, however,
stay here for the night, as you say you are tired, and to-morrow
you may return to Ferrol, where I counsel you to adopt some other
trade.&rdquo; This was said at the door of the posada of
Rivadeo.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Shall I lead the horses to a stable?&rdquo; said the
fellow.</p>

<p>&ldquo;As you please,&rdquo; said I.</p>

<p>Antonio looked after him for a moment, as he was leading the
animals away, and then shaking his head followed slowly
after. In about a quarter of an hour he returned, laden
with the furniture of our own horse, and with a smile upon his
countenance: &ldquo;Mon ma&icirc;tre,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I
have throughout the journey had a bad opinion of this fellow, and
now I have detected him: his motive in requesting permission to
stay, was a desire to purloin something from us. He was
very officious in the stable about our horse, and I now miss the
new leathern girth which secured the saddle, and which I observed
him looking at frequently on the road. He has by this time
doubtless hid it somewhere; we are quite secure of him, however,
for he has not yet received the hire for the pony, nor the
gratuity for himself.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The guide returned just as he had concluded speaking.
Dishonesty is always suspicious. The fellow cast a glance
upon us, and probably beholding in our countenances something
which he did not like, he suddenly said, &ldquo;Give me the
horse-hire and my own propina, for Perico and I wish to be off
instantly.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;How is this?&rdquo; said I; &ldquo;I thought you and
Perico were both fatigued, and wished to rest here for the night;
you have soon recovered from your weariness.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I have thought over the matter,&rdquo; said the fellow,
&ldquo;and my master will be angry if I loiter here: pay us,
therefore, and let us go.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Certainly,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;if you wish it.
Is the horse furniture all right?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Quite so,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;I delivered it all to
your servant.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;It is all here,&rdquo; said Antonio, &ldquo;with the
exception of the leathern girth.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I have not got it,&rdquo; said the guide.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Of course not,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;Let us
proceed to the stable, we shall perhaps find it there.&rdquo;</p>

<p>To the stable we went, which we searched through: no girth,
however, was forthcoming. &ldquo;He has got it buckled
round his middle beneath his pantaloons, mon ma&icirc;tre,&rdquo;
said Antonio, whose eyes were moving about like those of a lynx;
&ldquo;I saw the protuberance as he stooped down. However,
let us take no notice: he is here surrounded by his countrymen,
who, if we were to seize him, might perhaps take his part.
As I said before, he is in our power, as we have not paid
him.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The fellow now began to talk in Gallegan to the by-standers
(several persons having collected), wishing the Denho to take him
if he knew anything of the missing property. Nobody,
however, seemed inclined to take his part; and those who
listened, only shrugged their shoulders. We returned to the
portal of the posada, the fellow following us, clamouring for the
horse-hire and propina. We made him no answer, and at
length he went away, threatening to apply to the justicia; in
about ten minutes, however, he came running back with the girth
in his hand: &ldquo;I have just found it,&rdquo; said he,
&ldquo;in the street: your servant dropped it.&rdquo;</p>

<p>I took the leather and proceeded very deliberately to count
out the sum to which the horse-hire amounted, and having
delivered it to him in the presence of witnesses, I said,
&ldquo;During the whole journey you have been of no service to us
whatever; nevertheless, you have fared like ourselves, and have
had all you could desire to eat and drink. I intended, on
your leaving us, to present you, moreover, with a propina of two
dollars; but since, notwithstanding our kind treatment, you
endeavoured to pillage us, I will not give you a cuarto: go,
therefore, about your business.&rdquo;</p>

<p>All the audience expressed their satisfaction at this
sentence, and told him that he had been rightly served, and that
he was a disgrace to Galicia. Two or three women crossed
themselves, and asked him if he was not afraid that the Denho,
whom he had invoked, would take him away. At last, a
respectable-looking man said to him: &ldquo;Are you not ashamed
to have attempted to rob two innocent strangers?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Strangers!&rdquo; roared the fellow, who was by this
time foaming with rage; &ldquo;Innocent strangers, carracho! they
know more of Spain and Galicia too than the whole of us.
Oh, Denho, that servant is no man but a wizard, a
nuveiro.&mdash;Where is Perico?&rdquo;</p>

<p>He mounted Perico, and proceeded forthwith to another
posada. The tale, however, of his dishonesty had gone
before him, and no person would house him; whereupon he returned
on his steps, and seeing me looking out of the window of the
house, he gave a savage shout, and shaking his fist at me,
galloped out of the town, the people pursuing him with hootings
and revilings.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XXXII</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Martin of Rivadeo&mdash;The Factious
Mare&mdash;Asturians&mdash;Luarca&mdash;The Seven
Bellotas&mdash;Hermits&mdash;The Asturian&rsquo;s
Tale&mdash;Strange Guests&mdash;The Big
Servant&mdash;Batuschca.</p>

<p>&ldquo;What may your business be?&rdquo; said I to a short,
thick, merry-faced fellow in a velveteen jerkin and canvas
pantaloons, who made his way into my apartment, in the dusk of
the evening.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I am Martin of Rivadeo, your worship,&rdquo; replied
the man, &ldquo;an alquilador by profession; I am told that you
want a horse for your journey into the Asturias to-morrow, and of
course a guide: now, if that be the case, I counsel you to hire
myself and mare.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I am become tired of guides,&rdquo; I replied;
&ldquo;so much so that I was thinking of purchasing a pony, and
proceeding without any guide at all. The last which we had
was an infamous character.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;So I have been told, your worship, and it was well for
the bribon that I was not in Rivadeo when the affair to which you
allude occurred. But he was gone with the pony Perico
before I came back, or I would have bled the fellow to a
certainty with my knife. He is a disgrace to the
profession, which is one of the most honourable and ancient in
the world. Perico himself must have been ashamed of him,
for Perico, though a pony, is a gentleman, one of many
capacities, and well known upon the roads. He is only
inferior to my mare.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Are you well acquainted with the road to Oviedo?&rdquo;
I demanded.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I am not, your worship; that is, no farther than
Luarca, which is the first day&rsquo;s journey. I do not
wish to deceive you, therefore let me go with you no farther than
that place; though perhaps I might serve for the whole journey,
for though I am unacquainted with the country, I have a tongue in
my head, and nimble feet to run and ask questions. I will,
however, answer for myself no farther than Luarca, where you can
please yourselves. Your being strangers is what makes me
wish to accompany you, for I like the conversation of strangers,
from whom I am sure to gain information both entertaining and
profitable. I wish, moreover, to convince you that we
guides of Galicia are not all thieves, which I am sure you will
not suppose if you only permit me to accompany you as far as
Luarca.&rdquo;</p>

<p>I was so much struck with the fellow&rsquo;s good humour and
frankness, and more especially by the originality of character
displayed in almost every sentence which he uttered, that I
readily engaged him to guide us to Luarca; whereupon he left me,
promising to be ready with his mare at eight next morning.</p>

<p>Rivadeo is one of the principal seaports of Galicia, and is
admirably situated for commerce, on a deep firth, into which the
river Mirando debouches. It contains many magnificent
buildings, and an extensive square or plaza, which is planted
with trees. I observed several vessels in the harbour; and
the population, which is rather numerous, exhibited none of those
marks of misery and dejection which I had lately observed among
the Ferrolese.</p>

<p>On the morrow Martin of Rivadeo made his appearance at the
appointed hour with his mare. It was a lean haggard animal,
not much larger than a pony; it had good points, however, and was
very clean in its hinder legs, and Martin insisted that it was
the best animal of its kind in all Spain. &ldquo;It is a
factious mare,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;and I believe an
Alavese. When the Carlists came here it fell lame, and they
left it behind, and I purchased it for a dollar. It is not
lame now, however, as you shall soon see.&rdquo;</p>

<p>We had now reached the firth which divides Galicia from the
Asturias. A kind of barge was lying about two yards from
the side of the quay, waiting to take us over. Towards this
Martin led his mare, and giving an encouraging shout, the
creature without any hesitation sprang over the intervening space
into the barge. &ldquo;I told you she was a
facciosa,&rdquo; said Martin; &ldquo;none but a factious animal
would have taken such a leap.&rdquo;</p>

<p>We all embarked in the barge and crossed over the firth, which
is in this place nearly a mile broad, to Castro Pol, the first
town in the Asturias. I now mounted the factious mare,
whilst Antonio followed on my own horse. Martin led the
way, exchanging jests with every person whom he met on the road,
and occasionally enlivening the way with an extemporaneous
song.</p>

<p>We were now in the Asturias, and about noon we reached Navias,
a small fishing town, situate on a ria or firth; in the
neighbourhood are ragged mountains, called the Sierra de Buron,
which stand in the shape of a semi-circle. We saw a small
vessel in the harbour, which we subsequently learned was from the
Basque provinces, come for a cargo of cider or sagadua, the
beverage so dearly loved by the Basques. As we passed along
the narrow street, Antonio was hailed with an &ldquo;Ola&rdquo;
from a species of shop in which three men, apparently shoemakers,
were seated. He stopped for some time to converse with
them, and when he joined us at the posada where we halted, I
asked him who they were: &ldquo;Mon ma&icirc;tre,&rdquo; said he,
&ldquo;<i>ce sont des messieurs de ma connoissance</i>. I
have been fellow servant at different times with all three; and I
tell you beforehand, that we shall scarcely pass through a
village in this country where I shall not find an
acquaintance. All the Asturians, at some period of their
lives, make a journey to Madrid, where, if they can obtain a
situation, they remain until they have scraped up sufficient to
turn to advantage in their own country; and as I have served in
all the great houses in Madrid, I am acquainted with the greatest
part of them. I have nothing to say against the Asturians,
save that they are close and penurious whilst at service; but
they are not thieves, neither at home nor abroad, and though we
must have our wits about us in their country, I have heard we may
travel from one end of it to the other without the slightest fear
of being either robbed or ill treated, which is not the case in
Galicia, where we were always in danger of having our throats
cut.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Leaving Navias, we proceeded through a wild desolate country,
till we reached the pass of Baralla, which lies up the side of a
huge wall of rocks, which at a distance appear of a light green
colour, though perfectly bare of herbage or plants of any
description.</p>

<p>&ldquo;This pass,&rdquo; said Martin of Rivadeo, &ldquo;bears
a very evil reputation, and I should not like to travel it after
sunset. It is not infested by robbers, but by things much
worse, the duendes of two friars of Saint Francis. It is
said that in the old time, long before the convents were
suppressed, two friars of the order of Saint Francis left their
convent to beg; it chanced that they were very successful, but as
they were returning at nightfall, by this pass, they had a
quarrel about what they had collected, each insisting that he had
done his duty better than the other; at last, from high words
they fell to abuse, and from abuse to blows. What do you
think these demons of friars did? They took off their
cloaks, and at the end of each they made a knot, in which they
placed a large stone, and with these they thrashed and belaboured
each other till both fell dead. Master, I know not which
are the worst plagues, friars, curates, or sparrows:</p>

<blockquote><p>&ldquo;May the Lord God preserve us from evil
birds three:<br />
From all friars and curates and sparrows that be;<br />
For the sparrows eat up all the corn that we sow,<br />
The friars drink down all the wine that we grow,<br />
Whilst the curates have all the fair dames at their nod:<br />
From these three evil curses preserve us, Lord God.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>

<p>In about two hours from this time we reached Luarca, the
situation of which is most singular. It stands in a deep
hollow, whose sides are so precipitous that it is impossible to
descry the town until you stand just above it. At the
northern extremity of this hollow is a small harbour, the sea
entering it by a narrow cleft. We found a large and
comfortable posada, and by the advice of Martin, made inquiry for
a fresh guide and horse; we were informed, however, that all the
horses of the place were absent, and that if we waited for their
return, we must tarry for two days. &ldquo;I had a
presentiment,&rdquo; said Martin, &ldquo;when we entered Luarca,
that we were not doomed to part at present. You must now
hire my mare and me as far as Giyon, from whence there is a
conveyance to Oviedo. To tell you the truth, I am by no
means sorry that the guides are absent, for I am pleased with
your company, as I make no doubt you are with mine. I will
now go and write a letter to my wife at Rivadeo, informing her
that she must not expect to see me back for several
days.&rdquo; He then went out of the room singing the
following stanza:</p>

<blockquote><p>&ldquo;A handless man a letter did write,<br />
A dumb dictated it word for word:<br />
The person who read it had lost his sight,<br />
And deaf was he who listened and heard.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>

<p>Early the next morning we emerged from the hollow of Luarca;
about an hour&rsquo;s riding brought us to Caneiro, a deep and
romantic valley of rocks, shaded by tall chestnut trees.
Through the midst of this valley rushes a rapid stream, which we
crossed in a boat. &ldquo;There is not such a stream for
trout in all the Asturias,&rdquo; said the ferryman; &ldquo;look
down into the waters and observe the large stones over which it
flows; now in the proper season and in fine weather, you cannot
see those stones for the multitude of fish which cover
them.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Leaving the valley behind us, we entered into a wild and
dreary country, stony and mountainous. The day was dull and
gloomy, and all around looked sad and melancholy.
&ldquo;Are we in the way for Giyon and Oviedo?&rdquo; demanded
Martin of an ancient female, who stood at the door of a
cottage.</p>

<p>&ldquo;For Giyon and Oviedo!&rdquo; replied the crone;
&ldquo;many is the weary step you will have to make before you
reach Giyon and Oviedo. You must first of all crack the
bellotas: you are just below them.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;What does she mean by cracking the bellotas?&rdquo;
demanded I of Martin of Rivadeo.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Did your worship never hear of the seven
bellotas?&rdquo; replied our guide. &ldquo;I can scarcely
tell you what they are, as I have never seen them; I believe they
are seven hills which we have to cross, and are called bellotas
from some resemblance to acorns which it is fancied they
bear. I have often heard of these acorns, and am not sorry
that I have now an opportunity of seeing them, though it is said
that they are rather hard things for horses to digest.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The Asturian mountains in this part rise to a considerable
altitude. They consist for the most part of dark granite,
covered here and there with a thin layer of earth. They
approach very near to the sea, to which they slope down in broken
ridges, between which are deep and precipitous defiles, each with
its rivulet, the tribute of the hills to the salt flood.
The road traverses these defiles. There are seven of them,
which are called, in the language of the country, <i>Las siete
bellotas</i>. Of all these, the most terrible is the
midmost, down which rolls an impetuous torrent. At the
upper end of it rises a precipitous wall of rock, black as soot,
to the height of several hundred yards; its top, as we passed,
was enveloped with a veil of bretima. From this gorge
branch off, on either side, small dingles or glens, some of them
so overgrown with trees and copse-wood, that the eye is unable to
penetrate the obscurity beyond a few yards.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Fine places would some of these dingles prove for
hermitages,&rdquo; said I to Martin of Rivadeo. &ldquo;Holy
men might lead a happy life there on roots and water, and pass
many years absorbed in heavenly contemplation, without ever being
disturbed by the noise and turmoil of the world.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;True, your worship,&rdquo; replied Martin; &ldquo;and
perhaps on that very account there are no hermitages in the
barrancos of the seven bellotas. Our hermits had little
inclination for roots and water, and had no kind of objection to
be occasionally disturbed in their meditations. Vaya! I
never yet saw a hermitage that was not hard by some rich town or
village, or was not a regular resort for all the idle people in
the neighbourhood. Hermits are not fond of living in
dingles, amongst wolves and foxes; for how in that case could
they dispose of their poultry? A hermit of my acquaintance
left, when he died, a fortune of seven hundred dollars to his
niece, the greatest part of which he scraped up by fattening
turkeys.&rdquo;</p>

<p>At the top of this bellota we found a wretched venta, where we
refreshed ourselves, and then continued our journey. Late
in the afternoon we cleared the last of these difficult
passes. The wind began now to rise, bearing on its wings a
drizzling rain. We passed by Soto Luino, and shaping our
course through a wild but picturesque country, we found ourselves
about nightfall at the foot of a steep hill, up which led a
narrow bridle-way, amidst a grove of lofty trees. Long
before we had reached the top it had become quite dark, and the
rain had increased considerably. We stumbled along in the
obscurity, leading our horses, which were occasionally down on
their knees, owing to the slipperiness of the path. At last
we accomplished the ascent in safety, and pushing briskly
forward, we found ourselves, in about half an hour, at the
entrance of Muros, a large village situated just on the declivity
of the farther side of the hill.</p>

<p>A blazing fire in the posada soon dried our wet garments, and
in some degree recompensed us for the fatigues which we had
undergone in scrambling up the bellotas. A rather singular
place was this same posada of Muros. It was a large
rambling house, with a spacious kitchen, or common room, on the
ground floor. Above stairs was a large dining-apartment,
with an immense oak table, and furnished with cumbrous leathern
chairs with high backs, apparently three centuries old at
least. Communicating with this apartment was a wooden
gallery, open to the air, which led to a small chamber, in which
I was destined to sleep, and which contained an old-fashioned
tester-bed with curtains. It was just one of those inns
which romance writers are so fond of introducing in their
descriptions, especially when the scene of adventure lies in
Spain. The host was a talkative Asturian.</p>

<p>The wind still howled, and the rain descended in
torrents. I sat before the fire in a very drowsy state,
from which I was presently aroused by the conversation of the
host. &ldquo;Se&ntilde;or,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;it is now
three years since I beheld foreigners in my house. I
remember it was about this time of the year, and just such a
night as this, that two men on horseback arrived here. What
was singular, they came without any guide. Two more
strange-looking individuals I never yet beheld with
eye-sight. I shall never forget them. The one was as
tall as a giant, with much tawny moustache, like the coat of a
badger, growing about his mouth. He had a huge ruddy face,
and looked dull and stupid, as he no doubt was, for when I spoke
to him, he did not seem to understand, and answered in a jabber,
valgame Dios! so wild and strange, that I remained staring at him
with mouth and eyes open. The other was neither tall nor
red-faced, nor had he hair about his mouth, and, indeed, he had
very little upon his head. He was very diminutive, and
looked like a jorobado (<i>hunchback</i>); but, valgame Dios!
such eyes, like wild cats&rsquo;, so sharp and full of
malice. He spoke as good Spanish as I myself do, and yet he
was no Spaniard. A Spaniard never looked like that
man. He was dressed in a zamarra, with much silver and
embroidery, and wore an Andalusian hat, and I soon found that he
was master, and that the other was servant.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Valgame Dios! what an evil disposition had that same
foreign jorobado, and yet he had much grace, much humour, and
said occasionally to me such comical things, that I was fit to
die of laughter. So he sat down to supper in the room
above, and I may as well tell you here, that he slept in the same
chamber where your worship will sleep to-night, and his servant
waited behind his chair. Well, I had curiosity, so I sat
myself down at the table too, without asking leave. Why
should I? I was in my own house, and an Asturian is fit
company for a king, and is often of better blood. Oh, what
a strange supper was that. If the servant made the
slightest mistake in helping him, up would start the jorobado,
jump upon his chair, and seizing the big giant by the hair, would
cuff him on both sides of the face, till I was afraid his teeth
would have fallen out. The giant, however, did not seem to
care about it much. He was used to it, I suppose.
Valgame Dios! if he had been a Spaniard, he would not have
submitted to it so patiently. But what surprised me most
was, that after beating his servant, the master would sit down,
and the next moment would begin conversing and laughing with him
as if nothing had happened, and the giant also would laugh and
converse with his master, for all the world as if he had not been
beaten.</p>

<p>&ldquo;You may well suppose, Se&ntilde;or, that I understood
nothing of their discourse, for it was all in that strange
unchristian tongue in which the giant answered me when I spoke to
him; the sound of it is still ringing in my ears. It was
nothing like other languages. Not like Bascuen, not like
the language in which your worship speaks to my namesake Signor
Antonio here. Valgame Dios! I can compare it to
nothing but the sound a person makes when he rinses his mouth
with water. There is one word which I think I still
remember, for it was continually proceeding from the
giant&rsquo;s lips, but his master never used it.</p>

<p>&ldquo;But the strangest part of the story is yet to be
told. The supper was ended, and the night was rather
advanced, the rain still beat against the windows, even as it
does at this moment. Suddenly the jorobado pulled out his
watch. Valgame Dios! such a watch! I will tell you
one thing, Se&ntilde;or, that I could purchase all the Asturias,
and Muros besides, with the brilliants which shone about the
sides of that same watch: the room wanted no lamp, I trow, so
great was the splendour which they cast. So the jorobado
looked at his watch, and then said to me, I shall go to
rest. He then took the lamp and went through the gallery to
his room, followed by his big servant. Well, Se&ntilde;or,
I cleared away the things, and then waited below for the servant,
for whom I had prepared a comfortable bed, close by my own.
Se&ntilde;or, I waited patiently for an hour, till at last my
patience was exhausted, and I ascended to the supper apartment,
and passed through the gallery till I came to the door of the
strange guest. Se&ntilde;or, what do you think I saw at the
door?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;How should I know?&rdquo; I replied. &ldquo;His
riding boots perhaps.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;No, Se&ntilde;or, I did not see his riding boots; but,
stretched on the floor with his head against the door, so that it
was impossible to open it without disturbing him, lay the big
servant fast asleep, his immense legs reaching nearly the whole
length of the gallery. I crossed myself, as well I might,
for the wind was howling even as it is now, and the rain was
rushing down into the gallery in torrents; yet there lay the big
servant fast asleep, without any covering, without any pillow,
not even a log, stretched out before his master&rsquo;s door.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Se&ntilde;or, I got little rest that night, for I said
to myself, I have evil wizards in my house, folks who are not
human. Once or twice I went up and peeped into the gallery,
but there still lay the big servant fast asleep, so I crossed
myself and returned to my bed again.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;and what occurred next
day?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Nothing particular occurred next day: the jorobado came
down and said comical things to me in good Spanish, and the big
servant came down, but whatever he said, and he did not say much,
I understood not, for it was in that disastrous jabber.
They stayed with me throughout the day till after supper-time,
and then the jorobado gave me a gold ounce, and mounting their
horses, they both departed as strangely as they had come, in the
dark night, I know not whither.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Is that all?&rdquo; I demanded.</p>

<p>&ldquo;No, Se&ntilde;or, it is not all; for I was right in
supposing them evil brujos: the very next day an express arrived
and a great search was made after them, and I was arrested for
having harboured them. This occurred just after the present
wars had commenced. It was said they were spies and
emissaries of I don&rsquo;t know what nation, and that they had
been in all parts of the Asturias, holding conferences with some
of the disaffected. They escaped, however, and were never
heard of more, though the animals which they rode were found
without their riders, wandering amongst the hills; they were
common ponies, and were of no value. As for the brujos, it
is believed that they embarked in some small vessel which was
lying concealed in one of the rias of the coast.&rdquo;</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;What was the word which you continually
heard proceeding from the lips of the big servant, and which you
think you can remember?</p>

<p><i>Host</i>.&mdash;Se&ntilde;or, it is now three years since I
heard it, and at times I can remember it and at others not;
sometimes I have started up in my sleep repeating it. Stay,
Se&ntilde;or, I have it now at the point of my tongue: it was
Patusca.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Batuschca, you mean; the men were
Russians.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XXXIII</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Oviedo&mdash;The Ten Gentlemen&mdash;The Swiss
again&mdash;Modest Request&mdash;The Robbers&mdash;Episcopal
Benevolence&mdash;The Cathedral&mdash;Portrait of Feijoo.</p>

<p>I must now take a considerable stride in my journey, no less
than from Muros to Oviedo, contenting myself with observing, that
we proceeded from Muros to Velez, and from thence to Giyon, where
our guide Martin bade us farewell, and returned with his mare to
Rivadeo. The honest fellow did not part without many
expressions of regret, indeed he even expressed a desire that I
should take him and his mare into my service; &ldquo;for,&rdquo;
said he, &ldquo;I have a great desire to run through all Spain,
and even the world; and I am sure I shall never have a better
opportunity than by attaching myself to your worship&rsquo;s
skirts.&rdquo; On my reminding him, however, of his wife
and family, for he had both, he said, &ldquo;True, true, I had
forgotten them: happy the guide whose only wife and family are a
mare and foal.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Oviedo is about three leagues from Giyon. Antonio rode
the horse, whilst I proceeded thither in a kind of diligence
which runs daily between the two towns. The road is good,
but mountainous. I arrived safely at the capital of the
Asturias, although at a rather unpropitious season, for the din
of war was at the gate, and there was the cry of the captains and
the shouting. Castile, at the time of which I am writing,
was in the hands of the Carlists, who had captured and plundered
Valladolid in much the same manner as they had Segovia some time
before. They were every day expected to march on Oviedo, in
which case they might perhaps have experienced some resistance, a
considerable body of troops being stationed there, who had
erected some redoubts, and strongly fortified several of the
convents, especially that of Santa Clara de la Vega. All
minds were in a state of feverish anxiety and suspense, more
especially as no intelligence arrived from Madrid, which by the
last accounts was said to be occupied by the bands of Cabrera and
Palillos.</p>

<p>So it came to pass that one night I found myself in the
ancient town of Oviedo, in a very large, scantily-furnished, and
remote room in an ancient posada, formerly a palace of the counts
of Santa Cruz. It was past ten, and the rain was descending
in torrents. I was writing, but suddenly ceased on hearing
numerous footsteps ascending the creaking stairs which led to my
apartment. The door was flung open, and in walked nine men
of tall stature, marshalled by a little hunchbacked
personage. They were all muffled in the long cloaks of
Spain, but I instantly knew by their demeanour that they were
caballeros, or gentlemen. They placed themselves in a rank
before the table where I was sitting. Suddenly and
simultaneously they all flung back their cloaks, and I perceived
that every one bore a book in his hand; a book which I knew full
well. After a pause, which I was unable to break, for I sat
lost in astonishment, and almost conceived myself to be visited
by apparitions, the hunchback, advancing somewhat before the
rest, said in soft silvery tones, &ldquo;Se&ntilde;or Cavalier,
was it you who brought this book to the Asturias?&rdquo; I
now supposed that they were the civil authorities of the place
come to take me into custody, and, rising from my seat, I
exclaimed, &ldquo;It certainly was I, and it is my glory to have
done so; the book is the New Testament of God: I wish it was in
my power to bring a million.&rdquo; &ldquo;I heartily wish
so too,&rdquo; said the little personage with a sigh.
&ldquo;Be under no apprehension, Sir Cavalier, these gentlemen
are my friends; we have just purchased these books in the shop
where you placed them for sale, and have taken the liberty of
calling upon you, in order to return you our thanks for the
treasure you have brought us. I hope you can furnish us
with the Old Testament also.&rdquo; I replied that I was
sorry to inform him that at present it was entirely out of my
power to comply with his wish, as I had no Old Testaments in my
possession, but did not despair of procuring some speedily from
England. He then asked me a great many questions concerning
my biblical travels in Spain, and my success, and the views
entertained by the Society, with respect to Spain, adding that he
hoped we should pay particular attention to the Asturias, which
he assured me was the best ground in the Peninsula for our
labour. After about half an hour&rsquo;s conversation, he
suddenly said, in the English language, &ldquo;Good night,
Sir,&rdquo; wrapped his cloak around him, and walked out as he
had come. His companions, who had hitherto not uttered a
word, all repeated &ldquo;Good night, Sir,&rdquo; and, adjusting
their cloaks, followed him.</p>

<p>In order to explain this strange scene, I must state that in
the morning I had visited the petty bookseller of the place,
Longoria, and having arranged preliminaries with him, I sent him
in the evening a package of forty Testaments, all I possessed,
with some advertisements. At the time he assured me that,
though he was willing to undertake the sale, there was,
nevertheless, not a prospect of success, as a whole month had
elapsed since he had sold a book of any description, on account
of the uncertainty of the times, and the poverty which pervaded
the land; I therefore felt much dispirited. This incident,
however, admonished me not to be cast down when things look
gloomiest, as the hand of the Lord is generally then most busy;
that men may learn to perceive, that whatever good is
accomplished is not their work but his.</p>

<p>Two or three days after this adventure, I was once more seated
in my large scantily-furnished room; it was about ten, of a dark
melancholy morning, and the autumnal rain was again
falling. I had just breakfasted, and was about to sit down
to my journal, when the door was flung open and in bounded
Antonio.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Mon ma&icirc;tre,&rdquo; said he, quite breathless,
&ldquo;who do you think has arrived?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;The pretender, I suppose,&rdquo; said I, in some
trepidation; &ldquo;if so, we are prisoners.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Bah, bah!&rdquo; said Antonio, &ldquo;it is not the
pretender, but one worth twenty of him; it is the Swiss of Saint
James.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Benedict Mol, the Swiss!&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;What!
has he found the treasure? But how did he come? How
is he dressed?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Mon ma&icirc;tre,&rdquo; said Antonio, &ldquo;he came
on foot if we may judge by his shoes, through which his toes are
sticking; and as for his dress, he is in most villainous
apparel.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;There must be some mystery in this,&rdquo; said I;
&ldquo;where is he at present?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Below, mon ma&icirc;tre,&rdquo; replied Antonio;
&ldquo;he came in quest of us. But I no sooner saw him,
than I hurried away to let you know.&rdquo;</p>

<p>In a few minutes Benedict Mol found his way up stairs; he was,
as Antonio had remarked, in most villainous apparel, and nearly
barefooted; his old Andalusian hat was dripping with rain.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Och, lieber herr,&rdquo; said Benedict, &ldquo;how
rejoiced I am to see you again. Oh, the sight of your
countenance almost repays me for all the miseries I have
undergone since I parted with you at Saint James.&rdquo;</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;I can scarcely believe that I really see
you here at Oviedo. What motive can have induced you to
come to such an out-of-the-way place from such an immense
distance?</p>

<p><i>Benedict</i>.&mdash;Lieber herr, I will sit down and tell
you all that has befallen me. Some few days after I saw you
last, the canonigo persuaded me to go to the captain-general to
apply for permission to disinter the schatz, and also to crave
assistance. So I saw the captain-general, who at first
received me very kindly, asked me several questions, and told me
to come again. So I continued visiting him till he would
see me no longer, and do what I might I could not obtain a glance
of him. The canon now became impatient, more especially as
he had given me a few pesetas out of the charities of the
church. He frequently called me a bribon and
impostor. At last, one morning I went to him, and said that
I had proposed to return to Madrid, in order to lay the matter
before the government, and requested that he would give me a
certificate to the effect that I had performed a pilgrimage to
Saint James, which I imagined would be of assistance to me upon
the way, as it would enable me to beg with some colour of
authority. He no sooner heard this request, than, without
saying a word or allowing me a moment to put myself on my
defence, he sprang upon me like a tiger, grasping my throat so
hard that I thought he would have strangled me. I am a
Swiss, however, and a man of Lucerne, and when I had recovered
myself a little, I had no difficulty in flinging him off; I then
threatened him with my staff and went away. He followed me
to the gate with the most horrid curses, saying that if I
presumed to return again, he would have me thrown at once into
prison as a thief and a heretic. So I went in quest of
yourself, lieber herr, but they told me that you were departed
for Coru&ntilde;a; I then set out for Coru&ntilde;a after
you.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;And what befell you on the road?</p>

<p><i>Benedict</i>.&mdash;I will tell you: about half-way between
Saint James and Coru&ntilde;a, as I was walking along, thinking
of the schatz, I heard a loud galloping, and looking around me I
saw two men on horseback coming across the field with the
swiftness of the wind, and making directly for me. Lieber
Gott, said I, these are thieves, these are factious; and so they
were. They came up to me in a moment and bade me stand, so
I flung down my staff, took off my hat and saluted them.
&ldquo;Good day, caballeros,&rdquo; said I to them.
&ldquo;Good day, countryman,&rdquo; said they to me, and then we
stood staring at each other for more than a minute. Lieber
himmel, I never saw such robbers; so finely dressed, so well
armed, and mounted so bravely on two fiery little hakkas, that
looked as if they could have taken wing and flown up into the
clouds! So we continued staring at each other, till at last
one asked me who I was, whence I came, and where I was
going. &ldquo;Gentlemen,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;I am a
Swiss, I have been to Saint James to perform a religious vow, and
am now returning to my own country.&rdquo; I said not a
word about the treasure, for I was afraid that they would have
shot me at once, conceiving that I carried part of it about
me. &ldquo;Have you any money?&rdquo; they demanded.
&ldquo;Gentlemen,&rdquo; I replied, &ldquo;you see how I travel
on foot, with my shoes torn to pieces; I should not do so if I
had money. I will not deceive you, however, I have a peseta
and a few cuartos,&rdquo; and thereupon I took out what I had and
offered it to them. &ldquo;Fellow,&rdquo; said they,
&ldquo;we are caballeros of Galicia, and do not take pesetas,
much less cuartos. Of what opinion are you? Are you
for the queen?&rdquo; &ldquo;No, gentlemen,&rdquo; said I,
&ldquo;I am not for the queen, but, at the same time, allow me to
tell you that I am not for the king either; I know nothing about
the matter; I am a Swiss, and fight neither for nor against
anybody unless I am paid.&rdquo; This made them laugh, and
then they questioned me about Saint James, and the troops there,
and the captain-general; and not to disoblige them, I told them
all I knew and much more. Then one of them, who looked the
fiercest and most determined, took his trombone in his hand, and
pointing it at me, said, &ldquo;Had you been a Spaniard, we would
have blown your head to shivers, for we should have thought you a
spy, but we see you are a foreigner, and believe what you have
said; take, therefore, this peseta and go your way, but beware
that you tell nobody any thing about us, for if you do,
carracho!&rdquo; He then discharged his trombone just over
my head, so that for a moment I thought myself shot, and then
with an awful shout, they both galloped away, their horses
leaping over the barrancos, as if possessed with many devils.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;And what happened to you on your arrival
at Coru&ntilde;a?</p>

<p><i>Benedict</i>.&mdash;When I arrived at Coru&ntilde;a, I
inquired after yourself, lieber herr, and they informed me that,
only the day before my arrival, you had departed for Oviedo: and
when I heard that, my heart died within me, for I was now at the
far end of Galicia, without a friend to help me. For a day
or two I knew not what to do; at last I determined to make for
the frontier of France, passing through Oviedo in the way, where
I hoped to see you and ask counsel of you. So I begged and
bettled among the Germans of Coru&ntilde;a. I, however, got
very little from them, only a few cuarts, less than the thieves
had given me on the road from Saint James, and with these I
departed for the Asturias by the way of Mondonedo. Och,
what a town is that, full of canons, priests, and pfaffen, all of
them more Carlist than Carlos himself.</p>

<p>One day I went to the bishop&rsquo;s palace and spoke to him,
telling him I was a pilgrim from Saint James, and requesting
assistance. He told me, however, that he could not relieve
me, and as for my being a pilgrim from Saint James, he was glad
of it, and hoped that it would be of service to my soul. So
I left Mondonedo, and got amongst the wild mountains, begging and
bettling at the door of every choza that I passed, telling all I
saw that I was a pilgrim from Saint James, and showing my
passport in proof that I had been there. Lieber herr, no
person gave me a cuart, nor even a piece of broa, and both
Gallegans and Asturians laughed at Saint James, and told me that
his name was no longer a passport in Spain. I should have
starved if I had not sometimes plucked an ear or two out of the
maize fields; I likewise gathered grapes from the parras and
berries from the brambles, and in this manner I subsisted till I
arrived at the bellotas, where I slaughtered a stray kid which I
met, and devoured part of the flesh raw, so great was my
hunger. It made me, however, very ill, and for two days I
lay in a barranco half dead and unable to help myself; it was a
mercy that I was not devoured by the wolves. I then struck
across the country for Oviedo: how I reached it I do not know; I
was like one walking in a dream. Last night I slept in an
empty hog-sty about two leagues from here, and ere I left it, I
fell down on my knees and prayed to God that I might find you,
lieber herr, for you were my last hope.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;And what do you propose to do at
present?</p>

<p><i>Benedict</i>.&mdash;What can I say, lieber herr? I
know not what to do. I will be guided in everything by your
counsel.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;I shall remain at Oviedo a few days
longer, during which time you can lodge at this posada, and
endeavour to recover from the fatigue of your disastrous
journeys; perhaps before I depart, we may hit on some plan to
extricate you from your present difficulties.</p>

<p>Oviedo contains about fifteen thousand inhabitants. It
is picturesquely situated between two mountains, Morcin and
Naranco; the former is very high and rugged, and during the
greater part of the year is covered with snow; the sides of the
latter are cultivated and planted with vines. The principal
ornament of the town is the cathedral, the tower of which is
exceedingly lofty, and is perhaps one of the purest specimens of
Gothic architecture at present in existence. The interior
of the cathedral is neat and appropriate, but simple and
unadorned. I observed but one picture, the Conversion of
Saint Paul. One of the chapels is a cemetery, in which rest
the bones of eleven Gothic kings; to whose souls be peace.</p>

<p>I bore a letter of recommendation from Coru&ntilde;a to a
merchant of Oviedo. This person received me very
courteously, and generally devoted some portion of every day to
showing me the remarkable things of Oviedo.</p>

<p>One morning he thus addressed me: &ldquo;You have doubtless
heard of Feijoo, the celebrated philosophic monk of the order of
Saint Benedict, whose writings have so much tended to remove the
popular fallacies and superstitions so long cherished in Spain;
he is buried in one of our convents, where he passed a
considerable portion of his life. Come with me and I will
show you his portrait. Carlos Tercero, our great king, sent
his own painter from Madrid to execute it. It is now in the
possession of a friend of mine, Don Ramon Valdez, an
advocate.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Thereupon he led me to the house of Don Ramon Valdez, who very
politely exhibited the portrait of Feijoo. It was circular
in shape, about a foot in diameter, and was surrounded by a
little brass frame, something like the rim of a barber&rsquo;s
basin. The countenance was large and massive but fine, the
eyebrows knit, the eyes sharp and penetrating, nose
aquiline. On the head was a silken skull-cap; the collar of
the coat or vest was just perceptible. The painting was
decidedly good, and struck me as being one of the very best
specimens of modern Spanish art which I had hitherto seen.</p>

<p>A day or two after this I said to Benedict Mol,
&ldquo;to-morrow I start from hence for Santander. It is
therefore high time that you decide upon some course, whether to
return to Madrid or to make the best of your way to France, and
from thence proceed to your own country.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Lieber herr,&rdquo; said Benedict, &ldquo;I will follow
you to Santander by short journeys, for I am unable to make long
ones amongst these hills; and when I am there, peradventure I may
find some means of passing into France. It is a great
comfort, in my horrible journeys, to think that I am travelling
over the ground which yourself have trodden, and to hope that I
am proceeding to rejoin you once more. This hope kept me
alive in the bellotas, and without it I should never have reached
Oviedo. I will quit Spain as soon as possible, and betake
me to Lucerne, though it is a hard thing to leave the schatz
behind me in the land of the Gallegans.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Thereupon I presented him with a few dollars.</p>

<p>&ldquo;A strange man is this Benedict,&rdquo; said Antonio to
me next morning, as, accompanied by a guide, we sallied forth
from Oviedo; &ldquo;a strange man, mon ma&icirc;tre, is this same
Benedict. A strange life has he led, and a strange death he
will die,&mdash;it is written on his countenance. That he
will leave Spain I do not believe, or if he leave it, it will be
only to return, for he is bewitched about this treasure.
Last night he sent for a sorciere, whom he consulted in my
presence; and she told him that he was doomed to possess it, but
that first of all he must cross water. She cautioned him
likewise against an enemy, which he supposes must be the canon of
Saint James. I have often heard people speak of the avidity
of the Swiss for money, and here is a proof of it. I would
not undergo what Benedict has suffered in these last journeys of
his, to possess all the treasures in Spain.&rdquo;</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XXXIV</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Departure from Oviedo&mdash;Villa
Viciosa&mdash;The Young Man of the Inn&mdash;Antonio&rsquo;s
Tale&mdash;The General and his Family&mdash;Woful
Tidings&mdash;To-morrow we Die&mdash;San
Vincente&mdash;Santander&mdash;An Harangue&mdash;Flinter the
Irishman.</p>

<p>So we left Oviedo and directed our course towards
Santander. The man who accompanied us as guide, and from
whom I hired the pony on which I rode, had been recommended to me
by my friend the merchant of Oviedo. He proved, however, a
lazy indolent fellow; he was generally loitering two or three
hundred yards in our rear, and instead of enlivening the way with
song and tale, like our late guide, Martin of Rivadeo, he
scarcely ever opened his lips, save to tell us not to go so fast,
or that I should burst his pony if I spurred him so. He was
thievish withal, and though he had engaged to make the journey
<i>seco</i>, that is, to defray the charges of himself and beast,
he contrived throughout to keep both at our expense. When
journeying in Spain, it is invariably the cheapest plan to agree
to maintain the guide and his horse or mule, for by so doing the
hire is diminished at least one third, and the bills upon the
road are seldom increased: whereas, in the other case, he pockets
the difference, and yet goes shot free, and at the expense of the
traveller, through the connivance of the innkeepers, who have a
kind of fellow feeling with the guides.</p>

<p>Late in the afternoon we reached Villa Viciosa, a small dirty
town, at the distance of eight leagues from Oviedo: it stands
beside a creek which communicates with the Bay of Biscay.
It is sometimes called La Capital de las Avellanas, or the
capital of the Filberts, from the immense quantity of this fruit
which is grown in the neighbourhood; and the greatest part of
which is exported to England. As we drew nigh we overtook
numerous cars laden with avellanas proceeding in the direction of
the town. I was informed that several small English vessels
were lying in the harbour. Singular as it may seem,
however, notwithstanding we were in the capital of the Avellanas,
it was with the utmost difficulty that I procured a scanty
handful for my dessert, and of these more than one half were
decayed. The people of the house informed me that the nuts
were intended for exportation, and that they never dreamt either
of partaking of them themselves or of offering them to their
guests.</p>

<p>At an early hour on the following day we reached Colunga, a
beautiful village on a rising ground, thickly planted with
chestnut trees. It is celebrated, at least in the Asturias,
as being the birth-place of Arguelles, the father of the Spanish
constitution.</p>

<p>As we dismounted at the door of the posada, where we intended
to refresh ourselves, a person who was leaning out of an upper
window uttered an exclamation and disappeared. We were yet
at the door, when the same individual came running forth and cast
himself on the neck of Antonio. He was a good-looking young
man, apparently about five and twenty, genteelly dressed, with a
Montero cap on his head. Antonio looked at him for a
moment, and then with a <i>Ah</i>, <i>Monsieur</i>, <i>est ce
bien vous</i>? shook him affectionately by the hand. The
stranger then motioned him to follow him, and they forthwith
proceeded to the room above.</p>

<p>Wondering what this could mean, I sat down to my morning
repast. Nearly an hour elapsed, and still Antonio did not
make his appearance; through the boards, however, which composed
the ceiling of the kitchen where I sat, I could hear the voices
of himself and his acquaintance, and thought that I could
occasionally distinguish the sound of broken sobs and groans; at
last there was a long pause. I became impatient, and was
about to summon Antonio, when he made his appearance, but
unaccompanied by the stranger. &ldquo;What, in the name of
all that is singular,&rdquo; I demanded, &ldquo;have you been
about? Who is that man?&rdquo; &ldquo;Mon
ma&icirc;tre,&rdquo; said Antonio, &ldquo;<i>c&rsquo;est un
monsieur de ma connoissance</i>. With your permission I
will now take a mouthful, and as we journey along I will tell you
all that I know of him.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Monsieur,&rdquo; said Antonio, as we rode out of
Colunga, &ldquo;you are anxious to know the history of the
gentleman whom you saw embrace me at the inn. Know, mon
ma&icirc;tre, that these Carlist and Christino wars have been the
cause of much misery and misfortune in this country, but a being
so thoroughly unfortunate as that poor young gentleman of the
inn, I do not believe is to be found in Spain, and his
misfortunes proceed entirely from the spirit of party and faction
which for some time past has been so prevalent.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Mon ma&icirc;tre, as I have often told you, I have
lived in many houses and served many masters, and it chanced that
about ten years ago I served the father of this gentleman, who
was then a mere boy. It was a very high family, for
monsieur the father was a general in the army, and a man of large
possessions. The family consisted of the general, his lady,
and two sons; the youngest of whom is the person you have just
seen, the other was several years older. Pardieu! I felt
myself very comfortable in that house, and every individual of
the family had all kind of complaisance for me. It is
singular enough, that though I have been turned out of so many
families, I was never turned out of that; and though I left it
thrice, it was of my own free will. I became dissatisfied
with the other servants or with the dog or the cat. The
last time I left was on account of the quail which was hung out
of the window of madame, and which waked me in the morning with
its call. <i>Eh bien</i>, <i>mon maitre</i>, things went on
in this way during the three years that I continued in the
family, out and in; at the end of which time it was determined
that the young gentleman should travel, and it was proposed that
I should attend him as valet; this I wished very much to
do. However, par malheur, I was at this time very much
dissatisfied with madame his mother about the quail, and I
insisted that before I accompanied him the bird should be
slaughtered for the kitchen. To this madame would by no
means consent; and even the young gentleman, who had always taken
my part on other occasions, said that I was unreasonable: so I
left the house in a huff, and never entered it again.</p>

<p>&ldquo;<i>Eh bien</i>, <i>mon maitre</i>, the young gentleman
went upon his travels, and continued abroad several years; and
from the time of his departure until we met him at Colunga, I
have not set eyes upon, nor indeed heard of him. I have
heard enough, however, of his family; of monsieur the father, of
madame, and of the brother, who was an officer of cavalry.
A short time before the troubles, I mean before the death of
Ferdinand, monsieur the father was appointed captain-general of
Coru&ntilde;a. Now monsieur, though a good master, was
rather a proud man, and fond of discipline and all that kind of
thing, and of obedience. He was, moreover, no friend to the
populace, to the canaille, and he had a particular aversion to
the nationals. So when Ferdinand died, it was whispered
about at Coru&ntilde;a, that the general was no liberal, and that
he was a better friend to Carlos than to Christina. <i>Eh
bien</i>, it chanced that there was a grand fete, or festival at
Coru&ntilde;a, on the water; and the nationals were there, and
the soldiers. And I know not how it befell, but there was
an emeute, and the nationals laid hands on monsieur the general,
and tying a rope round his neck, flung him overboard from the
barge in which he was, and then dragged him astern about the
harbour until he was drowned. They then went to his house
and pillaged it, and so ill-treated madame, who at that time
happened to be enceinte, that in a few hours she expired.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I tell you what, mon ma&icirc;tre, when I heard of the
misfortune of madame and the general, you would scarcely believe
it, but I actually shed tears, and was sorry that I had parted
with them in unkindness on account of that pernicious quail.</p>

<p>&ldquo;<i>Eh bien</i>, <i>mon maitre</i>, <i>nous poursuivrons
notre histoire</i>. The eldest son, as I told you before,
was a cavalry officer and a man of resolution, and when he heard
of the death of his father and mother, he vowed revenge.
Poor fellow! but what does he do but desert, with two or three
discontented spirits of his troop, and going to the frontier of
Galicia, he raised a small faction, and proclaimed Don
Carlos. For some little time he did considerable damage to
the liberals, burning and destroying their possessions, and
putting to death several nationals that fell into his
hands. However, this did not last long, his faction was
soon dispersed, and he himself taken and hanged, and his head
stuck on a pole.</p>

<p>&ldquo;<i>Nous sommes deja presque au bout</i>. When we
arrived at the inn, the young man took me above, as you saw, and
there for some time he could do nothing but weep and sob.
His story is soon told:&mdash;he returned from his travels, and
the first intelligence which awaited him on his arrival in Spain
was, that his father was drowned, his mother dead, and his
brother hanged, and, moreover, all the possessions of his family
confiscated. This was not all: wherever he went, he found
himself considered in the light of a factious and discontented
person, and was frequently assailed by the nationals with blows
of sabres and cudgels. He applied to his relations, and
some of these, who were of the Carlist persuasion, advised him to
betake himself to the army of Don Carlos, and the Pretender
himself, who was a friend of his father, and remembered the
services of his brother, offered to give him a command in his
army. But, mon ma&icirc;tre, as I told you before, he was a
pacific young gentleman, and as mild as a lamb, and hated the
idea of shedding blood. He was, moreover, not of the
Carlist opinion, for during his studies he had read books written
a long time ago by countrymen of mine, all about republics and
liberties, and the rights of man, so that he was much more
inclined to the liberal than the Carlist system; he therefore
declined the offer of Don Carlos, whereupon all his relations
deserted him, whilst the liberals hunted him from one place to
another like a wild beast. At last, he sold some little
property which still remained to him, and with the proceeds he
came to this remote place of Colunga, where no one knew him, and
where he has been residing for several months, in a most
melancholy manner, with no other amusement than that which he
derives from a book or two, or occasionally hunting a leveret
with his spaniel.</p>

<p>&ldquo;He asked me for counsel, but I had none to give him,
and could only weep with him. At last he said, &lsquo;Dear
Antonio, I see there is no remedy. You say your master is
below, beg him, I pray, to stay till to-morrow, and we will send
for the maidens of the neighbourhood, and for a violin and a
bagpipe, and we will dance and cast away care for a
moment.&rsquo; And then he said something in old Greek,
which I scarcely understood, but which I think was equivalent to,
&lsquo;Let us eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we
die!&rsquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;<i>Eh bien</i>, <i>mon maitre</i>, I told him that you
were a serious gentleman who never took any amusement, and that
you were in a hurry. Whereupon he wept again, and embraced
me and bade me farewell. And now, mon ma&icirc;tre, I have
told you the history of the young man of the inn.&rdquo;</p>

<p>We slept at Ribida de Sela, and the next day, at noon, arrived
at Llanes. Our route lay between the coast and an immense
range of mountains, which rose up like huge ramparts at about a
league&rsquo;s distance from the sea. The ground over which
we passed was tolerably level, and seemingly well
cultivated. There was no lack of vines and trees, whilst at
short intervals rose the cortijos of the
proprietors,&mdash;square stone buildings surrounded with an
outer wall. Llanes is an old town, formerly of considerable
strength. In its neighbourhood is the convent of San
Cilorio, one of the largest monastic edifices in all Spain.
It is now deserted, and stands lone and desolate upon one of the
peninsulas of the Cantabrian shore. Leaving Llanes, we soon
entered one of the most dreary and barren regions imaginable, a
region of rock and stone, where neither grass nor trees were to
be seen. Night overtook us in these places. We
wandered on, however, until we reached a small village, termed
Santo Colombo. Here we passed the night, in the house of a
carabineer of the revenue, a tall athletic figure who met us at
the gate armed with a gun. He was a Castilian, and with all
that ceremonious formality and grave politeness for which his
countrymen were at one time so celebrated. He chid his wife
for conversing with her handmaid about the concerns of the house
before us. &ldquo;Barbara,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;this is
not conversation calculated to interest the strange cavaliers;
hold your peace, or go aside with the muchacha.&rdquo; In
the morning he refused any remuneration for his
hospitality. &ldquo;I am a caballero,&rdquo; said he,
&ldquo;even as yourselves. It is not my custom to admit
people into my house for the sake of lucre. I received you
because you were benighted and the posada distant.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Rising early in the morning, we pursued our way through a
country equally stony and dreary as that which we had entered
upon the preceding day. In about four hours we reached San
Vincente, a large dilapidated town, chiefly inhabited by
miserable fishermen. It retains, however, many remarkable
relics of former magnificence: the bridge, which bestrides the
broad and deep firth, on which stands the town, has no less than
thirty-two arches, and is built of grey granite. It is very
ancient, and in some part in so ruinous a condition as to be
dangerous.</p>

<p>Leaving San Vincente behind us, we travelled for some leagues
on the sea-shore, crossing occasionally a narrow inlet or
firth. The country at last began to improve, and in the
neighbourhood of Santillana was both beautiful and fertile.
About a league before we reached the country of Gil Blas, we
passed through an extensive wood, in which were rocks and
precipices; it was exactly such a place as that in which the cave
of Rolando was situated, as described in the novel. This
wood has an evil name, and our guide informed us that robberies
were occasionally committed in it. No adventure, however,
befell us, and we reached Santillana at about six in the
evening.</p>

<p>We did not enter the town, but halted at a large venta or
posada at the entrance, before which stood an immense ash
tree. We had scarcely housed ourselves when a tremendous
storm of rain and wind commenced, accompanied with thunder and
lightning, which continued without much interruption for several
hours, and the effects of which were visible in our journey of
the following day, the streams over which we passed being much
swollen, and several trees lying uptorn by the wayside.
Santillana contains four thousand inhabitants, and is six short
leagues&rsquo; distance from Santander, where we arrived early
the next day.</p>

<p>Nothing could exhibit a stronger contrast to the desolate
tracts and the half ruined towns through which we had lately
passed, than the bustle and activity of Santander, which, though
it stands on the confines of the Basque provinces, the stronghold
of the Pretender, is almost the only city in Spain which has not
suffered by the Carlist wars. Till the close of the last
century it was little better than an obscure fishing town, but it
has of late years almost entirely engrossed the commerce of the
Spanish transatlantic possessions, especially of the
Havannah. The consequence of which has been, that whilst
Santander has rapidly increased in wealth and magnificence, both
Coru&ntilde;a and Cadiz have been as rapidly hastening to
decay. At present it possesses a noble quay, on which
stands a line of stately edifices, far exceeding in splendour the
palaces of the aristocracy at Madrid. These are built in
the French style, and are chiefly occupied by the
merchants. The population of Santander is estimated at
sixty thousand souls.</p>

<p>On the day of my arrival I dined at the table d&rsquo;hote of
the principal inn, kept by a Genoese. The company was very
miscellaneous, French, Germans, and Spaniards, all speaking in
their respective languages, whilst at the ends of the table,
confronting each other, sat two Catalan merchants, one of whom
weighed nearly twenty stone, grunting across the board in their
harsh dialect. Long, however, before dinner was concluded,
the conversation was entirely engrossed and the attention of all
present directed to an individual who sat on one side of the
bulky Catalan. He was a thin man of about the middle
height, with a remarkably red face, and something in his eyes
which, if not a squint, bore a striking resemblance to it.
He was dressed in a blue military frock, and seemed to take much
more pleasure in haranguing than in the fare which was set before
him. He spoke perfectly good Spanish, yet his voice
betrayed something of a foreign accent. For a long time he
descanted with immense volubility on war and all its
circumstances, freely criticising the conduct of the generals,
both Carlists and Christinos, in the present struggle, till at
last he exclaimed, &ldquo;Had I but twenty thousand men allowed
me by the government, I would bring the war to a conclusion in
six months.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Pardon me, Sir,&rdquo; said a Spaniard who sat at the
table, &ldquo;the curiosity which induces me to request the
favour of your distinguished name.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I am Flinter,&rdquo; replied the individual in the
military frock, &ldquo;a name which is in the mouth of every man,
woman, and child in Spain. I am Flinter the Irishman, just
escaped from the Basque provinces and the claws of Don
Carlos. On the decease of Ferdinand I declared for
Isabella, esteeming it the duty of every good cavalier and
Irishman in the Spanish service to do so. You have all
heard of my exploits, and permit me to tell you they would have
been yet more glorious had not jealousy been at work and cramped
my means. Two years ago I was despatched to Estremadura, to
organize the militias. The bands of Gomez and Cabrera
entered the province and spread devastation around. They
found me, however, at my post; and had I been properly seconded
by those under my command, the two rebels would never have
returned to their master to boast of their success. I stood
behind my intrenchments. A man advanced and summoned us to
surrender. &lsquo;Who are you?&rsquo; I demanded.
&lsquo;I am Cabrera,&rsquo; he replied; &lsquo;and I am
Flinter,&rsquo; I retorted, flourishing my sabre; &lsquo;retire
to your battalions or you will forthwith die the
death.&rsquo; He was awed and did as I commanded. In
an hour we surrendered. I was led a prisoner to the Basque
provinces; and the Carlists rejoiced in the capture they had
made, for the name of Flinter had long sounded amongst the
Carlist ranks. I was flung into a loathsome dungeon, where
I remained twenty months. I was cold; I was naked; but I
did not on that account despond, my spirit was too indomitable
for such weakness. My keeper at last pitied my
misfortunes. He said that &lsquo;it grieved him to see so
valiant a man perish in inglorious confinement.&rsquo; We
laid a plan to escape together; disguises were provided, and we
made the attempt. We passed unobserved till we arrived at
the Carlist lines above Bilbao; there we were stopped. My
presence of mind, however, did not desert me. I was
disguised as a carman, as a Catalan, and the coolness of my
answers deceived my interrogators. We were permitted to
pass, and soon were safe within the walls of Bilbao. There
was an illumination that night in the town, for the lion had
burst his toils, Flinter had escaped, and was once more returned
to re-animate a drooping cause. I have just arrived at
Santander on my way to Madrid, where I intend to ask of the
government a command, with twenty thousand men.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Poor Flinter! a braver heart and a more gasconading mouth were
surely never united in the same body. He proceeded to
Madrid, and through the influence of the British ambassador, who
was his friend, he obtained the command of a small division, with
which he contrived to surprise and defeat, in the neighbourhood
of Toledo, a body of the Carlists, commanded by Orejita, whose
numbers more than trebled his own. In reward for this
exploit he was persecuted by the government, which, at that time,
was the moderado or juste milieu, with the most relentless
animosity; the prime minister, Ofalia, supporting with all his
influence numerous and ridiculous accusations of plunder and
robbery brought against the too-successful general by the Carlist
canons of Toledo. He was likewise charged with a
dereliction of duty, in having permitted, after the battle of
Valdepe&ntilde;as, which he likewise won in the most gallant
manner, the Carlist force to take possession of the mines of
Almaden, although the government, who were bent on his ruin, had
done all in their power to prevent him from following up his
successes by denying him the slightest supplies and
reinforcements. The fruits of victory thus wrested from
him, his hopes blighted, a morbid melancholy seized upon the
Irishman; he resigned his command, and in less than ten months
from the period when I saw him at Santander, afforded his
dastardly and malignant enemies a triumph which satisfied even
them, by cutting his own throat with a razor.</p>

<p>Ardent spirits of foreign climes, who hope to distinguish
yourselves in the service of Spain, and to earn honours and
rewards, remember the fate of Columbus, and of another as brave
and as ardent&mdash;Flinter!</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XXXV</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Departure from Santander&mdash;The Night
Alarm&mdash;The Black Pass.</p>

<p>I had ordered two hundred Testaments to be sent to Santander
from Madrid: I found, however, to my great sorrow, that they had
not arrived, and I supposed that they had either been seized on
the way by the Carlists, or that my letter had miscarried.
I then thought of applying to England for a supply, but I
abandoned the idea for two reasons. In the first place, I
should have to remain idly loitering, at least a month, before I
could receive them, at a place where every article was
excessively dear; and, secondly, I was very unwell, and unable to
procure medical advice at Santander. Ever since I left
Coru&ntilde;a, I had been afflicted with a terrible dysentery,
and latterly with an ophthalmia, the result of the other
malady. I therefore determined on returning to
Madrid. To effect this, however, seemed no very easy
task. Parties of the army of Don Carlos, which, in a
partial degree, had been routed in Castile, were hovering about
the country through which I should have to pass, more especially
in that part called &ldquo;The Mountains,&rdquo; so that all
communication had ceased between Santander and the southern
districts. Nevertheless, I determined to trust as usual in
the Almighty and to risk the danger. I purchased,
therefore, a small horse, and sallied forth with Antonio.</p>

<p>Before departing, however, I entered into conference with the
booksellers as to what they should do in the event of my finding
an opportunity of sending them a stock of Testaments from Madrid;
and, having arranged matters to my satisfaction, I committed
myself to Providence. I will not dwell long on this journey
of three hundred miles. We were in the midst of the fire,
yet, strange to say, escaped without a hair of our heads being
singed. Robberies, murders, and all kinds of atrocities
were perpetrated before, behind, and on both sides of us, but not
so much as a dog barked at us, though in one instance a plan had
been laid to intercept us. About four leagues from
Santander, whilst we were baiting our horses at a village
hostelry, I saw a fellow run off after having held a whispering
conversation with a boy who was dealing out barley to us. I
instantly inquired of the latter what the man had said to him,
but only obtained an evasive answer. It appeared afterwards
that the conversation was about ourselves. Two or three
leagues farther there was an inn and village where we had
proposed staying, and indeed had expressed our intention of doing
so; but on arriving there, finding that the sun was still far
from its bourne, I determined to proceed farther, expecting to
meet with a resting-place at the distance of a league; though I
was mistaken, as we found none until we reached Montaneda, nine
leagues and a half from Santander, where was stationed a small
detachment of soldiers. At the dead of night we were
aroused from our sleep by a cry that the factious were not far
off. A messenger had arrived from the alcalde of the
village where we had previously intended staying, who stated that
a party of Carlists had just surprised that place, and were
searching for an English spy, whom they supposed to be at the
inn. The officer commanding the soldiers upon hearing this,
not deeming his own situation a safe one, instantly drew off his
men, falling back on a stronger party stationed in a fortified
village near at hand. As for ourselves, we saddled our
horses and continued our way in the dark. Had the Carlists
succeeded in apprehending me, I should instantly have been shot,
and my body cast on the rocks to feed the vultures and
wolves. But &ldquo;it was not so written,&rdquo; said
Antonio, who, like many of his countrymen, was a fatalist.
The next night we had another singular escape: we had arrived
near the entrance of a horrible pass called &ldquo;El puerto de
la puente de las tablas,&rdquo; or the pass of the bridge of
planks, which wound through a black and frightful mountain, on
the farther side of which was the town of O&ntilde;as, where we
meant to tarry for the night. The sun had set about a
quarter of an hour. Suddenly a man, with his face covered
with blood, rushed out of the pass. &ldquo;Turn back,
sir,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;in the name of God; there are
murderers in that pass; they have just robbed me of my mule and
all I possess, and I have hardly escaped with life from their
hands.&rdquo; I scarcely know why, but I made him no answer
and proceeded; indeed I was so weary and unwell that I cared not
what became of me. We entered; the rocks rose
perpendicularly, right and left, entirely intercepting the scanty
twilight, so that the darkness of the grave, or rather the
blackness of the valley of the shadow of death reigned around us,
and we knew not where we went, but trusted to the instinct of the
horses, who moved on with their heads close to the ground.
The only sound which we heard was the plash of a stream, which
tumbled down the pass. I expected every moment to feel a
knife at my throat, but &ldquo;<i>it was not so
written</i>.&rdquo; We threaded the pass without meeting a
human being, and within three quarters of an hour after the time
we entered it, we found ourselves within the posada of the town
of O&ntilde;as, which was filled with troops and armed peasants
expecting an attack from the grand Carlist army, which was near
at hand.</p>

<p>Well, we reached Burgos in safety; we reached Valladolid in
safety; we passed the Guadarama in safety; and were at length
safely housed in Madrid. People said we had been very
lucky; Antonio said, &ldquo;It was so written&rdquo;; but I say,
Glory be to the Lord for his mercies vouchsafed to us.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XXXVI</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">State of Affairs at Madrid&mdash;The New
Ministry&mdash;Pope of Rome&mdash;The Bookseller of
Toledo&mdash;Sword Blades&mdash;Houses of Toledo&mdash;The
Forlorn Gypsy&mdash;Proceedings at Madrid&mdash;Another
Servant.</p>

<p>During my journey in the northern provinces of Spain, which
occupied a considerable portion of the year 1837, I had
accomplished but a slight portion of what I proposed to myself to
effect in the outset. Insignificant are the results of
man&rsquo;s labours compared with the swelling ideas of his
presumption; something, however, had been effected by the
journey, which I had just concluded. The New Testament of
Christ was now enjoying a quiet sale in the principal towns of
the north, and I had secured the friendly interest and
co-operation of the booksellers of those parts, particularly of
him the most considerable of them all, old Rey of
Compostella. I had, moreover, disposed of a considerable
number of Testaments with my own hands, to private individuals,
entirely of the lower class, namely, muleteers, carmen,
contrabandistas, etc., so that upon the whole I had abundant
cause for gratitude and thanksgiving.</p>

<p>I did not find our affairs in a very prosperous state at
Madrid, few copies having been sold in the booksellers&rsquo;
shops, yet what could be rationally expected during these latter
times? Don Carlos, with a large army, had been at the
gates; plunder and massacre had been expected; so that people
were too much occupied in forming plans to secure their lives and
property, to give much attention to reading of any
description.</p>

<p>The enemy, however, had now retired to his strongholds in
Alava and Guipuscoa. I hoped that brighter days were
dawning, and that the work, under my own superintendence, would,
with God&rsquo;s blessing, prosper in the capital of Spain.
How far the result corresponded with my expectations will be seen
in the sequel. During my absence in the north, a total
change of ministers had occurred. The liberal party had
been ousted from the cabinet, and in their place had entered
individuals attached to the moderado or court party:
unfortunately, however, for my prospects, they consisted of
persons with whom I had no acquaintance whatever, and with whom
my former friends, Galiano and Isturitz, had little or no
influence. These gentlemen were now regularly laid on the
shelf, and their political career appeared to be terminated for
ever.</p>

<p>From the present ministry I could expect but little; they
consisted of men, the greater part of whom had been either
courtiers or employés of the deceased King Ferdinand, who
were friends to absolutism, and by no means inclined to do or to
favour anything calculated to give offence to the court of Rome,
which they were anxious to conciliate, hoping that eventually it
might be induced to recognize the young queen, not as the
constitutional but as the absolute Queen Isabella the Second.</p>

<p>Such was the party which continued in power throughout the
remainder of my sojourn in Spain, and which persecuted me less
from rancour and malice than from policy. It was not until
the conclusion of the war of the succession that it lost the
ascendancy, when it sank to the ground with its patroness the
queen-mother, before the dictatorship of Espartero.</p>

<p>The first step which I took after my return to Madrid, towards
circulating the Scriptures, was a very bold one. It was
neither more nor less than the establishment of a shop for the
sale of Testaments. This shop was situated in the Calle del
Principe, a respectable and well-frequented street in the
neighbourhood of the Square of Cervantes. I furnished it
handsomely with glass cases and chandeliers, and procured an
acute Gallegan of the name of Pepe Calzado, to superintend the
business, who gave me weekly a faithful account of the copies
sold.</p>

<p>&ldquo;How strangely times alter,&rdquo; said I, the second
day subsequent to the opening of my establishment, as I stood on
the opposite side of the street, leaning against the wall with
folded arms, surveying my shop, on the windows of which were
painted in large yellow characters, <i>Despacho de la Sociedad
Biblica y Estrangera</i>; &ldquo;how strangely times alter; here
have I been during the last eight months running about old Popish
Spain, distributing Testaments, as agent of what the Papists call
an heretical society, and have neither been stoned nor burnt; and
here am I now in the capital, doing that which one would think
were enough to cause all the dead inquisitors and officials
buried within the circuit of the walls to rise from their graves
and cry abomination; and yet no one interferes with me.
Pope of Rome! Pope of Rome! look to thyself. That
shop may be closed; but oh! what a sign of the times, that it has
been permitted to exist for one day. It appears to me, my
Father, that the days of your sway are numbered in Spain; that
you will not be permitted much longer to plunder her, to scoff at
her, and to scourge her with scorpions, as in bygone
periods. See I not the hand on the wall? See I not in
yonder letters a &lsquo;Mene, mene, Tekel, Upharsin&rsquo;?
Look to thyself, Batuschca.&rdquo;</p>

<p>And I remained for two hours, leaning against the wall,
staring at the shop.</p>

<p>A short time after the establishment of the despacho at
Madrid, I once more mounted the saddle, and, attended by Antonio,
rode over to Toledo, for the purpose of circulating the
Scriptures, sending beforehand by a muleteer a cargo of one
hundred Testaments. I instantly addressed myself to the
principal bookseller of the place, whom from the circumstance of
his living in a town so abounding with canons, priests, and
ex-friars as Toledo, I expected to find a Carlist, or a
<i>servile</i> at least. I was never more mistaken in my
life; on entering the shop, which was very large and commodious,
I beheld a stout athletic man, dressed in a kind of cavalry
uniform, with a helmet on his head, and an immense sabre in his
hand: this was the bookseller himself, who I soon found was an
officer in the national cavalry. Upon learning who I was,
he shook me heartily by the hand, and said that nothing would
give him greater pleasure than taking charge of the books, which
he would endeavour to circulate to the utmost of his ability.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Will not your doing so bring you into odium with the
clergy?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Ca!&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;who cares? I am rich,
and so was my father before me. I do not depend on them,
they cannot hate me more than they do already, for I make no
secret of my opinions. I have just returned from an
expedition,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;my brother nationals and
myself have, for the last three days, been occupied in hunting
down the factious and thieves of the neighbourhood; we have
killed three and brought in several prisoners. Who cares
for the cowardly priests? I am a liberal, Don Jorge, and a
friend of your countryman, Flinter. Many is the Carlist
guerilla-curate and robber-friar whom I have assisted him to
catch. I am rejoiced to hear that he has just been
appointed captain-general of Toledo; there will be fine doings
here when he arrives, Don Jorge. We will make the clergy
shake between us, I assure you.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Toledo was formerly the capital of Spain. Its population
at present is barely fifteen thousand souls, though, in the time
of the Romans, and also during the Middle Ages, it is said to
have amounted to between two and three hundred thousand. It
is situated about twelve leagues (forty miles) westward of
Madrid, and is built upon a steep rocky hill, round which flows
the Tagus, on all sides but the north. It still possesses a
great many remarkable edifices, notwithstanding that it has long
since fallen into decay. Its cathedral is the most
magnificent of Spain, and is the see of the primate. In the
tower of this cathedral is the famous bell of Toledo, the largest
in the world with the exception of the monster bell of Moscow,
which I have also seen. It weighs 1,543 arrobes, or 37,032
pounds. It has, however, a disagreeable sound, owing to a
cleft in its side. Toledo could once boast the finest
pictures in Spain, but many were stolen or destroyed by the
French during the Peninsular war, and still more have lately been
removed by order of the government. Perhaps the most
remarkable one still remains; I allude to that which represents
the burial of the Count of Orgaz, the masterpiece of Domenico,
the Greek, a most extraordinary genius, some of whose productions
possess merit of a very high order. The picture in question
is in the little parish church of San Tome, at the bottom of the
aisle, on the left side of the altar. Could it be
purchased, I should say it would be cheap at five thousand
pounds.</p>

<p>Amongst the many remarkable things which meet the eye of the
curious observer at Toledo, is the manufactory of arms, where are
wrought the swords, spears, and other weapons intended for the
army, with the exception of fire-arms, which mostly come from
abroad.</p>

<p>In old times, as is well known, the sword-blades of Toledo
were held in great estimation, and were transmitted as
merchandise throughout Christendom. The present
manufactory, or fabrica, as it is called, is a handsome modern
edifice, situated without the wall of the city, on a plain
contiguous to the river, with which it communicates by a small
canal. It is said that the water and the sand of the Tagus
are essential for the proper tempering of the swords. I
asked some of the principal workmen whether, at the present day,
they could manufacture weapons of equal value to those of former
days, and whether the secret had been lost.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Ca!&rdquo; said they, &ldquo;the swords of Toledo were
never so good as those which we are daily making. It is
ridiculous enough to see strangers coming here to purchase old
swords, the greater part of which are mere rubbish, and never
made at Toledo, yet for such they will give a large price, whilst
they would grudge two dollars for this jewel, which was made but
yesterday&rdquo;; thereupon putting into my hand a middle-sized
rapier. &ldquo;Your worship,&rdquo; said they, &ldquo;seems
to have a strong arm, prove its temper against the stone
wall;&mdash;thrust boldly and fear not.&rdquo;</p>

<p>I <i>have</i> a strong arm and dashed the point with my utmost
force against the solid granite: my arm was numbed to the
shoulder from the violence of the concussion, and continued so
for nearly a week, but the sword appeared not to be at all
blunted, or to have suffered in any respect.</p>

<p>&ldquo;A better sword than that,&rdquo; said an ancient
workman, a native of Old Castile, &ldquo;never transfixed Moor
out yonder on the sagra.&rdquo;</p>

<p>During my stay at Toledo, I lodged at the Posada de los
Caballeros, which signifies the inn of the gentlemen, which name,
in some respects, is certainly well deserved, for there are many
palaces far less magnificent than this inn of Toledo. By
magnificence it must not be supposed, however, that I allude to
costliness of furniture, or any kind of luxury which pervaded the
culinary department. The rooms were as empty as those of
Spanish inns generally are, and the fare, though good in its
kind, was plain and homely; but I have seldom seen a more
imposing edifice. It was of immense size, consisting of
several stories, and was built something in the Moorish taste,
with a quadrangular court in the centre, beneath which was an
immense algibe or tank, serving as a reservoir for
rain-water. All the houses in Toledo are supplied with
tanks of this description, into which the waters in the rainy
season flow from the roofs through pipes. No other water is
used for drinking; that of the Tagus, not being considered
salubrious, is only used for purposes of cleanliness, being
conveyed up the steep narrow streets on donkeys in large stone
jars. The city, standing on a rocky mountain, has no
wells. As for the rain-water, it deposits a sediment in the
tank, and becomes very sweet and potable: these tanks are cleaned
out twice every year. During the summer, at which time the
heat in this part of Spain is intense, the families spend the
greater part of the day in the courts, which are overhung with a
linen awning, the heat of the atmosphere being tempered by the
coolness arising from the tank below, which answers the same
purpose as the fountain in the southern provinces of Spain.</p>

<p>I spent about a week at Toledo, during which time several
copies of the Testament were disposed of in the shop of my friend
the bookseller. Several priests took it up from the
mostrador on which it lay, examined it, but made no remarks; none
of them purchased it. My friend showed me through his
house, almost every apartment of which was lined from roof to
floor with books, many of which were highly valuable. He
told me that he possessed the best collection in Spain of the
ancient literature of the country. He was, however, less
proud of his library than his stud; finding that I had some
acquaintance with horses, his liking for me and also his respect
considerably increased. &ldquo;All I have,&rdquo; said he,
&ldquo;is at your service; I see you are a man after my own
heart. When you are disposed to ride out upon the sagra,
you have only to apply to my groom, who will forthwith saddle you
my famed Cordovese entero; I purchased him from the stables at
Aranjuez, when the royal stud was broken up. There is but
one other man to whom I would lend him, and that man is
Flinter.&rdquo;</p>

<p>At Toledo I met with a forlorn Gypsy woman and her son, a lad
of about fourteen years of age; she was not a native of the
place, but had come from La Mancha, her husband having been cast
into the prison of Toledo on a charge of mule-stealing: the crime
had been proved against him, and in a few days he was to depart
for Malaga, with the chain of galley slaves. He was quite
destitute of money, and his wife was now in Toledo, earning a few
cuartos by telling fortunes about the streets, to support him in
prison. She told me that it was her intention to follow him
to Malaga, where she hoped to be able to effect his escape.
What an instance of conjugal affection; and yet the affection
here was all on one side, as is too frequently the case.
Her husband was a worthless scoundrel, who had previously
abandoned her and betaken himself to Madrid, where he had long
lived in concubinage with the notorious she-thug Aurora, at whose
instigation he had committed the robbery for which he was now
held in durance. &ldquo;Should your husband escape from
Malaga, in what direction will he fly?&rdquo; I demanded.</p>

<p>&ldquo;To the chim of the Corahai, my son; to the land of the
Moors, to be a soldier of the Moorish king.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;And what will become of yourself?&rdquo; I
inquired; &ldquo;think you that he will take you with
him?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;He will leave me on the shore, my son, and as soon as
he has crossed the black pawnee, he will forget me and never
think of me more.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;And knowing his ingratitude, why should you give
yourself so much trouble about him?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Am I not his romi, my son, and am I not bound by the
law of the Cales to assist him to the last? Should he
return from the land of the Corahai at the end of a hundred
years, and should find me alive, and should say, I am hungry,
little wife, go forth and steal or tell bahi, I must do it, for
he is the rom and I the romi.&rdquo;</p>

<p>On my return to Madrid, I found the despacho still open:
various Testaments had been sold, though the number was by no
means considerable: the work had to labour under great
disadvantage, from the ignorance of the people at large with
respect to its tenor and contents. It was no wonder, then,
that little interest was felt respecting it. To call,
however, public attention to the despacho, I printed three
thousand advertisements on paper, yellow, blue, and crimson, with
which I almost covered the sides of the streets, and besides
this, inserted an account of it in all the journals and
periodicals; the consequence was, that in a short time almost
every person in Madrid was aware of its existence. Such
exertions in London or Paris would probably have ensured the sale
of the entire edition of the New Testament within a few
days. In Madrid, however, the result was not quite so
flattering; for after the establishment had been open an entire
month, the copies disposed of barely amounted to one hundred.</p>

<p>These proceedings of mine did not fail to cause a great
sensation: the priests and their partisans were teeming with
malice and fury, which, for some time, however, they thought
proper to exhibit only in words; it being their opinion that I
was favoured by the ambassador and by the British government; but
there was no attempt, however atrocious, that might not be
expected from their malignity; and were it right and seemly for
me, the most insignificant of worms, to make such a comparison, I
might say, like Paul at Ephesus, I was fighting with wild
beasts.</p>

<p>On the last day of the year 1837, my servant Antonio thus
addressed me: &ldquo;Mon ma&icirc;tre, it is necessary that I
leave you for a time. Ever since we have returned from our
journeys, I have become unsettled and dissatisfied with the
house, the furniture, and with Donna Marequita. I have
therefore engaged myself as cook in the house of the Count of
---, where I am to receive four dollars per month less than what
your worship gives me. I am fond of change, though it be
for the worse. Adieu, mon ma&icirc;tre, may you be as well
served as you deserve; should you chance, however, to have any
pressing need <i>de mes soins</i>, send for me without
hesitation, and I will at once give my new master warning, if I
am still with him, and come to you.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Thus was I deprived for a time of the services of
Antonio. I continued for a few days without a domestic, at
the end of which time I hired a certain Cantabrian or Basque, a
native of the village of Hernani, in Guipuscoa, who was strongly
recommended to me.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XXXVII</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Euscarra&mdash;Basque not Irish&mdash;Sanskrit
and Tartar Dialects&mdash;A Vowel Language&mdash;Popular
Poetry&mdash;The Basques&mdash;Their Persons&mdash;Basque
Women.</p>

<p>I now entered upon the year 1838, perhaps the most eventful of
all those which I passed in Spain. The despacho still
continued open, with a somewhat increasing sale. Having at
this time little of particular moment with which to occupy
myself, I committed to the press two works, which for some time
past had been in the course of preparation. These were the
Gospel of St. Luke in the Spanish Gypsy and the Euscarra
languages.</p>

<p>With respect to the Gypsy Gospel I have little to say, having
already spoken of it in a former work (<i>The Zincali</i>): it
was translated by myself, together with the greater part of the
New Testament, during my long intercourse with the Spanish
Gypsies. Concerning the Luke in Euscarra, however, it will
be as well to be more particular, and to avail myself of the
present opportunity to say a few words concerning the language in
which it was written, and the people for whom it was
intended.</p>

<p>The Euscarra, then, is the proper term for a certain speech or
language, supposed to have been at one time prevalent throughout
Spain, but which is at present confined to certain districts,
both on the French and Spanish side of the Pyrenees, which are
laved by the waters of the Cantabrian Gulf or Bay of
Biscay. This language is commonly known as the Basque or
Biscayan, which words are mere modifications of the word
Euscarra, the consonant B having been prefixed for the sake of
euphony. Much that is vague, erroneous, and hypothetical,
has been said and written concerning this tongue. The
Basques assert that it was not only the original language of
Spain, but also of the world, and that from it all other
languages are derived; but the Basques are a very ignorant
people, and know nothing of the philosophy of language.
Very little importance, therefore, need be attached to any
opinion of theirs on such a subject. A few amongst them,
however, who affect some degree of learning, contend, that it is
neither more nor less than a dialect of the Phoenician, and, that
the Basques are the descendants of a Phoenician colony,
established at the foot of the Pyrenees at a very remote
period. Of this theory, or rather conjecture, as it is
unsubstantiated by the slightest proof, it is needless to take
further notice than to observe that, provided the Phoenician
language, as many of the <i>truly learned</i> have supposed and
almost proved, was a dialect of the Hebrew, or closely allied to
it, it were as unreasonable to suppose that the Basque is derived
from it, as that the Kamschatdale and Cherokee are dialects of
the Greek or Latin.</p>

<p>There is, however, another opinion with respect to the Basque
which deserves more especial notice, from the circumstance of its
being extensively entertained amongst the literati of various
countries of Europe, more especially England. I allude to
the Celtic origin of this tongue, and its close connexion with
the most cultivated of all the Celtic dialects, the Irish.
People who pretend to be well conversant with the subject, have
even gone so far as to assert, that so little difference exists
between the Basque and Irish tongues, that individuals of the two
nations, when they meet together, find no difficulty in
understanding each other, with no other means of communication
than their respective languages; in a word, that there is
scarcely a greater difference between the two than between the
French and the Spanish Basque. Such similarity, however,
though so strongly insisted upon, by no means exists in fact, and
perhaps in the whole of Europe it would be difficult to discover
two languages which exhibit fewer points of mutual resemblance
than the Basque and Irish.</p>

<p>The Irish, like most other European languages, is a dialect of
the Sanskrit, a <i>remote</i> one, as may well be supposed.
The corner of the western world in which it is still preserved
being, of all countries in Europe, the most distant from the
proper home of the parent tongue. It is still, however, a
dialect of that venerable and most original speech, not so
closely resembling it, it is true, as the English, Danish, and
those which belong to what is called the Gothic family, and far
less than those of the Sclavonian; for, the nearer we approach to
the East, in equal degree the assimilation of languages to this
parent stock becomes more clear and distinct; but still a
dialect, agreeing with the Sanskrit in structure, in the
arrangement of words, and in many instances in the words
themselves, which, however modified, may still be recognized as
Sanskrit. But what is the Basque, and to what family does
it properly pertain?</p>

<p>To two great Asiatic languages, all the dialects spoken at
present in Europe may be traced. These two, if not now
spoken, still exist in books, and are, moreover, the languages of
two of the principal religions of the East. I allude to the
Tibetian and Sanskrit&mdash;the sacred languages of the followers
of Buddh and Bramah. These tongues, though they possess
many words in common, which is easily to be accounted for by
their close proximity, are properly distinct, being widely
different in structure. In what this difference consists, I
have neither time nor inclination to state; suffice it to say
that the Celtic, Gothic, and Sclavonian dialects in Europe belong
to the Sanskrit family, even as in the East the Persian, and to a
less degree the Arabic, Hebrew, etc.; whilst to the Tibetian or
Tartar family in Asia pertain the Mandchou and Mongolian, the
Calmuc and the Turkish of the Caspian Sea; and in Europe, the
Hungarian and the Basque <i>partially</i>.</p>

<p>Indeed this latter language is a strange anomaly, so that upon
the whole it is less difficult to say what it is not, than what
it is. It abounds with Sanskrit words to such a degree that
its surface seems strewn with them. Yet would it be wrong
to term it a Sanskrit dialect, for in the collocation of these
words the Tartar form is most decidedly observable. A
considerable proportion of Tartar words is likewise to be found
in this language, though perhaps not in equal number to the terms
derived from the Sanskrit. Of these Tartar etymons I shall
at present content myself with citing one, though, if necessary,
it were easy to adduce hundreds. This word is <i>Jauna</i>,
or as it is pronounced, <i>Khauna</i>, a word in constant use
amongst the Basques, and which is the <i>Khan</i> of the Mongols
and Mandchous, and of the same signification&mdash;Lord.</p>

<p>Having closely examined the subject in all its various
bearings, and having weighed what is to be said on one side
against what is to be advanced on the other, I am inclined to
rank the Basque rather amongst the Tartar than the Sanskrit
dialects. Whoever should have an opportunity of comparing
the enunciation of the Basques and Tartars would, from that
alone, even if he understood them not, come to the conclusion
that their respective languages were formed on the same
principles. In both occur periods seemingly interminable,
during which the voice gradually ascends to a climax, and then
gradually sinks down.</p>

<p>I have spoken of the surprising number of Sanskrit words
contained in the Basque language, specimens of some of which will
be found below. It is remarkable enough, that in the
greater part of the derivatives from the Sanskrit the Basque has
dropped the initial consonant, so that the word commences with a
vowel. The Basque, indeed, may be said to be almost a vowel
language; the number of consonants employed being comparatively
few: perhaps eight words out of ten commence and terminate with a
vowel, owing to which it is a language to the highest degree soft
and melodious, far excelling in this respect any other language
in Europe, not even excepting the Italian.</p>

<p>Here follow a few specimens of Basque words with the Sanskrit
roots in juxtaposition:&mdash;</p>
<table>
<tr>
<td><p><span class="smcap">Basque</span>.</p>
</td>
<td><p><span class="smcap">Sanskrit</span>.</p>
</td>
<td><p></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p>Ardoa</p>
</td>
<td><p>Sandhána</p>
</td>
<td><p><i>Wine</i>.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p>Arratsa</p>
</td>
<td><p>Ratri</p>
</td>
<td><p><i>Night</i>.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p>Beguia</p>
</td>
<td><p>Akshi</p>
</td>
<td><p><i>Eye</i>.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p>Choria</p>
</td>
<td><p>Chiria</p>
</td>
<td><p><i>Bird</i>.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p>Chacurra</p>
</td>
<td><p>Cucura</p>
</td>
<td><p><i>Dog</i>.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p>Erregui&ntilde;a</p>
</td>
<td><p>Rani</p>
</td>
<td><p><i>Queen</i>.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p>Icusi</p>
</td>
<td><p>Iksha</p>
</td>
<td><p><i>To see</i>.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p>Iru</p>
</td>
<td><p>Treya</p>
</td>
<td><p><i>Three</i>.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p>Jan (Khan)</p>
</td>
<td><p>Khana</p>
</td>
<td><p><i>To eat</i>.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p>Uria</p>
</td>
<td><p>Puri</p>
</td>
<td><p><i>City</i>.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p>Urruti</p>
</td>
<td><p>Dura</p>
</td>
<td><p><i>Far</i>.</p>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
<p>Such is the tongue in which I brought out Saint Luke&rsquo;s
Gospel at Madrid. The translation I procured originally
from a Basque physician of the name of Oteiza. Previous to
being sent to the press, the version had lain nearly two years in
my possession, during which time, and particularly during my
travels, I lost no opportunity of submitting it to the inspection
of those who were considered competent scholars in the
Euscarra. It did not entirely please me; but it was in vain
to seek for a better translation.</p>

<p>In my early youth I had obtained a slight acquaintance with
the Euscarra, as it exists in books. This acquaintance I
considerably increased during my stay in Spain; and by
occasionally mingling with Basques, was enabled to understand the
spoken language to a certain extent, and even to speak it, but
always with considerable hesitation; for to speak Basque, even
tolerably, it is necessary to have lived in the country from a
very early period. So great are the difficulties attending
it, and so strange are its peculiarities, that it is very rare to
find a foreigner possessed of any considerable skill in the oral
language, and the Spaniards consider the obstacles so formidable
that they have a proverb to the effect that Satan once lived
seven years in Biscay, and then departed, finding himself unable
either to understand or to make himself understood.</p>

<p>There are few inducements to the study of this language.
In the first place, the acquisition of it is by no means
necessary even to those who reside in the countries where it is
spoken; the Spanish being generally understood throughout the
Basque provinces pertaining to Spain, and the French in those
pertaining to France.</p>

<p>In the second place, neither dialect is in possession of any
peculiar literature capable of repaying the toil of the
student. There are various books extant both in French and
Spanish Basque, but these consist entirely of Popish devotion,
and are for the most part translations.</p>

<p>It will, perhaps, here be asked whether the Basques do not
possess popular poetry, like most other nations, however small
and inconsiderable. They have certainly no lack of songs,
ballads, and stanzas, but of a character by no means entitled to
the appellation of poetry. I have noted down from
recitation a considerable portion of what they call their poetry,
but the only tolerable specimen of verse which I ever discovered
amongst them was the following stanza, which, after all, is not
entitled to very high praise:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote><p>&ldquo;Ichasoa urac aundi,<br />
Estu ondoric agueri&mdash;<br />
Pasaco ninsaqueni andic<br />
Maitea icustea gatic.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>

<p><i>i.e.</i> &ldquo;The waters of the sea are vast, and their
bottom cannot be seen: but over them I will pass, that I may
behold my love.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The Basques are a singing rather than a poetical people.
Notwithstanding the facility with which their tongue lends itself
to the composition of verse, they have never produced among them
a poet with the slightest pretensions to reputation; but their
voices are singularly sweet, and they are known to excel in
musical composition. It is the opinion of a certain author,
the Abbé D&rsquo;Ilharce, who has written about them, that
they derived the name <i>Cantabri</i>, by which they were known
to the Romans, from <i>Khantor-ber</i>, signifying sweet
singers. They possess much music of their own, some of
which is said to be exceedingly ancient. Of this music
specimens were published at Donostian (San Sebastian) in the year
1826, edited by a certain Juan Ignacio Iztueta. These
consist of wild and thrilling marches, to the sound of which it
is believed that the ancient Basques were in the habit of
descending from their mountains to combat with the Romans, and
subsequently with the Moors. Whilst listening to them it is
easy to suppose oneself in the close vicinity of some desperate
encounter. We seem to hear the charge of cavalry on the
sounding plain, the clash of swords, and the rushing of men down
the gorges of hills. This music is accompanied with words,
but such words! Nothing can be imagined more stupid,
commonplace, and uninteresting. So far from being martial,
they relate to everyday incidents and appear to have no connexion
whatever with the music. They are evidently of modern
date.</p>

<p>In person the Basques are of the middle size, and are active
and athletic. They are in general of fair complexions and
handsome features, and in appearance bear no slight resemblance
to certain Tartar tribes of the Caucasus. Their bravery is
unquestionable, and they are considered as the best soldiery
belonging to the Spanish crown: a fact highly corroborative of
the supposition that they are of Tartar origin, the Tartars being
of all races the most warlike, and amongst whom the most
remarkable conquerors have been produced. They are faithful
and honest, and capable of much disinterested attachment; kind
and hospitable to strangers; all of which points are far from
being at variance with the Tartar character. But they are
somewhat dull, and their capacities are by no means of a high
order, and in these respects they again resemble the Tartars.</p>

<p>No people on earth are prouder than the Basques, but theirs is
a kind of republican pride. They have no nobility amongst
them, and no one will acknowledge a superior. The poorest
carman is as proud as the governor of Tolosa. &ldquo;He is
more powerful than I,&rdquo; he will say, &ldquo;but I am of as
good blood; perhaps hereafter I may become a governor
myself.&rdquo; They abhor servitude, at least out of their
own country; and though circumstances frequently oblige them to
seek masters, it is very rare to find them filling the places of
common domestics; they are stewards, secretaries, accountants,
etc. True it is, that it was my own fortune to obtain a
Basque domestic; but then he always treated me more as an equal
than a master, would sit down in my presence, give me his advice
unasked, and enter into conversation with me at all times and
occasions. Did I check him! Certainly not! For
in that case he would have left me, and a more faithful creature
I never knew. His fate was a mournful one, as will appear
in the sequel.</p>

<p>I have said that the Basques abhor servitude, and are rarely
to be found serving as domestics amongst the Spaniards. I
allude, however, merely to the males. The females, on the
contrary, have no objection whatever to enter houses as
servants. Women, indeed, amongst the Basques are not looked
upon with all the esteem which they deserve, and are considered
as fitted for little else than to perform menial offices, even as
in the East, where they are viewed in the light of servants and
slaves. The Basque females differ widely in character from
the men; they are quick and vivacious, and have in general much
more talent. They are famous for their skill as cooks, and
in most respectable houses of Madrid a Biscayan female may be
found in the kitchen, queen supreme of the culinary
department.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XXXVIII</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">The Prohibition&mdash;Gospel
Persecuted&mdash;Charge of Sorcery&mdash;Ofalia.</p>

<p>About the middle of January a swoop was made upon me by my
enemies, in the shape of a peremptory prohibition from the
political governor of Madrid to sell any more New
Testaments. This measure by no means took me by surprise,
as I had for some time previously been expecting something of the
kind, on account of the political sentiments of the ministers
then in power. I forthwith paid a visit to Sir George
Villiers, informing him of what had occurred. He promised
to do all he could to cause the prohibition to be
withdrawn. Unfortunately at this time he had not much
influence, having opposed with all his might the entrance of the
moderado ministry to power, and the nomination of Ofalia to the
presidency of the cabinet. I, however, never lost
confidence in the Almighty, in whose cause I was engaged.</p>

<p>Matters were going on very well before this check. The
demand for Testaments was becoming considerable, so much so, that
the clergy were alarmed, and this step was the consequence.
But they had previously recourse to another, well worthy of them,
they attempted to act upon my fears. One of the ruffians of
Madrid, called Manolos, came up to me one night, in a dark
street, and told me that unless I discontinued selling my
&ldquo;Jewish books,&rdquo; I should have a knife
&ldquo;<i>nailed in my heart</i>&rdquo;; but I told him to go
home, say his prayers, and tell his employers that I pitied them;
whereupon he turned away with an oath. A few days after, I
received an order to send two copies of the Testament to the
office of the political governor, with which I complied, and in
less than twenty-four hours an alguazil arrived at the shop with
a notice prohibiting the further sale of the work.</p>

<p>One circumstance rejoiced me. Singular as it may appear,
the authorities took no measures to cause my little despacho to
be closed, and I received no prohibition respecting the sale of
any work but the New Testament, and as the Gospel of Saint Luke,
in Romany and Basque, would within a short time be ready for
delivery, I hoped to carry on matters in a small way till better
times should arrive.</p>

<p>I was advised to erase from the shop windows the words
&ldquo;Despacho of the British and Foreign Bible
Society.&rdquo; This, however, I refused to do. Those
words had tended very much to call attention, which was my grand
object. Had I attempted to conduct things in an underhand
manner, I should, at the time of which I am speaking, scarcely
have sold thirty copies in Madrid, instead of nearly three
hundred. People who know me not, may be disposed to call me
rash; but I am far from being so, as I never adopt a venturous
course when any other is open to me. I am not, however, a
person to be terrified by any danger, when I see that braving it
is the only way to achieve an object.</p>

<p>The booksellers were unwilling to sell my work; I was
compelled to establish a shop of my own. Every shop in
Madrid has a name. What name could I give it but the true
one? I was not ashamed of my cause or my colours. I
hoisted them, and fought beneath them not without success.</p>

<p>The priestly party in Madrid, in the meantime, spared no
effort to vilify me. They started a publication called
<i>The Friend of the Christian Religion</i>, in which a stupid
but furious attack upon me appeared, which I, however, treated
with the contempt it deserved. But not satisfied with this,
they endeavoured to incite the populace against me, by telling
them that I was a sorcerer, and a companion of Gypsies and
witches, and their agents even called me so in the streets.
That I was an associate of Gypsies and fortune-tellers I do not
deny. Why should I be ashamed of their company when my
Master mingled with publicans and thieves? Many of the
Gypsy race came frequently to visit me; received instruction, and
heard parts of the Gospel read to them in their own language, and
when they were hungry and faint, I gave them to eat and
drink. This might be deemed sorcery in Spain, but I am not
without hope that it will be otherwise estimated in England, and
had I perished at this period, I think there are some who would
have been disposed to acknowledge that I had not lived altogether
in vain (always as an instrument of the &ldquo;Most
Highest&rdquo;), having been permitted to turn one of the most
valuable books of God into the speech of the most degraded of his
creatures.</p>

<p>In the meantime I endeavoured to enter into negotiations with
the ministry, for the purpose of obtaining permission to sell the
New Testament in Madrid, and the nullification of the
prohibition. I experienced, however, great opposition,
which I was unable to surmount. Several of the ultra-popish
bishops, then resident in Madrid, had denounced the Bible, the
Bible Society, and myself. Nevertheless, notwithstanding
their powerful and united efforts, they were unable to effect
their principal object, namely, my expulsion from Madrid and
Spain. The Count Ofalia, notwithstanding he had permitted
himself to be made the instrument, to a certain extent, of these
people, would not consent to be pushed to such a length.
Throughout this affair, I cannot find words sufficiently strong
to do justice to the zeal and interest which Sir George Villiers
displayed in the cause of the Testament. He had various
interviews with Ofalia on the subject, and in these he expressed
to him his sense of the injustice and tyranny which had been
practised in this instance towards his countryman.</p>

<p>Ofalia had been moved by these remonstrances, and more than
once promised to do all in his power to oblige Sir George; but
then the bishops again beset him, and playing upon his political
if not religious fears, prevented him from acting a just, honest,
and honourable part. At the desire of Sir George Villiers,
I drew up a brief account of the Bible Society, and an exposition
of its views, especially in respect to Spain, which he presented
with his own hands to the Count. I shall not trouble the
reader by inserting this memorial, but content myself with
observing, that I made no attempts to flatter and cajole, but
expressed myself honestly and frankly, as a Christian
ought. Ofalia, on reading it, said, &ldquo;What a pity that
this is a Protestant society, and that all its members are not
Catholics.&rdquo;</p>

<p>A few days subsequently, to my great astonishment, he sent a
message to me by a friend, requesting that I would send him a
copy of my Gypsy Gospel. I may as well here state, that the
fame of this work, though not yet published, had already spread
like wildfire through Madrid, and every person was passionately
eager to possess a copy; indeed, several grandees of Spain sent
messages with similar requests, all of which I however
denied. I instantly resolved to take advantage of this
overture on the part of Count Ofalia, and to call on him
myself. I therefore caused a copy of the Gospel to be
handsomely bound, and proceeding to the palace, was instantly
admitted to him. He was a dusky, diminutive person, between
fifty and sixty years of age, with false hair and teeth, but
exceedingly gentlemanly manners. He received me with great
affability, and thanked me for my present; but on my proceeding
to speak of the New Testament, he told me that the subject was
surrounded with difficulties, and that the great body of the
clergy had taken up the matter against me; he conjured me,
however, to be patient and peaceable, in which case he said he
would endeavour to devise some plan to satisfy me. Amongst
other things, he observed that the bishops hated a sectarian more
than an Atheist. Whereupon I replied, that, like the
Pharisees of old, they cared more for the gold of the temple than
the temple itself. Throughout the whole of our interview he
evidently laboured under great fear, and was continually looking
behind and around him, seemingly in dread of being overheard,
which brought to my mind an expression of a friend of mine, that
if there be any truth in metempsychosis, the soul of Count Ofalia
must have originally belonged to a mouse. We parted in
kindness, and I went away, wondering by what strange chance this
poor man had become prime minister of a country like Spain.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XXXIX</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">The Two Gospels&mdash;The Alguazil&mdash;The
Warrant&mdash;The Good Maria&mdash;The Arrest&mdash;Sent to
Prison&mdash;Reflections&mdash;The Reception&mdash;The Prison
Room&mdash;Redress Demanded.</p>

<p>At length the Gospel of Saint Luke in the Gypsy language was
in a state of readiness. I therefore deposited a certain
number of copies in the despacho, and announced them for
sale. The Basque, which was by this time also printed, was
likewise advertised. For this last work there was little
demand. Not so, however, for the Gypsy Luke, of which I
could have easily disposed of the whole edition in less than a
fortnight. Long, however, before this period had expired,
the clergy were up in arms. &ldquo;Sorcery!&rdquo; said one
bishop. &ldquo;There is more in this than we can dive
into,&rdquo; exclaimed a second. &ldquo;He will convert all
Spain by means of the Gypsy language,&rdquo; cried a third.
And then came the usual chorus on such occasions, of <i>Que
infamia</i>! <i>Que picardia</i>! At last, having
consulted together, away they hurried to their tool the
corregidor, or, according to the modern term, the gefe politico
of Madrid. I have forgotten the name of this worthy, of
whom I had myself no personal knowledge whatever. Judging
from his actions, however, and from common report, I should say
that he was a stupid wrong-headed creature, savage withal&mdash;a
melange of borrico, mule, and wolf. Having an inveterate
antipathy to all foreigners, he lent a willing ear to the
complaint of my accusers, and forthwith gave orders to make a
seizure of all the copies of the Gypsy Gospel which could be
found in the despacho. The consequence was, that a numerous
body of alguazils directed their steps to the Calle del principe;
some thirty copies of the book in question were pounced upon, and
about the same number of Saint Luke in Basque. With this
spoil these satellites returned in triumph to the gefatura
politica, where they divided the copies of the Gypsy volume
amongst themselves, selling subsequently the greater number at a
large price, the book being in the greatest demand, and thus
becoming unintentionally agents of an heretical society.
But every one must live by his trade, say these people, and they
lose no opportunity of making their words good, by disposing to
the best advantage of any booty which falls into their
hands. As no person cared about the Basque Gospel, it was
safely stowed away, with other unmarketable captures, in the
warehouses of the office.</p>

<p>The Gypsy Gospels had now been seized, at least as many as
were exposed for sale in the despacho. The corregidor and
his friends, however, were of opinion that many more might be
obtained by means of a little management. Fellows,
therefore, hangers-on of the police office, were daily dispatched
to the shop in all kinds of disguises, inquiring, with great
seeming anxiety, for &ldquo;Gypsy books,&rdquo; and offering high
prices for copies. They, however, returned to their
employers empty-handed. My Gallegan was on his guard,
informing all who made inquiries, that books of no description
would be sold at the establishment for the present. Which
was in truth the case, as I had given him particular orders to
sell no more under any pretence whatever.</p>

<p>I got no credit, however, for my frank dealing. The
corregidor and his confederates could not persuade themselves but
that by some means mysterious and unknown to them, I was daily
selling hundreds of these Gypsy books, which were to
revolutionize the country, and annihilate the power of the Father
of Rome. A plan was therefore resolved upon, by means of
which they hoped to have an opportunity of placing me in a
position which would incapacitate me for some time from taking
any active measures to circulate the Scriptures, either in Gypsy
or in any other language.</p>

<p>It was on the morning of the first of May, if I forget not,
that an unknown individual made his appearance in my apartment as
I was seated at breakfast; he was a mean-looking fellow, about
the middle stature, with a countenance on which knave was written
in legible characters. The hostess ushered him in, and then
withdrew. I did not like the appearance of my visitor, but
assuming some degree of courtesy, I requested him to sit down,
and demanded his business. &ldquo;I come from his
excellency the political chief of Madrid,&rdquo; he replied,
&ldquo;and my business is to inform you that his excellency is
perfectly aware of your proceedings, and is at any time able to
prove that you are still disposing of in secret those evil books
which you have been forbidden to sell.&rdquo; &ldquo;Is he
so,&rdquo; I replied; &ldquo;pray let him do so forthwith, but
what need of giving me information?&rdquo;
&ldquo;Perhaps,&rdquo; continued the fellow, &ldquo;you think his
worship has no witnesses; know, however, that he has many, and
respectable ones too.&rdquo; &ldquo;Doubtless,&rdquo; I
replied, &ldquo;and from the respectability of your own
appearance, you are perhaps one of them. But you are
occupying my time unprofitably; begone, therefore, and tell
whoever sent you, that I have by no means a high opinion of his
wisdom.&rdquo; &ldquo;I shall go when I please,&rdquo;
retorted the fellow; &ldquo;do you know to whom you are
speaking? Are you aware that if I think fit I can search
your apartment, yes, even below your bed? What have we
here,&rdquo; he continued; and commenced with his stick poking a
heap of papers which lay upon a chair; &ldquo;what have we here;
are these also papers of the Gypsies?&rdquo; I instantly
determined upon submitting no longer to this behaviour, and
taking the fellow by the arm, led him out of the apartment, and
then still holding him, conducted him downstairs from the third
floor in which I lived, into the street, looking him steadfastly
in the face the whole while.</p>

<p>The fellow had left his sombrero on the table, which I
dispatched to him by the landlady, who delivered it into his hand
as he stood in the street staring with distended eyes at the
balcony of my apartment.</p>

<p>&ldquo;A trampa has been laid for you, Don Jorge,&rdquo; said
Maria Diaz, when she had reascended from the street; &ldquo;that
corchete came here with no other intention than to have a dispute
with you; out of every word you have said he will make a long
history, as is the custom with these people: indeed he said, as I
handed him his hat, that ere twenty-four hours were over, you
should see the inside of the prison of Madrid.&rdquo;</p>

<p>In effect, during the course of the morning, I was told that a
warrant had been issued for my apprehension. The prospect
of incarceration, however, did not fill me with much dismay; an
adventurous life and inveterate habits of wandering having long
familiarized me to situations of every kind, so much so as to
feel myself quite as comfortable in a prison as in the gilded
chamber of palaces; indeed more so, as in the former place I can
always add to my store of useful information, whereas in the
latter, ennui frequently assails me. I had, moreover, been
thinking for some time past of paying a visit to the prison,
partly in the hope of being able to say a few words of Christian
instruction to the criminals, and partly with the view of making
certain investigations in the robber language of Spain, a subject
about which I had long felt much curiosity; indeed, I had already
made application for admittance into the Carcel de la Corte, but
had found the matter surrounded with difficulties, as my friend
Ofalia would have said. I rather rejoiced then in the
opportunity which was now about to present itself of entering the
prison, not in the character of a visitor for an hour, but as a
martyr, and as one suffering in the holy cause of religion.
I was determined, however, to disappoint my enemies for that day
at least, and to render null the threat of the alguazil, that I
should be imprisoned within twenty-four hours. I therefore
took up my abode for the rest of the day in a celebrated French
tavern in the Calle del Caballero de Gracia, which, as it was one
of the most fashionable and public places in Madrid, I naturally
concluded was one of the last where the corregidor would think of
seeking me.</p>

<p>About ten at night, Maria Diaz, to whom I had communicated the
place of my retreat, arrived with her son, Juan Lopez.
&ldquo;O se&ntilde;or,&rdquo; said she on seeing me, &ldquo;they
are already in quest of you; the alcalde of the barrio, with a
large comitiva of alguazils and such like people, have just been
at our house with a warrant for your imprisonment from the
corregidor. They searched the whole house, and were much
disappointed at not finding you. Wo is me, what will they
do when they catch you?&rdquo; &ldquo;Be under no
apprehensions, good Maria,&rdquo; said I; &ldquo;you forget that
I am an Englishman, and so it seems does the corregidor.
Whenever he catches me, depend upon it he will be glad enough to
let me go. For the present, however, we will permit him to
follow his own course, for the spirit of folly seems to have
seized him.&rdquo;</p>

<p>I slept at the tavern, and in the forenoon of the following
day repaired to the embassy, where I had an interview with Sir
George, to whom I related every circumstance of the affair.
He said that he could scarcely believe that the corregidor
entertained any serious intentions of imprisoning me: in the
first place, because I had committed no offence; and in the
second, because I was not under the jurisdiction of that
functionary, but under that of the captain-general, who was alone
empowered to decide upon matters which relate to foreigners, and
before whom I must be brought in the presence of the consul of my
nation. &ldquo;However,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;there is no
knowing to what length these jacks in office may go. I
therefore advise you, if you are under any apprehension, to
remain as my guest at the embassy for a few days, for here you
will be quite safe.&rdquo; I assured him that I was under
no apprehension whatever, having long been accustomed to
adventures of this kind. From the apartment of Sir George,
I proceeded to that of the first secretary of embassy, Mr.
Southern, with whom I entered into conversation. I had
scarcely been there a minute when my servant Francisco rushed in,
much out of breath, and in violent agitation, exclaiming in
Basque, &ldquo;Niri jauna (<i>master mine</i>), the alguaziloac
and the corchetoac, and all the other lapurrac (<i>thieves</i>)
are again at the house. They seem half mad, and not being
able to find you, are searching your papers, thinking, I suppose,
that you are hid among them.&rdquo; Mr. Southern here
interrupting him, inquired of me what all this meant.
Whereupon I told him, saying at the same time, that it was my
intention to proceed at once to my lodgings. &ldquo;But
perhaps these fellows will arrest you,&rdquo; said Mr. S.,
&ldquo;before we can interfere.&rdquo; &ldquo;I must take
my chance as to that,&rdquo; I replied, and presently afterwards
departed.</p>

<p>Ere, however, I had reached the middle of the street of
Alcala, two fellows came up to me, and telling me that I was
their prisoner, commanded me to follow them to the office of the
corregidor. They were in fact alguazils, who, suspecting
that I might enter or come out of the embassy, had stationed
themselves in the neighbourhood. I instantly turned round
to Francisco, and told him in Basque to return to the embassy and
to relate there to the secretary what had just occurred.
The poor fellow set off like lightning, turning half round,
however, to shake his fist, and to vent a Basque execration at
the two lapurrac, as he called the alguazils.</p>

<p>They conducted me to the gefatura or office of the corregidor,
where they ushered me into a large room, and motioned me to sit
down on a wooden bench. They then stationed themselves on
each side of me: there were at least twenty people in the
apartment beside ourselves, evidently from their appearance
officials of the establishment. They were all well dressed,
for the most part in the French fashion, in round hats, coats,
and pantaloons, and yet they looked what in reality they were,
Spanish alguazils, spies, and informers, and Gil Blas, could he
have waked from his sleep of two centuries, would,
notwithstanding the change of fashion, have had no difficulty in
recognizing them. They glanced at me as they stood lounging
about the room; they gathered themselves together in a circle and
began conversing in whispers. I heard one of them say,
&ldquo;he understands the seven Gypsy jargons.&rdquo; Then
presently another, evidently from his language an Andalusian,
said, &ldquo;<i>Es muy diestro</i> (he is very skilful), and can
ride a horse and dart a knife full as well as if he came from my
own country.&rdquo; Thereupon they all turned round and
regarded me with a species of interest, evidently mingled with
respect, which most assuredly they would not have exhibited had
they conceived that I was merely an honest man bearing witness in
a righteous cause.</p>

<p>I waited patiently on the bench at least one hour, expecting
every moment to be summoned before my lord the corregidor.
I suppose, however, that I was not deemed worthy of being
permitted to see so exalted a personage, for at the end of that
time, an elderly man, one however evidently of the alguazil
genus, came into the room and advanced directly towards me.
&ldquo;Stand up,&rdquo; said he. I obeyed.
&ldquo;What is your name?&rdquo; he demanded. I told
him. &ldquo;Then,&rdquo; he replied, exhibiting a paper
which he held in his hand, &ldquo;Se&ntilde;or, it is the will of
his excellency the corregidor that you be forthwith sent to
prison.&rdquo;</p>

<p>He looked at me steadfastly as he spoke, perhaps expecting
that I should sink into the earth at the formidable name of
prison; I however only smiled. He then delivered the paper,
which I suppose was the warrant for my committal, into the hand
of one of my two captors, and obeying a sign which they made, I
followed them.</p>

<p>I subsequently learned that the secretary of legation, Mr.
Southern, had been dispatched by Sir George, as soon as the
latter had obtained information of my arrest, and had been
waiting at the office during the greater part of the time that I
was there. He had demanded an audience of the corregidor,
in which he had intended to have remonstrated with him, and
pointed out to him the danger to which he was subjecting himself
by the rash step which he was taking. The sullen
functionary, however, had refused to see him, thinking, perhaps,
that to listen to reason would be a dereliction of dignity: by
this conduct, however, he most effectually served me, as no
person, after such a specimen of uncalled-for insolence, felt
disposed to question the violence and injustice which had been
practised towards me.</p>

<p>The alguazils conducted me across the Plaza Mayor to the
Carcel de la Corte, or prison of the court, as it is
called. Whilst going across the square, I remembered that
this was the place where, in &ldquo;the good old times,&rdquo;
the Inquisition of Spain was in the habit of holding its solemn
<i>Autos da fe</i>, and I cast my eye to the balcony of the city
hall, where at the most solemn of them all, the last of the
Austrian line in Spain sat, and after some thirty heretics, of
both sexes, had been burnt by fours and by fives, wiped his face,
perspiring with heat, and black with smoke, and calmly inquired,
&ldquo;No hay mas?&rdquo; for which exemplary proof of patience
he was much applauded by his priests and confessors, who
subsequently poisoned him. &ldquo;And here am I,&rdquo;
thought I, &ldquo;who have done more to wound Popery, than all
the poor Christian martyrs that ever suffered in this accursed
square, merely sent to prison, from which I am sure to be
liberated in a few days, with credit and applause. Pope of
Rome! I believe you to be as malicious as ever, but you are sadly
deficient in power. You are become paralytic, Batuschca,
and your club has degenerated to a crutch.&rdquo;</p>

<p>We arrived at the prison, which stands in a narrow street not
far from the great square. We entered a dusky passage, at
the end of which was a wicket door. My conductors knocked,
a fierce visage peered through the wicket; there was an exchange
of words, and in a few moments I found myself within the prison
of Madrid, in a kind of corridor which overlooked at a
considerable altitude what appeared to be a court, from which
arose a hubbub of voices, and occasionally wild shouts and
cries. Within the corridor which served as a kind of
office, were several people; one of them sat behind a desk, and
to him the alguazils went up, and after discoursing with him some
time in low tones, delivered the warrant into his hands. He
perused it with attention, then rising he advanced to me.
What a figure! He was about forty years of age, and his
height might have amounted to some six feet two inches, had he
not been curved much after the fashion of the letter S. No
weazel ever appeared lanker, and he looked as if a breath of air
would have been sufficient to blow him away; his face might
certainly have been called handsome, had it not been for its
extraordinary and portentous meagreness; his nose was like an
eagle&rsquo;s bill, his teeth white as ivory, his eyes black (Oh
how black!) and fraught with a strange expression, his skin was
dark, and the hair of his head like the plumage of the
raven. A deep quiet smile dwelt continually on his
features; but with all the quiet it was a cruel smile, such a one
as would have graced the countenance of a Nero.
&ldquo;<i>Mais en revanche personne n&rsquo;etoit plus
honnete</i>.&rdquo; &ldquo;Caballero,&rdquo; said he,
&ldquo;allow me to introduce myself to you as the alcayde of this
prison. I perceive by this paper that I am to have the
honour of your company for a time, a short time doubtless,
beneath this roof; I hope you will banish every apprehension from
your mind. I am charged to treat you with all the respect
which is due to the illustrious nation to which you belong, and
which a cavalier of such exalted category as yourself is entitled
to expect. A needless charge, it is true, as I should only
have been too happy of my own accord to have afforded you every
comfort and attention. Caballero, you will rather consider
yourself here as a guest than a prisoner; you will be permitted
to roam over every part of this house whenever you think
proper. You will find matters here not altogether below the
attention of a philosophic mind! Pray, issue whatever
commands you may think fit to the turnkeys and officials, even as
if they were your own servants. I will now have the honour
of conducting you to your apartment&mdash;the only one at present
unoccupied. We invariably reserve it for cavaliers of
distinction. I am happy to say that my orders are again in
consonance with my inclination. No charge whatever will be
made for it to you, though the daily hire of it is not
unfrequently an ounce of gold. I entreat you, therefore, to
follow me, cavalier, who am at all times and seasons the most
obedient and devoted of your servants.&rdquo; Here he took
off his hat and bowed profoundly.</p>

<p>Such was the speech of the alcayde of the prison of Madrid; a
speech delivered in pure sonorous Castilian, with calmness,
gravity, and almost with dignity; a speech which would have done
honour to a gentleman of high birth, to Monsieur Basompierre, of
the Old Bastile, receiving an Italian prince, or the high
constable of the Tower an English duke attainted of high
treason. Now, who in the name of wonder was this
alcayde?</p>

<p>One of the greatest rascals in all Spain. A fellow who
had more than once by his grasping cupidity, and by his
curtailment of the miserable rations of the prisoners, caused an
insurrection in the court below only to be repressed by
bloodshed, and by summoning military aid; a fellow of low birth,
who, only five years previous, had been <i>drummer</i> to a band
of royalist volunteers!</p>

<p>But Spain is the land of extraordinary characters.</p>

<p>I followed the alcayde to the end of the corridor, where was a
massive grated door, on each side of which sat a grim fellow of a
turnkey. The door was opened, and turning to the right we
proceeded down another corridor, in which were many people
walking about, whom I subsequently discovered to be prisoners
like myself, but for political offences. At the end of this
corridor, which extended the whole length of the patio, we turned
into another, and the first apartment in this was the one
destined for myself. It was large and lofty, but totally
destitute of every species of furniture, with the exception of a
huge wooden pitcher, intended to hold my daily allowance of
water. &ldquo;Caballero,&rdquo; said the alcayde,
&ldquo;the apartment is without furniture, as you see. It
is already the third hour of the tarde, I therefore advise you to
lose no time in sending to your lodgings for a bed and whatever
you may stand in need of, the llavero here shall do your
bidding. Caballero, adieu till I see you again.&rdquo;</p>

<p>I followed his advice, and writing a note in pencil to Maria
Diaz, I dispatched it by the llavero, and then sitting down on
the wooden pitcher, I fell into a reverie, which continued for a
considerable time.</p>

<p>Night arrived, and so did Maria Diaz, attended by two porters
and Francisco, all loaded with furniture. A lamp was
lighted, charcoal was kindled in the brasero, and the prison
gloom was to a certain degree dispelled.</p>

<p>I now left my seat on the pitcher, and sitting down on a
chair, proceeded to dispatch some wine and viands, which my good
hostess had not forgotten to bring with her. Suddenly Mr.
Southern entered. He laughed heartily at finding me engaged
in the manner I have described. &ldquo;B---,&rdquo; said
he, &ldquo;you are the man to get through the world, for you
appear to take all things coolly, and as matters of course.
That, however, which most surprises me with respect to you is,
your having so many friends; here you are in prison, surrounded
by people ministering to your comforts. Your very servant
is your friend, instead of being your worst enemy, as is usually
the case. That Basque of yours is a noble fellow. I
shall never forget how he spoke for you, when he came running to
the embassy to inform us of your arrest. He interested both
Sir George and myself in the highest degree: should you ever wish
to part with him, I hope you will give me the refusal of his
services. But now to other matters.&rdquo; He then
informed me that Sir George had already sent in an official note
to Ofalia, demanding redress for such a wanton outrage on the
person of a British subject. &ldquo;You must remain in
prison,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;to-night, but depend upon it that
to-morrow, if you are disposed, you may quit in
triumph.&rdquo; &ldquo;I am by no means disposed for any
such thing,&rdquo; I replied. &ldquo;They have put me in
prison for their pleasure, and I intend to remain here for my
own.&rdquo; &ldquo;If the confinement is not irksome to
you,&rdquo; said Mr. Southern, &ldquo;I think, indeed, it will be
your wisest plan; the government have committed themselves sadly
with regard to you; and, to speak plainly, we are by no means
sorry for it. They have on more than one occasion treated
ourselves very cavalierly, and we have now, if you continue firm,
an excellent opportunity of humbling their insolence. I
will instantly acquaint Sir George with your determination, and
you shall hear from us early on the morrow.&rdquo; He then
bade me farewell; and flinging myself on my bed, I was soon
asleep in the prison of Madrid.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XL</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Ofalia&mdash;The Juez&mdash;Carcel de la
Corte&mdash;Sunday in Prison&mdash;Robber Dress&mdash;Father and
Son&mdash;Characteristic Behaviour&mdash;The
Frenchman&mdash;Prison Allowance&mdash;Valley of the
Shadow&mdash;Pure Castilian&mdash;Balseiro&mdash;The
Cave&mdash;Robber Glory.</p>

<p>Ofalia quickly perceived that the imprisonment of a British
subject in a manner so illegal as that which had attended my own,
was likely to be followed by rather serious consequences.
Whether he himself had at all encouraged the corregidor in his
behaviour towards me, it is impossible to say; the probability is
that he had not: the latter, however, was an officer of his own
appointing, for whose actions himself and the government were to
a certain extent responsible. Sir George had already made a
very strong remonstrance upon the subject, and had even gone so
far as to state in an official note that he should desist from
all farther communication with the Spanish government until full
and ample reparation had been afforded me for the violence to
which I had been subjected. Ofalia&rsquo;s reply was, that
immediate measures should be taken for my liberation, and that it
would be my own fault if I remained in prison. He forthwith
ordered a juez de la primera instancia, a kind of
solicitor-general, to wait upon me, who was instructed to hear my
account of the affair, and then to dismiss me with an admonition
to be cautious for the future. My friends of the embassy,
however, had advised me how to act in such a case.
Accordingly, when the juez on the second night of my imprisonment
made his appearance at the prison, and summoned me before him, I
went, but on his proceeding to question me, I absolutely refused
to answer. &ldquo;I deny your right to put any questions to
me,&rdquo; said I; &ldquo;I entertain, however, no feelings of
disrespect to the government or to yourself, Caballero Juez; but
I have been illegally imprisoned. So accomplished a jurist
as yourself cannot fail to be aware that, according to the laws
of Spain, I, as a foreigner, could not be committed to prison for
the offence with which I had been charged, without previously
being conducted before the captain-general of this royal city,
whose duty it is to protect foreigners, and see that the laws of
hospitality are not violated in their persons.&rdquo;</p>

<p><i>Juez</i>.&mdash;Come, come, Don Jorge, I see what you are
aiming at; but listen to reason: I will not now speak to you as a
juez but as a friend who wishes you well, and who entertains a
profound reverence for the British nation. This is a
foolish affair altogether; I will not deny that the political
chief acted somewhat hastily on the information of a person not
perhaps altogether worthy of credit. No great damage,
however, has been done to you, and to a man of the world like
yourself, a little adventure of this kind is rather calculated to
afford amusement than anything else. Now be advised, forget
what has happened; you know that it is the part and duty of a
Christian to forgive; so, Don Jorge, I advise you to leave this
place forthwith. I dare say you are getting tired of
it. You are this moment free to depart; repair at once to
your lodgings, where, I promise you, that no one shall be
permitted to interrupt you for the future. It is getting
late, and the prison doors will speedily be closed for the
night. <i>Vamos</i>, <i>Don Jorge</i>, <i>a la casa</i>,
<i>a la posada</i>!</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;&ldquo;But Paul said unto them, they have
beaten us openly uncondemned, being Romans, and have cast us into
prison; and now do they thrust us out privily? Nay, verily:
but let them come themselves and fetch us out.&rdquo;</p>

<p>I then bowed to the juez, who shrugged his shoulders and took
snuff. On leaving the apartment I turned to the alcayde,
who stood at the door: &ldquo;Take notice,&rdquo; said I,
&ldquo;that I will not quit this prison till I have received full
satisfaction for being sent hither uncondemned. You may
expel me if you please, but any attempt to do so shall be
resisted with all the bodily strength of which I am
possessed.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Your worship is right,&rdquo; said the alcayde with a
bow, but in a low voice.</p>

<p>Sir George, on hearing of this affair, sent me a letter in
which he highly commended my resolution not to leave the prison
for the present, at the same time begging me to let him know if
there were anything that he could send me from the embassy to
render my situation more tolerable.</p>

<p>I will now leave for the present my own immediate affairs, and
proceed to give some account of the prison of Madrid and its
inmates.</p>

<p>The Carcel de la Corte, where I now was, though the principal
prison of Madrid, is one which certainly in no respect does
credit to the capital of Spain. Whether it was originally
intended for the purpose to which it is at present applied, I
have no opportunity of knowing. The chances, however, are,
that it was not; indeed it was not till of late years that the
practice of building edifices expressly intended and suited for
the incarceration of culprits came at all into vogue.
Castles, convents, and deserted palaces, have in all countries,
at different times, been converted into prisons, which practice
still holds good upon the greater part of the continent, and more
particularly in Spain and Italy, which accounts, to a certain
extent, for the insecurity of the prisons, and the misery, want
of cleanliness, and unhealthiness which in general pervade
them.</p>

<p>I shall not attempt to enter into a particular description of
the prison of Madrid, indeed it would be quite impossible to
describe so irregular and rambling an edifice. Its
principal features consisted of two courts, the one behind the
other, intended for the great body of the prisoners to take air
and recreation in. Three large vaulted dungeons or
calabozos occupied three sides of this court, immediately below
the corridors of which I have already spoken. These
dungeons were roomy enough to contain respectively from one
hundred to one hundred and fifty prisoners, who were at night
secured therein with lock and bar, but during the day were
permitted to roam about the courts as they thought fit. The
second court was considerably larger than the first, though it
contained but two dungeons, horribly filthy and disgusting
places; this second court being used for the reception of the
lower grades of thieves. Of the two dungeons one was, if
possible, yet more horrible than the other; it was called the
gallineria, or chicken coop, and within it every night were pent
up the young fry of the prison, wretched boys from seven to
fifteen years of age, the greater part almost in a state of
nudity. The common bed of all the inmates of these dungeons
was the ground, between which and their bodies nothing
intervened, save occasionally a manta or horse-cloth, or perhaps
a small mattress; this latter luxury was, however, of exceedingly
rare occurrence.</p>

<p>Besides the calabozos connected with the courts, were other
dungeons in various parts of the prison; some of them quite dark,
intended for the reception of those whom it might be deemed
expedient to treat with peculiar severity. There was
likewise a ward set apart for females. Connected with the
principal corridor were many small apartments, where resided
prisoners confined for debt or for political offences. And,
lastly, there was a small capilla or chapel, in which prisoners
cast for death passed the last three days of their existence in
company of their ghostly advisers.</p>

<p>I shall not soon forget my first Sunday in prison.
Sunday is the gala day of the prison, at least of that of Madrid,
and whatever robber finery is to be found within it, is sure to
be exhibited on that day of holiness. There is not a set of
people in the world more vain than robbers in general, more fond
of cutting a figure whenever they have an opportunity, and of
attracting the eyes of their fellow creatures by the gallantry of
their appearance. The famous Sheppard of olden times
delighted in sporting a suit of Genoese velvet, and when he
appeared in public generally wore a silver-hilted sword at his
side; whilst Vaux and Hayward, heroes of a later day, were the
best dressed men on the pavé of London. Many of the
Italian bandits go splendidly decorated, and the very Gypsy
robber has a feeling for the charms of dress; the cap alone of
the Haram Pasha, or leader of the cannibal Gypsy band which
infested Hungary towards the conclusion of the last century, was
adorned with gold and jewels to the value of four thousand
guilders. Observe, ye vain and frivolous, how vanity and
crime harmonize. The Spanish robbers are as fond of this
species of display as their brethren of other lands, and, whether
in prison or out of it, are never so happy as when, decked out in
a profusion of white linen, they can loll in the sun, or walk
jauntily up and down.</p>

<p>Snow-white linen, indeed, constitutes the principal feature in
the robber foppery of Spain. Neither coat nor jacket is
worn over the shirt, the sleeves of which are wide and flowing,
only a waistcoat of green or blue silk, with an abundance of
silver buttons, which are intended more for show than use, as the
vest is seldom buttoned. Then there are wide trousers,
something after the Turkish fashion; around the waist is a
crimson faja or girdle, and about the head is tied a gaudily
coloured handkerchief from the loom of Barcelona; light pumps and
silk stockings complete the robber&rsquo;s array. This
dress is picturesque enough, and well adapted to the fine
sunshiny weather of the Peninsula; there is a dash of effeminacy
about it, however, hardly in keeping with the robber&rsquo;s
desperate trade. It must not, however, be supposed that it
is every robber who can indulge in all this luxury; there are
various grades of thieves, some poor enough, with scarcely a rag
to cover them. Perhaps in the crowded prison of Madrid,
there were not more than twenty who exhibited the dress which I
have attempted to describe above; these were <i>jente de
reputacion</i>, tip-top thieves, mostly young fellows, who,
though they had no money of their own, were supported in prison
by their majas and amigas, females of a certain class, who form
friendships with robbers, and whose glory and delight it is to
administer to the vanity of these fellows with the wages of their
own shame and abasement. These females supplied their
cortejos with the snowy linen, washed, perhaps, by their own
hands in the waters of the Manzanares, for the display of the
Sunday, when they would themselves make their appearance dressed
à la maja, and from the corridors would gaze with admiring
eyes upon the robbers vapouring about in the court below.</p>

<p>Amongst those of the snowy linen who most particularly
attracted my attention, were a father and son; the former was a
tall athletic figure of about thirty, by profession a
housebreaker, and celebrated throughout Madrid for the peculiar
dexterity which he exhibited in his calling. He was now in
prison for a rather atrocious murder committed in the dead of
night, in a house at Caramanchel, in which his only accomplice
was his son, a child under seven years of age. &ldquo;The
apple,&rdquo; as the Danes say, &ldquo;had not fallen far from
the tree&rdquo;; the imp was in every respect the counterpart of
the father, though in miniature. He, too, wore the robber
shirt sleeves, the robber waistcoat with the silver buttons, the
robber kerchief round his brow, and, ridiculous enough, a long
Manchegan knife in the crimson faja. He was evidently the
pride of the ruffian father, who took all imaginable care of this
chick of the gallows, would dandle him on his knee, and would
occasionally take the cigar from his own moustached lips and
insert it in the urchin&rsquo;s mouth. The boy was the pet
of the court, for the father was one of the valientes of the
prison, and those who feared his prowess, and wished to pay their
court to him, were always fondling the child. What an
enigma is this world of ours! How dark and mysterious are
the sources of what is called crime and virtue! If that
infant wretch become eventually a murderer like his father, is he
to blame? Fondled by robbers, already dressed as a robber,
born of a robber, whose own history was perhaps similar. Is
it right? . . .</p>

<p>O, man, man, seek not to dive into the mystery of moral good
and evil; confess thyself a worm, cast thyself on the earth, and
murmur with thy lips in the dust, Jesus, Jesus!</p>

<p>What most surprised me with respect to the prisoners, was
their good behaviour; I call it good when all things are taken
into consideration, and when I compare it with that of the
general class of prisoners in foreign lands. They had their
occasional bursts of wild gaiety, their occasional quarrels,
which they were in the habit of settling in a corner of the
inferior court with their long knives; the result not
unfrequently being death, or a dreadful gash in the face or the
abdomen; but, upon the whole, their conduct was infinitely
superior to what might have been expected from the inmates of
such a place. Yet this was not the result of coercion, or
any particular care which was exercised over them; for perhaps in
no part of the world are prisoners so left to themselves and so
utterly neglected as in Spain: the authorities having no farther
anxiety about them, than to prevent their escape; not the
slightest attention being paid to their moral conduct and not a
thought bestowed upon their health, comfort or mental
improvement, whilst within the walls. Yet in this prison of
Madrid, and I may say in Spanish prisons in general, for I have
been an inmate of more than one, the ears of the visitor are
never shocked with horrid blasphemy and obscenity, as in those of
some other countries, and more particularly in civilized France;
nor are his eyes outraged and himself insulted, as he would
assuredly be, were he to look down upon the courts from the
galleries of the Bicetre. And yet in this prison of Madrid
were some of the most desperate characters in Spain: ruffians who
had committed acts of cruelly and atrocity sufficient to make the
flesh shudder. But gravity and sedateness are the leading
characteristics of the Spaniards, and the very robber, except in
those moments when he is engaged in his occupation, and then no
one is more sanguinary, pitiless, and wolfishly eager for booty,
is a being who can be courteous and affable, and who takes
pleasure in conducting himself with sobriety and decorum.</p>

<p>Happily, perhaps, for me, that my acquaintance with the
ruffians of Spain commenced and ended in the towns about which I
wandered, and in the prisons into which I was cast for the
Gospel&rsquo;s sake, and that, notwithstanding my long and
frequent journeys, I never came in contact with them on the road
or in the despoblado.</p>

<p>The most ill-conditioned being in the prison was a Frenchman,
though probably the most remarkable. He was about sixty
years of age, of the middle stature, but thin and meagre, like
most of his countrymen; he had a villainously-formed head,
according to all the rules of craniology, and his features were
full of evil expression. He wore no hat, and his clothes,
though in appearance nearly new, were of the coarsest
description. He generally kept aloof from the rest, and
would stand for hours together leaning against the walls with his
arms folded, glaring sullenly on what was passing before
him. He was not one of the professed valientes, for his age
prevented his assuming so distinguished a character, and yet all
the rest appeared to hold him in a certain awe: perhaps they
feared his tongue, which he occasionally exerted in pouring forth
withering curses on those who incurred his displeasure. He
spoke perfectly good Spanish, and to my great surprise excellent
Basque, in which he was in the habit of conversing with
Francisco, who, lolling from the window of my apartment, would
exchange jests and witticisms with the prisoners in the court
below, with whom he was a great favourite.</p>

<p>One day when I was in the patio, to which I had free admission
whenever I pleased, by permission of the alcayde, I went up to
the Frenchman, who stood in his usual posture, leaning against
the wall, and offered him a cigar. I do not smoke myself,
but it will never do to mix among the lower classes of Spain
unless you have a cigar to present occasionally. The man
glared at me ferociously for a moment, and appeared to be on the
point of refusing my offer with perhaps a hideous
execration. I repeated it, however, pressing my hand
against my heart, whereupon suddenly the grim features relaxed,
and with a genuine French grimace, and a low bow, he accepted the
cigar, exclaiming, &ldquo;<i>Ah</i>, <i>Monsieur</i>,
<i>pardon</i>, <i>mais c&rsquo;est faire trop d&rsquo;honneur a
un pauvre diable comme moi</i>.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Not at all,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;we are both fellow
prisoners in a foreign land, and being so we ought to countenance
each other. I hope that whenever I have need of your
co-operation in this prison you will afford it me.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Ah, Monsieur,&rdquo; exclaimed the Frenchman in
rapture, &ldquo;<i>vous avez bien raison</i>; <i>il faut que les
étrangers se donnent la main dans ce . . . pays de
barbares</i>. <i>Tenez</i>,&rdquo; he added, in a whisper,
&ldquo;if you have any plan for escaping, and require my
assistance, I have an arm and a knife at your service: you may
trust me, and that is more than you could any of these <i>sacres
gens ici</i>,&rdquo; glancing fiercely round at his fellow
prisoners.</p>

<p>&ldquo;You appear to be no friend to Spain and the
Spaniards,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;I conclude that you have
experienced injustice at their hands. For what have they
immured you in this place?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;<i>Pour rien du tout</i>, <i>c&rsquo;est a dire pour
une bagatelle</i>; but what can you expect from such
animals? For what are you imprisoned? Did I not hear
say for Gypsyism and sorcery?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Perhaps you are here for your opinions?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;<i>Ah</i>, <i>mon Dieu</i>, <i>non</i>; <i>je ne suis
pas homme a semblable betise</i>. I have no opinions.
<i>Je faisois . . . mais ce n&rsquo;importe</i>; <i>je me trouve
ici</i>, <i>ou je creve de faim</i>.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I am sorry to see a brave man in such a distressed
condition,&rdquo; said I; &ldquo;have you nothing to subsist upon
beyond the prison allowance? Have you no
friends?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Friends in this country, you mock me; here one has no
friends, unless one buy them. I am bursting with hunger;
since I have been here I have sold the clothes off my back, that
I might eat, for the prison allowance will not support nature,
and of half of that we are robbed by the Batu, as they call the
barbarian of a governor. <i>Les haillons</i> which now
cover me were given by two or three devotees who sometimes visit
here. I would sell them if they would fetch aught. I
have not a sou, and for want of a few crowns I shall be garroted
within a month unless I can escape, though, as I told you before,
I have done nothing, a mere bagatelle; but the worst crimes in
Spain are poverty and misery.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I have heard you speak Basque, are you from French
Biscay?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I am from Bordeaux, Monsieur; but I have lived much on
the Landes and in Biscay, <i>travaillant a mon metier</i>.
I see by your look that you wish to know my history. I
shall not tell it you. It contains nothing that is
remarkable. See, I have smoked out your cigar; you may give
me another, and add a dollar if you please, <i>nous sommes creves
ici de faim</i>. I would not say as much to a Spaniard, but
I have a respect for your countrymen; I know much of them; I have
met them at Maida and the other place.&rdquo; <a
name="citation359"></a><a href="#footnote359"
class="citation">[359]</a></p>

<p>&ldquo;Nothing remarkable in his history!&rdquo; Why, or
I greatly err, one chapter of his life, had it been written,
would have unfolded more of the wild and wonderful than fifty
volumes of what are in general called adventures and hairbreadth
escapes by land and sea. A soldier! what a tale could that
man have told of marches and retreats, of battles lost and won,
towns sacked, convents plundered; perhaps he had seen the flames
of Moscow ascending to the clouds, and had &ldquo;tried his
strength with nature in the wintry desert,&rdquo; pelted by the
snow-storm, and bitten by the tremendous cold of Russia: and what
could he mean by plying his trade in Biscay and the Landes, but
that he had been a robber in those wild regions, of which the
latter is more infamous for brigandage and crime than any other
part of the French territory. Nothing remarkable in his
history! then what history in the world contains aught that is
remarkable?</p>

<p>I gave him the cigar and dollar: he received them, and then
once more folding his arms, leaned back against the wall and
appeared to sink gradually into one of his reveries. I
looked him in the face and spoke to him, but he did not seem
either to hear or see me. His mind was perhaps wandering in
that dreadful valley of the shadow, into which the children of
earth, whilst living, occasionally find their way; that dreadful
region where there is no water, where hope dwelleth not, where
nothing lives but the undying worm. This valley is the
facsimile of hell, and he who has entered it, has experienced
here on earth for a time what the spirits of the condemned are
doomed to suffer through ages without end.</p>

<p>He was executed about a month from this time. The
bagatelle for which he was confined was robbery and murder by the
following strange device. In concert with two others, he
hired a large house in an unfrequented part of the town, to which
place he would order tradesmen to convey valuable articles, which
were to be paid for on delivery; those who attended paid for
their credulity with the loss of their lives and property.
Two or three had fallen into the snare. I wished much to
have had some private conversation with this desperate man, and
in consequence begged of the alcayde to allow him to dine with me
in my own apartment; whereupon Monsieur Basompierre, for so I
will take the liberty of calling the governor, his real name
having escaped my memory, took off his hat, and, with his usual
smile and bow, replied in purest Castilian, &ldquo;English
Cavalier, and I hope I may add friend, pardon me, that it is
quite out of my power to gratify your request, founded, I have no
doubt, on the most admirable sentiments of philosophy. Any
of the other gentlemen beneath my care shall, at any time you
desire it, be permitted to wait upon you in your apartment.
I will even go so far as to cause their irons, if irons they
wear, to be knocked off in order that they may partake of your
refection with that comfort which is seemly and convenient: but
to the gentleman in question I must object; he is the most evil
disposed of the whole of this family, and would most assuredly
breed a funcion either in your apartment or in the corridor, by
an attempt to escape. Cavalier, <i>me pesa</i>, but I
cannot accede to your request. But with respect to any
other gentleman, I shall be most happy, even Balseiro, who,
though strange things are told of him, still knows how to comport
himself, and in whose behaviour there is something both of
formality and politeness, shall this day share your hospitality
if you desire it, Cavalier.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Of Balseiro I have already had occasion to speak in the former
part of this narrative. He was now confined in an upper
story of the prison, in a strong room, with several other
malefactors. He had been found guilty of aiding and
assisting one Pepe Candelas, a thief of no inconsiderable renown,
in a desperate robbery perpetrated in open daylight upon no less
a personage than the queen&rsquo;s milliner, a Frenchwoman, whom
they bound in her own shop, from which they took goods and money
to the amount of five or six thousand dollars. Candelas had
already expiated his crime on the scaffold, but Balseiro, who was
said to be by far the worst ruffian of the two, had by dint of
money, an ally which his comrade did not possess, contrived to
save his own life; the punishment of death, to which he was
originally sentenced, having been commuted to twenty years&rsquo;
hard labour in the presidio of Malaga. I visited this
worthy and conversed with him for some time through the wicket of
the dungeon. He recognized me, and reminded me of the
victory which I had once obtained over him, in the trial of our
respective skill in the crabbed Gitano, at which Sevilla the
bull-fighter was umpire.</p>

<p>Upon my telling him that I was sorry to see him in such a
situation, he replied that it was an affair of no manner of
consequence, as within six weeks he should be conducted to the
presidio, from which, with the assistance of a few ounces
distributed among the guards, he could at any time escape.
&ldquo;But whither would you flee?&rdquo; I demanded.
&ldquo;Can I not flee to the land of the Moors,&rdquo; replied
Balseiro, &ldquo;or to the English in the camp of Gibraltar; or,
if I prefer it, cannot I return to this foro (<i>city</i>), and
live as I have hitherto done, choring the gachos (<i>robbing the
natives</i>); what is to hinder me? Madrid is large, and
Balseiro has plenty of friends, especially among the lumias
(<i>women</i>),&rdquo; he added with a smile. I spoke to
him of his ill-fated accomplice Candelas; whereupon his face
assumed a horrible expression. &ldquo;I hope he is in
torment,&rdquo; exclaimed the robber. The friendship of the
unrighteous is never of long duration; the two worthies had it
seems quarrelled in prison; Candelas having accused the other of
bad faith and an undue appropriation to his own use of the
<i>corpus delicti</i> in various robberies which they had
committed in company.</p>

<p>I cannot refrain from relating the subsequent history of this
Balseiro. Shortly after my own liberation, too impatient to
wait until the presidio should afford him a chance of regaining
his liberty, he in company with some other convicts broke through
the roof of the prison and escaped. He instantly resumed
his former habits, committing several daring robberies, both
within and without the walls of Madrid. I now come to his
last, I may call it his master crime, a singular piece of
atrocious villainy. Dissatisfied with the proceeds of
street robbery and house-breaking, he determined upon a bold
stroke, by which he hoped to acquire money sufficient to support
him in some foreign land in luxury and splendour.</p>

<p>There was a certain comptroller of the queen&rsquo;s
household, by name Gabiria, a Basque by birth, and a man of
immense possessions: this individual had two sons, handsome boys,
between twelve and fourteen years of age, whom I had frequently
seen, and indeed conversed with, in my walks on the bank of the
Manzanares, which was their favourite promenade. These
children, at the time of which I am speaking, were receiving
their education at a certain seminary in Madrid. Balseiro,
being well acquainted with the father&rsquo;s affection for his
children, determined to make it subservient to his own
rapacity. He formed a plan which was neither more nor less
than to steal the children, and not to restore them to their
parent until he had received an enormous ransom. This plan
was partly carried into execution: two associates of Balseiro
well dressed drove up to the door of the seminary, where the
children were, and, by means of a forged letter, purporting to be
written by the father, induced the schoolmaster to permit the
boys to accompany them for a country jaunt, as they
pretended. About five leagues from Madrid, Balseiro had a
cave in a wild unfrequented spot between the Escurial and a
village called Torre Lodones: to this cave the children were
conducted, where they remained in durance under the custody of
the two accomplices; Balseiro in the meantime remaining in Madrid
for the purpose of conducting negotiations with the father.
The father, however, was a man of considerable energy, and
instead of acceding to the terms of the ruffian, communicated in
a letter, instantly took the most vigorous measures for the
recovery of his children. Horse and foot were sent out to
scour the country, and in less than a week the children were
found near the cave, having been abandoned by their keepers, who
had taken fright on hearing of the decided measures which had
been resorted to; they were, however, speedily arrested and
identified by the boys as their ravishers. Balseiro
perceiving that Madrid was becoming too hot to hold him,
attempted to escape, but whether to the camp of Gibraltar or to
the land of the Moor, I know not; he was recognized, however, at
a village in the neighbourhood of Madrid, and being apprehended,
was forthwith conducted to the capital, where he shortly after
terminated his existence on the scaffold, with his two
associates; Gabiria and his children being present at the ghastly
scene, which they surveyed from a chariot at their ease.</p>

<p>Such was the end of Balseiro, of whom I should certainly not
have said so much, but for the affair of the crabbed
Gitano. Poor wretch! he acquired that species of
immortality which is the object of the aspirations of many a
Spanish thief, whilst vapouring about in the patio, dressed in
the snowy linen; the rape of the children of Gabiria made him at
once the pet of the fraternity. A celebrated robber, with
whom I was subsequently imprisoned at Seville, spoke his eulogy
in the following manner.&mdash;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Balseiro was a very good subject, and an honest
man. He was the head of our family, Don Jorge; we shall
never see his like again; pity that he did not sack the
parné (<i>money</i>), and escape to the camp of the Moor,
Don Jorge.&rdquo;</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XLI</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Maria Diaz&mdash;Priestly
Vituperation&mdash;Antonio&rsquo;s Visit&mdash;Antonio at
Service&mdash;A Scene&mdash;Benedict Mol&mdash;Wandering in
Spain&mdash;The Four Evangiles.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said I to Maria Diaz on the third morning
after my imprisonment, &ldquo;what do the people of Madrid say to
this affair of mine?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I do not know what the people of Madrid in general say
about it, probably they do not take much interest in it; indeed,
imprisonments at the present time are such common matters that
people seem to be quite indifferent to them; the priests,
however, are in no slight commotion, and confess that they have
committed an imprudent thing in causing you to be arrested by
their friend the corregidor of Madrid.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;How is that?&rdquo; I inquired. &ldquo;Are they
afraid that their friend will be punished?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Not so, Se&ntilde;or,&rdquo; replied Maria;
&ldquo;slight grief indeed would it cause them, however great the
trouble in which he had involved himself on their account; for
this description of people have no affection, and would not care
if all their friends were hanged, provided they themselves
escaped. But they say that they have acted imprudently in
sending you to prison, inasmuch as by so doing they have given
you an opportunity of carrying a plan of yours into
execution. &lsquo;This fellow is a bribon,&rsquo; say they,
&lsquo;and has commenced tampering with the prisoners; they have
taught him their language, which he already speaks as well as if
he were a son of the prison. As soon as he comes out he
will publish a thieves&rsquo; gospel, which will still be a more
dangerous affair than the Gypsy one, for the Gypsies are few, but
the thieves! woe is us; we shall all be Lutheranized. What
infamy, what rascality! It was a trick of his own. He
was always eager to get into prison, and now in evil hour we have
sent him there, <i>el bribonazo</i>; there will be no safety for
Spain until he is hanged; he ought to be sent to the four hells,
where at his leisure he might translate his fatal gospels into
the language of the demons.&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I but said three words to the alcayde of the
prison,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;relative to the jargon used by the
children of the prison.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Three words! Don Jorge; and what may not be made
out of three words? You have lived amongst us to little
purpose if you think we require more than three words to build a
system with: those three words about the thieves and their tongue
were quite sufficient to cause it to be reported throughout
Madrid that you had tampered with the thieves, had learnt their
language, and had written a book which was to overturn Spain,
open to the English the gates of Cadiz, give Mendizabal all the
church plate and jewels, and to Don Martin Luther the
archiepiscopal palace of Toledo.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Late in the afternoon of a rather gloomy day, as I was sitting
in the apartment which the alcayde had allotted me, I heard a rap
at the door. &ldquo;Who is that?&rdquo; I exclaimed.
&ldquo;<i>C&rsquo;est moi</i>, <i>mon maitre</i>,&rdquo; cried a
well-known voice, and presently in walked Antonio Buchini,
dressed in the same style as when I first introduced him to the
reader, namely, in a handsome but rather faded French surtout,
vest and pantaloons, with a diminutive hat in one hand, and
holding in the other a long and slender cane.</p>

<p>&ldquo;<i>Bon jour</i>, <i>mon maitre</i>,&rdquo; said the
Greek; then glancing around the apartment, he continued, &ldquo;I
am glad to find you so well lodged. If I remember right,
mon ma&icirc;tre, we have slept in worse places during our
wanderings in Galicia and Castile.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;You are quite right, Antonio,&rdquo; I replied;
&ldquo;I am very comfortable. Well, this is kind of you to
visit your ancient master, more especially now he is in the
toils; I hope, however, that by so doing you will not offend your
present employer. His dinner hour must be at hand; why are
not you in the kitchen?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Of what employer are you speaking, mon
ma&icirc;tre?&rdquo; demanded Antonio.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Of whom should I speak but Count ---, to serve whom you
abandoned me, being tempted by an offer of a monthly salary less
by four dollars than that which I was giving you.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Your worship brings an affair to my remembrance which I
had long since forgotten. I have at present no other master
than yourself, Monsieur Georges, for I shall always consider you
as my master, though I may not enjoy the felicity of waiting upon
you.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;You have left the Count, then,&rdquo; said I,
&ldquo;after remaining three days in the house, according to your
usual practice.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Not three hours, mon ma&icirc;tre,&rdquo; replied
Antonio; &ldquo;but I will tell you the circumstances. Soon
after I left you I repaired to the house of Monsieur le Comte; I
entered the kitchen, and looked about me. I cannot say that
I had much reason to be dissatisfied with what I saw; the kitchen
was large and commodious, and every thing appeared neat and in
its proper place, and the domestics civil and courteous; yet I
know not how it was, the idea at once rushed into my mind that
the house was by no means suited to me, and that I was not
destined to stay there long; so hanging my haversac upon a nail,
and sitting down on the dresser, I commenced singing a Greek
song, as I am in the habit of doing when dissatisfied. The
domestics came about me asking questions; I made them no answer,
however, and continued singing till the hour for preparing the
dinner drew nigh, when I suddenly sprang on the floor and was not
long in thrusting them all out of the kitchen, telling them that
they had no business there at such a season; I then at once
entered upon my functions. I exerted myself, mon
ma&icirc;tre, I exerted myself, and was preparing a repast which
would have done me honour; there was, indeed, some company
expected that day, and I therefore determined to show my employer
that nothing was beyond the capacity of his Greek cook.
<i>Eh bien</i>, mon ma&icirc;tre, all was going on remarkably
well, and I felt almost reconciled to my new situation, when who
should rush into the kitchen but <i>le fils de la maison</i>, my
young master, an ugly urchin of thirteen years or thereabouts; he
bore in his hand a manchet of bread, which, after prying about
for a moment, he proceeded to dip in the pan where some delicate
woodcocks were in the course of preparation. You know, mon
ma&icirc;tre, how sensitive I am on certain points, for I am no
Spaniard but a Greek, and have principles of honour.
Without a moment&rsquo;s hesitation I took my young master by the
shoulders, and hurrying him to the door, dismissed him in the
manner which he deserved; squalling loudly, he hurried away to
the upper part of the house. I continued my labours, but
ere three minutes had elapsed, I heard a dreadful confusion above
stairs, <i>on faisoit une horrible tintamarre</i>, and I could
occasionally distinguish oaths and execrations: presently doors
were flung open, and there was an awful rushing downstairs, a
gallopade. It was my lord the count, his lady, and my young
master, followed by a regular bevy of women and filles de
chambre. Far in advance of all, however, was my lord with a
drawn sword in his hand, shouting, &lsquo;Where is the wretch who
has dishonoured my son, where is he? He shall die
forthwith.&rsquo; I know not how it was, mon ma&icirc;tre,
but I just then chanced to spill a large bowl of garbanzos, which
were intended for the puchera of the following day. They
were uncooked, and were as hard as marbles; these I dashed upon
the floor, and the greater part of them fell just about the
doorway. <i>Eh bien</i>, mon ma&icirc;tre, in another
moment in bounded the count, his eyes sparkling like coals, and,
as I have already said, with a rapier in his hand.
&lsquo;<i>Tenez</i>, <i>gueux enrage</i>,&rsquo; he screamed,
making a desperate lunge at me, but ere the words were out of his
mouth, his foot slipping on the pease, he fell forward with great
violence at his full length, and his weapon flew out of his hand,
<i>comme une fleche</i>. You should have heard the outcry
which ensued&mdash;there was a terrible confusion: the count lay
upon the floor to all appearance stunned; I took no notice,
however, continuing busily employed. They at last raised
him up, and assisted him till he came to himself, though very
pale and much shaken. He asked for his sword: all eyes were
now turned upon me, and I saw that a general attack was
meditated. Suddenly I took a large caserolle from the fire
in which various eggs were frying; this I held out at arm&rsquo;s
length peering at it along my arm as if I were curiously
inspecting it; my right foot advanced and the other thrown back
as far as possible. All stood still, imagining, doubtless,
that I was about to perform some grand operation, and so I was;
for suddenly the sinister leg advancing, with one rapid <i>coup
de pied</i>, I sent the caserolle and its contents flying over my
head, so that they struck the wall far behind me. This was
to let them know that I had broken my staff and had shaken the
dust off my feet; so casting upon the count the peculiar glance
of the Sceirote cooks when they feel themselves insulted, and
extending my mouth on either side nearly as far as the ears, I
took down my haversac and departed, singing as I went the song of
the ancient Demos, who, when dying, asked for his supper, and
water wherewith to lave his hands:</p>

<blockquote><p>&#908; &eta;&lambda;&iota;&omicron;&sigmaf;
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&kappa;&iota; &#972; &Delta;&eta;&mu;&omicron;&sigmaf;
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&psi;&omega;&mu;&iota; &nu;&alpha; &phi;&#940;&tau;'
&alpha;&pi;&#972;&psi;&epsilon;.</p>
</blockquote>

<p>And in this manner, mon ma&icirc;tre, I left the house of the
Count of ---.&rdquo;</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;And a fine account you have given of
yourself; by your own confession, your behaviour was most
atrocious. Were it not for the many marks of courage and
fidelity which you have exhibited in my service, I would from
this moment hold no farther communication with you.</p>

<p><i>Antonio</i>.&mdash;<i>Mais qu&rsquo;est ce que vous
voudriez</i>, <i>mon maitre</i>? Am I not a Greek, full of
honour and sensibility? Would you have the cooks of Sceira
and Stambul submit to be insulted here in Spain by the sons of
counts rushing into the temple with manchets of bread. Non,
non, mon ma&icirc;tre, you are too noble to require that, and
what is more, <i>too just</i>. But we will talk of other
things. Mon ma&icirc;tre, I came not alone; there is one
now waiting in the corridor anxious to speak to you.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Who is it?</p>

<p><i>Antonio</i>.&mdash;One whom you have met, mon ma&icirc;tre,
in various and strange places.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;But who is it?</p>

<p><i>Antonio</i>.&mdash;One who will come to a strange end,
<i>for so it is written</i>. The most extraordinary of all
the Swiss, he of Saint James,&mdash;<i>Der schatz graber</i>.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Not Benedict Mol?</p>

<p>&ldquo;<i>Yaw</i>, <i>mein lieber herr</i>,&rdquo; said
Benedict, pushing open the door which stood ajar; &ldquo;it is
myself. I met Herr Anton in the street, and hearing that
you were in this place, I came with him to visit you.&rdquo;</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;And in the name of all that is singular,
how is it that I see you in Madrid again? I thought that by
this time you were returned to your own country.</p>

<p><i>Benedict</i>.&mdash;Fear not, lieber herr, I shall return
thither in good time; but not on foot, but with mules and
coach. The schatz is still yonder, waiting to be dug up,
and now I have better hope than ever: plenty of friends, plenty
of money. See you not how I am dressed, lieber herr?</p>

<p>And verily his habiliments were of a much more respectable
appearance than any which he had sported on former
occasions. His coat and pantaloons, which were of light
green, were nearly new. On his head he still wore an
Andalusian hat, but the present one was neither old nor shabby,
but fresh and glossy, and of immense altitude of cone: whilst in
his hand, instead of the ragged staff which I had observed at
Saint James and Oviedo, he now carried a huge bamboo rattan,
surmounted by the grim head of either a bear or lion, curiously
cut out of pewter.</p>

<p>&ldquo;You have all the appearance of a treasure seeker
returned from a successful expedition,&rdquo; I exclaimed.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Or rather,&rdquo; interrupted Antonio, &ldquo;of one
who has ceased to trade on his own bottom, and now goes seeking
treasures at the cost and expense of others.&rdquo;</p>

<p>I questioned the Swiss minutely concerning his adventures
since I last saw him, when I left him at Oviedo to pursue my
route to Santander. From his answers I gathered that he had
followed me to the latter place; he was, however, a long time in
performing the journey, being weak from hunger and
privation. At Santander he could hear no tidings of me, and
by this time the trifle which he had received from me was
completely exhausted. He now thought of making his way into
France, but was afraid to venture through the disturbed
provinces, lest he should fall into the hands of the Carlists,
who he conceived might shoot him as a spy. No one relieving
him at Santander, he departed and begged his way till he found
himself in some part of Aragon, but where he scarcely knew.
&ldquo;My misery was so great,&rdquo; said Bennet, &ldquo;that I
nearly lost my senses. Oh, the horror of wandering about
the savage hills and wide plains of Spain, without money and
without hope! Sometimes I became desperate, when I found
myself amongst rocks and barrancos, perhaps after having tasted
no food from sunrise to sunset, and then I would raise my staff
towards the sky and shake it, crying, lieber herr Gott, ach
lieber herr Gott, you must help me now or never; if you tarry, I
am lost; you must help me now, now! And once when I was
raving in this manner, methought I heard a voice, nay I am sure I
heard it, sounding from the hollow of a rock, clear and strong;
and it cried, &lsquo;Der schatz, der schatz, it is not yet dug
up; to Madrid, to Madrid. The way to the schatz is through
Madrid.&rsquo; And then the thought of the schatz once more
rushed into my mind, and I reflected how happy I might be, could
I but dig up the schatz. No more begging, then, no more
wandering amidst horrid mountains and deserts; so I brandished my
staff, and my body and my limbs became full of new and surprising
strength, and I strode forward, and was not long before I reached
the high road; and then I begged and bettled as I best could,
until I reached Madrid.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;And what has befallen you since you reached
Madrid?&rdquo; I inquired. &ldquo;Did you find the treasure
in the streets?&rdquo;</p>

<p>On a sudden Bennet became reserved and taciturn, which the
more surprised me, as, up to the present moment, he had at all
times been remarkably communicative with respect to his affairs
and prospects. From what I could learn from his broken
hints and innuendoes, it appeared that, since his arrival at
Madrid, he had fallen into the hands of certain people who had
treated him with kindness, and provided him with both money and
clothes; not from disinterested motives, however, but having an
eye to the treasure. &ldquo;They expect great things from
me,&rdquo; said the Swiss; &ldquo;and perhaps, after all, it
would have been more profitable to have dug up the treasure
without their assistance, always provided that were
possible.&rdquo; Who his new friends were, he either knew
not or would not tell me, save that they were people in
power. He said something about Queen Christina and an oath
which he had taken in the presence of a bishop on the crucifix
and &ldquo;the four Evangiles.&rdquo; I thought that his
head was turned, and forbore questioning. Just before
taking his departure, he observed &ldquo;Lieber herr, pardon me
for not being quite frank towards you, to whom I owe so much, but
I dare not; I am not now my own man. It is, moreover, an
evil thing at all times to say a word about treasure before you
have secured it. There was once a man in my own country,
who dug deep into the earth until he arrived at a copper vessel
which contained a schatz. Seizing it by the handle, he
merely exclaimed in his transport, &lsquo;I have it&rsquo;; that
was enough, however: down sank the kettle, though the handle
remained in his grasp. That was all he ever got for his
trouble and digging. Farewell, lieber herr, I shall
speedily be sent back to Saint James to dig up the schatz; but I
will visit you ere I go&mdash;farewell.&rdquo;</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XLII</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Liberation from Prison&mdash;The
Apology&mdash;Human Nature&mdash;The Greek&rsquo;s
Return&mdash;Church of Rome&mdash;Light of
Scripture&mdash;Archbishop of Toledo&mdash;An
Interview&mdash;Stones of Price&mdash;A Resolution&mdash;The
Foreign Language&mdash;Benedict&rsquo;s Farewell&mdash;Treasure
Hunt at Compostella&mdash;Truth and Fiction.</p>

<p>I remained about three weeks in the prison of Madrid, and then
left it. If I had possessed any pride, or harboured any
rancour against the party who had consigned me to durance, the
manner in which I was restored to liberty would no doubt have
been highly gratifying to those evil passions; the government
having acknowledged, by a document transmitted to Sir George,
that I had been incarcerated on insufficient grounds, and that no
stigma attached itself to me from the imprisonment I had
undergone; at the same time agreeing to defray all the expenses
to which I had been subjected throughout the progress of this
affair.</p>

<p>It moreover expressed its willingness to dismiss the
individual owing to whose information I had been first arrested,
namely, the corchete or police officer who had visited me in my
apartments in the Calle de Santiago, and behaved himself in the
manner which I have described in a former chapter. I
declined, however, to avail myself of this condescension of the
government, more especially as I was informed that the individual
in question had a wife and family, who, if he were disgraced,
would be at once reduced to want. I moreover considered
that, in what he had done and said, he had probably only obeyed
some private orders which he had received; I therefore freely
forgave him, and if he does not retain his situation at the
present moment, it is certainly no fault of mine.</p>

<p>I likewise refused to accept any compensation for my expenses,
which were considerable. It is probable that many persons
in my situation would have acted very differently in this
respect, and I am far from saying that herein I acted discreetly
or laudably; but I was averse to receive money from people such
as those of which the Spanish government was composed, people
whom I confess I heartily despised, and I was unwilling to afford
them an opportunity of saying that after they had imprisoned an
Englishman unjustly, and without a cause, he condescended to
receive money at their hands. In a word, I confess my own
weakness; I was willing that they should continue my debtors, and
have little doubt that they had not the slightest objection to
remain so; they kept their money, and probably laughed in their
sleeves at my want of common sense.</p>

<p>The heaviest loss which resulted from my confinement, and for
which no indemnification could be either offered or received, was
in the death of my affectionate and faithful Basque Francisco,
who having attended me during the whole time of my imprisonment,
caught the pestilential typhus or gaol fever, which was then
raging in the Carcel de la Corte, of which he expired within a
few days subsequent to my liberation. His death occurred
late one evening; the next morning as I was lying in bed
ruminating on my loss, and wondering of what nation my next
servant would be, I heard a noise which seemed to be that of a
person employed vigorously in cleaning boots or shoes, and at
intervals a strange discordant voice singing snatches of a song
in some unknown language: wondering who it could be, I rang the
bell.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Did you ring, mon ma&icirc;tre,&rdquo; said Antonio,
appearing at the door with one of his arms deeply buried in a
boot.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I certainly did ring,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;but I
scarcely expected that you would have answered the
summons.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;<i>Mais pourquoi non</i>, <i>mon maitre</i>?&rdquo;
cried Antonio. &ldquo;Who should serve you now but
myself? <i>N&rsquo;est pas que le sieur Francois est
mort</i>? And did I not say, as soon as I heard of his
departure, I shall return to my functions <i>chez mon maitre</i>,
Monsieur Georges?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I suppose you had no other employment, and on that
account you came.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;<i>Au contraire</i>, <i>mon maitre</i>,&rdquo; replied
the Greek, &ldquo;I had just engaged myself at the house of the
Duke of Frias, from whom I was to receive ten dollars per month
more than I shall accept from your worship; but on hearing that
you were without a domestic, I forthwith told the Duke, though it
was late at night, that he would not suit me, and here I
am.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I shall not receive you in this manner,&rdquo; said I;
&ldquo;return to the Duke, apologize for your behaviour, request
your dismission in a regular way; and then if his grace is
willing to part with you, as will most probably be the case, I
shall be happy to avail myself of your services.&rdquo;</p>

<p>It is reasonable to expect that after having been subjected to
an imprisonment which my enemies themselves admitted to be
unjust, I should in future experience more liberal treatment at
their hands than that which they had hitherto adopted towards
me. The sole object of my ambition at this time was to
procure toleration for the sale of the Gospel in this unhappy and
distracted kingdom, and to have attained this end I would not
only have consented to twenty such imprisonments in succession,
as that which I had undergone, but would gladly have sacrificed
life itself. I soon perceived, however, that I was likely
to gain nothing by my incarceration; on the contrary, I had
become an object of personal dislike to the government since the
termination of this affair, which it was probable I had never
been before; their pride and vanity were humbled by the
concessions which they had been obliged to make in order to avoid
a rupture with England. This dislike they were now
determined to gratify, by thwarting my views as much as
possible. I had an interview with Ofalia on the subject
uppermost in my mind: I found him morose and snappish.
&ldquo;It will be for your interest to be still,&rdquo; said he;
&ldquo;beware! you have already thrown the whole corte into
confusion; beware, I repeat; another time you may not escape so
easily.&rdquo; &ldquo;Perhaps not,&rdquo; I replied,
&ldquo;and perhaps I do not wish it; it is a pleasant thing to be
persecuted for the Gospel&rsquo;s sake. I now take the
liberty of inquiring whether, if I attempt to circulate the word
of God, I am to be interrupted.&rdquo; &ldquo;Of
course,&rdquo; exclaimed Ofalia; &ldquo;the church forbids such
circulation.&rdquo; &ldquo;I shall make the attempt,
however,&rdquo; I exclaimed. &ldquo;Do you mean what you
say?&rdquo; demanded Ofalia, arching his eyebrows and elongating
his mouth. &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; I continued, &ldquo;I shall
make the attempt in every village in Spain to which I can
penetrate.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Throughout my residence in Spain the clergy were the party
from which I experienced the strongest opposition; and it was at
their instigation that the government originally adopted those
measures which prevented any extensive circulation of the sacred
volume through the land. I shall not detain the course of
my narrative with reflections as to the state of a church, which,
though it pretends to be founded on Scripture, would yet keep the
light of Scripture from all mankind, if possible. But Rome
is fully aware that she is not a Christian church, and having no
desire to become so, she acts prudently in keeping from the eyes
of her followers the page which would reveal to them the truths
of Christianity. Her agents and minions throughout Spain
exerted themselves to the utmost to render my humble labours
abortive, and to vilify the work which I was attempting to
disseminate. All the ignorant and fanatical clergy (the
great majority) were opposed to it, and all those who were
anxious to keep on good terms with the court of Rome were loud in
their cry against it. There was, however, one section of
the clergy, a small one, it is true, rather favourably disposed
towards the circulation of the Gospel though by no means inclined
to make any particular sacrifice for the accomplishment of such
an end: these were such as professed liberalism, which is
supposed to mean a disposition to adopt any reform both in civil
and church matters, which may be deemed conducive to the weal of
the country. Not a few amongst the Spanish clergy were
supporters of this principle, or at least declared themselves so,
some doubtless for their own advancement, hoping to turn the
spirit of the times to their own personal profit; others, it is
to be hoped, from conviction, and a pure love of the principle
itself. Amongst these were to be found, at the time of
which I am speaking, several bishops. It is worthy of
remark, however, that of all these not one but owed his office,
not to the Pope, who disowned them one and all, but to the Queen
Regent, the professed head of liberalism throughout all
Spain. It is not, therefore, surprising that men thus
circumstanced should feel rather disposed than not to countenance
any measure or scheme at all calculated to favour the advancement
of liberalism; and surely such an one was a circulation of the
Scriptures. I derived but little assistance from their good
will, however, supposing that they entertained some, as they
never took any decided stand nor lifted up their voices in a bold
and positive manner, denouncing the conduct of those who would
withhold the light of Scripture from the world. At one time
I hoped by their instrumentality to accomplish much in Spain in
the Gospel cause; but I was soon undeceived, and became convinced
that reliance on what they would effect, was like placing the
hand on a staff of reed which will only lacerate the flesh.
More than once some of them sent messages to me, expressive of
their esteem, and assuring me how much the cause of the Gospel
was dear to their hearts. I even received an intimation
that a visit from me would be agreeable to the Archbishop of
Toledo, the Primate of Spain.</p>

<p>Of this personage I can say but little, his early history
being entirely unknown to me. At the death of Ferdinand, I
believe, he was Bishop of Mallorca, a small insignificant see, of
very scanty revenues, which perhaps he had no objection to
exchange for one more wealthy; it is probable, however, that had
he proved a devoted servant of the Pope, and consequently a
supporter of legitimacy, he would have continued to the day of
his death to fill the episcopal chair of Mallorca; but he was
said to be a liberal, and the Queen Regent thought fit to bestow
upon him the dignity of Archbishop of Toledo, by which he became
the head of the Spanish church. The Pope, it is true, had
refused to ratify the nomination, on which account all good
Catholics were still bound to consider him as Bishop of Mallorca,
and not as Primate of Spain. He however received the
revenues belonging to the see, which, though only a shadow of
what they originally were, were still considerable, and lived in
the primate&rsquo;s palace at Madrid, so that if he were not
archbishop <i>de jure</i>, he was what many people would have
considered much better, archbishop <i>de facto</i>.</p>

<p>Hearing that this personage was a personal friend of Ofalia,
who was said to entertain a very high regard for him, I
determined upon paying him a visit, and accordingly one morning
betook myself to the palace in which he resided. I
experienced no difficulty in obtaining an interview, being
forthwith conducted to his presence by a common kind of footman,
an Asturian, I believe, whom I found seated on a stone bench in
the entrance hall. When I was introduced the Archbishop was
alone, seated behind a table in a large apartment, a kind of
drawing-room; he was plainly dressed, in a black cassock and
silken cap; on his finger, however, glittered a superb amethyst,
the lustre of which was truly dazzling. He rose for a
moment as I advanced, and motioned me to a chair with his
hand. He might be about sixty years of age; his figure was
very tall, but he stooped considerably, evidently from
feebleness, and the pallid hue of ill health overspread his
emaciated features. When he had reseated himself, he
dropped his head, and appeared to be looking on the table before
him.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I suppose your lordship knows who I am?&rdquo; said I,
at last breaking silence.</p>

<p>The Archbishop bent his head towards the right shoulder, in a
somewhat equivocal manner, but said nothing.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I am he whom the Manolos of Madrid call Don Jorgito el
Ingles; I am just come out of prison, whither I was sent for
circulating my Lord&rsquo;s Gospel in this kingdom of
Spain?&rdquo;</p>

<p>The Archbishop made the same equivocal motion with his head,
but still said nothing.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I was informed that your lordship was desirous of
seeing me, and on that account I have paid you this
visit.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I did not send for you,&rdquo; said the Archbishop,
suddenly raising his head with a startled look.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Perhaps not: I was, however, given to understand that
my presence would be agreeable; but as that does not seem to be
the case, I will leave.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Since you are come, I am very glad to see
you.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I am very glad to hear it,&rdquo; said I, reseating
myself; &ldquo;and since I am here, we may as well talk of an
all-important matter, the circulation of the Scripture.
Does your lordship see any way by which an end so desirable might
be brought about?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;No,&rdquo; said the Archbishop faintly.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Does not your lordship think that a knowledge of the
Scripture would work inestimable benefit in these
realms?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Is it probable that the government may be induced to
consent to the circulation?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;How should I know?&rdquo; and the Archbishop looked me
in the face.</p>

<p>I looked in the face of the Archbishop; there was an
expression of helplessness in it, which almost amounted to
dotage. &ldquo;Dear me,&rdquo; thought I, &ldquo;whom have
I come to on an errand like mine? Poor man, you are not
fitted to play the part of Martin Luther, and least of all in
Spain. I wonder why your friends selected you to be
Archbishop of Toledo; they thought perhaps that you would do
neither good nor harm, and made choice of you, as they sometimes
do primates in my own country, for your incapacity. You do
not seem very happy in your present situation; no very easy stall
this of yours. You were more comfortable, I trow, when you
were the poor Bishop of Mallorca; could enjoy your puchera then
without fear that the salt would turn out sublimate. No
fear then of being smothered in your bed. A siesta is a
pleasant thing when one is not subject to be disturbed by
&lsquo;the sudden fear.&rsquo; I wonder whether they have
poisoned you already,&rdquo; I continued, half aloud, as I kept
my eyes fixed on his countenance, which methought was becoming
ghastly.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Did you speak, Don Jorge?&rdquo; demanded the
Archbishop.</p>

<p>&ldquo;That is a fine brilliant on your lordship&rsquo;s
hand,&rdquo; said I.</p>

<p>&ldquo;You are fond of brilliants, Don Jorge,&rdquo; said the
Archbishop, his features brightening up; &ldquo;vaya! so am I;
they are pretty things. Do you understand them?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I do,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;and I never saw a finer
brilliant than your own, one excepted; it belonged to an
acquaintance of mine, a Tartar Khan. He did not bear it on
his finger, however; it stood in the frontlet of his horse, where
it shone like a star. He called it Daoud Scharr, which,
being interpreted, meaneth <i>light of war</i>.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Vaya!&rdquo; said the Archbishop, &ldquo;how very
extraordinary; I am glad you are fond of brilliants, Don
Jorge. Speaking of horses, reminds me that I have
frequently seen you on horseback. Vaya! how you ride; it is
dangerous to be in your way.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Is your lordship fond of equestrian
exercise?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;By no means, Don Jorge; I do not like horses; it is not
the practice of the church to ride on horseback. We prefer
mules: they are the quieter animals; I fear horses, they kick so
violently.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;The kick of a horse is death,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;if
it touches a vital part. I am not, however, of your
lordship&rsquo;s opinion with respect to mules: a good ginete may
retain his seat on a horse however vicious, but a
mule&mdash;vaya! when a false mule <i>tira por detras</i>, I do
not believe that the Father of the Church himself could keep the
saddle a moment, however sharp his bit.&rdquo;</p>

<p>As I was going away, I said, &ldquo;And with respect to the
Gospel, your lordship; what am I to understand?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;<i>No se</i>,&rdquo; said the Archbishop, again bending
his head towards the right shoulder, whilst his features resumed
their former vacant expression. And thus terminated my
interview with the Archbishop of Toledo.</p>

<p>&ldquo;It appears to me,&rdquo; said I to Maria Diaz, on
returning home; &ldquo;it appears to me, Marequita mia, that if
the Gospel in Spain is to wait for toleration until these liberal
bishops and archbishops come forward boldly in its behalf, it
will have to tarry a considerable time.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I am much of your worship&rsquo;s opinion,&rdquo;
answered Maria; &ldquo;a fine thing, truly, it would be to wait
till they exerted themselves in its behalf. Ca! the idea
makes me smile: was your worship ever innocent enough to suppose
that they cared one tittle about the Gospel or its cause?
Vaya! they are true priests, and had only self-interest in view
in their advances to you. The Holy Father disowns them, and
they would now fain, by awaking his fears and jealousy, bring him
to some terms; but let him once acknowledge them and see whether
they would admit you to their palaces or hold any intercourse
with you: &lsquo;Forth with the fellow,&rsquo; they would say;
&lsquo;vaya! is he not a Lutheran? Is he not an enemy to
the Church? <i>A la horca</i>, <i>a la
horca</i>!&rsquo; I know this family better than you do,
Don Jorge.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;It is useless tarrying,&rdquo; said I; &ldquo;nothing,
however, can be done in Madrid. I cannot sell the work at
the despacho, and I have just received intelligence that all the
copies exposed for sale in the libraries in the different parts
of Spain which I visited, have been sequestrated by order of the
government. My resolution is taken: I shall mount my
horses, which are neighing in the stable, and betake myself to
the villages and plains of dusty Spain. <i>Al campo</i>,
<i>al campo</i>: &lsquo;Ride forth because of the word of
righteousness, and thy right hand shall show thee terrible
things.&rsquo; I will ride forth, Maria.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Your worship can do no better; and allow me here to
tell you, that for every single book you might sell in a despacho
in the city, you may dispose of one hundred amongst the villages,
always provided you offer them cheap: for in the country money is
rather scant. Vaya! should I not know? am I not a villager
myself, a villana from the Sagra? Ride forth, therefore;
your horses are neighing in the stall, as your worship says, and
you might almost have added that the Se&ntilde;or Antonio is
neighing in the house. He says he has nothing to do, on
which account he is once more dissatisfied and unsettled.
He finds fault with everything, but more particularly with
myself. This morning I saluted him, and he made me no
reply, but twisted his mouth in a manner very uncommon in this
land of Spain.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;A thought strikes me,&rdquo; said I; &ldquo;you have
mentioned the Sagra; why should not I commence my labours amongst
the villages of that district?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Your worship can do no better,&rdquo; replied Maria;
&ldquo;the harvest is just over there, and you will find the
people comparatively unemployed, with leisure to attend and
listen to you; and if you follow my advice, you will establish
yourself at Villa Seca, in the house of my fathers, where at
present lives my lord and husband. Go, therefore, to Villa
Seca in the first place, and from thence you can sally forth with
the Se&ntilde;or Antonio upon your excursions.
Peradventure, my husband will accompany you; and if so, you will
find him highly useful. The people of Villa Seca are civil
and courteous, your worship; when they address a foreigner they
speak to him at the top of their voice and in
Gallegan.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;In Gallegan!&rdquo; I exclaimed.</p>

<p>&ldquo;They all understand a few words of Gallegan, which they
have acquired from the mountaineers, who occasionally assist them
in cutting the harvest, and as Gallegan is the only foreign
language they know, they deem it but polite to address a
foreigner in that tongue. Vaya! it is not a bad village,
that of Villa Seca, nor are the people; the only ill-conditioned
person living there is his reverence the curate.&rdquo;</p>

<p>I was not long in making preparations for my enterprise.
A considerable stock of Testaments were sent forward by an
arriero, I myself followed the next day. Before my
departure, however, I received a Benedict Mol.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I am come to bid you farewell, lieber herr; I return to
Compostella.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;On what errand?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;To dig up the schatz, lieber herr. For what else
should I go? For what have I lived until now, but that I
may dig up the schatz in the end?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;You might have lived for something better,&rdquo; I
exclaimed. &ldquo;I wish you success, however. But on
what grounds do you hope? Have you obtained permission to
dig? Surely you remember your former trials in
Galicia?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I have not forgotten them, lieber herr, nor the journey
to Oviedo, nor &lsquo;the seven acorns,&rsquo; nor the fight with
death in the barranco. But I must accomplish my
destiny. I go now to Galicia, as is becoming a Swiss, at
the expense of the government, with coach and mule, I mean in the
galera. I am to have all the help I require, so that I can
dig down to the earth&rsquo;s centre if I think fit.
I&mdash;but I must not tell your worship, for I am sworn on
&lsquo;the four Evangiles&rsquo; not to tell.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Well, Benedict, I have nothing to say, save that I hope
you will succeed in your digging.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Thank you, lieber herr, thank you; and now
farewell. Succeed! I shall succeed!&rdquo; Here
he stopped short, started, and looking upon me with an expression
of countenance almost wild, he exclaimed: &ldquo;Heiliger
Gott! I forgot one thing. Suppose I should not find
the treasure after all.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Very rationally said; pity, though, that you did not
think of that contingency till now. I tell you, my friend,
that you have engaged in a most desperate undertaking. It
is true that you may find a treasure. The chances are,
however, a hundred to one that you do not, and in that event,
what will be your situation? You will be looked upon as an
impostor, and the consequences may be horrible to you.
Remember where you are, and amongst whom you are. The
Spaniards are a credulous people, but let them once suspect that
they have been imposed upon, and above all laughed at, and their
thirst for vengeance knows no limit. Think not that your
innocence will avail you. That you are no impostor I feel
convinced; but they would never believe it. It is not too
late. Return your fine clothes and magic rattan to those
from whom you had them. Put on your old garments, grasp
your ragged staff, and come with me to the Sagra, to assist in
circulating the illustrious Gospel amongst the rustics on the
Tagus&rsquo; bank.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Benedict mused for a moment, then shaking his head, he cried,
&ldquo;No, no, I must accomplish my destiny. The schatz is
not yet dug up. So said the voice in the barranco.
To-morrow to Compostella. I shall find it&mdash;the
schatz&mdash;it is still there&mdash;it <i>must</i> be
there.&rdquo;</p>

<p>He went, and I never saw him more. What I heard,
however, was extraordinary enough. It appeared that the
government had listened to his tale, and had been so struck with
Bennet&rsquo;s exaggerated description of the buried treasure,
that they imagined that, by a little trouble and outlay, gold and
diamonds might be dug up at Saint James sufficient to enrich
themselves and to pay off the national debt of Spain. The
Swiss returned to Compostella &ldquo;like a duke,&rdquo; to use
his own words. The affair, which had at first been kept a
profound secret, was speedily divulged. It was, indeed,
resolved that the investigation, which involved consequences of
so much importance, should take place in a manner the most public
and imposing. A solemn festival was drawing nigh, and it
was deemed expedient that the search should take place on that
day. The day arrived. All the bells in Compostella
pealed. The whole populace thronged from their houses, a
thousand troops were drawn up in the square, the expectation of
all was wound up to the highest pitch. A procession
directed its course to the church of San Roque; at its head was
the captain-general and the Swiss, brandishing in his hand the
magic rattan, close behind walked the <i>meiga</i>, the Gallegan
witch-wife, by whom the treasure-seeker had been originally
guided in the search; numerous masons brought up the rear,
bearing implements to break up the ground. The procession
enters the church, they pass through it in solemn march, they
find themselves in a vaulted passage. The Swiss looks
around. &ldquo;Dig here,&rdquo; said he suddenly.
&ldquo;Yes, dig here,&rdquo; said the meiga. The masons
labour, the floor is broken up,&mdash;a horrible and fetid odour
arises. . . .</p>

<p>Enough; no treasure was found, and my warning to the
unfortunate Swiss turned out but too prophetic. He was
forthwith seized and flung into the horrid prison of Saint James,
amidst the execrations of thousands, who would have gladly torn
him limb from limb.</p>

<p>The affair did not terminate here. The political
opponents of the government did not allow so favourable an
opportunity to escape for launching the shafts of ridicule.
The Moderados were taunted in the cortes for their avarice and
credulity, whilst the liberal press wafted on its wings through
Spain the story of the treasure-hunt at Saint James.</p>

<p>&ldquo;After all, it was a <i>trampa</i> of Don
Jorge&rsquo;s,&rdquo; said one of my enemies. &ldquo;That
fellow is at the bottom of half the picardias which happen in
Spain.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Eager to learn the fate of the Swiss, I wrote to my old friend
Rey Romero, at Compostella. In his answer he states:
&ldquo;I saw the Swiss in prison, to which place he sent for me,
craving my assistance, for the sake of the friendship which I
bore to you. But how could I help him? He was
speedily after removed from Saint James, I know not
whither. It is said that he disappeared on the
road.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Truth is sometimes stranger than fiction. Where in the
whole cycle of romance shall we find anything more wild,
grotesque, and sad, than the easily-authenticated history of
Benedict Mol, the treasure-digger of Saint James?</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XLIII</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Villa Seca&mdash;Moorish House&mdash;The
Puchera&mdash;The Rustic Council&mdash;Polite
Ceremonial&mdash;The Flower of Spain&mdash;The Bridge of
Azeca&mdash;The Ruined Castle&mdash;Taking the Field&mdash;Demand
for the Word&mdash;The Old Peasant&mdash;The Curate and
Blacksmith&mdash;Cheapness of the Scriptures.</p>

<p>It was one of the most fiercely hot days in which I ever
braved the sun, when I arrived at Villa Seca. The heat in
the shade must have amounted at least to one hundred degrees, and
the entire atmosphere seemed to consist of flickering
flame. At a place called Leganez, six leagues from Madrid,
and about half way to Toledo, we diverged from the highway,
bending our course seemingly towards the south-east. We
rode over what are called plains in Spain, but which, in any
other part of the world, would be called undulating and broken
ground. The crops of corn and barley had already
disappeared. The last vestiges discoverable being here and
there a few sheaves, which the labourers were occupied in
removing to their garners in the villages. The country
could scarcely be called beautiful, being perfectly naked,
exhibiting neither trees nor verdure. It was not, however,
without its pretensions to grandeur and magnificence, like every
part of Spain. The most prominent objects were two huge
calcareous hills or rather one cleft in twain, which towered up
on high; the summit of the nearest being surmounted by the ruins
of an ancient castle, that of Villaluenga. About an hour
past noon we reached Villa Seca.</p>

<p>We found it a large village, containing about seven hundred
inhabitants, and surrounded by a mud wall. A plaza, or
market-place, stood in the midst, one side of which is occupied
by what is called a palace, a clumsy quadrangular building of two
stories, belonging to some noble family, the lords of the
neighbouring soil. It was deserted, however, being only
occupied by a kind of steward, who stored up in its chambers the
grain which he received as rent from the tenants and villanos who
farmed the surrounding district.</p>

<p>The village stands at the distance of about a quarter of a
league from the bank of the Tagus, which even here, in the heart
of Spain, is a beautiful stream, not navigable, however, on
account of the sandbanks, which in many places assume the
appearance of small islands, and are covered with trees and
brushwood. The village derives its supply of water entirely
from the river, having none of its own; such at least as is
potable, the water of its wells being all brackish, on which
account it is probably termed Villa Seca, which signifies
&ldquo;the dry hamlet.&rdquo; The inhabitants are said to
have been originally Moors; certain it is, that various customs
are observable here highly favourable to such a
supposition. Amongst others, a very curious one; it is
deemed infamous for a woman of Villa Seca to go across the
market-place, or to be seen there, though they have no hesitation
in showing themselves in the streets and lanes. A
deep-rooted hostility exists between the inhabitants of this
place and those of a neighbouring village, called Vargas; they
rarely speak when they meet, and never intermarry. There is
a vague tradition that the people of the latter place are old
Christians, and it is highly probable that these neighbours were
originally of widely different blood; those of Villa Seca being
of particularly dark complexions, whilst the indwellers of Vargas
are light and fair. Thus the old feud between Moor and
Christian is still kept up in the nineteenth century in
Spain.</p>

<p>Drenched in perspiration, which fell from our brows like rain,
we arrived at the door of Juan Lopez, the husband of Maria
Diaz. Having heard of our intention to pay him a visit, he
was expecting us, and cordially welcomed us to his habitation,
which, like a genuine Moorish house, consisted only of one
story. It was amply large, however, with a court and
stable. All the apartments were deliciously cool. The
floors were of brick or stone, and the narrow and trellised
windows, which were without glass, scarcely permitted a ray of
sun to penetrate into the interior.</p>

<p>A puchera had been prepared in expectation of our arrival; the
heat had not taken away my appetite, and it was not long before I
did full justice to this the standard dish of Spain. Whilst
I ate, Lopez played upon the guitar, singing occasionally
snatches of Andalusian songs. He was a short, merry-faced,
active fellow, whom I had frequently seen at Madrid, and was a
good specimen of the Spanish labrador or yeoman. Though far
from possessing the ability and intellect of his wife, Maria
Diaz, he was by no means deficient in shrewdness and
understanding. He was, moreover, honest and disinterested,
and performed good service in the Gospel cause, as will presently
appear.</p>

<p>When the repast was concluded, Lopez thus addressed
me:&mdash;&ldquo;Se&ntilde;or Don Jorge, your arrival in our
village has already caused a sensation, more especially as these
are times of war and tumult, and every person is afraid of
another, and we dwell here close on the confines of the factious
country; for, as you well know, the greater part of La Mancha is
in the hands of the Carlinos and thieves, parties of whom
frequently show themselves on the other side of the river: on
which account the alcalde of this city, with the other grave and
notable people thereof, are desirous of seeing your worship, and
conversing with you, and of examining your passport.&rdquo;
&ldquo;It is well,&rdquo; said I; &ldquo;let us forthwith pay a
visit to these worthy people.&rdquo; Whereupon he conducted
me across the plaza, to the house of the alcalde, where I found
the rustic dignitary seated in the passage, enjoying the
refreshing coolness of a draught of air which rushed
through. He was an elderly man, of about sixty, with
nothing remarkable in his appearance or his features, which
latter were placid and good-humoured. There were several
people with him, amongst whom was the surgeon of the place, a
tall and immensely bulky man, an Alavese by birth, from the town
of Vitoria. There was also a red fiery-faced individual,
with a nose very much turned on one side, who was the blacksmith
of the village, and was called in general El Tuerto, from the
circumstance of his having but one eye. Making the assembly
a low bow, I pulled out my passport, and thus addressed
them:&mdash;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Grave men and cavaliers of this city of Villa Seca, as
I am a stranger, of whom it is not possible that you should know
anything, I have deemed it my duty to present myself before you,
and to tell you who I am. Know, then, that I am an
Englishman of good blood and fathers, travelling in these
countries for my own profit and diversion, and for that of other
people also. I have now found my way to Villa Seca, where I
propose to stay some time, doing that which may be deemed
convenient; sometimes riding across the plain, and sometimes
bathing myself in the waters of the river, which are reported to
be of advantage in times of heat, I therefore beg that, during my
sojourn in this capital, I may enjoy such countenance and
protection from its governors as they are in the habit of
affording to those who are of quiet and well-ordered life, and
are disposed to be buxom and obedient to the customs and laws of
the republic.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;He speaks well,&rdquo; said the alcalde, glancing
around.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Yes, he speaks well,&rdquo; said the bulky Alavese;
&ldquo;there is no denying it.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I never heard any one speak better,&rdquo; cried the
blacksmith, starting up from a stool on which he was
seated. &ldquo;Vaya! he is a big man and a fair
complexioned like myself. I like him, and have a horse that
will just suit him; one that is the flower of Spain, and is eight
inches above the mark.&rdquo;</p>

<p>I then, with another bow, presented my passport to the
alcalde, who, with a gentle motion of his hand, appeared to
decline taking it, at the same time saying, &ldquo;It is not
necessary.&rdquo; &ldquo;Oh, not at all,&rdquo; exclaimed
the surgeon. &ldquo;The housekeepers of Villa Seca know how
to comport themselves with formality,&rdquo; observed the
blacksmith. &ldquo;They would be very loth to harbour any
suspicion against a cavalier so courteous and well
spoken.&rdquo; Knowing, however, that this refusal amounted
to nothing, and that it merely formed part of a polite
ceremonial, I proffered the passport a second time, whereupon it
was instantly taken, and in a moment the eyes of all present were
bent upon it with intense curiosity. It was examined from
top to bottom, and turned round repeatedly, and though it is not
probable that an individual present understood a word of it, it
being written in French, it gave nevertheless universal
satisfaction; and when the alcalde, carefully folding it up,
returned it to me, they all observed that they had never seen a
better passport in their lives, or one which spake in higher
terms of the bearer.</p>

<p>Who was it said that &ldquo;Cervantes sneered Spain&rsquo;s
chivalry away?&rdquo; I know not; and the author of such a
line scarcely deserves to be remembered. How the rage for
scribbling tempts people at the present day to write about lands
and nations of which they know nothing, or worse than
nothing. Vaya! It is not from having seen a
bull-fight at Seville or Madrid, or having spent a handful of
ounces at a posada in either of those places, kept perhaps by a
Genoese or a Frenchman, that you are competent to write about
such a people as the Spaniards, and to tell the world how they
think, how they speak, and how they act! Spain&rsquo;s
chivalry sneered away! Why, there is every probability that
the great body of the Spanish nation speak, think, and live
precisely as their forefathers did six centuries ago.</p>

<p>In the evening the blacksmith, or, as he would be called in
Spanish, El Herrador, made his appearance at the door of Lopez on
horseback. &ldquo;Vamos, Don Jorge,&rdquo; he
shouted. &ldquo;Come with me, if your worship is disposed
for a ride. I am going to bathe my horse in the Tagus by
the bridge of Azeca.&rdquo; I instantly saddled my jaca
Cordovesa, and joining him, we rode out of the village, directing
our course across the plain towards the river. &ldquo;Did
you ever see such a horse as this of mine, Don Jorge?&rdquo; he
demanded. &ldquo;Is he not a jewel&mdash;an alaja?&rdquo;
And in truth the horse was a noble and gallant creature, in
height at least sixteen hands, broad-chested, but of clean and
elegant limbs. His neck was superbly arched, and his head
towered on high like that of a swan. In colour he was a
bright chestnut, save his flowing mane and tail, which were
almost black. I expressed my admiration, whereupon the
herrador, in high spirits, pressed his heels to the
creature&rsquo;s sides, and flinging the bridle on its neck,
speeded over the plain with prodigious swiftness, shouting the
old Spanish cry, Cierra! I attempted to keep up with him,
but had not a chance. &ldquo;I call him the flower of
Spain,&rdquo; said the herrador, rejoining me.
&ldquo;Purchase him, Don Jorge, his price is but three thousand
reals. <a name="citation384"></a><a href="#footnote384"
class="citation">[384]</a> I would not sell him for double
that sum, but the Carlist thieves have their eyes upon him, and I
am apprehensive that they will some day make a dash across the
river and break into Villa Seca, all to get possession of my
horse, &lsquo;The Flower of Spain.&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>

<p>It may be as well to observe here, that within a month from
this period, my friend the herrador, not being able to find a
regular purchaser for his steed, entered into negotiations with
the aforesaid thieves respecting him, and finally disposed of the
animal to their leader, receiving not the three thousand reals he
demanded, but an entire herd of horned cattle, probably driven
from the plains of La Mancha. For this transaction, which
was neither more nor less than high treason, he was cast into the
prison of Toledo, where, however, he did not continue long; for
during a short visit to Villa Seca, which I made in the spring of
the following year, I found him alcalde of that
&ldquo;republic.&rdquo;</p>

<p>We arrived at the bridge of Azeca, which is about half a
league from Villa Seca; close beside it is a large water-mill,
standing upon a dam which crosses the river. Dismounting
from his steed, the herrador proceeded to divest it of the
saddle, then causing it to enter the mill-pool, he led it by
means of a cord to a particular spot, where the water reached
half way up its neck, then fastening a cord to a post on the
bank, he left the animal standing in the pool. I thought I
could do no better than follow his example, and accordingly
procuring a rope from the mill, I led my own horse into the
water. &ldquo;It will refresh their blood, Don
Jorge,&rdquo; said the herrador; &ldquo;let us leave them there
for an hour, whilst we go and divert ourselves.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Near the bridge, on the side of the river on which we were,
was a kind of guard-house, where were three carbineers of the
revenue, who collected the tolls of the bridge; we entered into
conversation with them: &ldquo;Is not this a dangerous position
of yours,&rdquo; said I to one of them, who was a Catalan;
&ldquo;close beside the factious country? Surely it would
not be difficult for a body of the Carlinos or bandits to dash
across the bridge and make prisoners of you all.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;It would be easy enough at any moment, Cavalier,&rdquo;
replied the Catalan; &ldquo;we are, however, all in the hands of
God, and he has preserved us hitherto, and perhaps still
will. True it is that one of our number, for there were
four of us originally, fell the other day into the hands of the
canaille: he had wandered across the bridge amongst the thickets
with his gun in search of a hare or rabbit, when three or four of
them fell upon him and put him to death in a manner too horrible
to relate. But patience! every man who lives must
die. I shall not sleep the worse to-night because I may
chance to be hacked by the knives of these malvados
to-morrow. Cavalier, I am from Barcelona, and have seen
there mariners of your nation; this is not so good a country as
Barcelona. Paciencia! Cavalier, if you will step into
our house, I will give you a glass of water; we have some that is
cool, for we dug a deep hole in the earth and buried there our
pitcher; it is cool, as I told you, but the water of Castile is
not like that of Catalonia.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The moon had arisen when we mounted our horses to return to
the village, and the rays of the beauteous luminary danced
merrily on the rushing waters of the Tagus, silvered the plain
over which we were passing, and bathed in a flood of brightness
the bold sides of the calcareous hill of Villaluenga and the
antique ruins which crowned its brow. &ldquo;Why is that
place called the Castle of Villaluenga?&rdquo; I demanded.</p>

<p>&ldquo;From a village of that name, which stands on the other
side of the hill, Don Jorge,&rdquo; replied the herrador.
&ldquo;Vaya! it is a strange place, that castle; some say it was
built by the Moors in the old times, and some by the Christians
when they first laid siege to Toledo. It is not inhabited
now, save by rabbits, which breed there in abundance amongst the
long grass and broken stones, and by eagles and vultures, which
build on the tops of the towers; I occasionally go there with my
gun to shoot a rabbit. On a fine day you may descry both
Toledo and Madrid from its walls. I cannot say I like the
place, it is so dreary and melancholy. The hill on which it
stands is all of chalk, and is very difficult of ascent. I
heard my grandame say that once, when she was a girl, a cloud of
smoke burst from that hill, and that flames of fire were seen,
just as if it contained a volcano, as perhaps it does, Don
Jorge.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The grand work of Scripture circulation soon commenced in the
Sagra. Notwithstanding the heat of the weather, I rode
about in all directions. It was well that heat agrees with
my constitution, otherwise it would have been impossible to
effect anything in this season, when the very arrieros frequently
fall dead from their mules, smitten by sun-stroke. I had an
excellent assistant in Antonio, who, disregarding the heat like
myself, and afraid of nothing, visited several villages with
remarkable success. &ldquo;Mon ma&icirc;tre,&rdquo; said
he, &ldquo;I wish to show you that nothing is beyond my
capacity.&rdquo; But he who put the labours of us both to
shame, was my host, Juan Lopez, whom it had pleased the Lord to
render favourable to the cause. &ldquo;Don Jorge,&rdquo;
said he, &ldquo;<i>io quiero engancharme con usted</i> (I wish to
enlist with you); I am a liberal, and a foe to superstition; I
will take the field, and, if necessary, will follow you to the
end of the world; <i>Viva Ingalaterra</i>; <i>viva el
Evangelio</i>.&rdquo; Thus saying, he put a large bundle of
Testaments into a satchel, and springing upon the crupper of his
grey donkey, he cried &ldquo;<i>Arrhe burra</i>,&rdquo; and
hastened away. I sat down to my journal.</p>

<p>Ere I had finished writing, I heard the voice of the burra in
the courtyard, and going out, I found my host returned. He
had disposed of his whole cargo of twenty Testaments at the
village of Vargas, distant from Villa Seca about a league.
Eight poor harvest men, who were refreshing themselves at the
door of a wine-house, purchased each a copy, whilst the village
schoolmaster secured the rest for the little ones beneath his
care, lamenting, at the same time, the great difficulty he had
long experienced in obtaining religious books, owing to their
scarcity and extravagant price. Many other persons were
also anxious to purchase Testaments, but Lopez was unable to
supply them: at his departure, they requested him to return
within a few days.</p>

<p>I was aware that I was playing rather a daring game, and that
it was very possible that, when I least expected it, I might be
seized, tied to the tail of a mule, and dragged either to the
prison of Toledo or Madrid. Yet such a prospect did not
discourage me in the least, but rather urged me to persevere; for
at this time, without the slightest wish to gratify myself, I
could say that I was eager to lay down my life for the cause, and
whether a bandit&rsquo;s bullet, or the gaol fever brought my
career to a close, was a matter of indifference to me; I was not
then a stricken man: &ldquo;Ride on because of the word of
righteousness,&rdquo; was my cry.</p>

<p>The news of the arrival of the book of life soon spread like
wildfire through the villages of the Sagra of Toledo, and
wherever my people and myself directed our course we found the
inhabitants disposed to receive our merchandize; it was even
called for where not exhibited. One night as I was bathing
myself and horse in the Tagus, a knot of people gathered on the
bank, crying, &ldquo;Come out of the water, Englishman, and give
us books; we have got our money in our hands.&rdquo; The
poor creatures then held out their hands, filled with cuartos, a
copper coin of the value of the farthing, but unfortunately I had
no Testaments to give them. Antonio, however, who was at a
short distance, having exhibited one, it was instantly torn from
his hands by the people, and a scuffle ensued to obtain
possession of it. It very frequently occurred, that the
poor labourers in the neighbourhood, being eager to obtain
Testaments, and having no money to offer us in exchange, brought
various articles to our habitation as equivalents; for example,
rabbits, fruit and barley, and I made a point never to disappoint
them, as such articles were of utility either for our own
consumption or that of the horses.</p>

<p>In Villa Seca there was a school in which fifty-seven children
were taught the first rudiments of education. One morning
the schoolmaster, a tall slim figure of about sixty, bearing on
his head one of the peaked hats of Andalusia, and wrapped,
notwithstanding the excessive heat of the weather, in a long
cloak, made his appearance; and having seated himself, requested
to be shown one of our books. Having delivered it to him,
he remained examining it for nearly half an hour, without
uttering a word. At last he laid it down with a sigh, and
said that he should be very happy to purchase some of these books
for his school, but from their appearance, especially from the
quality of the paper and binding, he was apprehensive that to pay
for them would exceed the means of the parents of his pupils, as
they were almost destitute of money, being poor labourers.
He then commenced blaming the government, which he said
established schools without affording the necessary books, adding
that in his school there were but two books for the use of all
his pupils, and these he confessed contained but little
good. I asked him what he considered the Testaments were
worth? He said, &ldquo;Se&ntilde;or Cavalier, to speak
frankly, I have in other times paid twelve reals for books
inferior to yours in every respect, but I assure you that my poor
pupils would be utterly unable to pay the half of that
sum.&rdquo; I replied, &ldquo;I will sell you as many as
you please for three reals each, I am acquainted with the poverty
of the land, and my friends and myself, in affording the people
the means of spiritual instruction have no wish to curtail their
scanty bread.&rdquo; He replied: &ldquo;Bendito sea
Dios,&rdquo; (<i>blessed be God</i>,) and could scarcely believe
his ears. He instantly purchased a dozen, expending, as he
said, all the money he possessed, with the exception of a few
cuartos. The introduction of the word of God into the
country schools of Spain is therefore begun, and I humbly hope
that it will prove one of those events, which the Bible Society,
after the lapse of years, will have most reason to remember with
joy and gratitude to the Almighty.</p>

<p>An old peasant is reading in the portico. Eighty-four
years have passed over his head, and he is almost entirely deaf;
nevertheless he is reading aloud the second of Matthew: three
days since he bespoke a Testament, but not being able to raise
the money, he has not redeemed it until the present moment.
He has just brought thirty farthings; as I survey the silvery
hair which overshadows his sunburnt countenance, the words of the
song occurred to me, &ldquo;Lord, now lettest thou thy servant
depart in peace according to thy word, for mine eyes have seen
thy salvation.&rdquo;</p>

<p>I experienced much grave kindness and simple hospitality from
the good people of Villa Seca during my sojourn amongst
them. I had at this time so won their hearts by the
&ldquo;formality&rdquo; of my behaviour and language, that I
firmly believe they would have resisted to the knife any attempt
which might have been made to arrest or otherwise maltreat
me. He who wishes to become acquainted with the genuine
Spaniard, must seek him not in seaports and large towns, but in
lone and remote villages, like those of the Sagra. There he
will find all that gravity of deportment and chivalry of
disposition which Cervantes is said to have sneered away; and
there he will hear, in everyday conversation, those grandiose
expressions, which, when met with in the romances of chivalry,
are scoffed at as ridiculous exaggerations.</p>

<p>I had one enemy in the village&mdash;it was the curate.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The fellow is a heretic and a scoundrel,&rdquo; said he
one day in the conclave. &ldquo;He never enters the church,
and is poisoning the minds of the people with his Lutheran
books. Let him be bound and sent to Toledo, or turned out
of the village at least.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I will have nothing of the kind,&rdquo; said the
alcalde, who was said to be a Carlist. &ldquo;If he has his
opinions, I have mine too. He has conducted himself with
politeness. Why should I interfere with him? He has
been courteous to my daughter, and has presented her with a
volume. Que viva! and with respect to his being a Lutheran,
I have heard say that amongst the Lutherans there are sons of as
good fathers as here. He appears to me a caballero.
He speaks well.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;There is no denying it,&rdquo; said the surgeon.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Who speaks <i>so</i> well?&rdquo; shouted the
herrador. &ldquo;And, who has more formality? Vaya!
did he not praise my horse, &lsquo;The Flower of
Spain&rsquo;? Did he not say that in the whole of
Ingalaterra there was not a better? Did he not assure me,
moreover, that if he were to remain in Spain he would purchase
it, giving me my own price? Turn him out, indeed! Is
he not of my own blood, is he not fair-complexioned? Who
shall turn him out when I, &lsquo;the one-eyed,&rsquo; say
no?&rdquo;</p>

<p>In connection with the circulation of the Scriptures I will
now relate an anecdote not altogether divested of
singularity. I have already spoken of the water-mill by the
bridge of Azeca. I had formed acquaintance with the tenant
of this mill, who was known in the neighbourhood by the name of
Don Antero. One day, taking me into a retired place, he
asked me, to my great astonishment, whether I would sell him a
thousand Testaments at the price at which I was disposing of them
to the peasantry; saying, if I would consent he would pay me
immediately. In fact, he put his hand into his pocket, and
pulled it out filled with gold ounces. I asked him what was
his reason for wishing to make so considerable a purchase.
Whereupon he informed me that he had a relation in Toledo whom he
wished to establish, and that he was of opinion that his best
plan would be to hire him a shop there and furnish it with
Testaments. I told him that he must think of nothing of the
kind, as probably the books would be seized on the first attempt
to introduce them into Toledo, as the priests and canons were
much averse to their distribution.</p>

<p>He was not disconcerted, however, and said his relation could
travel, as I myself was doing, and dispose of them to the
peasants with profit to himself. I confess I was inclined
at first to accept his offer, but at length declined it, as I did
not wish to expose a poor man to the risk of losing money, goods,
and perhaps liberty and life. I was likewise averse to the
books being offered to the peasantry at an advanced price, being
aware that they could not afford it, and the books, by such an
attempt, would lose a considerable part of that influence which
they then enjoyed; for their cheapness struck the minds of the
people, and they considered it almost as much in the light of a
miracle as the Jews the manna which dropped from heaven at the
time they were famishing, or the spring which suddenly gushed
from the flinty rocks to assuage their thirst in the
wilderness.</p>

<p>At this time a peasant was continually passing and repassing
between Villa Seca and Madrid, bringing us cargoes of Testaments
on a burrico. We continued our labours until the greater
part of the villages of the Sagra were well supplied with books,
more especially those of Vargas, Coveja, Mocejon, Villaluenga,
Villa Seca, and Yungler. Hearing at last that our
proceedings were known at Toledo, and were causing considerable
alarm, we returned to Madrid.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XLIV</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Aranjuez&mdash;A Warning&mdash;A Night
Adventure&mdash;A Fresh
Expedition&mdash;Segovia&mdash;Abades&mdash;Factious
Curas&mdash;Lopez in Prison&mdash;Rescue of Lopez.</p>

<p>The success which had attended our efforts in the Sagra of
Toledo speedily urged me on to a new enterprise. I now
determined to direct my course to La Mancha, and to distribute
the word amongst the villages of that province. Lopez, who
had already performed such important services in the Sagra, had
accompanied us to Madrid, and was eager to take part in this new
expedition. We determined in the first place to proceed to
Aranjuez, where we hoped to obtain some information which might
prove of utility in the further regulation of our movements;
Aranjuez being but a slight distance from the frontier of La
Mancha and the high road into that province passing directly
through it. We accordingly sallied forth from Madrid,
selling from twenty to forty Testaments in every village which
lay in our way, until we arrived at Aranjuez, to which place we
had forwarded a large supply of books.</p>

<p>A lovely spot is Aranjuez, though in desolation: here the
Tagus flows through a delicious valley, perhaps the most fertile
in Spain; and here upsprang, in Spain&rsquo;s better days, a
little city, with a small but beautiful palace shaded by enormous
trees, where royalty delighted to forget its cares. Here
Ferdinand the Seventh spent his latter days, surrounded by lovely
se&ntilde;oras and Andalusian bull-fighters: but as the German
Schiller has it in one of his tragedies:</p>

<blockquote><p>&ldquo;The happy days in fair Aranjuez,<br />
Are past and gone.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>

<p>When the sensual king went to his dread account, royalty
deserted it, and it soon fell into decay. Intriguing
courtiers no longer crowd its halls; its spacious circus, where
Manchegan bulls once roared in rage and agony, is now closed, and
the light tinkling of guitars is no longer heard amidst its
groves and gardens.</p>

<p>At Aranjuez I made a sojourn of three days, during which time
Antonio, Lopez, and myself visited every house in the town.
We found a vast deal of poverty and ignorance amongst the
inhabitants, and experienced some opposition: nevertheless it
pleased the Almighty to permit us to dispose of about eighty
Testaments, which were purchased entirely by the very poor
people; those in easier circumstances paying no attention to the
word of God, but rather turning it to scoff and ridicule.</p>

<p>One circumstance was very gratifying and cheering to me,
namely, the ocular proof which I possessed that the books which I
had disposed of were read, and with attention, by those to whom I
sold them; and that many others participated in their
benefit. In the streets of Aranjuez, and beneath the mighty
cedars and gigantic elms and plantains which compose its noble
woods, I have frequently seen groups assembled listening to
individuals who, with the New Testament in their hands, were
reading aloud the comfortable words of salvation.</p>

<p>It is probable that, had I remained a longer period at
Aranjuez, I might have sold many more of these divine books, but
I was eager to gain La Mancha and its sandy plains, and to
conceal myself for a season amongst its solitary villages, for I
was apprehensive that a storm was gathering around me; but when
once through Oca&ntilde;a, the frontier town, I knew well that I
should have nothing to fear from the Spanish authorities, as
their power ceased there, the rest of La Mancha being almost
entirely in the hands of the Carlists, and overrun by small
parties of banditti, from whom, however, I trusted that the Lord
would preserve me. I therefore departed for Oca&ntilde;a,
distant three leagues from Aranjuez.</p>

<p>I started with Antonio at six in the evening, having early in
the morning sent forward Lopez with between two and three hundred
Testaments. We left the high road, and proceeded by a
shorter way through wild hills and over very broken and
precipitous ground: being well mounted we found ourselves just
after sunset opposite Oca&ntilde;a, which stands on a steep
hill. A deep valley lay between us and the town: we
descended, and came to a small bridge, which traverses a rivulet
at the bottom of the valley, at a very small distance from a kind
of suburb. We crossed the bridge, and were passing by a
deserted house on our left hand, when a man appeared from under
the porch.</p>

<p>What I am about to state will seem incomprehensible, but a
singular history and a singular people are connected with it: the
man placed himself before my horse so as to bar the way, and said
&ldquo;<i>Schophon</i>,&rdquo; which, in the Hebrew tongue,
signifies a rabbit. I knew this word to be one of the
Jewish countersigns, and asked the man if he had any thing to
communicate? He said, &ldquo;You must not enter the town,
for a net is prepared for you. The corregidor of Toledo, on
whom may all evil light, in order to give pleasure to the priests
of Maria, in whose face I spit, has ordered all the alcaldes of
these parts, and the escribanos and the corchetes to lay hands on
you wherever they may find you, and to send you, and your books,
and all that pertains to you to Toledo. Your servant was
seized this morning in the town above, as he was selling the
writings in the streets, and they are now awaiting your arrival
in the posada; but I knew you from the accounts of my brethren,
and I have been waiting here four hours to give you warning in
order that your horse may turn his tail to your enemies, and
neigh in derision of them. Fear nothing for your servant,
for he is known to the alcalde, and will be set at liberty, but
do you flee, and may God attend you.&rdquo; Having said
this, he hurried towards the town.</p>

<p>I hesitated not a moment to take his advice, knowing full well
that, as my books had been taken possession of, I could do no
more in that quarter. We turned back in the direction of
Aranjuez, the horses, notwithstanding the nature of the ground,
galloping at full speed; but our adventures were not over.
Midway, and about half a league from the village of Antigola, we
saw close to us on our left hand three men on a low bank.
As far as the darkness would permit us to distinguish, they were
naked, but each bore in his hand a long gun. These were
rateros, or the common assassins and robbers of the roads.
We halted and cried out, &ldquo;Who goes there?&rdquo; They
replied, &ldquo;What&rsquo;s that to you? pass by.&rdquo;
Their drift was to fire at us from a position from which it would
be impossible to miss. We shouted, &ldquo;If you do not
instantly pass to the right side of the road, we will tread you
down between the horses&rsquo; hoofs.&rdquo; They hesitated
and then obeyed, for all assassins are dastards, and the least
show of resolution daunts them. As we galloped past, one
cried, with an obscene oath, &ldquo;Shall we fire?&rdquo;
But another said, &ldquo;No, no! there&rsquo;s
danger.&rdquo; We reached Aranjuez, where early next
morning Lopez rejoined us, and we returned to Madrid.</p>

<p>I am sorry to state that two hundred Testaments were seized at
Oca&ntilde;a, from whence, after being sealed up, they were
despatched to Toledo. Lopez informed me, that in two hours
he could have sold them all, the demand was so great. As it
was, twenty-seven were disposed of in less than ten minutes.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Ride on because of the word of
righteousness.&rdquo; Notwithstanding the check which we
had experienced at Oca&ntilde;a, we were far from being
discouraged, and forthwith prepared ourselves for another
expedition. As we returned from Aranjeuz to Madrid, my eyes
had frequently glanced towards the mighty wall of mountains
dividing the two Castiles, and I said to myself, &ldquo;Would it
not be well to cross those hills, and commence operations on the
other side, even in Old Castile? There I am unknown, and
intelligence of my proceedings can scarcely have been transmitted
thither. Peradventure the enemy is asleep, and before he
has roused himself, I may have sown much of the precious seed
amongst the villages of the Old Castilians. To Castile,
therefore, to Castile la Vieja!&rdquo; Accordingly, on the
day after my arrival, I despatched several cargoes of books to
various places which I proposed to visit, and sent forward Lopez
and his donkey, well laden, with directions to meet me on a
particular day beneath a particular arch of the aqueduct of
Segovia. I likewise gave him orders to engage any persons
willing to co-operate with us in the circulation of the
Scriptures, and who might be likely to prove of utility in the
enterprise. A more useful assistant than Lopez in an
expedition of this kind it was impossible to have. He was
not only well acquainted with the country, but had friends, and
even connexions on the other side of the hills, in whose houses
he assured me that we should at all times find a hearty
welcome. He departed in high spirits, exclaiming, &ldquo;Be
of good cheer, Don Jorge; before we return we will have disposed
of every copy of your evangelic library. Down with the
friars! Down with superstition! Viva Ingalaterra,
viva el Evangelio!&rdquo;</p>

<p>In a few days I followed with Antonio. We ascended the
mountains by the pass called Pe&ntilde;a Cerrada, which lies
about three leagues to the eastward of that of Guadarama.
It is very unfrequented, the high road between the two Castiles
passing through Guadarama. It has, moreover, an evil name,
being, according to common report, infested with banditti.
The sun was just setting when we reached the top of the hills,
and entered a thick and gloomy pine forest, which entirely covers
the mountains on the side of Old Castile. The descent soon
became so rapid and precipitous, that we were fain to dismount
from our horses and to drive them before us. Into the woods
we plunged deeper and deeper still; night-birds soon began to
hoot and cry, and millions of crickets commenced their shrill
chirping above, below, and around us. Occasionally, amidst
the trees at a distance, we could see blazes, as if from immense
fires. &ldquo;They are those of the charcoal-burners, mon
ma&icirc;tre!&rdquo; said Antonio; &ldquo;we will not go near
them, however, for they are savage people, and half
bandits. Many is the traveller whom they have robbed and
murdered in these horrid wildernesses.&rdquo;</p>

<p>It was blackest night when we arrived at the foot of the
mountains; we were still, however, amidst woods and pine forests,
which extended for leagues in every direction. &ldquo;We
shall scarcely reach Segovia to-night, mon ma&icirc;tre,&rdquo;
said Antonio. And so indeed it proved, for we became
bewildered, and at last arrived where two roads branched off in
different directions, we took not the left hand road, which would
have conducted us to Segovia, but turned to the right, in the
direction of La Granja, where we arrived at midnight.</p>

<p>We found the desolation of La Granja far greater than that of
Aranjuez; both had suffered from the absence of royalty, but the
former to a degree which was truly appalling. Nine-tenths
of the inhabitants had left this place, which, until the late
military revolution, had been the favourite residence of
Christina. So great is the solitude of La Granja, that wild
boars from the neighbouring forests, and especially from the
beautiful pine-covered mountain which rises like a cone directly
behind the palace, frequently find their way into the streets and
squares, and whet their tusks against the pillars of the
porticos.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Ride on because of the word of
righteousness.&rdquo; After a stay of twenty-four hours at
La Granja, we proceeded to Segovia. The day had arrived on
which I had appointed to meet Lopez. I repaired to the
aqueduct, and sat down beneath the hundred and seventh arch,
where I waited the greater part of the day, but he came not,
whereupon I rose and went into the city.</p>

<p>At Segovia I tarried two days in the house of a friend, still
I could hear nothing of Lopez. At last, by the greatest
chance in the world, I heard from a peasant that there were men
in the neighbourhood of Abades selling books.</p>

<p>Abades is about three leagues distant from Segovia, and upon
receiving this intelligence, I instantly departed for the former
place, with three donkeys laden with Testaments. I reached
Abades at nightfall, and found Lopez, with two peasants whom he
had engaged, in the house of the surgeon of the place, where I
also took up my residence. He had already disposed of a
considerable number of Testaments in the neighbourhood, and had
that day commenced selling at Abades itself; he had, however,
been interrupted by two of the three curas of the village, who,
with horrid curses denounced the work, threatening eternal
condemnation to Lopez for selling it, and to any person who
should purchase it; whereupon Lopez, terrified, forbore until I
should arrive. The third cura, however, exerted himself to
the utmost to persuade the people to provide themselves with
Testaments, telling them that his brethren were hypocrites and
false guides, who, by keeping them in ignorance of the word and
will of Christ, were leading them to the abyss. Upon
receiving this information, I instantly sallied forth to the
market-place, and that same night succeeded in disposing of
upwards of thirty Testaments. The next morning the house
was entered by the two factious curas, but upon my rising to
confront them, they retreated, and I heard no more of them,
except that they publicly cursed me in the church more than once,
an event which, as no ill resulted from it, gave me little
concern.</p>

<p>I will not detail the events of the next week; suffice it to
say that arranging my forces in the most advantageous way, I
succeeded, by God&rsquo;s assistance, in disposing of from five
to six hundred Testaments amongst the villages from one to seven
leagues&rsquo; distance from Abades. At the expiration of
that period I received information that my proceedings were known
in Segovia, in which province Abades is situated, and that an
order was about to be sent to the alcalde to seize all books in
my possession. Whereupon, notwithstanding that it was late
in the evening, I decamped with all my people, and upwards of
three hundred Testaments, having a few hours previously received
a fresh supply from Madrid. That night we passed in the
fields, and next morning proceeded to Labajos, a village on the
high road from Madrid to Valladolid. In this place we
offered no books for sale, but contented ourselves with supplying
the neighbouring villages with the word of God: we likewise sold
it in the highways.</p>

<p>We had not been at Labajos a week, during which time we were
remarkably successful, when the Carlist chieftain, Balmaseda, at
the head of his cavalry, made his desperate inroad into the
southern part of Old Castile, dashing down like an avalanche from
the pine-woods of Soria. I was present at all the horrors
which ensued,&mdash;the sack of Arrevalo, and the forcible entry
into Martin Mu&ntilde;oz. Amidst these terrible scenes we
continued our labours. Suddenly I lost Lopez for three
days, and suffered dreadful anxiety on his account, imagining
that he had been shot by the Carlists; at last I heard that he
was in prison at Villallos, three leagues distant. The
steps which I took to rescue him will be found detailed in a
communication, which I deemed it my duty to transmit to Lord
William Hervey, who, in the absence of Sir George Villiers, now
became Earl of Clarendon, fulfilled the duties of minister at
Madrid:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote><p style="text-align: right"><span
class="smcap">Labajos</span>, <span class="smcap">Province of
Segovia</span>,<br />
<i>August</i> 23, 1838.</p>

<p><span class="smcap">My Lord</span>,&mdash;I beg leave to call
your attention to the following facts. On the 21st inst. I
received information that a person in my employ, of the name of
Juan Lopez, had been thrown into the prison of Villallos, in the
province of Avila, by order of the cura of that place. The
crime with which he was charged was selling the New
Testament. I was at that time at Labajos, in the province
of Segovia, and the division of the factious chieftain Balmaseda
was in the immediate neighbourhood. On the 22nd, I mounted
my horse and rode to Villallos, a distance of three
leagues. On my arrival there, I found that Lopez had been
removed from the prison to a private house. An order had
arrived from the corregidor of Avila, commanding that the person
of Lopez should be set at liberty, and that the books which had
been found in his possession should be alone detained.
Nevertheless, in direct opposition to this order, (a copy of
which I herewith transmit,) the alcalde of Villallos, at the
instigation of the cura, refused to permit the said Lopez to quit
the place, either to proceed to Avila or in any other
direction. It had been hinted to Lopez that as the factious
were expected, it was intended on their arrival to denounce him
to them as a liberal, and to cause him to be sacrificed.
Taking these circumstances into consideration, I deemed it my
duty as a Christian and a gentleman, to rescue my unfortunate
servant from such lawless hands, and in consequence, defying
opposition, I bore him off, though entirely unarmed, through a
crowd of at least one hundred peasants. On leaving the
place I shouted, &ldquo;<i>Viva Isabel Segunda</i>.&rdquo;</p>

<p>As it is my belief that the cura of Villallos is a person
capable of any infamy, I beg leave humbly to intreat your
Lordship to cause a copy of the above narration to be forwarded
to the Spanish government.&mdash;I have the honour to remain, My
Lord, Your Lordship&rsquo;s most obedient,</p>
<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">George
Borrow</span>.</p>

<p>To the Right Honourable<br />
 <span class="smcap">Lord William Hervey</span>.</p>
</blockquote>

<p>After the rescue of Lopez we proceeded in the work of
distribution. Suddenly, however, the symptoms of an
approaching illness came over me, which compelled us to return in
all haste to Madrid. Arrived there, I was attacked by a
fever which confined me to my bed for several weeks; occasional
fits of delirium came over me, during one of which, I imagined
myself in the market-place of Martin Mu&ntilde;os, engaged in
deadly struggle with the chieftain Balmaseda.</p>

<p>The fever had scarcely departed, when a profound melancholy
took possession of me, which entirely disqualified me for active
exertion. Change of scene and air was recommended; I
therefore returned to England.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XLV</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Return to Spain&mdash;Seville&mdash;A Hoary
Persecutor&mdash;Manchegan Prophetess&mdash;Antonio&rsquo;s
Dream.</p>

<p>On the 31st of December, 1838, I again visited Spain for the
third time. After staying a day or two at Cadiz I repaired
to Seville, from which place I proposed starting for Madrid with
the mail post. Here I tarried about a fortnight, enjoying
the delicious climate of this terrestrial Paradise, and the balmy
breezes of the Andalusian winter, even as I had done two years
previously. Before leaving Seville, I visited the
bookseller, my correspondent, who informed me that seventy-six
copies of the hundred Testaments entrusted to his care had been
placed in embargo by the government last summer, and that they
were at the present time in the possession of the ecclesiastical
governor, whereupon I determined to visit this functionary also,
with the view of making inquiries concerning the property.</p>

<p>He lived in a large house in the Pajaria, or
straw-market. He was a very old man, between seventy and
eighty, and, like the generality of those who wear the sacerdotal
habit in this city, was a fierce persecuting Papist. I
imagine that he scarcely believed his ears when his two
grand-nephews, beautiful black-haired boys who were playing in
the courtyard, ran to inform him that an Englishman was waiting
to speak with him, as it is probable that I was the first heretic
who ever ventured into his habitation. I found him in a
vaulted room, seated on a lofty chair, with two sinister-looking
secretaries, also in sacerdotal habits, employed in writing at a
table before him. He brought powerfully to my mind the grim
old inquisitor who persuaded Philip the Second to slay his own
son as an enemy to the church.</p>

<p>He rose as I entered, and gazed upon me with a countenance
dark with suspicion and dissatisfaction. He at last
condescended to point me to a sofa, and I proceeded to state to
him my business. He became much agitated when I mentioned
the Testaments to him; but I no sooner spoke of the Bible Society
and told him who I was, than he could contain himself no longer:
with a stammering tongue, and with eyes flashing fire like hot
coals, he proceeded to rail against the society and myself,
saying that the aims of the first were atrocious, and that, as to
myself, he was surprised that, being once lodged in the prison of
Madrid, I had ever been permitted to quit it; adding, that it was
disgraceful in the government to allow a person of my character
to roam about an innocent and peaceful country, corrupting the
minds of the ignorant and unsuspicious. Far from allowing
myself to be disconcerted by his rude behaviour, I replied to him
with all possible politeness, and assured him that in this
instance he had no reason to alarm himself, as my sole motive in
claiming the books in question, was to avail myself of an
opportunity which at present presented itself, of sending them
out of the country, which, indeed, I had been commanded to do by
an official notice. But nothing would soothe him, and he
informed me that he should not deliver up the books on any
condition, save by a positive order of the government. As
the matter was by no means an affair of consequence, I thought it
wise not to persist, and also prudent to take my leave before he
requested me. I was followed even down into the street by
his niece and grand-nephews, who, during the whole of the
conversation, had listened at the door of the apartment and heard
every word.</p>

<p>In passing through La Mancha, we staid for four hours at
Manzanares, a large village. I was standing in the
market-place conversing with a curate, when a frightful ragged
object presented itself; it was a girl about eighteen or
nineteen, perfectly blind, a white film being spread over her
huge staring eyes. Her countenance was as yellow as that of
a Mulatto. I thought at first that she was a Gypsy, and
addressing myself to her, inquired in Gitano if she were of that
race; she understood me, but shaking her head, replied, that she
was something better than a Gitana, and could speak something
better than that jargon of witches; whereupon she commenced
asking me several questions in exceedingly good Latin. I
was of course very much surprised, but summoning all my Latinity,
I called her Manchegan Prophetess, and expressing my admiration
for her learning, begged to be informed by what means she became
possessed of it. I must here observe that a crowd instantly
gathered around us, who, though they understood not one word of
our discourse, at every sentence of the girl shouted applause,
proud in the possession of a prophetess who could answer the
Englishman.</p>

<p>She informed me that she was born blind, and that a Jesuit
priest had taken compassion on her when she was a child, and had
taught her the holy language, in order that the attention and
hearts of Christians might be more easily turned towards
her. I soon discovered that he had taught her something
more than Latin, for upon telling her that I was an Englishman,
she said that she had always loved Britain, which was once the
nursery of saints and sages, for example Bede and Alcuin, Columba
and Thomas of Canterbury; but she added those times had gone by
since the re-appearance of Semiramis (Elizabeth). Her Latin
was truly excellent, and when I, like a genuine Goth, spoke of
Anglia and Terra Vandalica (Andalusia), she corrected me by
saying, that in her language those places were called Britannia
and Terra Betica. When we had finished our discourse, a
gathering was made for the prophetess, the very poorest
contributing something.</p>

<p>After travelling four days and nights, we arrived at Madrid,
without having experienced the slightest accident, though it is
but just to observe, and always with gratitude to the Almighty,
that the next mail was stopped. A singular incident befell
me immediately after my arrival; on entering the arch of the
posada called La Reyna, where I intended to put up, I found
myself encircled in a person&rsquo;s arms, and on turning round
in amazement, beheld my Greek servant, Antonio. He was
haggard and ill-dressed, and his eyes seemed starting from their
sockets.</p>

<p>As soon as we were alone he informed that since my departure
he had undergone great misery and destitution, having, during the
whole period, been unable to find a master in need of his
services, so that he was brought nearly to the verge of
desperation; but that on the night immediately preceding my
arrival he had a dream, in which he saw me, mounted on a black
horse, ride up to the gate of the posada, and that on that
account he had been waiting there during the greater part of the
day. I do not pretend to offer an opinion concerning this
narrative, which is beyond the reach of my philosophy, and shall
content myself with observing that only two individuals in Madrid
were aware of my arrival in Spain. I was very glad to
receive him again into my service, as, notwithstanding his
faults, he had in many instances proved of no slight assistance
to me in my wanderings and biblical labours.</p>

<p>I was soon settled in my former lodgings, when one my first
cares was to pay a visit to Lord Clarendon. Amongst other
things, he informed me that he had received an official notice
from the government, stating the seizure of the New Testaments at
Oca&ntilde;a, the circumstances relating to which I have
described on a former occasion, and informing him that unless
steps were instantly taken to remove them from the country, they
would be destroyed at Toledo, to which place they had been
conveyed. I replied that I should give myself no trouble
about the matter; and that if the authorities of Toledo, civil or
ecclesiastic, determined upon burning these books, my only hope
was that they would commit them to the flames with all possible
publicity, as by so doing they would but manifest their own
hellish rancour and their hostility to the word of God.</p>

<p>Being eager to resume my labours, I had no sooner arrived at
Madrid than I wrote to Lopez at Villa Seca, for the purpose of
learning whether he was inclined to co-operate in the work, as on
former occasions. In reply, he informed me that he was
busily employed in his agricultural pursuits: to supply his
place, however, he sent over an elderly villager, Victoriano
Lopez by name, a distant relation of his own.</p>

<p>What is a missionary in the heart of Spain without a
horse? Which consideration induced me now to purchase an
Arabian of high caste, which had been brought from Algiers by an
officer of the French legion. The name of this steed, the
best I believe that ever issued from the desert, was Sidi
Habismilk.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XLVI</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Work of Distribution resumed&mdash;Adventure
at Cobenna&mdash;Power of the Clergy&mdash;Rural
Authorities&mdash;Fuente la Higuera&mdash;Victoriano&rsquo;s
Mishap&mdash;Village Prison&mdash;The Rope&mdash;Antonio&rsquo;s
Errand&mdash;Antonio at Mass.</p>

<p>In my last chapter, I stated that, immediately after my
arrival at Madrid, I proceeded to get everything in readiness for
commencing operations in the neighbourhood; and I soon entered
upon my labours in reality. Considerable success attended
my feeble efforts in the good cause, for which at present, after
the lapse of some years, I still look back with gratitude to the
Almighty.</p>

<p>All the villages within the distance of four leagues to the
east of Madrid, were visited in less than a fortnight, and
Testaments to the number of nearly two hundred disposed of.
These villages for the most part are very small, some of them
consisting of not more than a dozen houses, or I should rather
say miserable cabins. I left Antonio, my Greek, to
superintend matters in Madrid, and proceeded with Victoriano, the
peasant from Villa Seca, in the direction which I have already
mentioned. We, however, soon parted company, and pursued
different routes.</p>

<p>The first village at which I made an attempt was Cobenna,
about three leagues from Madrid. I was dressed in the
fashion of the peasants in the neighbourhood of Segovia, in Old
Castile; namely, I had on my head a species of leather helmet or
montera, with a jacket and trousers of the same material. I
had the appearance of a person between sixty and seventy years of
age, and drove before me a borrico with a sack of Testaments
lying across its back. On nearing the village, I met a
genteel-looking young woman leading a little boy by the hand: as
I was about to pass her with the customary salutation of <i>vaya
usted con Dios</i>, she stopped, and after looking at me for a
moment, she said: &ldquo;Uncle (<i>Tio</i>), what is that you
have got on your borrico? Is it soap?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; I replied: &ldquo;it is soap to wash souls
clean.&rdquo;</p>

<p>She demanded what I meant; whereupon I told her that I carried
cheap and godly books for sale. On her requesting to see
one, I produced a copy from my pocket and handed it to her.
She instantly commenced reading with a loud voice, and continued
so for at least ten minutes, occasionally exclaiming:
&ldquo;<i>Que lectura tan bonita</i>, <i>que lectura tan
linda</i>! What beautiful, what charming
readings!&rdquo; At last, on my informing her that I was in
a hurry, and could not wait any longer, she said, &ldquo;true,
true,&rdquo; and asked me the price of the book: I told her
&ldquo;but three reals,&rdquo; whereupon she said, that though
what I asked was very little, it was more than she could afford
to give, as there was little or no money in those parts. I
said I was sorry for it, but that I could not dispose of the
books for less than I had demanded, and accordingly, resuming it,
wished her farewell, and left her. I had not, however,
proceeded thirty yards, when the boy came running behind me,
shouting, out of breath: &ldquo;Stop, uncle, the book, the
book!&rdquo; Upon overtaking me, he delivered the three
reals in copper, and seizing the Testament, ran back to her, who
I suppose was his sister, flourishing the book over his head with
great glee.</p>

<p>On arriving at the village, I directed my steps to a house,
around the door of which I saw several people gathered, chiefly
women. On my displaying my books, their curiosity was
instantly aroused, and every person had speedily one in his hand,
many reading aloud; however, after waiting nearly an hour, I had
disposed of but one copy, all complaining bitterly of the
distress of the times, and the almost total want of money,
though, at the same time, they acknowledged that the books were
wonderfully cheap, and appeared to be very good and
Christian-like. I was about to gather up my merchandise and
depart, when on a sudden the curate of the place made his
appearance. After having examined the book for some time
with considerable attention, he asked me the price of a copy, and
upon my informing him that it was three reals, he replied that
the binding was worth more, and that he was much afraid that I
had stolen the books, and that it was perhaps his duty to send me
to prison as a suspicious character; but added, that the books
were good books, however they might be obtained, and concluded by
purchasing two copies. The poor people no sooner heard
their curate recommend the volumes, than all were eager to secure
one, and hurried here and there for the purpose of procuring
money, so that between twenty and thirty copies were sold almost
in an instant. This adventure not only affords an instance
of the power still possessed by the Spanish clergy over the minds
of the people, but proves that such influence is not always
exerted in a manner favourable to the maintenance of ignorance
and superstition.</p>

<p>In another village, on my showing a Testament to a woman, she
said that she had a child at school for whom she would like to
purchase one, but that she must first know whether the book was
calculated to be of service to him. She then went away, and
presently returned with the schoolmaster, followed by all the
children under his care; she then, showing the schoolmaster a
book, inquired if it would answer for her son. The
schoolmaster called her a simpleton for asking such a question,
and said that he knew the book well, and there was not its equal
in the world (<i>no hay otro en el mundo</i>). He instantly
purchased five copies for his pupils, regretting that he had no
more money, &ldquo;for if I had,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I would
buy the whole cargo.&rdquo; Upon hearing this, the woman
purchased four copies, namely, one for her living son, another
for her <i>deceased husband</i>, a third for herself, and a
fourth for her brother, whom she said she was expecting home that
night from Madrid.</p>

<p>In this manner we proceeded; not, however, with uniform
success. In some villages the people were so poor and
needy, that they had literally no money; even in these, however,
we managed to dispose of a few copies in exchange for barley or
refreshments. On entering one very small hamlet, Victoriano
was stopped by the curate, who, on learning what he carried, told
him that unless he instantly departed, he would cause him to be
imprisoned, and would write to Madrid in order to give
information of what was going on. The excursion lasted
about eight days. Immediately after my return, I dispatched
Victoriano to Caramanchal, a village at a short distance from
Madrid, the only one towards the west which had not been visited
last year. He staid there about an hour, and disposed of
twelve copies, and then returned, as he was exceedingly timid,
and was afraid of being met by the thieves who swarm on that road
in the evening.</p>

<p>Shortly after these events, a circumstance occurred which will
perhaps cause the English reader to smile, whilst, at the same
time, it will not fail to prove interesting, as affording an
example of the feeling prevalent in some of the lone villages of
Spain with respect to innovation and all that savours thereof,
and the strange acts which are sometimes committed by the real
authorities and the priests, without the slightest fear of being
called to account; for as they live quite apart <a
name="citation403"></a><a href="#footnote403"
class="citation">[403]</a> from the rest of the world, they know
no people greater than themselves, and scarcely dream of a higher
power than their own.</p>

<p>I was about to make an excursion to Guadalajara, and the
villages of Alcarria, about seven leagues distant from Madrid;
indeed I merely awaited the return of Victoriano to sally forth;
I having dispatched him in that direction with a few Testaments,
as a kind of explorer, in order that, from his report as to the
disposition manifested by the people for purchasing, I might form
a tolerably accurate opinion as to the number of copies which it
might be necessary to carry with me. However, I heard
nothing of him for a fortnight, at the end of which period a
letter was brought to me by a peasant, dated from the prison of
Fuente la Higuera, a village eight leagues from Madrid, in the
Campi&ntilde;a of Alcala: this letter, written, by Victoriano,
gave me to understand that he had been already eight days
imprisoned, and that unless I could find some means to extricate
him, there was every probability of his remaining in durance
until he should perish with hunger, which he had no doubt would
occur as soon as his money was exhausted. From what I
afterwards learned, it appeared that, after passing the town of
Alcala, he had commenced distributing, and with considerable
success. His entire stock consisted of sixty-one
Testaments, twenty-five of which he sold without the slightest
difficulty or interruption in the single village of Arganza; the
poor labourers showering blessings on his head for providing them
with such good books at an easy price.</p>

<p>Not more than eighteen of his books remained, when he turned
off the high road towards Fuente la Higuera. This place was
already tolerably well known to him, he having visited it of old,
when he travelled the country in the capacity of a vendor of
cacharras or earthen pans. He subsequently stated that he
felt some misgiving whilst on the way, as the village had
invariably borne a bad reputation. On his arrival, after
having put up his cavallejo or little pony at a posada, he
proceeded to the alcalde for the purpose of asking permission to
sell the books, which that dignitary immediately granted.
He now entered a house and sold a copy, and likewise a
second. Emboldened by success, he entered a third, which,
it appeared, belonged to the barber-surgeon of the village.
This personage having just completed his dinner, was seated in an
arm chair within his doorway, when Victoriano made his
appearance. He was a man about thirty-five, of a savage
truculent countenance. On Victoriano&rsquo;s offering him a
Testament, he took it in his hand to examine it, but no sooner
did his eyes glance over the title-page than he burst out into a
loud laugh, exclaiming:&mdash;&ldquo;Ha, ha, Don Jorge Borrow,
the English heretic, we have encountered you at last. Glory
to the Virgin and the Saints! We have long been expecting
you here, and at length you are arrived.&rdquo; He then
inquired the price of the book, and on being told three reals, he
flung down two, and rushed out of the house with the Testament in
his hand.</p>

<p>Victoriano now became alarmed, and determined upon leaving the
place as soon as possible. He therefore hurried back to the
posada, and having paid for the barley which his pony had
consumed, went into the stable, and placing the packsaddle on the
animal&rsquo;s back, was about to lead it forth, when the alcalde
of the village, the surgeon, and twelve other men, some of whom
were armed with muskets, suddenly presented themselves.
They instantly made Victoriano prisoner, and after seizing the
books and laying an embargo on the pony, proceeded amidst much
abuse to drag the captive to what they denominated their prison,
a low damp apartment with a little grated window, where they
locked him up and left him. At the expiration of three
quarters of an hour, they again appeared, and conducted him to
the house of the curate, where they sat down in conclave; the
curate, who was a man stone blind, presiding, whilst the
sacristan officiated as secretary. The surgeon having
stated his accusation against the prisoner, namely, that he had
detected him in the fact of selling a version of the Scriptures
in the vulgar tongue, the curate proceeded to examine Victoriano,
asking him his name and place of residence, to which he replied
that his name was Victoriano Lopez, and that he was a native of
Villa Seca, in the Sagra of Toledo. The curate then
demanded what religion he professed? and whether he was a
Mohometan, or freemason? and received for answer that he was a
Roman Catholic. I must here state, that Victoriano, though
sufficiently shrewd in his way, was a poor old labourer of
sixty-four; and until that moment had never heard either of
Mahometans or freemasons. The curate becoming now incensed,
called him a <i>tunante</i> or scoundrel, and added, you have
sold your soul to a heretic; we have long been aware of your
proceedings, and those of your master. You are the same
Lopez, whom he last year rescued from the prison of Villallos, in
the province of Avila; I sincerely hope that he will attempt to
do the same thing here. &ldquo;Yes, yes,&rdquo; shouted the
rest of the conclave, &ldquo;let him but venture here, and we
will shed his heart&rsquo;s blood on our stones.&rdquo; In
this manner they went on for nearly half an hour. At last
they broke up the meeting, and conducted Victoriano once more to
his prison.</p>

<p>During his confinement he lived tolerably well, being in
possession of money. His meals were sent him twice a day
from the posada, where his pony remained in embargo. Once
or twice he asked permission of the alcalde, who visited him
every night and morning with his armed guard, to purchase pen and
paper, in order that he might write to Madrid; but this favour
was peremptorily refused him, and all the inhabitants of the
village were forbidden under terrible penalties to afford him the
means of writing, or to convey any message from him beyond the
precincts of the place, and two boys were stationed before the
window of his cell for the purpose of watching everything which
might be conveyed to him.</p>

<p>It happened one day that Victoriano, being in need of a
pillow, sent word to the people of the posada to send him his
alforjas or saddlebags, which they did. In these bags there
chanced to be a kind of rope, or, as it is called in Spanish,
<i>soga</i>, with which he was in the habit of fastening his
satchel to the pony&rsquo;s back. The urchins seeing an end
of this rope, hanging from the alforjas, instantly ran to the
alcalde to give him information. Late at evening, the
alcalde again visited the prisoner at the head of his twelve men
as usual. &ldquo;<i>Buenas noches</i>,&rdquo; said the
alcalde. &ldquo;<i>Buenas noches tenga usted</i>,&rdquo;
replied Victoriano. &ldquo;For what purpose did you send
for the soga this afternoon?&rdquo; demanded the
functionary. &ldquo;I sent for no soga,&rdquo; said the
prisoner, &ldquo;I sent for my alforjas to serve as a pillow, and
it was sent in them by chance.&rdquo; &ldquo;You are a
false malicious knave,&rdquo; retorted the alcalde; &ldquo;you
intend to hang yourself, and by so doing ruin us all, as your
death would be laid at our door. Give me the
soga.&rdquo; No greater insult can be offered to a Spaniard
than to tax him with an intention of committing suicide.
Poor Victoriano flew into a violent rage, and after calling the
alcalde several very uncivil names, he pulled the soga from his
bags, flung it at his head, and told him to take it home and use
it for his own neck.</p>

<p>At length the people of the posada took pity on the prisoner,
perceiving that he was very harshly treated for no crime at all;
they therefore determined to afford him an opportunity of
informing his friends of his situation, and accordingly sent him
a pen and inkhorn, concealed in a loaf of bread, and a piece of
writing paper, pretending that the latter was intended for
cigars. So Victoriano wrote the letter; but now ensued the
difficulty of sending it to its destination, as no person in the
village dare have carried it for any reward. The good
people, however, persuaded a disbanded soldier from another
village, who chanced to be at Fuente la Higuera in quest of work,
to charge himself with it, assuring him that I would pay him well
for his trouble. The man, watching his opportunity,
received the letter from Victoriano at the window: and it was he
who, after travelling on foot all night, delivered it to me in
safety at Madrid.</p>

<p>I was now relieved from my anxiety, and had no fears for the
result. I instantly went to a friend who is in possession
of large estates about Guadalajara, in which province Fuente la
Higuera is situated, who furnished me with letters to the civil
governor of Guadalajara and all the principal authorities; these
I delivered to Antonio, whom, at his own request, I despatched on
the errand of the prisoner&rsquo;s liberation. He first
directed his course to Fuente la Higuera, where, entering the
alcalde&rsquo;s house, he boldly told him what he had come
about. The alcalde expecting that I was at hand, with an
army of Englishmen, for the purpose of rescuing the prisoner,
became greatly alarmed, and instantly despatched his wife to
summon his twelve men; however, on Antonio&rsquo;s assuring him
that there was no intention of having recourse to violence, he
became more tranquil. In a short time Antonio was summoned
before the conclave and its blind sacerdotal president.
They at first attempted to frighten him by assuming a loud
bullying tone, and talking of the necessity of killing all
strangers, and especially the detested Don Jorge and his
dependents. Antonio, however, who was not a person apt to
allow himself to be easily terrified, scoffed at their threats,
and showing them his letters to the authorities of Guadalajara,
said that he should proceed there on the morrow and denounce
their lawless conduct, adding that he was a Turkish subject, and
that should they dare to offer him the slightest incivility, he
would write to the sublime Porte, in comparison with whom the
best kings in the world were but worms, and who would not fail to
avenge the wrongs of any of his children, however distant, in a
manner too terrible to be mentioned. He then returned to
his posada. The conclave now proceeded to deliberate
amongst themselves, and at last determined to send their prisoner
on the morrow to Guadalajara, and deliver him into the hands of
the civil governor.</p>

<p>Nevertheless, in order to keep up a semblance of authority,
they that night placed two men armed at the door of the posada
where Antonio was lodged, as if he himself were a prisoner.
These men, as often as the clock struck the hour, shouted
&ldquo;Ave Maria! Death to the heretics.&rdquo; Early
in the morning the alcalde presented himself at the posada, but
before entering he made an oration at the door to the people in
the street, saying, amongst other things, &ldquo;Brethren, these
are the fellows who have come to rob us of our
religion.&rdquo; He then went into Antonio&rsquo;s
apartment, and after saluting him with great politeness, said,
that as a royal or high mass was about to be celebrated that
morning, he had come to invite him to go to church with
him. Whereupon Antonio, though by no means a mass-goer,
rose and accompanied him, and remained two hours, as he told me,
on his knees on the cold stones, to his great discomfort; the
eyes of the whole congregation being fixed upon him during the
time.</p>

<p>After mass and breakfast, he departed for Guadalajara,
Victoriano having been already despatched under a guard. On
his arrival, he presented his letters to the individuals for whom
they were intended. The civil governor was convulsed with
merriment on hearing Antonio&rsquo;s account of the
adventure. Victoriano was set at liberty, and the books
were placed in embargo at Guadalajara; the governor stating,
however, that though it was his duty to detain them at present,
they should be sent to me whenever I chose to claim them; he
moreover said that he would do his best to cause the authorities
of Fuente la Higuera to be severely punished, as in the whole
affair they had acted in the most cruel tyrannical manner, for
which they had no authority. Thus terminated this affair,
one of those little accidents which chequer missionary life in
Spain.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XLVII</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Termination of our Rural Labours&mdash;Alarm
of the Clergy&mdash;A New Experiment&mdash;Success at
Madrid&mdash;Goblin-Alguazil&mdash;Staff of Office&mdash;The
Corregidor&mdash;An Explanation&mdash;The Pope in
England&mdash;New Testament expounded&mdash;Works of Luther.</p>

<p>We proceeded in our task of distributing the Scriptures with
various success, until the middle of March, when I determined
upon starting for Talavera, for the purpose of seeing what it was
possible to accomplish in that town and the neighbourhood.
I accordingly bent my course in that direction, accompanied by
Antonio and Victoriano. On our way thither we stopped at
Naval Carnero, a large village five leagues to the west of
Madrid, where I remained three days, sending forth Victoriano to
the circumjacent hamlets with small cargoes of Testaments.
Providence, however, which had hitherto so remarkably favoured us
in these rural excursions, now withdrew from us its support, and
brought them to a sudden termination; for in whatever place the
sacred writings were offered for sale, they were forthwith seized
by persons who appeared to be upon the watch; which events
compelled me to alter my intention of proceeding to Talavera and
to return forthwith to Madrid.</p>

<p>I subsequently learned that our proceedings on the other side
of Madrid having caused alarm amongst the heads of the clergy,
they had made a formal complaint to the government, who
immediately sent orders to all the alcaldes of the villages,
great and small, in New Castile, to seize the New Testament
wherever it might be exposed for sale; but at the same time
enjoining them to be particularly careful not to detain or
maltreat the person or persons who might be attempting to vend
it. An exact description of myself accompanied these
orders, and the authorities both civil and military were exhorted
to be on their guard against me and my arts and machinations;
for, I as the document stated, was to-day in one place, and
to-morrow at twenty leagues&rsquo; distance.</p>

<p>I was not much discouraged by this blow, which indeed did not
come entirely unexpected. I, however, determined to change
the sphere of action, and not expose the sacred volume to seizure
at every step which I should take to circulate it. In my
late attempts, I had directed my attention exclusively to the
villages and small towns, in which it was quite easy for the
government to frustrate my efforts by means of circulars to the
local authorities, who would of course be on the alert, and whose
vigilance it would be impossible to baffle as every novelty which
occurs in a small place is forthwith bruited about. But the
case would be widely different amongst the crowds of the capital,
where I could pursue my labours with comparative secrecy.
My present plan was to abandon the rural districts, and to offer
the sacred volume at Madrid, from house to house, at the same low
price as in the country. This plan I forthwith put into
execution.</p>

<p>Having an extensive acquaintance amongst the lower orders, I
selected eight intelligent individuals to co-operate with me,
amongst whom were five women. All these I supplied with
Testaments, and then sent them forth to all the parishes in
Madrid. The result of their efforts more than answered my
expectations. In less than fifteen days after my return
from Naval Carnero, nearly six hundred copies of the life and
words of Him of Nazareth had been sold in the streets and alleys
of Madrid; a fact which I hope I may be permitted to mention with
gladness and with decent triumph in the Lord.</p>

<p>One of the richest streets is the Calle Montera, where reside
the principal merchants and shopkeepers of Madrid. It is,
in fact, the street of commerce, in which respect, and in being a
favourite promenade, it corresponds with the far-famed
&ldquo;Nefsky&rdquo; of Saint Petersburg. Every house in
this street was supplied with its Testament, and the same might
be said with respect to the Puerto del Sol. Nay, in some
instances, every individual in the house, man and child,
man-servant and maid-servant, was furnished with a copy. My
Greek, Antonio, made wonderful exertions in this quarter; and it
is but justice to say that, but for his instrumentality, on many
occasions, I might have been by no means able to give so
favourable an account of the spread of &ldquo;the Bible in
Spain.&rdquo; There was a time when I was in the habit of
saying &ldquo;dark Madrid,&rdquo; an expression which, I thank
God, I could now drop. It were scarcely just to call a
city, &ldquo;dark,&rdquo; in which thirteen hundred Testaments at
least were in circulation, and in daily use.</p>

<p>It was now that I turned to account a supply of Bibles which I
had received from Barcelona, in sheets, at the commencement of
the preceding year. The demand for the entire Scriptures
was great; indeed far greater than I could answer, as the books
were disposed of faster than they could be bound by the man whom
I employed for that purpose. Eight-and-twenty copies were
bespoken and paid for before delivery. Many of these Bibles
found their way into the best houses in Madrid. The Marquis
of --- had a large family, but every individual of it, old and
young, was in possession of a Bible, and likewise a Testament,
which, strange to say, were recommended by the chaplain of the
house. One of my most zealous agents in the propagation of
the Bible was an ecclesiastic. He never walked out without
carrying one beneath his gown, which he offered to the first
person he met whom he thought likely to purchase. Another
excellent assistant was an elderly gentleman of Navarre,
enormously rich, who was continually purchasing copies on his own
account, which he, as I was told, sent into his native province,
for distribution amongst his friends and the poor.</p>

<p>On a certain night I had retired to rest rather more early
than usual, being slightly indisposed. I soon fell asleep,
and had continued so for some hours, when I was suddenly aroused
by the opening of the door of the small apartment in which I
lay. I started up, and beheld Maria Diaz, with a lamp in
her hand, enter the room. I observed that her features,
which were in general peculiarly calm and placid, wore a somewhat
startled expression. &ldquo;What is the hour, and what
brings you here?&rdquo; I demanded.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Se&ntilde;or,&rdquo; said she, closing the door, and
coming up to the bedside. &ldquo;It is close upon midnight;
but a messenger belonging to the police has just entered the
house and demanded to see you. I told him that it was
impossible, for that your worship was in bed. Whereupon he
sneezed in my face, and said that he would see you if you were in
your coffin. He has all the look of a goblin, and has
thrown me into a tremor. I am far from being a timid
person, as you are aware, Don Jorge; but I confess that I never
cast my eyes on these wretches of the police, but my heart dies
away within me! I know them but too well, and what they are
capable of.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Pooh,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;be under no apprehension,
let him come in, I fear him not, whether he be alguazil or
hobgoblin. Stand, however, at the doorway, that you may be
a witness of what takes place, as it is more than probable that
he comes at this unreasonable hour to create a disturbance, that
he may have an opportunity of making an unfavourable report to
his principals, like the fellow on the former
occasion.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The hostess left the apartment, and I heard her say a word or
two to some one in the passage, whereupon there was a loud
sneeze, and in a moment after a singular figure appeared at the
doorway. It was that of a very old man, with long white
hair, which escaped from beneath the eaves of an exceedingly
high-peaked hat. He stooped considerably, and moved along
with a shambling gait. I could not see much of his face,
which, as the landlady stood behind him with the lamp, was
consequently in deep shadow. I could observe, however, that
his eyes sparkled like those of a ferret. He advanced to
the foot of the bed, in which I was still lying, wondering what
this strange visit could mean; and there he stood gazing at me
for a minute, at least, without uttering a syllable.
Suddenly, however, he protruded a spare skinny hand from the
cloak in which it had hitherto been enveloped, and pointed with a
short staff, tipped with metal, in the direction of my face, as
it he were commencing an exorcism. He appeared to be about
to speak, but his words, if he intended any, were stifled in
their birth by a sudden sternutation which escaped him, and which
was so violent that the hostess started back, exclaiming,
&ldquo;Ave Maria purissima!&rdquo; and nearly dropped the lamp in
her alarm.</p>

<p>&ldquo;My good person,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;what do you mean
by this foolish hobgoblinry? If you have anything to
communicate do so at once, and go about your business. I am
unwell, and you are depriving me of my repose.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;By the virtue of this staff,&rdquo; said the old man,
&ldquo;and the authority which it gives me to do and say that
which is convenient, I do command, order, and summon you to
appear to-morrow, at the eleventh hour at the office of my lord
the corregidor of this village of Madrid, in order that, standing
before him humbly, and with befitting reverence, you may listen
to whatever he may have to say, or if necessary, may yield
yourself up to receive the castigation of any crimes which you
may have committed, whether trivial or enormous.
<i>Tenez</i>, <i>compere</i>,&rdquo; he added, in most villainous
French, &ldquo;<i>voila mon affaire</i>; <i>voila ce que je viens
vous dire</i>.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Thereupon he glared at me for a moment, nodded his head twice,
and replacing his staff beneath is cloak, shambled out of the
room, and with a valedictory sneeze in the passage left the
house.</p>

<p>Precisely at eleven on the following day, I attended at the
office of the corregidor. He was not the individual whose
anger I had incurred on a former occasion, and who had thought
proper to imprison me, but another person, I believe a Catalan,
whose name I have also forgotten. Indeed, these civil
employments were at this period given to-day and taken away
to-morrow, so that the person who held one of them for a month
might consider himself a functionary of long standing. I
was not kept waiting a moment, but as soon as I had announced
myself, was forthwith ushered into the presence of the
corregidor, a good-looking, portly, and well-dressed personage,
seemingly about fifty. He was writing at a desk when I
entered, but almost immediately arose and came towards me.
He looked me full in the face, and I, nothing abashed, kept my
eyes fixed upon his. He had, perhaps, expected a less
independent bearing, and that I should have quaked and crouched
before him; but now, conceiving himself bearded in his own den,
his old Spanish leaven was forthwith stirred up. He plucked
his whiskers fiercely. &ldquo;Escuchad,&rdquo; said he,
casting upon me a ferocious glance, &ldquo;I wish to ask you a
question.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Before I answer any question of your excellency,&rdquo;
said I, &ldquo;I shall take the liberty of putting one
myself. What law or reason is there that I, a peaceable
individual and a foreigner, should have my rest disturbed by
<i>duendes</i> and hobgoblins sent at midnight to summon me to
appear at public offices like a criminal?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;You do not speak the truth,&rdquo; shouted the
corregidor; &ldquo;the person sent to summon you was neither
duende nor hobgoblin, but one of the most ancient and respectable
officers of this casa, and so far from being dispatched at
midnight, it wanted twenty-five minutes to that hour by my own
watch when he left this office, and as your lodging is not
distant, he must have arrived there at least ten minutes before
midnight, so that you are by no means accurate, and are found
wanting in regard to truth.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;A distinction without a difference,&rdquo; I
replied. &ldquo;For my own part, if I am to be disturbed in
my sleep, it is of little consequence whether at midnight or ten
minutes before that time; and with respect to your messenger,
although he might not be a hobgoblin, he had all the appearance
of one, and assuredly answered the purpose, by frightening the
woman of the house almost into fits by his hideous grimaces and
sneezing convulsions.&rdquo;</p>

<p><i>Corregidor</i>.&mdash;You are a&mdash;I know not
what. Do you know that I have the power to imprison
you?</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;You have twenty alguazils at your beck
and call, and have of course the power, and so had your
predecessor, who nearly lost his situation by imprisoning me; but
you know full well that you have not the right, as I am not under
your jurisdiction, but that of the captain-general. If I
have obeyed your summons, it was simply because I had a curiosity
to know what you wanted with me, and from no other motive
whatever. As for imprisoning me, I beg leave to assure you,
that you have my full consent to do so; the most polite society
in Madrid is to be found in the prison, and as I am at present
compiling a vocabulary of the language of the Madrilenian
thieves, I should have, in being imprisoned, an excellent
opportunity of completing it. There is much to be learnt
even in the prison, for, as the Gypsies say, &ldquo;The dog that
trots about finds a bone.&rdquo;</p>

<p><i>Corregidor</i>.&mdash;Your words are not those of a
Caballero. Do you forget where you are, and in whose
presence? Is this a fitting place to talk of thieves and
Gypsies in?</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Really I know of no place more fitting,
unless it be the prison. But we are wasting time, and I am
anxious to know for what I have been summoned; whether for crimes
trivial or enormous, as the messenger said.</p>

<p>It was a long time before I could obtain the required
information from the incensed corregidor; at last, however, it
came. It appeared that a box of Testaments, which I had
despatched to Naval Carnero, had been seized by the local
authorities, and having been detained there for some time, was at
last sent back to Madrid, intended as it now appeared, for the
hands of the corregidor. One day as it was lying at the
waggon-office, Antonio chanced to enter on some business of his
own and recognised the box, which he instantly claimed as my
property, and having paid the carriage, removed it to my
warehouse. He had considered the matter as of so little
importance, that he had not as yet mentioned it to me. The
poor corregidor, however, had no doubt that it was a deep-laid
scheme to plunder and insult him. And now, working himself
up into almost a frenzy of excitement, he stamped on the ground,
exclaiming, &ldquo;<i>Que picardia</i>! <i>Que
infamia</i>!&rdquo;</p>

<p>The old system, thought I, of prejudging people and imputing
to them motives and actions of which they never dreamed. I
then told him frankly that I was entirely ignorant of the
circumstance by which he had felt himself aggrieved; but that if
upon inquiry I found that the chest had actually been removed by
my servant from the office to which it had been forwarded, I
would cause it forthwith to be restored, although it was my own
property. &ldquo;I have plenty more Testaments,&rdquo; said
I, &ldquo;and can afford to lose fifty or a hundred. I am a
man of peace, and wish not to have any dispute with the
authorities for the sake of an old chest and a cargo of books,
whose united value would scarcely amount to forty
dollars.&rdquo;</p>

<p>He looked at me for a moment, as if in doubt of my sincerity,
then, again plucking his whiskers, he forthwith proceeded to
attack me in another quarter: &ldquo;<i>Pero que infamia</i>,
<i>que picardia</i>! to come into Spain for the purpose of
overturning the religion of the country. What would you say
if the Spaniards were to go to England and attempt to overturn
the Lutheranism established there?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;They would be most heartily welcome,&rdquo; I replied;
&ldquo;more especially if they would attempt to do so by
circulating the Bible, the book of Christians, even as the
English are doing in Spain. But your excellency is not
perhaps aware that the Pope has a fair field and fair play in
England, and is permitted to make as many converts from
Lutheranism every day in the week as are disposed to go over to
him. He cannot boast, however, of much success; the people
are too fond of light to embrace darkness, and would smile at the
idea of exchanging their gospel privileges for the superstitious
ceremonies and observances of the church of Rome.&rdquo;</p>

<p>On my repeating my promise that the books and chest should be
forthwith restored, the corregidor declared himself satisfied,
and all of a sudden became excessively polite and condescending:
he even went so far as to say that he left it entirely with
myself, whether to return the books or not; &ldquo;and,&rdquo;
continued he, &ldquo;before you go, I wish to tell you that my
private opinion is, that it is highly advisable in all countries
to allow full and perfect tolerance in religious matters, and to
permit every religious system to stand or fall according to its
own merits.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Such were the concluding words of the corregidor of Madrid,
which, whether they expressed his private opinion or not, were
certainly grounded on sense and reason. I saluted him
respectfully and retired, and forthwith performed my promise with
regard to the books; and thus terminated this affair.</p>

<p>It almost appeared to me at this time, that a religious reform
was commencing in Spain; indeed, matters had of late come to my
knowledge, which, had they been prophesied only a year before, I
should have experienced much difficulty in believing.</p>

<p>The reader will be surprised when I state that in two churches
of Madrid the New Testament was regularly expounded every Sunday
evening by the respective curates, to about twenty children who
attended, and who were all provided with copies of the
Society&rsquo;s edition of Madrid, 1837. The churches which
I allude to, were those of San Gines and Santo Cruz. Now I
humbly conceive that this fact alone is more than equivalent to
all the expense which the Society had incurred in the efforts
which it had been making to introduce the Gospel into Spain; but
be this as it may, I am certain that it amply recompensed me for
all the anxiety and unhappiness which I had undergone. I
now felt that whenever I should be compelled to discontinue my
labours in the Peninsula, I should retire without the slightest
murmur, my heart being filled with gratitude to the Lord for
having permitted me, useless vessel as I was, to see at least
some of the seed springing up, which during two years I had been
casting on the stony ground of the interior of Spain.</p>

<p>When I recollected the difficulties which had encompassed our
path, I could sometimes hardly credit all that the Almighty had
permitted us to accomplish within the last year. A large
edition of the New Testament had been almost entirely disposed of
in the very centre of Spain, in spite of the opposition and the
furious cry of the sanguinary priesthood and the edicts of a
deceitful government, and a spirit of religious inquiry excited,
which I had fervent hope would sooner or later lead to blessed
and most important results. Till of late the name most
abhorred and dreaded in these parts of Spain, was that of Martin
Luther, who was in general considered as a species of demon, a
cousin-german to Belial and Beelzebub, who, under the guise of a
man, wrote and preached blasphemy against the Highest; yet, now
strange to say, this once abominated personage was spoken of with
no slight degree of respect. People with Bibles in their
hands not unfrequently visited me, inquiring with much
earnestness, and with no slight degree of simplicity, for the
writings of the great Doctor Martin, whom, indeed, some supposed
to be still alive.</p>

<p>It will be as well here to observe, that of all the names
connected with the Reformation, that of Luther is the only one
known in Spain; and let me add, that no controversial writings
but his are likely to be esteemed as possessing the slightest
weight or authority, however great their intrinsic merit may
be. The common description of tracts, written with the view
of exposing the errors of popery, are therefore not calculated to
prove of much benefit in Spain, though it is probable that much
good might be accomplished by well-executed translations of
judicious selections from the works of Luther.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XLVIII</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Projected Journey&mdash;A Scene of
Blood&mdash;The Friar&mdash;Seville&mdash;Beauties of
Seville&mdash;Orange Trees and Flowers&mdash;Murillo&mdash;The
Guardian Angel&mdash;Dionysius&mdash;My Coadjutors&mdash;Demand
for the Bible.</p>

<p>By the middle of April I had sold as many Testaments as I
thought Madrid would bear; I therefore called in my people, for I
was afraid to overstock the market, and to bring the book into
contempt by making it too common. I had, indeed, by this
time, barely a thousand copies remaining of the edition which I
had printed two years previously; and with respect to Bibles,
every copy was by this time disposed of, though there was still a
great demand for them, which, of course, I was unable to
satisfy.</p>

<p>With the remaining copies of the Testament, I now determined
to betake myself to Seville, where little had hitherto been
effected in the way of circulation: my preparations were soon
made. The roads were at this time in a highly dangerous
state, on which account I thought to go along with a convoy,
which was about to start for Andalusia. Two days, however,
before its departure, understanding that the number of people who
likewise proposed to avail themselves of it was likely to be very
great, and reflecting on the slowness of this way of travelling,
and moreover the insults to which civilians were frequently
subjected from the soldiers and petty officers, I determined to
risk the journey with the mail. This resolutions I carried
into effect. Antonio, whom I had resolved to take with me,
and my two horses, departed with the convoy, whilst in a few days
I followed with the mail courier. We travelled all the way
without the slightest accident, my usual wonderful good fortune
accompanying us. I might well call it wonderful, for I was
running into the den of the lion; the whole of La Mancha, with
the exception of a few fortified places, being once more in the
hands of Palillos and his banditti, who, whenever it pleased
them, stopped the courier, burnt the vehicle and letters,
murdered the paltry escort, and carried away any chance passenger
to the mountains, where an enormous ransom was demanded, the
alternative being four shots through the head, as the Spaniards
say.</p>

<p>The upper part of Andalusia was becoming rapidly nearly as bad
as La Mancha. The last time the mail had passed, it was
attacked at the defile of La Rumblar by six mounted robbers; it
was guarded by an escort of as many soldiers, but the former
suddenly galloped from behind a solitary venda, and dashed the
soldiers to the ground, who were taken quite by surprise, the
hoofs of the robbers&rsquo; horses making no noise on account of
the sandy nature of the ground. The soldiers were instantly
disarmed and bound to olive trees, with the exception of two, who
escaped amongst the rocks; they were then mocked and tormented by
the robbers, or rather fiends, for nearly half an hour, when they
were shot; the head of the corporal who commanded being blown to
fragments with a blunderbuss. The robbers then burned the
coach, which they accomplished by igniting the letters by means
of the tow with which they light their cigars. The life of
the courier was saved by one of them, who had formerly been his
postillion; he was, however, robbed and stripped. As we
passed by the scene of the butchery, the poor fellow wept, and,
though a Spaniard, cursed Spain and the Spaniards, saying that he
intended shortly to pass over to the Moreria, to confess Mahomet,
and to learn the law of the Moors, for that any country and
religion were better than his own. He pointed to the tree
where the corporal had been tied; though much rain had fallen
since, the ground around was still saturated with blood, and a
dog was gnawing a piece of the unfortunate wretch&rsquo;s
skull. A friar travelled with us the whole way from Madrid
to Seville; he was of the missionaries, and was going to the
Philippine islands, to conquer (<i>para conquistar</i>), for such
was his word, by which I suppose he meant preaching to the
Indians. During the whole journey he exhibited every
symptom of the most abject fear, which operated upon him so that
he became deadly sick, and we were obliged to stop twice in the
road and lay him amongst the green corn. He said that if he
fell into the hands of the factious, he was a lost priest, for
that they would first make him say mass, and then blow him up
with gunpowder. He had been professor of philosophy, as he
told me, in one of the convents (I think it was San Thomas) of
Madrid before their suppression, but appeared to be grossly
ignorant of the Scriptures, which he confounded with the works of
Virgil.</p>

<p>We stopped at Manzanares as usual; it was Sunday morning, and
the market-place was crowded with people. I was recognised
in a moment, and twenty pair of legs instantly hurried away in
quest of the prophetess, who presently made her appearance in the
house to which we had retired to breakfast. After many
greetings on both sides, she proceeded, in her Latin, to give me
an account of all that had occurred in the village since I had
last been there, and of the atrocities of the factious in the
neighbourhood. I asked her to breakfast, and introduced her
to the friar, whom she addressed in this manner: &ldquo;<i>Anne
Domine Reverendissime facis adhuc sacrificium</i>?&rdquo;
But the friar did not understand her, and waxing angry,
anathematized her for a witch, and bade her begone. She
was, however, not to be disconcerted, and commenced singing, in
extemporary Castilian verse, the praises of friars and religious
houses in general. On departing I gave her a peseta, upon
which she burst into tears, and intreated that I would write to
her if I reached Seville in safety.</p>

<p>We did arrive at Seville in safety, and I took leave of the
friar, telling him that I hoped to meet him again at
Philippi. As it was my intention to remain at Seville for
some months, I determined to hire a house, in which I conceived I
could live with more privacy, and at the same time more
economically than in a posada. It was not long before I
found one in every respect suited to me. It was situated in
the Plazuela de la Pila Seca, a retired part of the city, in the
neighbourhood of the cathedral, and at a short distance from the
gate of Xeres; and in this house, on the arrival of Antonio and
the horses, which occurred within a few days, I took up my
abode.</p>

<p>I was now once more in beautiful Seville and had soon ample
time and leisure to enjoy its delights and those of the
surrounding country; unfortunately, at the time of my arrival,
and indeed for the next ensuing fortnight, the heaven of
Andalusia, in general so glorious, was overcast with black
clouds, which discharged tremendous showers of rain, such as few
of the Sevillians, according to their own account, had ever seen
before. This extraordinary weather had wrought no little
damage in the neighbourhood, causing the Guadalquivir, which,
during the rainy season, is a rapid and furious stream, to
overflow its banks and to threaten an inundation. It is
true that intervals were occurring when the sun made his
appearance from his cloudy tabernacle, and with his golden rays
caused everything around to smile, enticing the butterfly forth
from the bush, and the lizard from the hollow tree, and I
invariably availed myself of these intervals to take a hasty
promenade.</p>

<p>O how pleasant it is, especially in springtide, to stray along
the shores of the Guadalquivir. Not far from the city, down
the river, lies a grove called Las Delicias, or the
Delights. It consists of trees of various kinds, but more
especially of poplars and elms, and is traversed by long shady
walks. This grove is the favourite promenade of the
Sevillians, and there one occasionally sees assembled whatever
the town produces of beauty or gallantry. There wander the
black-eyed Andalusian dames and damsels, clad in their graceful
silken mantillas; and there gallops the Andalusian cavalier, on
his long-tailed thick-maned steed of Moorish ancestry. As
the sun is descending, it is enchanting to glance back from this
place in the direction of the city; the prospect is inexpressibly
beautiful. Yonder in the distance, high and enormous,
stands the Golden Tower, now used as a toll-house, but the
principal bulwark of the city in the time of the Moors. It
stands on the shore of the river, like a giant keeping watch, and
is the first edifice which attracts the eye of the voyager as he
moves up the stream to Seville. On the other side, opposite
the tower, stands the noble Augustine convent, the ornament of
the faubourg of Triana, whilst between the two edifices rolls the
broad Guadalquivir, bearing on its bosom a flotilla of barks from
Catalonia and Valencia. Farther up is seen the bridge of
boats which traverses the water. The principal object of
this prospect, however, is the Golden Tower, where the beams of
the setting sun seem to be concentrated as in a focus, so that it
appears built of pure gold, and probably from that circumstance
received the name which it now bears. Cold, cold must the
heart be which can remain insensible to the beauties of this
magic scene, to do justice to which the pencil of Claude himself
were barely equal. Often have I shed tears of rapture
whilst I beheld it, and listened to the thrush and the
nightingale piping forth their melodious songs in the woods, and
inhaled the breeze laden with the perfume of the thousand orange
gardens of Seville:</p>

<blockquote><p>&ldquo;Kennst du das land wo die citronen
bluhen?&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>

<p>The interior of Seville scarcely corresponds with the
exterior: the streets are narrow, badly paved, and full of misery
and beggary. The houses are for the most part built in the
Moorish fashion, with a quadrangular patio or court in the
centre, where stands a marble fountain, constantly distilling
limpid water. These courts, during the time of the summer
heats, are covered over with a canvas awning, and beneath this
the family sit during the greater part of the day. In many,
especially those belonging to the houses of the wealthy, are to
be found shrubs, orange trees, and all kinds of flowers, and
perhaps a small aviary, so that no situation can be conceived
more delicious than to lie here in the shade, hearkening to the
song of the birds and the voice of the fountain.</p>

<p>Nothing is more calculated to interest the stranger as he
wanders through Seville, than a view of these courts obtained
from the streets, through the iron-grated door. Oft have I
stopped to observe them, and as often sighed that my fate did not
permit me to reside in such an Eden for the remainder of my
days. On a former occasion, I have spoken of the cathedral
of Seville, but only in a brief and cursory manner. It is
perhaps the most magnificent cathedral in all Spain, and though
not so regular in its architecture as those of Toledo and Burgos,
is far more worthy of admiration when considered as a
whole. It is utterly impossible to wander through the long
aisles, and to raise one&rsquo;s eyes to the richly inlaid roof,
supported by colossal pillars, without experiencing sensations of
sacred awe, and deep astonishment. It is true that the
interior, like those of the generality of the Spanish cathedrals,
is somewhat dark and gloomy; yet it loses nothing by this gloom,
which, on the contrary, rather increases the solemnity of the
effect. Notre Dame of Paris is a noble building, yet to him
who has seen the Spanish cathedrals, and particularly this of
Seville, it almost appears trivial and mean, and more like a
town-hall than a temple of the Eternal. The Parisian
cathedral is entirely destitute of that solemn darkness and
gloomy pomp which so abound in the Sevillian, and is thus
destitute of the principal requisite to a cathedral.</p>

<p>In most of the chapels are to be found some of the very best
pictures of the Spanish school; and in particular many of the
masterpieces of Murillo, a native of Seville. Of all the
pictures of this extraordinary man, one of the least celebrated
is that which has always wrought on me the most profound
impression. I allude to the Guardian Angel (<i>Angel de la
Guardia</i>), a small picture which stands at the bottom of the
church, and looks up the principal aisle. The angel,
holding a flaming sword in his right hand, is conducting the
child. This child is, in my opinion, the most wonderful of
all the creations of Murillo; the form is that of an infant about
five years of age, and the expression of the countenance is quite
infantine, but the tread&mdash;it is the tread of a conqueror, of
a God, of the Creator of the universe; and the earthly globe
appears to tremble beneath its majesty.</p>

<p>The service of the cathedral is in general well attended,
especially when it is known that a sermon is to be
preached. All these sermons are extemporaneous; some of
them are edifying and faithful to the Scriptures. I have
often listened to them with pleasure, though I was much surprised
to remark, that when the preachers quoted from the Bible, their
quotations were almost invariably taken from the apocryphal
writings. There is in general no lack of worshippers at the
principal shrines&mdash;women for the most part&mdash;many of
whom appear to be animated with the most fervent devotion.</p>

<p>I had flattered myself, previous to my departure from Madrid,
that I should experience but little difficulty in the circulation
of the Gospel in Andalusia, at least for a time, as the field was
new, and myself and the object of my mission less known and
dreaded than in New Castile. It appeared, however, that the
government at Madrid had fulfilled its threat, transmitting
orders throughout Spain for the seizure of my books wherever
found. The Testaments that arrived from Madrid were seized
at the custom-house, to which place all goods on their arrival,
even from the interior, are carried, in order that a duty be
imposed upon them. Through the management of Antonio,
however, I procured one of the two chests, whilst the other was
sent down to San Lucar, to be embarked for a foreign land as soon
as I could make arrangements for that purpose.</p>

<p>I did not permit myself to be discouraged by this slight
<i>contretemps</i>, although I heartily regretted the loss of the
books which had been seized, and which I could no longer hope to
circulate in these parts, where they were so much wanted; but I
consoled myself with the reflection, that I had still several
hundred at my disposal, from the distribution of which, if it
pleased the Lord, a blessed harvest might still proceed.</p>

<p>I did not commence operations for some time, for I was in a
strange place, and scarcely knew what course to pursue. I
had no one to assist me but poor Antonio, who was as ignorant of
the place as myself. Providence, however, soon sent me a
coadjutor, in rather a singular manner. I was standing in
the courtyard of the Reyna Posada, where I occasionally dined,
when a man, singularly dressed and gigantically tall,
entered. My curiosity was excited, and I inquired of the
master of the house who he was. He informed me that he was
a foreigner, who had resided a considerable time in Seville, and
he believed a Greek. Upon hearing this, I instantly went up
to the stranger, and accosted him in the Greek language, in
which, though I speak it very ill, I can make myself
understood. He replied in the same idiom, and, flattered by
the interest which I, a foreigner, expressed for his nation, was
not slow in communicating to me his history. He told me
that his name was Dionysius, that he was a native of Cephalonia,
and had been educated for the church, which, not suiting his
temper, he had abandoned, in order to follow the profession of
the sea, for which he had an early inclination. That after
many adventures and changes of fortune, he found himself one
morning on the coast of Spain, a shipwrecked mariner, and that,
ashamed to return to his own country in poverty and distress, he
had remained in the Peninsula, residing chiefly at Seville, where
he now carried on a small trade in books. He said that he
was of the Greek religion, to which he professed strong
attachment, and soon discovering that I was a Protestant, spoke
with unbounded abhorrence of the papal system; nay of its
followers in general, whom he called Latins, and whom he charged
with the ruin of his own country, inasmuch as they sold it to the
Turk. It instantly struck me, that this individual would be
an excellent assistant in the work which had brought me to
Seville, namely, the propagation of the eternal Gospel, and
accordingly, after some more conversation, in which he exhibited
considerable learning, I explained myself to him. He
entered into my views with eagerness, and in the sequel I had no
reason to regret my confidence, he having disposed of a
considerable number of New Testaments, and even contrived to send
a certain number of copies to two small towns at some distance
from Seville.</p>

<p>Another helper in the circulation of the Gospel I found in an
aged professor of music, who, with much stiffness and
ceremoniousness, united much that was excellent and
admirable. This venerable individual, only three days after
I had made his acquaintance, brought me the price of six
Testaments and a Gypsy Gospel, which he had sold under the heat
of an Andalusian sun. What was his motive? A
Christian one truly. He said that his unfortunate
countrymen, who were then robbing and murdering each other, might
probably be rendered better by the reading of the Gospel, but
could never be injured. Adding, that many a man had been
reformed by the Scriptures, but that no one ever yet became a
thief or assassin from its perusal.</p>

<p>But my most extraordinary agent, was one whom I occasionally
employed in circulating the Scriptures amongst the lower
classes. I might have turned the services of this
individual to far greater account had the quantity of books at my
disposal been greater; but they were now diminishing rapidly, and
as I had no hopes of a fresh supply, I was almost tempted to be
niggard of the few which remained. This agent was a Greek
bricklayer, by name Johannes Chrysostom, who had been introduced
to me by Dionysius. He was a native of the Morea, but had
been upwards of thirty-five years in Spain, so that he had almost
entirely lost his native language. Nevertheless, his
attachment to his own country was so strong that he considered
whatever was not Greek as utterly barbarous and bad. Though
entirely destitute of education, he had, by his strength of
character, and by a kind of rude eloquence which he possessed,
obtained such a mastery over the minds of the labouring classes
of Seville, that they assented to almost everything he said,
notwithstanding the shocks which their prejudices were
continually receiving. So that, although he was a
foreigner, he could at any time have become the Massaniello of
Seville. A more honest creature I never saw, and I soon
found that if I employed him, notwithstanding his eccentricities,
I might entertain perfect confidence that his actions would be no
disparagement to the book he vended.</p>

<p>We were continually pressed for Bibles, which of course we
could not supply. Testaments were held in comparatively
little esteem. I had by this time made the discovery of a
fact which it would have been well had I been aware of three
years before; but we live and learn. I mean the
inexpediency of printing Testaments, and Testaments alone, for
Catholic countries. The reason is plain: the Catholic,
unused to Scripture reading, finds a thousand things which he
cannot possibly understand in the New Testament, the foundation
of which is the Old. &ldquo;Search the Scriptures, for they
bear witness of me,&rdquo; may well be applied to this
point. It may be replied, that New Testaments separate are
in great demand, and of infinite utility in England, but England,
thanks be to the Lord, is not a papal country; and though an
English labourer may read a Testament, and derive from it the
most blessed fruit, it does not follow that a Spanish or Italian
peasant will enjoy similar success, as he will find many dark
things with which the other is well acquainted, and competent to
understand, being versed in the Bible history from his
childhood. I confess, however, that in my summer campaign
of the preceding year, I could not have accomplished with Bibles
what Providence permitted me to effect with Testaments, the
former being far too bulky for rural journeys.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER XLIX</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">The Solitary House&mdash;The
Dehesa&mdash;Johannes Chrysostom&mdash;Manuel&mdash;Bookselling
at Seville&mdash;Dionysius and the Priests&mdash;Athens and
Rome&mdash;Proselytism&mdash;Seizure of
Testaments&mdash;Departure from Seville.</p>

<p>I have already stated, that I had hired an empty house in
Seville, wherein I proposed to reside for some months. It
stood in a solitary situation, occupying one side of a small
square. It was built quite in the beautiful taste of
Andalusia, with a court paved with small slabs of white and blue
marble. In the middle of this court was a fountain well
supplied with the crystal lymph, the murmur of which, as it fell
from its slender pillar into an octangular basin, might be heard
in every apartment. The house itself was large and
spacious, consisting of two stories, and containing room
sufficient for at least ten times the number of inmates which now
occupied it. I generally kept during the day in the lower
apartments, on account of the refreshing coolness which pervaded
them. In one of these was an immense stone water-trough,
ever overflowing with water from the fountain, in which I
immersed myself every morning. Such were the premises to
which, after having provided myself with a few indispensable
articles of furniture, I now retreated with Antonio and my two
horses.</p>

<p>I was fortunate in the possession of these quadrupeds,
inasmuch as it afforded me an opportunity of enjoying to a
greater extent the beauties of the surrounding country. I
know of few things in this life more delicious than a ride in the
spring or summer season in the neighbourhood of Seville. My
favourite one was in the direction of Xerez, over the wide
Dehesa, as it is called, which extends from Seville to the gates
of the former town, a distance of nearly fifty miles, with
scarcely a town or village intervening. The ground is
irregular and broken, and is for the most part covered with that
species of brushwood called carrasco, amongst which winds a
bridle-path, by no means well defined, chiefly trodden by the
arrieros, with their long train of mules and borricos. It
is here that the balmy air of beautiful Andalusia is to be
inhaled in full perfection. Aromatic herbs and flowers are
growing in abundance, diffusing their perfume around. Here
dark and gloomy cares are dispelled as if by magic from the
bosom, as the eyes wander over the prospect, lighted by
unequalled sunshine, in which gaily-painted butterflies wanton,
and green and golden Salamanquesas lie extended, enjoying the
luxurious warmth, and occasionally startling the traveller, by
springing up and making off with portentous speed to the nearest
coverts, whence they stare upon him with their sharp and lustrous
eyes. I repeat, that it is impossible to continue
melancholy in regions like these, and the ancient Greeks and
Romans were right in making them the site of their Elysian
fields. Most beautiful they are even in their present
desolation, for the hand of man has not cultivated them since the
fatal era of the expulsion of the Moors, which drained Andalusia
of at least two thirds of its population.</p>

<p>Every evening it was my custom to ride along the Dedesa, until
the topmost towers of Seville were no longer in sight. I
then turned about, and pressing my knees against the sides of
Sidi Habismilk, my Arabian, the fleet creature, to whom spur or
lash had never been applied, would set off in the direction of
the town with the speed of a whirlwind, seeming in his headlong
course to devour the ground of the waste, until he had left it
behind, then dashing through the elm-covered road of the
Delicias, his thundering hoofs were soon heard beneath the
vaulted archway of the Puerta de Xerez, and in another moment he
would stand stone still before the door of my solitary house in
the little silent square of the Pila Seca.</p>

<p>It is eight o&rsquo;clock at night, I am returned from the
Dehesa, and am standing on the sotea, or flat roof of my house,
enjoying the cool breeze. Johannes Chrysostom has just
arrived from his labour. I have not spoken to him, but I
hear him below in the courtyard, detailing to Antonio the
progress he has made in the last two days. He speaks
barbarous Greek, plentifully interlarded with Spanish words; but
I gather from his discourse, that he has already sold twelve
Testaments among his fellow labourers. I hear copper coin
falling on the pavement, and Antonio, who is not of a very
Christian temper, reproving him for not having brought the
proceeds of the sale in silver. He now asks for fifteen
more, as he says the demand is becoming great, and that he shall
have no difficulty in disposing of them in the course of the
morrow, whilst pursuing his occupations. Antonio goes to
fetch them, and he now stands alone by the marble fountain,
singing a wild song, which I believe to be a hymn of his beloved
Greek church. Behold one of the helpers which the Lord has
sent me in my Gospel labours on the shores of the
Guadalquivir.</p>

<p>I lived in the greatest retirement during the whole time that
I passed at Seville, spending the greater part of each day in
study, or in that half-dreamy state of inactivity which is the
natural effect of the influence of a warm climate. There
was little in the character of the people around to induce me to
enter much into society. The higher class of the
Andalusians are probably upon the whole the most vain and foolish
of human beings, with a taste for nothing but sensual amusements,
foppery in dress, and ribald discourse. Their insolence is
only equalled by their meanness, and their prodigality by their
avarice. The lower classes are a shade or two better than
their superiors in station: little, it is true, can be said for
the tone of their morality; they are overreaching, quarrelsome,
and revengeful, but they are upon the whole more courteous, and
certainly not more ignorant.</p>

<p>The Andalusians are in general held in the lowest estimation
by the rest of the Spaniards, even those in opulent circumstances
finding some difficulty at Madrid in procuring admission into
respectable society, where, if they find their way, they are
invariably the objects of ridicule, from the absurd airs and
grimaces in which they indulge,&mdash;their tendency to boasting
and exaggeration, their curious accent, and the incorrect manner
in which they speak and pronounce the Castilian language.</p>

<p>In a word, the Andalusians, in all estimable traits of
character, are as far below the other Spaniards as the country
which they inhabit is superior in beauty and fertility to the
other provinces of Spain.</p>

<p>Yet let it not for a moment be supposed that I have any
intention of asserting, that excellent and estimable individuals
are not to be found amongst the Andalusians; it was amongst
<i>them</i> that I myself discovered one, whom I have no
hesitation in asserting to be the most extraordinary character
that has ever come within my sphere of knowledge; but this was no
scion of a noble or knightly house, &ldquo;no wearer of soft
clothing,&rdquo; no sleek highly-perfumed personage, none of the
romanticos who walk in languishing attitudes about the streets of
Seville, with long black hair hanging upon their shoulders in
luxuriant curls; but one of those whom the proud and unfeeling
style the dregs of the populace, a haggard, houseless, penniless
man, in rags and tatters: I allude to Manuel, the&mdash;what
shall I call him?&mdash;seller of lottery tickets, driver of
death carts, or poet laureate in Gypsy songs? I wonder
whether thou art still living, my friend Manuel; thou gentleman
of Nature&rsquo;s forming&mdash;honest, pure-minded, humble, yet
dignified being! Art thou still wandering through the
courts of beautiful Safacoro, or on the banks of the Len Baro,
thine eyes fixed in vacancy, and thy mind striving to recall some
half-forgotten couplet of Luis Lobo; or art thou gone to thy long
rest, out beyond the Xeres gate within the wall of the Campo
Santo, to which in times of pest and sickness thou wast wont to
carry so many, Gypsy and Gentile, in thy cart of the tinkling
bell? Oft in the <i>reunions</i> of the lettered and
learned in this land of universal literature, when weary of the
display of pedantry and egotism, have I recurred with yearning to
our Gypsy recitations at the old house in the Pila Seca.
Oft, when sickened by the high-wrought professions of those who
bear the cross in gilded chariots, have I thought on thee, thy
calm faith, without pretence,&mdash;thy patience in poverty, and
fortitude in affliction; and as oft, when thinking of my speedily
approaching end, have I wished that I might meet thee once again,
and that thy hands might help to bear me to &ldquo;the dead
man&rsquo;s acre&rdquo; yonder on the sunny plain, O Manuel!</p>

<p>My principal visitor was Dionysius, who seldom failed to make
his appearance every forenoon: the poor fellow came for sympathy
and conversation. It is difficult to imagine a situation
more forlorn and isolated than that of this man,&mdash;a Greek at
Seville, with scarcely a single acquaintance, and depending for
subsistence on the miserable pittance to be derived from selling
a few books, for the most part hawked about from door to
door. &ldquo;What could have first induced you to commence
bookselling in Seville?&rdquo; said I to him, as he arrived one
sultry day, heated and fatigued, with a small bundle of books
secured together by a leather strap.</p>

<p><i>Dionysius</i>.&mdash;For want of a better employment,
Kyrie, I have adopted this most unprofitable and despised
one. Oft have I regretted not having been bred up as a
shoe-maker, or having learnt in my youth some other useful
handicraft, for gladly would I follow it now. Such, at
least, would procure me the respect of my fellow-creatures
inasmuch as they needed me; but now all avoid me and look upon me
with contempt; for what have I to offer in this place that any
one cares about? Books in Seville! where no one reads, or
at least nothing but new romances, translated from the French,
and obscenity. Books! Would I were a Gypsy and could
trim donkeys, for then I were at least independent and were more
respected than I am at present.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Of what kind of books does your stock in
trade consist?</p>

<p><i>Dionysius</i>.&mdash;Of those not likely to suit the
Seville market, Kyrie; books of sterling and intrinsic value;
many of them in ancient Greek, which I picked up upon the
dissolution of the convents, when the contents of the libraries
were hurled into the courtyards, and there sold by the
arrobe. I thought at first that I was about to make a
fortune, and in fact my books would be so in any other place; but
here I have offered an Elzevir for half a dollar in vain. I
should starve were it not for the strangers who occasionally
purchase of me.</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Seville is a large cathedral city,
abounding with priests and canons; surely one of these
occasionally visit you to make purchases of classic works, and
books connected with ecclesiastical literature.</p>

<p><i>Dionysius</i>.&mdash;If you think so, Kyrie, you know
little respecting the ecclesiastics of Seville. I am
acquainted with many of them, and can assure you that a tribe of
beings can scarcely be found with a more confirmed aversion to
intellectual pursuits of every kind. Their reading is
confined to newspapers, which they take up in the hope of seeing
that their friend Don Carlos is at length reinstated at Madrid;
but they prefer their chocolate and biscuits, and nap before
dinner, to the wisdom of Plato and the eloquence of Tully.
They occasionally visit me, but it is only to pass away a heavy
hour in chattering nonsense. Once on a time, three of them
came, in the hope of making me a convert to their Latin
superstition. &ldquo;Signior Donatio,&rdquo; said they,
(for so they called me,) &ldquo;how is it that an unprejudiced
person like yourself, a man really with some pretension to
knowledge, can still cling to this absurd religion of
yours? Surely, after having resided so many years in a
civilised country like this of Spain, it is high time to abandon
your half-pagan form of worship, and to enter the bosom of the
church; now pray be advised, and you shall be none the worse for
it.&rdquo; &ldquo;Thank you, gentlemen,&rdquo; I replied,
&ldquo;for the interest you take in my welfare; I am always open
to conviction; let us proceed to discuss the subject. What
are the points of my religion which do not meet your
approbation? You are of course well acquainted with all our
dogmas and ceremonies.&rdquo; &ldquo;We know nothing about
your religion, Signior Donatio, save that it is a very absurd
one, and therefore it is incumbent upon you, as an unprejudiced
and well-informed man, to renounce it.&rdquo; &ldquo;But,
gentlemen, if you know nothing of my religion, why call it
absurd? Surely it is not the part of unprejudiced people to
disparage that of which they are ignorant.&rdquo;
&ldquo;But, Signior Donatio, it is not the Catholic Apostolic
Roman religion, is it?&rdquo; &ldquo;It may be, gentlemen,
for what you appear to know of it; for your information, however,
I will tell you that it is not; it is the Greek Apostolic
religion. I do not call it catholic, for it is absurd to
call that catholic which is not universally
acknowledged.&rdquo; &ldquo;But, Signior Donatio, does not
the matter speak for itself? What can a set of ignorant
Greek barbarians know about religion? If they set aside the
authority of Rome, whence should they derive any rational ideas
of religion? whence should they get the gospel?&rdquo;
&ldquo;The Gospel, gentlemen? Allow me to show you a book,
here it is, what is your opinion of it?&rdquo;
&ldquo;Signior Donatio, what does this mean? What
characters of the devil are these, are they Moorish? Who is
able to understand them?&rdquo; &ldquo;I suppose your
worships, being Roman priests, know something of Latin; if you
inspect the title-page to the bottom, you will find, in the
language of your own church, the Gospel of our Lord and Saviour
Jesus Christ,&rsquo; in the original Greek, of which your vulgate
is merely a translation, and not a very correct one. With
respect to the barbarism of Greece, it appears that you are not
aware that Athens was a city, and a famed one, centuries before
the first mud cabin of Rome was thatched, and the Gypsy vagabonds
who first peopled it, had escaped from the hands of
justice.&rdquo; &ldquo;Signior Donatio, you are an ignorant
heretic, and insolent withal, <i>what nonsense is this</i>! . . .
&rdquo; But I will not weary your ears, Kyrie, with all the
absurdities which the poor Latin <i>Papas</i> poured into mine;
the burden of their song being invariably, <i>what nonsense is
this</i>! which was certainly applicable enough to what they
themselves were saying. Seeing, however, that I was more
than their match in religious controversy, they fell foul of my
country. &ldquo;Spain is a better country than
Greece,&rdquo; said one. &ldquo;You never tasted bread
before you came to Spain,&rdquo; cried another. &ldquo;And
little enough since,&rdquo; thought I. &ldquo;You never
before saw such a city as Seville,&rdquo; said the third.
But then ensued the best part of the comedy: my visitors chanced
to be natives of three different places; one was of Seville,
another of Utrera, and the third of Miguel Turra, a miserable
village in La Mancha. At the mention of Seville, the other
two instantly began to sing the praises of their respective
places of birth; this brought on comparisons, and a violent
dispute was the consequence. Much abuse passed between
them, whilst I stood by, shrugged my shoulders, and said
<i>tipotas</i>. <a name="citation429"></a><a href="#footnote429"
class="citation">[429]</a> At last, as they were leaving
the house, I said, &ldquo;Who would have thought, gentlemen, that
the polemics of the Greek and Latin churches were so closely
connected with the comparative merits of Seville, Utrera, and
Miguel Turra?&rdquo;</p>

<p><i>Myself</i>.&mdash;Is the spirit of proselytism very
prevalent here? Of what description of people do their
converts generally consist?</p>

<p><i>Dionysius</i>.&mdash;I will tell you, Kyrie: the generality
of their converts consist of German or English Protestant
adventurers, who come here to settle, and in course of time take
to themselves wives from among the Spanish, prior to which it is
necessary to become members of the Latin church. A few are
vagabond Jews, from Gibraltar or Tangier, who have fled for their
crimes into Spain, and who renounce their faith to escape from
starvation. These gentry, however, it is necessary to pay,
on which account the priests procure for them padrinos or
godfathers; these generally consist of rich devotees over whom
the priests have influence, and who esteem it a glory and a
meritorious act to assist in bringing back lost souls to the
church. The neophyte allows himself to be convinced on the
promise of a peseta a day, which is generally paid by the
godfathers for the first year, but seldom for a longer
period. About forty years ago, however, they made a
somewhat notable convert. A civil war arose in Morocco,
caused by the separate pretensions of two brothers to the
throne. One of these being worsted, fled over to Spain,
imploring the protection of Charles the Fourth. He soon
became an object of particular attention to the priests, who were
not slow in converting him, and induced Charles to settle upon
him a pension of a dollar per day. He died some few years
since in Seville, a despised vagabond. He left behind him a
son, who is at present a notary, and outwardly very devout, but a
greater hypocrite and picaroon does not exist. I would you
could see his face, Kyrie, it is that of Judas Iscariot. I
think you would say so, for you are a physiognomist. He
lives next door to me, and notwithstanding his pretensions to
religion, is permitted to remain in a state of great poverty.</p>

<p>And now nothing farther for the present about Dionysius.</p>

<p>About the middle of July our work was concluded at Seville,
and for the very efficient reason, that I had no more Testaments
to sell; somewhat more than two hundred having been circulated
since my arrival.</p>

<p>About ten days before the time of which I am speaking, I was
visited by various alguazils, accompanied by a kind of
headborough, who made a small seizure of Testaments and Gypsy
Gospels, which happened to be lying about. This visit was
far from being disagreeable to me, as I considered it to be a
very satisfactory proof of the effect of our exertions in
Seville. I cannot help here relating an anecdote&mdash;A
day or two subsequent, having occasion to call at the house of
the headborough respecting my passport, I found him lying on his
bed, for it was the hour of siesta, reading intently one of the
Testaments which he had taken away, all of which, if he had
obeyed his orders, would have been deposited in the office of the
civil governor. So intently, indeed, was he engaged in
reading, that he did not at first observe my entrance; when he
did, however, he sprang up in great confusion, and locked the
book up in his cabinet, whereupon I smiled, and told him to be
under no alarm, as I was glad to see him so usefully
employed. Recovering himself, he said that he had read the
book nearly through, and that he had found no harm in it, but, on
the contrary, everything to praise. Adding, he believed
that the clergy must be possessed with devils
(<i>endemoniados</i>) to persecute it in the manner they did.</p>

<p>It was Sunday when the seizure was made, and I happened to be
reading the Liturgy. One of the alguazils, when going away,
made an observation respecting the very different manner in which
the Protestants and Catholics keep the Sabbath; the former being
in their own houses reading good books, and the latter abroad in
the bull-ring, seeing the wild bulls tear out the gory bowels of
the poor horses. The bull amphitheatre at Seville is the
finest in all Spain, and is invariably on a Sunday (the only day
on which it is open) filled with applauding multitudes.</p>

<p>I now made preparations for leaving Seville for a few months,
my destination being the coast of Barbary. Antonio, who did
not wish to leave Spain, in which were his wife and children,
returned to Madrid, rejoicing in a handsome gratuity with which I
presented him. As it was my intention to return to Seville,
I left my house and horses in charge of a friend in whom I could
confide, and departed. The reasons which induced me to
visit Barbary will be seen in the following chapters.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER L</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Night on the Guadalquivir&mdash;Gospel
Light&mdash;Bonanza&mdash;Strand of San Lucar&mdash;Andalusian
Scenery&mdash;History of a Chest&mdash;Cosas de los
Ingleses&mdash;The Two Gypsies&mdash;The Driver&mdash;The Red
Nightcap&mdash;The Steam Boat&mdash;Christian Language.</p>

<p>On the night of the 31st of July I departed from Seville upon
my expedition, going on board one of the steamers which ply on
the Guadalquivir between Seville and Cadiz.</p>

<p>It was my intention to stop at San Lucar, for the purpose of
recovering the chest of Testaments which had been placed in
embargo there, until such time as they could be removed from the
kingdom of Spain. These Testaments I intended for
distribution amongst the Christians whom I hoped to meet on the
shores of Barbary. San Lucar is about fifteen leagues
distant from Seville, at the entrance of the bay of Cadiz, where
the yellow waters of the Guadalquivir unite with the brine.
The steamer shot from the little quay, or wharf, at about
half-past nine, and then arose a loud cry,&mdash;it was the
voices of those on board and on shore wishing farewell to their
friends. Amongst the tumult I thought I could distinguish
the accents of some friends of my own who had accompanied me to
the bank, and I instantly raised my own voice louder than
all. The night was very dark, so much so, indeed, that as
we passed along we could scarcely distinguish the trees which
cover the eastern shore of the river until it takes its first
turn. A calmazo had reigned during the day at Seville, by
which is meant, exceedingly sultry weather, unenlivened by the
slightest breeze. The night likewise was calm and
sultry. As I had frequently made the voyage of the
Guadalquivir, ascending and descending this celebrated river, I
felt nothing of that restlessness and curiosity which people
experience in a strange place, whether in light or darkness, and
being acquainted with none of the other passengers, who were
talking on the deck, I thought my best plan would be to retire to
the cabin and enjoy some rest, if possible. The cabin was
solitary and tolerably cool, all its windows on either side being
open for the admission of air. Flinging myself on one of
the cushioned benches, I was soon asleep, in which state I
continued for about two hours, when I was aroused by the curious
biting of a thousand bugs, which compelled me to seek the deck,
where, wrapping myself in my cloak, I again fell asleep. It
was near daybreak when I awoke; we were then about two leagues
from San Lucar. I arose and looked towards the east,
watching the gradual progress of dawn, first the dull light, then
the streak, then the tinge, then the bright flush, till at last
the golden disk of that orb which giveth day emerged from the
abyss of immensity, and in a moment the whole prospect was
covered with brightness and glory. The land smiled, the
waters sparkled, the birds sang, and men arose from their resting
places and rejoiced: for it was day, and the sun was gone forth
on the errand of its Creator, the diffusion of light and
gladness, and the dispelling of darkness and sorrow.</p>

<blockquote><p>&ldquo;Behold the morning sun<br />
 Begins his glorious way;<br />
His beams through all the nations run,<br />
 And life and light convey.</p>

<p>&ldquo;But where the Gospel comes,<br />
 It spreads diviner light;<br />
It calls dead sinners from their tombs,<br />
 And gives the blind their sight.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>

<p>We now stopped before Bonanza: this is properly speaking the
port of San Lucar, although it is half a league distant from the
latter place. It is called Bonanza on account of its good
anchorage, and its being secured from the boisterous winds of the
ocean; its literal meaning is &ldquo;fair weather.&rdquo;
It consists of several large white buildings, principally
government store-houses, and is inhabited by the coast-guard,
dependents on the custom-house, and a few fishermen. A boat
came off to receive those passengers whose destination was San
Lucar, and to bring on board about half a dozen who were bound
for Cadiz: I entered with the rest. A young Spaniard of
very diminutive stature addressed some questions to me in French
as to what I thought of the scenery and climate of
Andalusia. I replied that I admired both, which evidently
gave him great pleasure. The boatman now came demanding two
reals for conveying me on shore. I had no small money, and
offered him a dollar to change. He said that it was
impossible. I asked him what was to be done; whereupon he
replied uncivilly that he knew not, but could not lose time, and
expected to be paid instantly. The young Spaniard,
observing my embarrassment, took out two reals and paid the
fellow. I thanked him heartily for this act of civility,
for which I felt really grateful; as there are few situations
more unpleasant than to be in a crowd in want of change, whilst
you are importuned by people for payment. A loose character
once told me that it was far preferable to be without money at
all, as you then knew what course to take. I subsequently
met the young Spaniard at Cadiz, and repaid him with thanks.</p>

<p>A few cabriolets were waiting near the wharf, in order to
convey us to San Lucar. I ascended one, and we proceeded
slowly along the Playa or strand. This place is famous in
the ancient novels of Spain, of that class called Picaresque, or
those devoted to the adventures of notorious scoundrels, the
father of which, as also of all others of the same kind, in
whatever language, is Lazarillo de Tormes. Cervantes
himself has immortalized this strand in the most amusing of his
smaller tales, La Ilustre Fregona. In a word, the strand of
San Lucar in ancient times, if not in modern, was a rendezvous
for ruffians, contrabandistas, and vagabonds of every,
description, who nested there in wooden sheds, which have now
vanished. San Lucar itself was always noted for the
thievish propensities of its inhabitants&mdash;the worst in all
Andalusia. The roguish innkeeper in <i>Don Quixote</i>
perfected his education at San Lucar. All these
recollections crowded into my mind as we proceeded along the
strand, which was beautifully gilded by the Andalusian sun.
We at last arrived nearly opposite to San Lucar, which stands at
some distance from the water side. Here a lively spectacle
presented itself to us: the shore was covered with a multitude of
females either dressing or undressing themselves, while (I speak
within bounds) hundreds were in the water sporting and playing;
some were close by the beach, stretched at their full length on
the sand and pebbles, allowing the little billows to dash over
their heads and bosoms; whilst others were swimming boldly out
into the firth. There was a confused hubbub of female
cries, thin shrieks and shrill laughter; couplets likewise were
being sung, on what subject it is easy to guess, for we were in
sunny Andalusia, and what can its black-eyed daughters think,
speak, or sing of but <i>amor</i>, <i>amor</i>, which now sounded
from the land and the waters. Farther on along the beach we
perceived likewise a crowd of men bathing; we passed not by them,
but turned to the left up an alley or avenue which leads to San
Lucar, and which may be a quarter of a mile long. The view
from hence was truly magnificent; before us lay the town,
occupying the side and top of a tolerably high hill, extending
from east to west. It appeared to be of considerable size,
and I was subsequently informed that it contained at least twenty
thousand inhabitants. Several immense edifices and walls
towered up in a style of grandeur, which can be but feebly
described by words; but the principal object was an ancient
castle towards the left. The houses were all white, and
would have shone brilliantly in the sun had it been higher, but
at this early hour they lay comparatively in shade. The
<i>tout ensemble</i> was very Moorish and oriental, and indeed in
ancient times San Lucar was a celebrated stronghold of the Moors,
and next to Almeria, the most frequented of their commercial
places in Spain. Everything, indeed, in these parts of
Andalusia, is perfectly oriental. Behold the heavens, as
cloudless and as brightly azure as those of Ind; the fiery sun
which tans the fairest cheek in a moment, and which fills the air
with flickering flame; and O, remark the scenery and the
vegetable productions. The alley up which we were moving
was planted on each side with that remarkable tree or plant, for
I know not which to call it, the giant aloe, which is called in
Spanish, <i>pita</i>, and in Moorish,
<i>gurséan</i>. It rises here to a height almost as
magnificent as on the African shore. Need I say that the
stem, which springs up from the middle of the bush of green
blades, which shoot out from the root on all sides, is as high as
a palm-tree; and need I say, that those blades, which are of an
immense thickness at the root, are at the tip sharper than the
point of a spear, and would inflict a terrible wound on any
animal which might inadvertently rush against them?</p>

<p>One of the first houses at San Lucar was the posada at which
we stopped. It confronted, with some others, the avenue up
which we had come. As it was still early, I betook myself
to rest for a few hours, at the end of which time I went out to
visit Mr. Phillipi, the British vice-consul, who was already
acquainted with me by name, as I had been recommended to him in a
letter from a relation of his at Seville. Mr. Phillipi was
at home in his counting-house, and received me with much kindness
and civility. I told him the motive of my visit to San
Lucar, and requested his assistance towards obtaining the books
from the custom-house, in order to transport them out of the
country, as I was very well acquainted with the difficulties
which every one has to encounter in Spain, who has any business
to transact with the government authorities. He assured me
that he should be most happy to assist me, and accordingly
despatched with me to the custom-house his head clerk, a person
well known and much respected at San Lucar.</p>

<p>It may be as well here at once to give the history of these
books, which might otherwise tend to embarrass the
narrative. They consisted of a chest of Testaments in
Spanish, and a small box of Saint Luke&rsquo;s Gospel in the
Gitano or language of the Spanish Gypsies. I obtained them
from the custom-house at San Lucar, with a pass for that of
Cadiz. At Cadiz I was occupied two days, and also a person
whom I employed, in going through all the formalities, and in
procuring the necessary papers. The expense was great, as
money was demanded at every step I had to take, though I was
simply complying in this instance with the orders of the Spanish
government in removing prohibited books from Spain. The
farce did not end until my arrival at Gibraltar, where I paid the
Spanish consul a dollar for certifying on the back of the pass,
which I had to return to Cadiz, that the books were arrived at
the former place. It is true that he never saw the books
nor inquired about them, but he received the money, for which he
alone seemed to be anxious.</p>

<p>Whilst at the custom-house of San Lucar I was asked one or two
questions respecting the books contained in the chests: this
afforded me some opportunity of speaking of the New Testaments
and the Bible Society. What I said excited attention, and
presently all the officers and dependents of the house, great and
small, were gathered around me, from the governor to the
porter. As it was necessary to open the boxes to inspect
their contents, we all proceeded to the courtyard, where, holding
a Testament in my hand, I recommended my discourse. I
scarcely know what I said; for I was much agitated, and hurried
away by my feelings, when I bethought me of the manner in which
the word of God was persecuted in this unhappy kingdom. My
words evidently made impression, and to my astonishment every
person present pressed me for a copy. I sold several within
the walls of the custom-house. The object, however, of most
attention was the Gypsy Gospel, which was minutely examined
amidst smiles and exclamations of surprise; an individual every
now and then crying, &ldquo;<i>Cosas de los
Ingleses</i>.&rdquo; A bystander asked me whether I could
speak the Gitano language. I replied that I could not only
speak it, but write it, and instantly made a speech of about five
minutes in the Gypsy tongue, which I had no sooner concluded than
all clapped their hands and simultaneously shouted,
&ldquo;<i>Cosas de Ingalaterra</i>,&rdquo; &ldquo;<i>Cosas de los
Ingleses</i>.&rdquo; I disposed of several copies of the
Gypsy Gospel likewise, and having now settled the business which
had brought me to the custom-house, I saluted my new friends and
departed with my books.</p>

<p>I now revisited Mr. Phillipi, who, upon learning that it was
my intention to proceed to Cadiz next morning by the steamer,
which would touch at Bonanza at four o&rsquo;clock, despatched
the chests and my little luggage to the latter place, where he
likewise advised me to sleep, in order that I might be in
readiness to embark at that early hour. He then introduced
me to his family, his wife an English woman, and his daughter an
amiable and beautiful girl of about eighteen years of age, whom I
had previously seen at Seville; three or four other ladies from
Seville were likewise there on a visit, and for the purpose of
sea-bathing. After a few words in English between the lady
of the house and myself, we all commenced chatting in Spanish,
which seemed to be the only language understood or cared for by
the rest of the company; indeed, who would be so unreasonable as
to expect Spanish females to speak any language but their own,
which, flexible and harmonious as it is, (far more so I think
than any other,) seemed at times quite inadequate to express the
wild sallies of their luxuriant imagination. Two hours fled
rapidly away in discourse, interrupted occasionally by music and
song, when I bade farewell to this delightful society, and
strolled out to view the town.</p>

<p>It was now past noon, and the heat was exceedingly fierce: I
saw scarcely a living being in the streets, the stones of which
burnt my feet through the soles of my boots. I passed
through the square of the Constitution, which presents nothing
particular to the eye of the stranger, and ascended the hill to
obtain a nearer view of the castle. It is a strong heavy
edifice of stone, with round towers, and, though deserted,
appears to be still in a tolerable state of preservation. I
became tired of gazing, and was retracing my steps, when I was
accosted by two Gypsies, who by some means had heard of my
arrival. We exchanged some words in Gitano, but they
appeared to be very ignorant of the dialect, and utterly unable
to maintain a conversation in it. They were clamorous for a
gabicote, or book in the Gypsy tongue. I refused it them,
saying that they could turn it to no profitable account; but
finding that they could read, I promised them each a Testament in
Spanish. This offer, however, they refused with disdain,
saying that they cared for nothing written in the language of the
Busné or Gentiles. They then persisted in their
demand, to which I at last yielded, being unable to resist their
importunity; whereupon they accompanied me to the inn, and
received what they so ardently desired.</p>

<p>In the evening I was visited by Mr. Phillipi, who informed me
that he had ordered a cabriolet to call for me at the inn at
eleven at night, for the purpose of conveying me to Bonanza, and
that a person there who kept a small wine-house, and to whom the
chests and other things had been forwarded, would receive me for
the night, though it was probable that I should have to sleep on
the floor. We then walked to the beach, where there were a
great number of bathers, all men. Amongst them were some
good swimmers; two, in particular, were out at a great distance
in the firth of the Guadalquivir, I should say at least a mile;
their heads could just be descried with the telescope. I
was told that they were friars. I wondered at what period
of their lives they had acquired their dexterity at
natation. I hoped it was not at a time when, according to
their vows, they should have lived for prayer, fasting, and
mortification alone. Swimming is a noble exercise, but it
certainly does not tend to mortify either the flesh or the
spirit. As it was becoming dusk, we returned to the town,
when my friend bade me a kind farewell. I then retired to
my apartment, and passed some hours in meditation.</p>

<p>It was night, ten o&rsquo;clock;&mdash;eleven o&rsquo;clock,
and the cabriolet was at the door. I got in, and we
proceeded down the avenue and along the shore, which was quite
deserted. The waves sounded mournfully; everything seemed
to have changed since the morning. I even thought that the
horse&rsquo;s feet sounded differently, as it trotted slowly over
the moist firm sand. The driver, however, was by no means
mournful, nor inclined to be silent long: he soon commenced
asking me an infinity of questions as to whence I came and
whither I was bound. Having given him what answers I
thought most proper, I, in return, asked him whether he was not
afraid to drive along that beach, which had always borne so bad a
character, at so unseasonable an hour. Whereupon, he looked
around him, and seeing no person, he raised a shout of derision,
and said that a fellow with his whiskers feared not all the
thieves that ever walked the playa, and that no dozen men in San
Lucar dare to waylay any traveller whom they knew to be beneath
his protection. He was a good specimen of the Andalusian
braggart. We soon saw a light or two shining dimly before
us; they proceeded from a few barks and small vessels stranded on
the sand close below Bonanza: amongst them I distinguished two or
three dusky figures. We were now at our journey&rsquo;s
end, and stopped before the door of the place where I was to
lodge for the night. The driver, dismounting, knocked loud
and long, until the door was opened by an exceedingly stout man
of about sixty years of age; he held a dim light in his hand, and
was dressed in a red nightcap and dirty striped shirt. He
admitted us, without a word, into a very large long room with a
clay floor. A species of counter stood on one side near the
door; behind it stood a barrel or two, and against the wall, on
shelves, many bottles of various sizes. The smell of
liquors and wine was very powerful. I settled with the
driver and gave him a gratuity, whereupon he asked me for
something to drink to my safe journey. I told him he could
call for whatever he pleased; whereupon he demanded a glass of
aguardiente, which the master of the house, who had stationed
himself behind the counter, handed him without saying a
word. The fellow drank it off at once, but made a great
many wry faces after having swallowed it, and, coughing, said
that he made no doubt it was good liquor, as it burnt his throat
terribly. He then embraced me, went out, mounted his
cabriolet, and drove off.</p>

<p>The old man with the red nightcap now moved slowly to the
door, which he bolted and otherwise secured; he then drew forward
two benches, which he placed together, and pointed to them as if
to intimate to me that there was my bed: he then blew out the
candle and retired deeper into the apartment, where I heard him
lay himself down sighing and snorting. There was now no
farther light than what proceeded from a small earthen pan on the
floor, filled with water and oil, on which floated a small piece
of card with a lighted wick in the middle, which simple species
of lamp is called &ldquo;mariposa.&rdquo; I now laid my
carpet bag on the bench as a pillow, and flung myself down.
I should have been asleep instantly, but he of the red nightcap
now commenced snoring awfully, which brought to my mind that I
had not yet commended myself to my friend and Redeemer: I
therefore prayed, and then sank to repose.</p>

<p>I was awakened more than once during the night by cats, and I
believe rats, leaping upon my body. At the last of these
interruptions I arose, and, approaching the mariposa, looked at
my watch; it was half-past three o&rsquo;clock. I opened
the door and looked out; whereupon some fishermen entered
clamouring for their morning draught: the old man was soon on his
feet serving them. One of the men said to me that, if I was
going by the steamer, I had better order my things to the wharf
without delay, as he had heard the vessel coming down the
river. I dispatched my luggage, and then demanded of the
red nightcap what I owed him. He replied &ldquo;One
real.&rdquo; These were the only two words which I heard
proceed from his mouth: he was certainly addicted to silence, and
perhaps to philosophy, neither of which are much practised in
Andalusia. I now hurried to the wharf; the steamer was not
yet arrived, but I heard its thunder up the river every moment
becoming more distinct: there was mist and darkness upon the face
of the waters, and I felt awe as I listened to the approach of
the invisible monster booming through the stillness of the
night. It came at last in sight, plashed its way forward,
stopped, and I was soon on board. It was the Peninsula, the
best boat on the Guadalquivir.</p>

<p>What a wonderful production of art is a steamboat; and yet why
should we call it wonderful, if we consider its history.
More than five hundred years have elapsed since the idea of
making one first originated; but it was not until the close of
the last century that the first, worthy of the name, made its
appearance on a Scottish river.</p>

<p>During this long period of time, acute minds and skilful hands
were occasionally busied in attempting to remove those
imperfections in the machinery, which alone prevented a vessel
being made capable of propelling itself against wind and
tide. All these attempts were successively abandoned in
despair, yet scarcely one was made which was perfectly fruitless;
each inventor leaving behind him some monument of his labour, of
which those who succeeded him took advantage, until at last a
fortunate thought or two, and a few more perfect arrangements,
were all that were wanting. The time arrived, and now, at
length, the very Atlantic is crossed by haughty steamers.
Much has been said of the utility of steam in spreading abroad
civilization, and I think justly. When the first steam
vessels were seen on the Guadalquivir, about ten years ago, the
Sevillians ran to the banks of the river, crying &ldquo;sorcery,
sorcery,&rdquo; which idea was not a little favoured by the
speculation being an English one, and the boats, which were
English built, being provided with English engineers, as, indeed,
they still are; no Spaniard having been found capable of
understanding the machinery. They soon however, became
accustomed to them, and the boats are in general crowded with
passengers. Fanatic and vain as the Sevillians still are,
and bigoted as they remain to their own customs, they know that
good, in one instance at least, can proceed from a foreign land,
and that land a land of heretics; inveterate prejudice has been
shaken, and we will hope that this is the dawn of their
civilization.</p>

<p>Whilst passing over the bay of Cadiz, I was reclining on one
of the benches on the deck, when the captain walked by in company
with another man; they stopped a short distance from me, and I
heard the captain ask the other, in a low voice, how many
languages he spoke; he replied &ldquo;only one.&rdquo;
&ldquo;That one,&rdquo; said the captain, &ldquo;is of course the
Christian&rdquo;; by which name the Spaniards style their own
language in contradistinction to all others. &ldquo;That
fellow,&rdquo; continued the captain, &ldquo;who is lying on the
deck, can speak Christian too, when it serves his purpose, but he
speaks others, which are by no means Christian: he can talk
English, and I myself have heard him chatter in Gitano with the
Gypsies of Triana; he is now going amongst the Moors, and when he
arrives in their country, you will hear him, should he be there,
converse as fluently in their gibberish as in Christiano, nay,
better, for he is no Christian himself. He has been several
times on board my vessel already, but I do not like him, as I
consider that he carries something about with him which is not
good.&rdquo;</p>

<p>This worthy person, on my coming aboard the boat, had shaken
me by the hand and expressed his joy at seeing me again.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER LI</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Cadiz&mdash;The Fortifications&mdash;The
Consul-General&mdash;Characteristic Anecdote&mdash;Catalan
Steamer&mdash;Trafalgar&mdash;Alonzo Guzman&mdash;Gibil
Muza&mdash;Orestes Frigate&mdash;The Hostile Lion&mdash;Works of
the Creator&mdash;Lizard of the Rock&mdash;The
Concourse&mdash;Queen of the Waters&mdash;Broken Prayer.</p>

<p>Cadiz stands, as is well known, upon a long narrow neck of
land stretching out into the ocean, from whose bosom the town
appears to rise, the salt waters laving its walls on all sides
save the east, where a sandy isthmus connects it with the coast
of Spain. The town, as it exists at the present day, is of
modern construction, and very unlike any other town which is to
be found in the Peninsula, being built with great regularity and
symmetry. The streets are numerous, and intersect each
other, for the most part, at right angles. They are very
narrow in comparison to the height of the houses, so that they
are almost impervious to the rays of the sun, except when at its
midday altitude. The principal street, however, is an
exception, it being of some width. This street, in which
stands the Bolsa, or exchange, and which contains the houses of
the chief merchants and nobility, is the grand resort of loungers
as well as men of business during the early part of the day, and
in that respect resembles the Puerta del Sol at Madrid. It
is connected with the great square, which, though not of very
considerable extent, has many pretensions to magnificence, it
being surrounded with large imposing houses, and planted with
fine trees, with marble seats below them for the accommodation of
the public. There are few public edifices worthy of much
attention: the chief church, indeed, might be considered a fine
monument of labour in some other countries, but in Spain, the
land of noble and gigantic cathedrals, it can be styled nothing
more than a decent place of worship; it is still in an unfinished
state. There is a public walk or alameda on the northern
ramparts, which is generally thronged in summer evenings: the
green of its trees, when viewed from the bay, affords an
agreeable relief to the eye, dazzled with the glare of the white
buildings, for Cadiz is also a bright city. It was once the
wealthiest place in all Spain, but its prosperity has of late
years sadly diminished, and its inhabitants are continually
lamenting its ruined trade; on which account many are daily
abandoning it for Seville, where living at least is
cheaper. There is still, however, much life and bustle in
the streets, which are adorned with many splendid shops, several
of which are in the style of Paris and London. The present
population is said to amount to eighty thousand souls.</p>

<p>It is not without reason that Cadiz has been called a strong
town: the fortifications on the land side, which were partly the
work of the French during the sway of Napoleon, are perfectly
admirable, and seem impregnable: towards the sea it is defended
as much by nature as by art, water and sunken rocks being no
contemptible bulwarks. The defences of the town, however,
except the landward ones, afford melancholy proofs of Spanish
apathy and neglect, even when allowance is made for the present
peculiarly unhappy circumstances of the country. Scarcely a
gun, except a few dismounted ones, is to be seen on the
fortifications, which are rapidly falling to decay, so that this
insulated stronghold is at present almost at the mercy of any
foreign nation which, upon any pretence, or none at all, should
seek to tear it from the grasp of its present legitimate
possessors, and convert it into a foreign colony.</p>

<p>A few hours after my arrival, I waited upon Mr. B., the
British consul-general at Cadiz. His house, which is the
corner one at the entrance of the alameda, commands a noble
prospect of the bay, and is very large and magnificent. I
had of course long been acquainted with Mr. B. by reputation; I
knew that for several years he had filled, with advantage to his
native country and with honour to himself, the distinguished and
highly responsible situation which he holds in Spain. I
knew, likewise, that he was a good and pious Christian, and,
moreover, the firm and enlightened friend of the Bible
Society. Of all this I was aware, but I had never yet
enjoyed the advantage of being personally acquainted with
him. I saw him now for the first time, and was much struck
with his appearance. He is a tall, athletic, finely built
man, seemingly about forty-five or fifty; there is much dignity
in his countenance, which is, however, softened by an expression
of good humour truly engaging. His manner is frank and
affable in the extreme. I am not going to enter into minute
details of our interview, which was to me a very interesting
one. He knew already the leading parts of my history since
my arrival in Spain, and made several comments upon it, which
displayed his intimate knowledge of the situation of the country
as regards ecclesiastical matters, and the state of opinion
respecting religious innovation.</p>

<p>I was pleased to find that his ideas in many points accorded
with my own, and we were both decidedly of opinion that,
notwithstanding the great persecution and outcry which had lately
been raised against the Gospel, the battle was by no means lost,
and that the holy cause might yet triumph in Spain, if zeal
united with discretion and Christian humility were displayed by
those called upon to uphold it.</p>

<p>During the greater part of this and the following day, I was
much occupied at the custom-house, endeavouring to obtain the
documents necessary for the exportation of the Testaments.
On the afternoon of Saturday, I dined with Mr. B. and his family,
an interesting group,&mdash;his lady, his beautiful daughters,
and his son, a fine intelligent young man. Early the next
morning, a steamer, the <i>Balear</i>, was to quit Cadiz for
Marseilles, touching on the way at Algeciras, Gibraltar, and
various other ports of Spain. I had engaged my passage on
board her as far as Gibraltar, having nothing farther to detain
me at Cadiz; my business with the custom-house having been
brought at last to a termination, though I believe I should never
have got through it but for the kind assistance of Mr. B. I
quitted this excellent man and my other charming friends at a
late hour with regret. I believe that I carried with me
their very best wishes; and, in whatever part of the world I, a
poor wanderer in the Gospel&rsquo;s cause, may chance to be, I
shall not unfrequently offer up sincere prayers for their
happiness and well-being.</p>

<p>Before taking leave of Cadiz, I shall relate an anecdote of
the British consul, characteristic of him and the happy manner in
which he contrives to execute the most disagreeable duties of his
situation. I was in conversation with him in a parlour of
his house, when we were interrupted by the entrance of two very
unexpected visitors: they were the captain of a Liverpool
merchant vessel and one of the crew. The latter was a rough
sailor, a Welshman, who could only express himself in very
imperfect English. They looked unutterable dislike and
defiance at each other. It appeared that the latter had
refused to work, and insisted on leaving the ship, and his master
had in consequence brought him before the consul, in order that,
if he persisted, the consequences might be detailed to him, which
would be the forfeiture of his wages and clothes. This was
done; but the fellow became more and more dogged, refusing ever
to tread the same deck again with his captain, who, he said, had
called him &ldquo;Greek, lazy lubberly Greek,&rdquo; which he
would not bear. The word Greek rankled in the
sailor&rsquo;s mind, and stung him to the very core. Mr.
B., who seemed to be perfectly acquainted with the character of
Welshmen in general, who are proverbially obstinate when
opposition is offered to them, and who saw at once that the
dispute had arisen on foolish and trivial grounds, now told the
man, with a smile, that he would inform him of a way by which he
might gain the weather-gage of every one of them, consul and
captain and all, and secure his wages and clothes; which was by
merely going on board a brig of war of her Majesty, which was
then lying in the bay. The fellow said he was aware of
this, and intended to do so. His grim features, however,
instantly relaxed in some degree, and he looked more humanely
upon his captain. Mr. B. then, addressing himself to the
latter, made some observations on the impropriety of using the
word Greek to a British sailor; not forgetting, at the same time,
to speak of the absolute necessity of obedience and discipline on
board every ship. His words produced such an effect, that
in a very little time the sailor held out his hand towards his
captain, and expressed his willingness to go on board with him
and perform his duty, adding, that the captain, upon the whole,
was the best man in the world. So they departed mutually
pleased; the consul making both of them promise to attend divine
service at his house on the following day.</p>

<p>Sunday morning came, and I was on board the steamer by six
o&rsquo;clock. As I ascended the side, the harsh sound of
the Catalan dialect assailed my ears. In fact, the vessel
was Catalan built, and the captain and crew were of that nation;
the greater part of the passengers already on board, or who
subsequently arrived, appeared to be Catalans, and seemed to vie
with each other in producing disagreeable sounds. A burly
merchant, however, with a red face, peaked chin, sharp eyes, and
hooked nose, clearly bore off the palm; he conversed with
astonishing eagerness on seemingly the most indifferent subjects,
or rather on no subject at all; his voice would have sounded
exactly like a coffee-mill but for a vile nasal twang: he poured
forth his Catalan incessantly till we arrived at Gibraltar.
Such people are never sea-sick, though they frequently produce or
aggravate the malady in others. We did not get under way
until past eight o&rsquo;clock, for we waited for the Governor of
Algeciras, and started instantly on his coming on board. He
was a tall, thin, rigid figure of about seventy, with a long,
grave, wrinkled countenance; in a word, the very image of an old
Spanish grandee. We stood out of the bay, rounding the
lofty lighthouse, which stands on a ledge of rocks, and then bent
our course to the south, in the direction of the straits.
It was a glorious morning, a blue sunny sky and blue sunny ocean;
or, rather, as my friend Oehlenschlæger has observed on a
similar occasion, there appeared two skies and two suns, one
above and one below.</p>

<p>Our progress was rather slow, notwithstanding the fineness of
the weather, probably owing to the tide being against us.
In about two hours we passed the Castle of Santa Petra, and at
noon were in sight of Trafalgar. The wind now freshened and
was dead ahead; on which account we hugged closely to the coast,
in order to avoid as much as possible the strong heavy sea which
was pouring down from the Straits. We passed within a very
short distance of the Cape, a bold bluff foreland, but not of any
considerable height.</p>

<p>It is impossible for an Englishman to pass by this
place&mdash;the scene of the most celebrated naval action on
record&mdash;without emotion. Here it was that the united
navies of France and Spain were annihilated by a far inferior
force; but that force was British, and was directed by one of the
most remarkable men of the age, and perhaps the greatest hero of
any time. Huge fragments of wreck still frequently emerge
from the watery gulf whose billows chafe the rocky sides of
Trafalgar: they are relics of the enormous ships which were burnt
and sunk on that terrible day, when the heroic champion of
Britain concluded his work and died. I never heard but one
individual venture to say a word in disparagement of
Nelson&rsquo;s glory: it was a pert American, who observed, that
the British admiral was much overrated. &ldquo;Can that
individual be overrated,&rdquo; replied a stranger, &ldquo;whose
every thought was bent on his country&rsquo;s honour, who
scarcely ever fought without leaving a piece of his body in the
fray, and who, not to speak of minor triumphs, was victorious in
two such actions as Aboukir and Trafalgar?&rdquo;</p>

<p>We were now soon in sight of the Moorish coast, Cape Spartel
appearing dimly through mist and vapour on our right. A
regular Levanter had now come on, and the vessel pitched and
tossed to a very considerable degree. Most of the
passengers were sea-sick; the governor, however, and myself held
out manfully: we sat on a bench together, and entered into
conversation respecting the Moors and their country.
Torquemada himself could not have spoken of both with more
abhorrence. He informed me that he had been frequently in
several of the principal Moorish towns of the coast, which he
described as heaps of ruins: the Moors themselves he called
Caffres and wild beasts. He observed that he had never been
even at Tangier, where the people were most civilised, without
experiencing some insult, so great was the abhorrence of the
Moors to anything in the shape of a Christian. He added,
however, that they treated the English with comparative civility,
and that they had a saying among them to the effect that
Englishman and Mahometan were one and the same; he then looked
particularly grave for a moment, and, crossing himself, was
silent. I guessed what was passing in his mind:</p>

<blockquote><p>&ldquo;From heretic boors,<br />
And Turkish Moors,<br />
Star of the sea,<br />
Gentle Marie,<br />
Deliver me!&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>

<p>At about three we were passing Tarifa, so frequently mentioned
in the history of the Moors and Christians. Who has not
heard of Alonzo Guzman the faithful, who allowed his only son to
be crucified before the walls of the town rather than submit to
the ignominy of delivering up the keys to the Moorish monarch,
who, with a host which is said to have amounted to nearly half a
million of men, had landed on the shores of Andalusia, and
threatened to bring all Spain once more beneath the Moslem
yoke? Certainly if there be a land and a spot where the
name of that good patriot is not sometimes mentioned and sung,
that land, that spot is modern Spain and modern Tarifa. I
have heard the ballad of Alonzo Guzman chanted in Danish, by a
hind in the wilds of Jutland; but once speaking of &ldquo;the
Faithful&rdquo; to some inhabitants of Tarifa, they replied that
they had never heard of Guzman the faithful of Tarifa, but were
acquainted with Alonzo Guzman, &ldquo;the one-eyed&rdquo; (<i>el
tuerto</i>), and that he was one of the most villainous arrieros
on the Cadiz road.</p>

<p>The voyage of these narrow seas can scarcely fail to be
interesting to the most apathetic individual, from the nature of
the scenery which presents itself to the eye on either
side. The coasts are exceedingly high and bold, especially
that of Spain, which seems to overthrow the Moorish; but opposite
to Tarifa, the African continent, rounding towards the
south-west, assumes an air of sublimity and grandeur. A
hoary mountain is seen uplifting its summits above the clouds: it
is Mount Abyla, or as it is called in the Moorish tongue, Gibil
Muza, or the hill of Muza, from the circumstance of its
containing the sepulchre of a prophet of that name. This is
one of the two excrescences of nature on which the Old World
bestowed the title of the Pillars of Hercules. Its skirts
and sides occupy the Moorish coast for many leagues in more than
one direction, but the broad aspect of its steep and stupendous
front is turned full towards that part of the European continent
where Gibraltar lies like a huge monster stretching far into the
brine. Of the two hills or pillars, the most remarkable,
when viewed from afar, is the African one, Gibil Muza. It
is the tallest and bulkiest, and is visible at a greater
distance; but scan them both from near, and you feel that all
your wonder is engrossed by the European column. Gibil Muza
is an immense shapeless mass, a wilderness of rocks, with here
and there a few trees and shrubs nodding from the clefts of its
precipices; it is uninhabited, save by wolves, wild swine, and
chattering monkeys, on which last account it is called by the
Spaniards, <i>Montana de las Monas</i> (the hill of the baboons);
whilst, on the contrary, Gibraltar, not to speak of the strange
city which covers part of it, a city inhabited by men of all
nations and tongues, its batteries and excavations, all of them
miracles of art, is the most singular-looking mountain in the
world&mdash;a mountain which can neither be described by pen nor
pencil, and at which the eye is never satiated with gazing.</p>

<p>It was near sunset, and we were crossing the bay of
Gibraltar. We had stopped at Algeciras, on the Spanish
side, for the purpose of landing the old governor and his suite,
and delivering and receiving letters.</p>

<p>Algeciras is an ancient Moorish town, as the name denotes,
which is an Arabic word, and signifies &ldquo;the place of the
islands.&rdquo; It is situated at the water&rsquo;s edge,
with a lofty range of mountains in the rear. It seemed a
sad deserted place, as far as I could judge at the distance of
half a mile. In the harbour, however, lay a Spanish frigate
and French war brig. As we passed the former, some of the
Spaniards on board our steamer became boastful at the expense of
the English. It appeared that, a few weeks before, an
English vessel, suspected to be a contraband trader, was seen by
this frigate hovering about a bay on the Andalusian coast, in
company with an English frigate, the <i>Orestes</i>. The
Spaniard dogged them for some time, till one morning observing
that the <i>Orestes</i> had disappeared, he hoisted English
colours, and made a signal to the trader to bear down; the
latter, deceived by the British ensign, and supposing that the
Spaniard was the friendly <i>Orestes</i>, instantly drew near,
was fired at and boarded, and proving in effect to be a
contraband trader, she was carried into port and delivered over
to the Spanish authorities. In a few days the captain of
the <i>Orestes</i> hearing of this, and incensed at the
unwarrantable use made of the British flag, sent a boat on board
the frigate demanding that the vessel should be instantly
restored, as, if she was not, he would retake her by force;
adding that he had forty cannons on board. The captain of
the Spanish frigate returned for answer, that the trader was in
the hands of the officers of the customs, and was no longer at
his disposal; that the captain of the <i>Orestes</i> however,
could do what he pleased, and that if he had forty guns, he
himself had forty-four; whereupon the <i>Orestes</i> thought
proper to bear away. Such at least was the Spanish account
as related by the journals. Observing the Spaniards to be
in great glee at the idea of one of their nation having
frightened away the Englishman, I exclaimed, &ldquo;Gentlemen,
all of you who suppose that an English sea captain has been
deterred from attacking a Spaniard, from an apprehension of a
superior force of four guns, remember, if you please, the fate of
the <i>Santissima Trinidad</i>, and be pleased also not to forget
that we are almost within cannon&rsquo;s sound of
Trafalgar.&rdquo;</p>

<p>It was neat sunset, I repeat, and we were crossing the bay of
Gibraltar. I stood on the prow of the vessel, with my eyes
intently fixed on the mountain fortress, which, though I had seen
it several times before, filled my mind with admiration and
interest. Viewed from this situation, it certainly, if it
resembles any animate object in nature, has something of the
appearance of a terrible couchant lion, whose stupendous head
menaces Spain. Had I been dreaming, I should almost have
concluded it to be the genius of Africa, in the shape of its most
puissant monster, who had bounded over the sea from the clime of
sand and sun, bent on the destruction of the rival continent,
more especially as the hue of its stony sides, its crest and
chine, is tawny even as that of the hide of the desert
king. A hostile lion has it almost invariably proved to
Spain, at least since it first began to play a part in history,
which was at the time when Tarik seized and fortified it.
It has for the most part been in the hands of foreigners: first
the swarthy and turbaned Moor possessed it, and it is now
tenanted by a fair-haired race from a distant isle. Though
a part of Spain, it seems to disavow the connexion, and at the
end of a long narrow sandy isthmus, almost level with the sea,
raising its blasted and perpendicular brow to denounce the crimes
which deform the history of that fair and majestic land.</p>

<p>It was near sunset, I say it for the third time, and we were
crossing the bay of Gibraltar. Bay! it seemed no bay, but
an inland sea, surrounded on all sides by enchanted barriers, so
strange, so wonderful was the aspect of its coasts. Before
us lay the impregnable hill; on our right the African continent,
with its grey Gibil Muza, and the crag of Ceuta, to which last a
solitary bark seemed steering its way; behind us the town we had
just quitted, with its mountain wall; on our left the coast of
Spain. The surface of the water was unruffled by a wave,
and as we rapidly glided on, the strange object which we were
approaching became momentarily more distinct and visible.
There, at the base of the mountain, and covering a small portion
of its side, lay the city, with its ramparts garnished with black
guns pointing significantly at its moles and harbours; above,
seemingly on every crag which could be made available for the
purpose of defence or destruction, peered batteries, pale and
sepulchral-looking, as if ominous of the fate which awaited any
intrusive foe; whilst east and west towards Africa and Spain, on
the extreme points, rose castles, towers, or atalaias which
overcrowded the whole, and all the circumjacent region, whether
land or sea. Mighty and threatening appeared the
fortifications, and doubtless, viewed in any other situation,
would have alone occupied the mind and engrossed its wonder; but
the hill, the wondrous hill, was everywhere about them, beneath
them, or above them, overpowering their effect as a
spectacle. Who, when he beholds the enormous elephant, with
his brandished trunk, dashing impetuously to the war, sees the
castle which he bears, or fears the javelins of those whom he
carries, however skilful and warlike they may be? Never
does God appear so great and powerful as when the works of his
hands stand in contrast with the labours of man. Survey the
Escurial, it is a proud work, but wonder if you can when you see
the mountain mocking it behind; survey that boast of Moorish
kings, survey Granada from its plain, and wonder if you can, for
you see the Alpujarra mocking it from behind. O what are
the works of man compared with those of the Lord? Even as
man is compared with his creator. Man builds pyramids, and
God builds pyramids: the pyramids of man are heaps of shingles,
tiny hillocks on a sandy plain; the pyramids of the Lord are
Andes and Indian hills. Man builds walls and so does his
Master; but the walls of God are the black precipices of
Gibraltar and Horneel, eternal, indestructible, and not to be
scaled; whilst those of man can be climbed, can be broken by the
wave or shattered by the lightning or the powder blast.
Would man display his power and grandeur to advantage, let him
flee far from the hills; for the broad pennants of God, even his
clouds, float upon the tops of the hills, and the majesty of God
is most manifest among the hills. Call Gibraltar the hill
of Tarik or Hercules if you will, but gaze upon it for a moment
and you will call it the hill of God. Tarik and the old
giant may have built upon it; but not all the dark race of whom
Tarik was one, nor all the giants of old renown of whom the other
was one, could have built up its crags or chiseled the enormous
mass to its present shape.</p>

<p>We dropped anchor not far from the mole. As we expected
every moment to hear the evening gun, after which no person is
permitted to enter the town, I was in trepidation lest I should
be obliged to pass the night on board the dirty Catalan steamer,
which, as I had no occasion to proceed farther in her, I was in
great haste to quit. A boat now drew nigh, with two
individuals at the stern, one of whom, standing up, demanded, in
an authoritative voice, the name of the vessel, her destination
and cargo. Upon being answered, they came on board.
After some conversation with the captain, they were about to
depart, when I inquired whether I could accompany them on
shore. The person I addressed was a tall young man, with a
fustian frock coat. He had a long face, long nose, and wide
mouth, with large restless eyes. There was a grin on his
countenance which seemed permanent, and had it not been for his
bronzed complexion, I should have declared him to be a cockney,
and nothing else. He was, however, no such thing, but what
is called a rock lizard, that is, a person born at Gibraltar of
English parents. Upon hearing my question, which was in
Spanish, he grinned more than ever, and inquired, in a strange
accent, whether I was a son of Gibraltar. I replied that I
had not that honour, but that I was a British subject.
Whereupon he said that he should make no difficulty in taking me
ashore. We entered the boat, which was rapidly rowed
towards the land by four Genoese sailors. My two companions
chattered in their strange Spanish, he of the fustian
occasionally turning his countenance full upon me, the last grin
appearing ever more hideous than the preceding ones. We
soon reached the quay, where my name was noted down by a person
who demanded my passport, and I was then permitted to
advance.</p>

<p>It was now dusk, and I lost no time in crossing the drawbridge
and entering the long low archway which, passing under the
rampart, communicates with the town. Beneath this archway
paced with measured tread, tall red-coated sentinels with
shouldered guns. There was no stopping, no sauntering in
these men. There was no laughter, no exchange of light
conversation with the passers by, but their bearing was that of
British soldiers, conscious of the duties of their station.
What a difference between them and the listless loiterers who
stand at guard at the gate of a Spanish garrisoned town.</p>

<p>I now proceeded up the principal street, which runs with a
gentle ascent along the base of the hill. Accustomed for
some months past to the melancholy silence of Seville, I was
almost deafened by the noise and bustle which reigned
around. It was Sunday night, and of course no business was
going on, but there were throngs of people passing up and
down. Here was a military guard proceeding along; here
walked a group of officers, there a knot of soldiers stood
talking and laughing. The greater part of the civilians
appeared to be Spaniards, but there was a large sprinkling of
Jews in the dress of those of Barbary, and here and there a
turbaned Moor. There were gangs of sailors likewise,
Genoese, judging from the patois which they were speaking, though
I occasionally distinguished the sound of &ldquo;tou logou
sas,&rdquo; by which I knew there were Greeks at hand, and twice
or thrice caught a glimpse of the red cap and blue silken
petticoats of the mariner from the Romaic isles. On still I
hurried, till I arrived at a well known hostelry, close by a kind
of square, in which stands the little exchange of
Gibraltar. Into this I ran and demanded lodging, receiving
a cheerful welcome from the genius of the place, who stood behind
the bar, and whom I shall perhaps have occasion subsequently to
describe. All the lower rooms were filled with men of the
rock, burly men in general, with swarthy complexions and English
features, with white hats, white jean jerkins, and white jean
pantaloons. They were smoking pipes and cigars, and
drinking porter, wine and various other fluids, and conversing in
the rock Spanish, or rock English as the fit took them.
Dense was the smoke of tobacco, and great the din of voices, and
I was glad to hasten up stairs to an unoccupied apartment, where
I was served with some refreshment, of which I stood much in
need.</p>

<p>I was soon disturbed by the sound of martial music close below
my windows. I went down and stood at the door. A
military band was marshalled upon the little square before the
exchange. It was preparing to beat the retreat. After
the prelude, which was admirably executed, the tall leader gave a
flourish with his stick, and strode forward up the street,
followed by the whole company of noble looking fellows and a
crowd of admiring listeners. The cymbals clashed, the horns
screamed, and the kettle-drum emitted its deep awful note, till
the old rock echoed again, and the hanging terraces of the town
rang with the stirring noise:</p>

<blockquote><p>&ldquo;Dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub&mdash;thus go the
drums,<br />
Tantara, tantara, the Englishman comes.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>

<p>O England! long, long may it be ere the sun of thy glory sink
beneath the wave of darkness! Though gloomy and portentous
clouds are now gathering rapidly around thee, still, still may it
please the Almighty to disperse them, and to grant thee a
futurity longer in duration and still brighter in renown than thy
past! Or if thy doom be at hand, may that doom be a noble
one, and worthy of her who has been styled the Old Queen of the
waters! May thou sink, if thou dost sink, amidst blood and
flame, with a mighty noise, causing more than one nation to
participate in thy downfall! Of all fates, may it please
the Lord to preserve thee from a disgraceful and a slow decay;
becoming, ere extinct, a scorn and a mockery for those selfsame
foes who now, though they envy and abhor thee, still fear thee,
nay, even against their will, honour and respect thee.</p>

<p>Arouse thee, whilst yet there is time, and prepare thee for
the combat of life and death! Cast from thee the foul scurf
which now encrusts thy robust limbs, which deadens their force,
and makes them heavy and powerless! Cast from thee thy
false philosophers, who would fain decry what, next to the love
of God, has hitherto been deemed most sacred, the love of the
mother land! Cast from thee thy false patriots, who, under
the pretext of redressing the wrongs of the poor and weak, seek
to promote internal discord, so that thou mayest become only
terrible to thyself! And remove from thee the false
prophets, who have seen vanity and divined lies; who have daubed
thy wall with untempered mortar, that it may fall; who see
visions of peace where there is no peace; who have strengthened
the hands of the wicked, and made the heart of the righteous
sad. O, do this, and fear not the result, for either shall
thy end be a majestic and an enviable one, or God shall
perpetuate thy reign upon the waters, thou old Queen!</p>

<p>The above was part of a broken prayer for my native land,
which, after my usual thanksgiving, I breathed to the Almighty
ere retiring to rest that Sunday night at Gibraltar.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER LII</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">The Jolly Hosteler&mdash;Aspirants for
Glory&mdash;A Portrait&mdash;Hamalos&mdash;Solomons&mdash;An
Expedition&mdash;The Yeoman Soldier&mdash;The
Excavations&mdash;The Pull by the Skirt&mdash;Judah and his
Father&mdash;Judah&rsquo;s Pilgrimage&mdash;The Bushy
Beard&mdash;The False Moors&mdash;Judah and the King&rsquo;s
Son&mdash;Premature Old Age.</p>

<p>Perhaps it would have been impossible to have chosen a
situation more adapted for studying at my ease Gibraltar and its
inhabitants, than that which I found myself occupying about ten
o&rsquo;clock on the following morning. Seated on a small
bench just opposite the bar, close by the door, in the passage of
the hostelry at which I had taken up my temporary abode, I
enjoyed a view of the square of the exchange and all that was
going on there, and by merely raising my eyes, could gaze at my
leisure on the stupendous hill which towers above the town to an
altitude of some thousand feet. I could likewise observe
every person who entered or left the house, which is one of great
resort, being situated in the most-frequented place of the
principal thoroughfare of the town. My eyes were busy and
so were my ears. Close beside me stood my excellent friend
Griffiths, the jolly hosteler, of whom I take the present
opportunity of saying a few words, though I dare say he has been
frequently described before, and by far better pens. Let
those who know him not figure to themselves a man of about fifty,
at least six feet in height, and weighing some eighteen stone, an
exceedingly florid countenance and good features, eyes full of
quickness and shrewdness, but at the same time beaming with good
nature. He wears white pantaloons, white frock, and white
hat, and is, indeed, all white, with the exception of his
polished Wellingtons and rubicund face. He carries a whip
beneath his arm, which adds wonderfully to the knowingness of his
appearance, which is rather more that of a gentleman who keeps an
inn on the Newmarket road, &ldquo;purely for the love of
travellers, and the money which they carry about them,&rdquo;
than of a native of the rock. Nevertheless, he will tell
you himself that he is a rock lizard; and you will scarcely doubt
it when, besides his English, which is broad and vernacular, you
hear him speak Spanish, ay, and Genoese too, when necessary, and
it is no child&rsquo;s play to speak the latter, which I myself
could never master. He is a good judge of horse-flesh, and
occasionally sells a &ldquo;bit of a blood,&rdquo; or a Barbary
steed to a young hand, though he has no objection to do business
with an old one; for there is not a thin, crouching, liver-faced
lynx-eyed Jew of Fez capable of outwitting him in a bargain: or
cheating him out of one single pound of the fifty thousand
sterling which he possesses; and yet ever bear in mind that he is
a good-natured fellow to those who are disposed to behave
honourably to him, and know likewise that he will lend you money,
if you are a gentleman, and are in need of it; but depend upon
it, if he refuse you, there is something not altogether right
about you, for Griffiths knows <i>his world</i>, and is not to be
made a fool of.</p>

<p>There was a prodigious quantity of porter consumed in my
presence during the short hour that I sat on the bench of that
hostelry of the rock. The passage before the bar was
frequently filled with officers, who lounged in for a refreshment
which the sultry heat of the weather rendered necessary, or at
least inviting; whilst not a few came galloping up to the door on
small Barbary horses, which are to be found in great abundance at
Gibraltar. All seemed to be on the best terms with the
host, with whom they occasionally discussed the merits of
particular steeds, and whose jokes they invariably received with
unbounded approbation. There was much in the demeanour and
appearance of these young men, for the greater part were quite
young, which was highly interesting and agreeable. Indeed,
I believe it may be said of English officers in general, that in
personal appearance, and in polished manners, they bear the palm
from those of the same class over the world. True it is,
that the officers of the royal guard of Russia, especially of the
three noble regiments styled the Priberjensky, Simeonsky, and
Finlansky polks might fearlessly enter into competition in almost
all points with the flower of the British army; but it must be
remembered, that those regiments are officered by the choicest
specimens of the Sclavonian nobility, young men selected
expressly for the splendour of their persons, and for the
superiority of their mental endowments; whilst, probably, amongst
all the fair-haired Anglo-Saxons youths whom I now saw gathered
near me, there was not a single one of noble ancestry, nor of
proud and haughty name; and certainly, so far from having been
selected to flatter the pride and add to the pomp of a despot,
they had been taken indiscriminately from a mass of ardent
aspirants for military glory, and sent on their country&rsquo;s
service to a remote and unhealthy colony. Nevertheless,
they were such as their country might be proud of, for gallant
boys they looked, with courage on their brows, beauty and health
on their cheeks, and intelligence in their hazel eyes.</p>

<p>Who is he who now stops before the door without entering, and
addresses a question to my host, who advances with a respectful
salute? He is no common man, or his appearance belies him
strangely. His dress is simple enough; a Spanish hat, with
a peaked crown and broad shadowy brim&mdash;the veritable
sombrero&mdash;jean pantaloons and blue hussar jacket;&mdash;but
how well that dress becomes one of the most noble-looking figures
I ever beheld. I gazed upon him with strange respect and
admiration as he stood benignantly smiling and joking in good
Spanish with an impudent rock rascal, who held in his hand a huge
bogamante, or coarse carrion lobster, which he would fain have
persuaded him to purchase. He was almost gigantically tall,
towering nearly three inches above the burly host himself, yet
athletically symmetrical, and straight as the pine tree of
Dovrefeld. He must have counted eleven lustres, which cast
an air of mature dignity over a countenance which seemed to have
been chiseled by some Grecian sculptor, and yet his hair was
black as the plume of the Norwegian raven, and so was the
moustache which curled above his well-formed lip. In the
garb of Greece, and in the camp before Troy, I should have taken
him for Agamemnon. &ldquo;Is that man a general?&rdquo;
said I to a short queer-looking personage, who sat by my side,
intently studying a newspaper. &ldquo;That
gentleman,&rdquo; he whispered in a lisping accent, &ldquo;is,
sir, the Lieutenant-Governor of Gibraltar.&rdquo;</p>

<p>On either side outside the door, squatting on the ground, or
leaning indolently against the walls, were some half dozen men of
very singular appearance. Their principal garment was a
kind of blue gown, something resembling the blouse worn by the
peasants of the north of France, but not so long; it was
compressed around their waists by a leathern girdle, and depended
about half way down their thighs. Their legs were bare, so
that I had an opportunity of observing the calves, which appeared
unnaturally large. Upon the head they wore small skull-caps
of black wool. I asked the most athletic of these men, a
dark-visaged fellow of forty, who they were. He answered,
&ldquo;hamalos.&rdquo; This word I knew to be Arabic, in
which tongue it signifies a porter; and, indeed, the next moment,
I saw a similar fellow staggering across the square under an
immense burden, almost sufficient to have broken the back of a
camel. On again addressing my swarthy friend, and enquiring
whence he came, he replied, that he was born at Mogadore, in
Barbary, but had passed the greatest part of his life at
Gibraltar. He added, that he was the &ldquo;capitaz,&rdquo;
or head man of the &ldquo;hamalos&rdquo; near the door. I
now addressed him in the Arabic of the East, though with scarcely
the hope of being understood, more especially as he had been so
long from his own country. He however answered very
pertinently, his lips quivering with eagerness, and his eyes
sparkling with joy, though it was easy to perceive that the
Arabic, or rather the Moorish, was not the language in which he
was accustomed either to think or speak. His companions all
gathered round and listened with avidity, occasionally
exclaiming, when anything was said which they approved of:
&ldquo;<i>Wakhud rajil shereef hada</i>, <i>min beled bel
scharki</i>.&rdquo; (A holy man this from the kingdoms of
the East.) At last I produced the shekel, which I
invariably carry about me as a pocket-piece, and asked the
capitaz whether he had ever seen that money before. He
surveyed the censer and olive-branch for a considerable time, and
evidently knew not what to make of it. At length he fell to
inspecting the characters round about it on both sides, and
giving a cry, exclaimed to the other hamalos: &ldquo;Brothers,
brothers, these are the letters of Solomon. This silver is
blessed. We must kiss this money.&rdquo; He then put
it upon his head, pressed it to his eyes, and finally kissed it
with enthusiasm as did successively all his brethren. Then
regaining it, he returned it to me, with a low reverence.
Griffiths subsequently informed me, that the fellow refused to
work during all the rest of the day, and did nothing but smile,
laugh, and talk to himself.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Allow me to offer you a glass of bitters, sir,&rdquo;
said the queer-looking personage before mentioned; he was a
corpulent man, very short, and his legs particularly so.
His dress consisted of a greasy snuff-coloured coat, dirty white
trousers, and dirtier stockings. On his head he wore a
rusty silk hat, the eaves of which had a tendency to turn up
before and behind. I had observed that, during my
conversation with the hamalos, he had several times uplifted his
eyes from the newspaper, and on the production of the shekel had
grinned very significantly, and had inspected it when in the hand
of the capitaz. &ldquo;Allow me to offer you a glass of
bitters,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;I guessed you was one of our
people before you spoke to the hamalos. Sir, it does my
heart good to see a gentleman of your appearance not above
speaking to his poor brethren. It is what I do myself not
unfrequently, and I hope God will blot out my name, and that is
Solomons, when I despise them. I do not pretend to much
Arabic myself, yet I understood you tolerably well, and I liked
your discourse much. You must have a great deal of shillam
eidri, nevertheless you startled me when you asked the hamalo if
he ever read the Torah; of course you meant with the meforshim;
poor as he is, I do not believe him becoresh enough to read the
Torah without the commentators. So help me, sir, I believe
you to be a Salamancan Jew; I am told there are still some of the
old families to be found there. Ever at Tudela, sir? not
very far from Salamanca, I believe; one of my own kindred once
lived there: a great traveller, sir, like yourself; went over all
the world to look for the Jews,&mdash;went to the top of
Sinai. Anything that I can do for you at Gibraltar,
sir? Any commission; will execute it as reasonably, and
more expeditiously than any one else. My name is
Solomons. I am tolerably well known at Gibraltar; yes, sir,
and in the Crooked Friars, and, for that matter, in the Neuen
Stein Steg, at Hamburgh; so help me, sir, I think I once saw your
face at the fair at Bremen. Speak German, sir? though of
course you do. Allow me, sir, to offer you a glass of
bitters. I wish, sir, they were mayim, hayim for your sake,
I do indeed, sir, I wish they were living waters. Now, sir,
do give me your opinion as to this matter (lowering his voice and
striking the newspaper). Do you not think it is very hard
that one Yudken should betray the other? When I put my
little secret beyad peluni,&mdash;you understand me,
sir?&mdash;when I entrust my poor secret to the custody of an
individual, and that individual a Jew, a Yudken, sir, I do not
wish to be blown, indeed, I do not expect it. In a word,
what do you think of the <i>gold dust robbery</i>, and what will
be done to those unfortunate people, who I see are
convicted?&rdquo;</p>

<p>That same day I made enquiry respecting the means of
transferring myself to Tangier, having no wish to prolong my stay
at Gibraltar, where, though it is an exceedingly interesting
place to an observant traveller, I had no particular business to
detain me. In the evening I was visited by a Jew, a native
of Barbary, who informed me that he was secretary to the master
of a small Genoese bark which plied between Tangier and
Gibraltar. Upon his assuring me that the vessel would
infallibly start for the former place on the following evening, I
agreed with him for my passage. He said that as the wind
was blowing from the Levant quarter, the voyage would be a speedy
one. Being desirous now of disposing to the most advantage
of the short time which I expected to remain at Gibraltar, I
determined upon visiting the excavations, which I had as yet
never seen, on the following morning, and accordingly sent for
and easily obtained the necessary permission.</p>

<p>About six on Tuesday morning, I started on this expedition,
attended by a very intelligent good-looking lad of the Jewish
persuasion, one of two brothers who officiated at the inn in the
capacity of valets de place.</p>

<p>The morning was dim and hazy, yet sultry to a degree. We
ascended a precipitous street, and proceeding in an easterly
direction, soon arrived in the vicinity of what is generally
known by the name of the Moorish Castle, a large tower, but so
battered by the cannon balls discharged against it in the famous
siege, that it is at present little better than a ruin; hundreds
of round holes are to be seen in its sides, in which, as it is
said, the shot are still imbedded; here, at a species of hut, we
were joined by an artillery sergeant, who was to be our
guide. After saluting us, he led the way to a huge rock,
where he unlocked a gate at the entrance of a dark vaulted
passage which passed under it, emerging from which passage we
found ourselves in a steep path, or rather staircase, with walls
on either side.</p>

<p>We proceeded very leisurely, for hurry in such a situation
would have been of little avail, as we should have lost our
breath in a minute&rsquo;s time. The soldier, perfectly
well acquainted with the locality, stalked along with measured
steps, his eyes turned to the ground.</p>

<p>I looked fully as much at that man as at the strange place
where we now were, and which was every moment becoming
stranger. He was a fine specimen of the yeoman turned
soldier; indeed, the corps to which he belonged consists almost
entirely of that class. There he paces along, tall, strong,
ruddy, and chestnut-haired, an Englishman every inch; behold him
pacing along, sober, silent, and civil, a genuine English
soldier. I prize the sturdy Scot, I love the daring and
impetuous Irishman; I admire all the various races which
constitute the population of the British isles; yet I must say
that, upon the whole, none are so well adapted to ply the
soldier&rsquo;s hardy trade as the rural sons of old England, so
strong, so cool, yet, at the same time, animated with so much
hidden fire. Turn to the history of England and you will at
once perceive of what such men are capable; even at Hastings, in
the grey old time, under almost every disadvantage, weakened by a
recent and terrible conflict, without discipline, comparatively
speaking, and uncouthly armed, they all but vanquished the Norman
chivalry. Trace their deeds in France, which they twice
subdued; and even follow them to Spain, where they twanged the
yew and raised the battle-axe, and left behind them a name of
glory at Inglis Mendi, a name that shall last till fire consumes
the Cantabrian hills. And, oh, in modern times, trace the
deeds of these gallant men all over the world, and especially in
France and Spain, and admire them, even as I did that sober,
silent, soldier-like man who was showing me the wonders of a
foreign mountain fortress, wrested by his countrymen from a
powerful and proud nation more than a century before, and of
which he was now a trusty and efficient guardian.</p>

<p>We arrived close to the stupendous precipice, which rises
abruptly above the isthmus called the neutral ground, staring
gauntly and horridly at Spain, and immediately entered the
excavations. They consist of galleries scooped in the
living rock at the distance of some twelve feet from the outside,
behind which they run the whole breadth of the hill in this
direction. In these galleries, at short distances, are
ragged yawning apertures, all formed by the hand of man, where
stand the cannon upon neat slightly-raised pavements of small
flint stones, each with its pyramid of bullets on one side, and
on the other a box, in which is stowed the gear which the gunner
requires in the exercise of his craft. Everything was in
its place, everything in the nicest English order, everything
ready to scathe and overwhelm in a few moments the proudest and
most numerous host which might appear marching in hostile array
against this singular fortress on the land side.</p>

<p>There is not much variety in these places, one cavern and one
gun resembling the other. As for the guns, they are not of
large calibre, indeed, such are not needed here, where a pebble
discharged from so great an altitude would be fraught with
death. On descending a shaft, however, I observed, in one
cave of special importance, two enormous carronades looking with
peculiar wickedness and malignity down a shelving rock, which
perhaps, although not without tremendous difficulty, might be
scaled. The mere wind of one of these huge guns would be
sufficient to topple over a thousand men. What sensations
of dread and horror must be awakened in the breast of a foe when
this hollow rock, in the day of siege, emits its flame, smoke,
and thundering wind from a thousand yawning holes; horror not
inferior to that felt by the peasant of the neighbourhood when
Mongibello belches forth from all its orifices its sulphureous
fires.</p>

<p>Emerging from the excavations, we proceeded to view various
batteries. I asked the sergeant whether his companions and
himself were dexterous at the use of the guns. He replied
that these cannons were to them what the fowling-piece is to the
fowler, that they handled them as easily, and, he believed,
pointed them with more precision, as they seldom or never missed
an object within range of the shot. This man never spoke
until he was addressed, and then the answers which he gave were
replete with good sense, and in general well worded. After
our excursion, which lasted at least two hours, I made him a
small present, and took leave with a hearty shake of the
hand.</p>

<p>In the evening I prepared to go on board the vessel bound for
Tangier, trusting in what the Jewish secretary had told me as to
its sailing. Meeting him, however, accidentally in the
street, he informed me that it would not start until the
following morning, advising me at the same time to be on board at
an early hour. I now roamed about the streets until night
was beginning to set in, and becoming weary, I was just about to
direct my steps to the inn, when I felt myself gently pulled by
the skirt. I was amidst a concourse of people who were
gathered around some Irish soldiers who were disputing, and I
paid no attention; but I was pulled again more forcibly than
before, and I heard myself addressed in a language which I had
half forgotten, and which I scarcely expected ever to hear
again. I looked round, and lo! a tall figure stood close to
me and gazed in my face with anxious inquiring eyes. On its
head was the kauk or furred cap of Jerusalem; depending from its
shoulders, and almost trailing on the ground, was a broad blue
mantle, whilst kandrisa or Turkish trousers enveloped its nether
limbs. I gazed on the figure as wistfully as it gazed upon
me. At first the features appeared perfectly strange, and I
was about to exclaim, I know you not, when one or two lineaments
struck me, and I cried, though somewhat hesitatingly,
&ldquo;Surely this is Judah Lib.&rdquo;</p>

<p>I was in a steamer in the Baltic in the year &rsquo;34, if I
mistake not. There was a drizzling rain and a high sea,
when I observed a young man of about two and twenty leaning in a
melancholy attitude against the side of the vessel. By his
countenance I knew him to be one of the Hebrew race, nevertheless
there was something very singular in his appearance, something
which is rarely found amongst that people, a certain air of
nobleness which highly interested me. I approached him, and
in a few minutes we were in earnest conversation. He spoke
Polish and Jewish German indiscriminately. The story which
he related to me was highly extraordinary, yet I yielded implicit
credit to all his words, which came from his mouth with an air of
sincerity which precluded doubt; and, moreover, he could have no
motive for deceiving me. One idea, one object, engrossed
him entirely: &ldquo;My father,&rdquo; said he, in language which
strongly marked his race, &ldquo;was a native of Galatia, a Jew
of high caste, a learned man, for he knew Zohar, <a
name="citation459"></a><a href="#footnote459"
class="citation">[459]</a> and he was likewise skilled in
medicine. When I was a child of some eight years, he left
Galatia, and taking his wife, who was my mother, and myself with
him, he bent his way unto the East, even to Jerusalem; there he
established himself as a merchant, for he was acquainted with
trade and the arts of getting money. He was much respected
by the Rabbins of Jerusalem, for he was a Polish man, and he knew
more Zohar and more secrets than the wisest of them. He
made frequent journeys, and was absent for weeks and for months,
but he never exceeded six moons. My father loved me, and he
taught me part of what he knew in the moments of his
leisure. I assisted him in his trade, but he took me not
with him in his journeys. We had a shop at Jerusalem, even
a shop of commerce, where we sold the goods of the Nazarene, and
my mother and myself, and even a little sister who was born
shortly after our arrival at Jerusalem, all assisted my father in
his commerce. At length it came to pass, that on a
particular time he told us that he was going on a journey, and he
embraced us and bade us farewell, and he departed, whilst we
continued at Jerusalem attending to the business. We
awaited his return, but months passed, even six months, and he
came not, and we wondered; and months passed, even other six
passed, but still he came not, nor did we hear any tidings of
him, and our hearts were filled with heaviness and sorrow.
But when years, even two years, were expired, I said to my
mother, &lsquo;I will go and seek my father&rsquo;; and she said,
&lsquo;Do so,&rsquo; and she gave me her blessing, and I kissed
my little sister, and I went forth as far as Egypt, and there I
heard tidings of my father, for people told me he had been there,
and they named the time, and they said that he had passed from
thence to the land of the Turk; so I myself followed to the land
of the Turk, even unto Constantinople. And when I arrived
there I again heard of my father, for he was well known amongst
the Jews, and they told me the time of his being there, and they
added that he had speculated and prospered, and departed from
Constantinople, but whither he went they knew not. So I
reasoned within myself and said, perhaps he may have gone to the
land of his fathers, even unto Galatia, to visit his kindred; so
I determined to go there myself, and I went, and I found our
kindred, and I made myself known to them, and they rejoiced to
see me; but when I asked them for my father, they shook their
heads and could give me no intelligence; and they would fain have
had me tarry with them, but I would not, for the thought of my
father was working strong within me, and I could not rest.
So I departed and went to another country, even unto Russia, and
I went deep into that country, even as far as Kazan, and of all I
met, whether Jew, or Russ, or Tartar, I inquired for my father;
but no one knew him, nor had heard of him. So I turned back
and here thou seest me; and I now purpose going through all
Germany and France, nay, through all the world, until I have
received intelligence of my father, for I cannot rest until I
know what is become of my father, for the thought of him burneth
in my brain like fire, even like the fire of Jehinnim.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Such was the individual whom I now saw again, after a lapse of
five years, in the streets of Gibraltar, in the dusk of the
evening. &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;I am Judah,
surnamed the Lib. Thou didst not recognise me, but I knew
thee at once. I should have known thee amongst a million,
and not a day has passed since I last saw thee, but I have
thought on thee.&rdquo; I was about to reply, but he pulled
me out of the crowd and led me into a shop where, squatted on the
floor, sat six or seven Jews cutting leather; he said something
to them which I did not understand, whereupon they bowed their
heads and followed their occupation, without taking any notice of
us. A singular figure had followed us to the door; it was a
man dressed in exceedingly shabby European garments, which
exhibited nevertheless the cut of a fashionable tailor. He
seemed about fifty; his face, which was very broad, was of a deep
bronze colour; the features were rugged, but exceedingly manly,
and, notwithstanding they were those of a Jew, exhibited no marks
of cunning, but, on the contrary, much simplicity and good
nature. His form was about the middle height, and
tremendously athletic, the arms and back were literally those of
a Hercules squeezed into a modern surtout; the lower part of his
face was covered with a bushy beard, which depended half way down
his breast. This figure remained at the door, his eyes
fixed upon myself and Judah.</p>

<p>The first inquiry which I now addressed was &ldquo;Have you
heard of your father?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I have,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;When we parted,
I proceeded through many lands, and wherever I went I inquired of
the people respecting my father, but still they shook their
heads, until I arrived at the land of Tunis; and there I went to
the head rabbi, and he told me that he knew my father well, and
that he had been there, even at Tunis, and he named the time, and
he said that from thence he departed for the land of Fez; and he
spoke much of my father and of his learning, and he mentioned the
Zohar, even that dark book which my father loved so well; and he
spoke yet more of my father&rsquo;s wealth and his speculations,
in all of which it seems he had thriven. So I departed and
I mounted a ship, and I went into the land of Barbary, even unto
Fez, and when I arrived there I heard much intelligence of my
father, but it was intelligence which perhaps was worse than
ignorance. For the Jews told me that my father had been
there, and had speculated and had thriven, and that from thence
he departed for Tafilaltz, which is the country of which the
Emperor, even Muley Abderrahman, is a native; and there he was
still prosperous, and his wealth in gold and silver was very
great; and he wished to go to a not far distant town, and he
engaged certain Moors, two in number, to accompany him and defend
him and his treasures: and the Moors were strong men, even
makhasniah or soldiers; and they made a covenant with my father,
and they gave him their right hands, and they swore to spill
their blood rather than his should be shed. And my father
was encouraged and he waxed bold, and he departed with them, even
with the two false Moors. And when they arrived in the
uninhabited place, they smote my father, and they prevailed
against him, and they poured out his blood in the way, and they
robbed him of all he had, of his silks and his merchandise, and
of the gold and silver which he had made in his speculations, and
they went to their own villages, and there they sat themselves
down and bought lands and houses, and they rejoiced and they
triumphed, and they made a merit of their deed, saying, &lsquo;We
have killed an infidel, even an accursed Jew&rsquo;; and these
things were notorious in Fez. And when I heard these
tidings my heart was sad, and I became like a child, and I wept;
but the fire of Jehinnim burned no longer in my brain, for I now
knew what was become of my father. At last I took comfort
and I reasoned with myself, saying, &lsquo;Would it not be wise
to go unto the Moorish king and demand of him vengeance for my
father&rsquo;s death, and that the spoilers be despoiled, and the
treasure, even my father&rsquo;s treasure, be wrested from their
hands and delivered up to me who am his son?&rsquo; And the
king of the Moors was not at that time in Fez, but was absent in
his wars; and I arose and followed him, even unto Arbat, which is
a seaport, and when I arrived there, lo! I found him not,
but his son was there, and men said unto me that to speak unto
the son was to speak unto the king, even Muley Abderrahman; so I
went in unto the king&rsquo;s son, and I kneeled before him, and
I lifted up my voice and I said unto him what I had to say, and
he looked courteously upon me and said, &lsquo;Truly thy tale is
a sorrowful one, and it maketh me sad; and what thou asketh, that
will I grant, and thy father&rsquo;s death shall be avenged and
the spoilers shall be despoiled; and I will write thee a letter
with my own hand unto the Pasha, even the Pasha of Tafilaltz, and
I will enjoin him to make inquiry into thy matter, and that
letter thou shalt thyself carry and deliver unto
him.&rsquo; And when I heard these words, my heart died
within my bosom for very fear, and I replied, &lsquo;Not so, my
lord; it is good that thou write a letter unto the Pasha, even
unto the Pasha of Tafilaltz, but that letter will I not take,
neither will I go to Tafilaltz, for no sooner should I arrive
there, and my errand be known, than the Moors would arise and put
me to death, either privily or publicly, for are not the
murderers of my father Moors; and am I aught but a Jew, though I
be a Polish man?&rsquo; And he looked benignantly, and he
said, &lsquo;Truly, thou speakest wisely; I will write the
letter, but thou shalt not take it, for I will send it by other
hands; therefore set thy heart at rest, and doubt not that, if
thy tale be true, thy father&rsquo;s death shall be avenged, and
the treasure, or the value thereof, be recovered and given up to
thee; tell me, therefore, where wilt thou abide till
then?&rsquo; And I said unto him, &lsquo;My lord, I will go
into the land of Suz and will tarry there.&rsquo; And he
replied: &lsquo;Do so, and thou shalt hear speedily from
me.&rsquo; So I arose and departed and went into the land
of Suz, even unto Sweerah, which the Nazarenes call Mogadore; and
waited with a troubled heart for intelligence from the son of the
Moorish king, but no intelligence came, and never since that day
have I heard from him, and it is now three years since I was in
his presence. And I sat me down at Mogadore, and I married
a wife, a daughter of our nation, and I wrote to my mother, even
to Jerusalem, and she sent me money, and with that I entered into
commerce, even as my father had done, and I speculated, and I was
not successful in my speculations, and I speedily lost all I
had. And now I am come to Gibraltar to speculate on the
account of another, a merchant of Mogadore, but I like not my
occupation, he has deceived me; I am going back, when I shall
again seek the presence of the Moorish king and demand that the
treasure of my father be taken from the spoilers and delivered up
to me, even to me his son.&rdquo;</p>

<p>I listened with mute attention to the singular tale of this
singular man, and when he had concluded I remained a considerable
time without saying a word; at last he inquired what had brought
me to Gibraltar. I told him that I was merely a passer
through on my way to Tangier, for which place I expected to sail
the following morning. Whereupon he observed, that in the
course of a week or two he expected to be there also, when he
hoped that we should meet, as he had much more to tell me.
&ldquo;And peradventure,&rdquo; he added, &ldquo;you can afford
me counsel which will be profitable, for you are a person of
experience, versed in the ways of many nations; and when I look
in your countenance, heaven seems to open to me, for I think I
see the countenance of a friend, even of a brother.&rdquo;
He then bade me farewell, and departed; the strange bearded man,
who during our conversation had remained patiently waiting at the
door, following him. I remarked that there was less
wildness in his look than on the former occasion, but at the same
time, more melancholy, and his features were wrinkled like those
of an aged man, though he had not yet passed the prime of
youth.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER LIII</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Genoese Mariners&mdash;St. Michael&rsquo;s
Cave&mdash;Midnight Abysses&mdash;Young American&mdash;A Slave
Proprietor&mdash;The Fairy Man&mdash;Infidelity.</p>

<p>Throughout the whole of that night it blew very hard, but as
the wind was in the Levant quarter, I had no apprehension of
being detained longer at Gibraltar on that account. I went
on board the vessel at an early hour, when I found the crew
engaged in hauling the anchor close, and making other
preparations for sailing. They informed me that we should
probably start in an hour. That time however passed, and we
still remained where we were, and the captain continued on
shore. We formed one of a small flotilla of Genoese barks,
the crews of which seemed in their leisure moments to have no
better means of amusing themselves than the exchange of abusive
language; a furious fusillade of this kind presently commenced,
in which the mate of our vessel particularly distinguished
himself; he was a grey-haired Genoese of sixty. Though not
able to speak their patois, I understood much of what was said;
it was truly shocking, and as they shouted it forth, judging from
their violent gestures and distorted features, you would have
concluded them to be bitter enemies; they were, however, nothing
of the kind, but excellent friends all the time, and indeed very
good-humoured fellows at bottom. Oh, the infirmities of
human nature! When will man learn to become truly
Christian?</p>

<p>I am upon the whole very fond of the Genoese; they have, it is
true, much ribaldry and many vices, but they are a brave and
chivalrous people, and have ever been so, and from them I have
never experienced aught but kindness and hospitality.</p>

<p>After the lapse of another two hours, the Jew secretary
arrived and said something to the old mate, who grumbled much;
then coming up to me, he took off his hat and informed me that we
were not to start that day, saying at the same time that it was a
shame to lose such a noble wind, which would carry us to Tangier
in three hours. &ldquo;Patience,&rdquo; said I, and went on
shore.</p>

<p>I now strolled towards Saint Michael&rsquo;s cave, in company
with the Jewish lad whom I have before mentioned.</p>

<p>The way thither does not lie in the same direction as that
which leads to the excavations; these confront Spain, whilst the
cave yawns in the face of Africa. It lies nearly at the top
of the mountain, several hundred yards above the sea. We
passed by the public walks, where there are noble trees, and also
by many small houses, situated delightfully in gardens, and
occupied by the officers of the garrison. It is wrong to
suppose Gibraltar a mere naked barren rock; it is not without its
beautiful spots&mdash;spots such as these, looking cool and
refreshing, with bright green foliage. The path soon became
very steep, and we left behind us the dwellings of man. The
gale of the preceding night had entirely ceased, and not a breath
of air was stirring; the midday sun shone in all its fierce
glory, and the crags up which we clambered were not unfrequently
watered with the perspiration drops which rained from our
temples: at length we arrived at the cavern.</p>

<p>The mouth is a yawning cleft in the side of the mountain,
about twelve feet high and as many wide; within there is a very
rapid precipitous descent for some fifty yards, where the cavern
terminates in an abyss which leads to unknown depths. The
most remarkable object is a natural column, which rises up
something like the trunk of an enormous oak, as if for the
purpose of supporting the roof; it stands at a short distance
from the entrance, and gives a certain air of wildness and
singularity to that part of the cavern which is visible, which it
would otherwise not possess. The floor is exceedingly
slippery, consisting of soil which the continual drippings from
the roof have saturated, so that no slight precaution is
necessary for him who treads it. It is very dangerous to
enter this place without a guide well acquainted with it, as,
besides the black pit at the extremity, holes which have never
been fathomed present themselves here and there, falling into
which the adventurer would be dashed to pieces. Whatever
men may please to say of this cave, one thing it seems to tell to
all who approach it, namely, that the hand of man has never been
busy about it; there is many a cave of nature&rsquo;s forming,
old as the earth on which we exist, which nevertheless exhibits
indications that man has turned it to some account, and that it
has been subjected more or less to his modifying power; not so
this cave of Gibraltar, for, judging from its appearance, there
is not the slightest reason for supposing that it ever served for
aught else than a den for foul night birds, reptiles, and beasts
of prey. It has been stated by some to have been used in
the days of paganism as a temple to the god Hercules, who,
according to the ancient tradition, raised the singular mass of
crags now called Gibraltar, and the mountain which confronts it
on the African shores, as columns which should say to all
succeeding times that he had been there, and had advanced no
farther. Sufficient to observe, that there is nothing
within the cave which would authorize the adoption of such an
opinion, not even a platform on which an altar could have stood,
whilst a narrow path passes before it, leading to the summit of
the mountain. As I have myself never penetrated into its
depths, I can of course not pretend to describe them.
Numerous have been the individuals who, instigated by curiosity,
have ventured down to immense depths, hoping to discover an end,
and indeed scarcely a week passes without similar attempts being
made either by the officers or soldiers of the garrison, all of
which have proved perfectly abortive. No termination has
ever been reached, nor any discoveries made to repay the labour
and frightful danger incurred; precipice succeeds precipice, and
abyss succeeds abyss, in apparently endless succession, with
ledges at intervals, which afford the adventurers opportunities
for resting themselves and affixing their rope-ladders for the
purpose of descending yet farther. What is, however, most
mortifying and perplexing is to observe that these abysses are
not only before, but behind you, and on every side; indeed, close
within the entrance of the cave, on the right, there is a gulf
almost equally dark and full as threatening as that which exists
at the nether end, and perhaps contains within itself as many
gulfs and horrid caverns branching off in all directions.
Indeed, from what I have heard, I have come to the opinion, that
the whole hill of Gibraltar is honeycombed, and I have little
doubt that, were it cleft asunder, its interior would be found
full of such abysses of Erebus as those to which Saint
Michael&rsquo;s cave conducts. Many valuable lives are lost
every year in these horrible places; and only a few weeks before
my visit, two sergeants, brothers, had perished in the gulf on
the right hand side of the cave, having, when at a great depth,
slipped down a precipice. The body of one of these
adventurous men is even now rotting in the bowels of the
mountain, preyed upon by its blind and noisome worms; that of his
brother was extricated. Immediately after this horrible
accident, a gate was placed before the mouth of the cave, to
prevent individuals, and especially the reckless soldiers, from
indulging in their extravagant curiosity. The lock,
however, was speedily forced, and at the period of my arrival the
gate swung idly upon its hinges.</p>

<p>As I left the place, I thought that perhaps similar to this
was the cave of Horeb, where dwelt Elijah, when he heard the
still small voice, after the great and strong wind which rent the
mountains and brake in pieces the rocks before the Lord; the cave
to the entrance of which he went out and stood with his face
wrapped in his mantle, when he heard the voice say unto him,
&ldquo;What doest thou here, Elijah?&rdquo; (1 Kings xix.
11&ndash;13.)</p>

<p>And what am I doing here, I inquired of myself as, vexed at my
detention, I descended into the town.</p>

<p>That afternoon I dined in the company of a young American, a
native of South Carolina. I had frequently seen him before,
as he had been staying for some time at the inn previous to my
arrival at Gibraltar. His appearance was remarkable: he was
low of stature, and exceedingly slightly made; his features were
pale but very well formed; he had a magnificent head of crispy
black hair, and as superb a pair of whiskers of the same colour
as I ever beheld. He wore a white hat, with broad brim and
particularly shallow crown, and was dressed in a light yellow
gingham frock striped with black, and ample trousers of calico,
in a word, his appearance was altogether queer and
singular. On my return from my ramble to the cave, I found
that he had himself just descended from the mountain, having
since a very early hour been absent exploring its wonders.</p>

<p>A man of the rock asked him how he liked the
excavations. &ldquo;Liked them,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;you
might just as well ask a person who has just seen the Niagara
Falls how he liked them&mdash;like is not the word,
mister.&rdquo; The heat was suffocating, as it almost
invariably is in the town of Gibraltar, where rarely a breath of
air is to be felt, as it is sheltered from all winds. This
led another individual to inquire of him whether he did not think
it exceedingly hot? &ldquo;Hot, sir,&rdquo; he replied,
&ldquo;not at all: fine cotton gathering weather as a man could
wish for. We couldn&rsquo;t beat it in South Carolina,
sir.&rdquo; &ldquo;You live in South Carolina, sir&mdash;I
hope, sir, you are not a slave proprietor,&rdquo; said the short
fat Jewish personage in the snuff-coloured coat, who had offered
me the bitters on a previous occasion; &ldquo;it is a terrible
thing to make slaves of poor people, simply because they happen
to be black; don&rsquo;t you think so, sir?&rdquo;
&ldquo;Think so, sir&mdash;no, sir, I don&rsquo;t think
so&mdash;I glory in being a slave proprietor; have four hundred
black niggers on my estate&mdash;own estate, sir, near
Charleston&mdash;flog half a dozen of them before breakfast,
merely for exercise. Niggers only made to be flogged, sir:
try to escape sometimes; set the blood-hounds in their trail,
catch them in a twinkling; used to hang themselves formerly: the
niggers thought that a sure way to return to their own country
and get clear of me: soon put a stop to that: told them that if
any more hanged themselves I&rsquo;d hang myself too, follow
close behind them, and flog them in their own country ten times
worse than in mine. What do you think of that,
friend?&rdquo; It was easy to perceive that there was more
of fun than malice in this eccentric little fellow, for his large
grey eyes were sparkling with good humour whilst he poured out
these wild things. He was exceedingly free of his money;
and a dirty Irish woman, a soldier&rsquo;s wife, having entered
with a basketful of small boxes and trinkets, made of portions of
the rock of Gibraltar, he purchased the greatest part of her
ware, giving her for every article the price (by no means
inconsiderable) which she demanded. He had glanced at me
several times, and at last I saw him stoop down and whisper
something to the Jew, who replied in an undertone, though with
considerable earnestness &ldquo;O dear no, sir; perfectly
mistaken, sir: is no American, sir:&mdash;from Salamanca, sir;
the gentleman is a Salamancan Spaniard.&rdquo; The waiter
at length informed us that he had laid the table, and that
perhaps it would be agreeable to us to dine together: we
instantly assented. I found my new acquaintance in many
respects a most agreeable companion: he soon told me his
history. He was a planter, and, from what he hinted, just
come to his property. He was part owner of a large vessel
which traded between Charleston and Gibraltar, and the yellow
fever having just broken out at the former place, he had
determined to take a trip (his first) to Europe in this ship;
having, as he said, already visited every state in the Union, and
seen all that was to be seen there. He described to me, in
a very na&iuml;ve and original manner, his sensations on passing
by Tarifa, which was the first walled town he had ever
seen. I related to him the history of that place, to which
he listened with great attention. He made divers attempts
to learn from me who I was; all of which I evaded, though he
seemed fully convinced that I was an American; and amongst other
things asked me whether my father had not been American consul at
Seville. What, however, most perplexed him was my
understanding Moorish and Gaelic, which he had heard me speak
respectively to the hamalos and the Irish woman, the latter of
whom, as he said, had told him that I was a fairy man. At
last he introduced the subject of religion, and spoke with much
contempt of revelation, avowing himself a deist; he was evidently
very anxious to hear my opinion, but here again I evaded him, and
contented myself with asking him, whether he had ever read the
Bible. He said he had not; but that he was well acquainted
with the writings of Volney and Mirabeau. I made no answer;
whereupon he added, that it was by no means his habit to
introduce such subjects, and that there were very few persons to
whom he would speak so unreservedly, but that I had very much
interested him, though our acquaintance had been short. I
replied, that he would scarcely have spoken at Boston in the
manner that I had just heard him, and that it was easy to
perceive that he was not a New Englander. &ldquo;I assure
you,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I should as little have thought of
speaking so at Charleston, for if I held such conversation there,
I should soon have had to speak to myself.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Had I known less of deists than it has been my fortune to
know, I should perhaps have endeavoured to convince this young
man of the erroneousness of the ideas which he had adopted; but I
was aware of all that he would have urged in reply, and as the
believer has no carnal arguments to address to carnal reason upon
this subject, I thought it best to avoid disputation, which I
felt sure would lead to no profitable result. Faith is the
free gift of God, and I do not believe that ever yet was an
infidel converted by means of after-dinner polemics. This
was the last evening of my sojourn in Gibraltar.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER LIV</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Again on Board&mdash;The Strange
Visage&mdash;The Hadji&mdash;Setting Sail&mdash;The Two
Jews&mdash;American Vessel&mdash;Tangier&mdash;Adun
Oulem&mdash;The Struggle&mdash;The Forbidden Thing.</p>

<p>On Thursday, the 8th of August, I was again on board the
Genoese bark, at as early an hour as on the previous
morning. After waiting, however, two or three hours without
any preparation being made for departing, I was about to return
to the shore once more, but the old Genoese mate advised me to
stay, assuring me that he had no doubt of our sailing speedily,
as all the cargo was on board, and we had nothing further to
detain us. I was reposing myself in the little cabin, when
I heard a boat strike against the side of the vessel, and some
people come on board. Presently a face peered in at the
opening, strange and wild. I was half asleep, and at first
imagined I was dreaming, for the face seemed more like that of a
goat or an orge than of a human being; its long beard almost
touching my face as I lay extended in a kind of berth.
Starting up, however, I recognised the singular-looking Jew whom
I had seen in the company of Judah Lib. He recognised me
also, and nodding, bent his huge features into a smile. I
arose and went upon deck, where I found him in company with
another Jew, a young man in the dress of Barbary. They had
just arrived in the boat. I asked my friend of the beard
who he was, from whence he came, and where he was going? He
answered, in broken Portuguese, that he was returning from
Lisbon, where he had been on business, to Mogadore, of which
place he was a native. He then looked me in the face and
smiled, and taking out a book from his pocket, in Hebrew
characters, fell to reading it; whereupon a Spanish sailor on
board observed that with such a beard and book he must needs be a
sabio, or sage. His companion was from Mequinez, and spoke
only Arabic.</p>

<p>A large boat now drew nigh, the stern of which was filled with
Moors; there might be about twelve, and the greater part
evidently consisted of persons of distinction, as they were
dressed in all the pomp and gallantry of the East, with
snow-white turbans, jabadores of green silk or scarlet cloth, and
bedeyas rich with gold galloon. Some of them were
exceedingly fine men, and two amongst them, youths, were
strikingly handsome, and so far from exhibiting the dark swarthy
countenance of Moors in general, their complexions were of a
delicate red and white. The principal personage, and to
whom all the rest paid much deference, was a tall athletic man of
about forty. He wore a vest of white quilted cotton, and
white kandrisa, whilst gracefully wound round his body, and
swathing the upper part of his head, was the haik, or white
flannel wrapping plaid always held in so much estimation by the
Moors from the earliest period of their history. His legs
were bare and his feet only protected from the ground by yellow
slippers. He displayed no farther ornament than one large
gold ear-ring, from which depended a pearl, evidently of great
price. A noble black beard, about a foot in length, touched
his muscular breast. His features were good, with the
exception of the eyes, which were somewhat small; their
expression, however, was, evil; their glances were sullen; and
malignity and ill-nature were painted in every lineament of his
countenance, which seemed never to have been brightened with a
smile. The Spanish sailor, of whom I have already had
occasion to speak, informed me in a whisper, that he was a
santuron, or big saint, and was so far back on his way from
Mecca; adding, that he was a merchant of immense wealth. It
soon appeared that the other Moors had merely attended him on
board through friendly politeness, as they all successively came
to bid him adieu, with the exception of two blacks, who were his
attendants. I observed that these blacks, when the Moors
presented them their hands at departing, invariably made an
effort to press them to their lips, which effort was as uniformly
foiled, the Moors in every instance, by a speedy and graceful
movement, drawing back their hand locked in that of the black,
which they pressed against their own heart; as much as to say,
&ldquo;though a negro and a slave you are a Moslem, and being so,
you art our brother&mdash;Allah knows no
distinctions.&rdquo; The boatman now went up to the hadji,
demanding payment, stating, at the same time, that he had been on
board three times on his account, conveying his luggage.
The sum which he demanded appeared exorbitant to the hadji, who,
forgetting that he was a saint, and fresh from Mecca, fumed
outrageously, and in broken Spanish called the boatman
thief. If there be any term of reproach which stings a
Spaniard (and such was the boatman) more than another, it is that
one; and the fellow no sooner heard it applied to himself, than
with eyes sparkling with fury, he put his fist to the
hadji&rsquo;s nose, and repaid the one opprobrious name by at
least ten others equally bad or worse. He would perhaps
have proceeded to acts of violence had he not been pulled away by
the other Moors, who led him aside, and I suppose either said or
gave him something which pacified him, as he soon got into his
boat, and returned with them on shore. The captain now
arrived with his Jewish secretary, and orders were given for
setting sail.</p>

<p>At a little past twelve we were steering out of the bay of
Gibraltar; the wind was in the right quarter, but for some time
we did not make much progress, lying almost becalmed beneath the
lee of the hill; by degrees, however, our progress became
brisker, and in about an hour we found ourselves careering
smartly towards Tarifa.</p>

<p>The Jew secretary stood at the helm, and indeed appeared to be
the person who commanded the vessel, and who issued out all the
necessary orders, which were executed under the superintendence
of the old Genoese mate. I now put some questions to the
hadji, but he looked at me askance with his sullen eye, pouted
with his lip, and remained silent; as much as to say,
&ldquo;Speak not to me, I am holier than thou.&rdquo; I
found his negroes, however, far more conversable. One of
them was old and ugly, the other about twenty, and as well
looking as it is possible for a negro to be. His colour was
perfect ebony, his features exceedingly well formed and delicate,
with the exception of the lips, which were too full. The
shape of his eyes was peculiar; they were rather oblong than
round, like those of an Egyptian figure. Their expression
was thoughtful and meditative. In every respect he differed
from his companion, even in colour, (though both were negroes,)
and was evidently a scion of some little known and superior
race. As he sat beneath the mast gazing at the sea, I
thought he was misplaced, and that he would have appeared to more
advantage amidst boundless sands, and beneath a date tree, and
then he might have well represented a Jhin. I asked him
from whence he came, he replied that he was a native of Fez, but
that he had never known his parents. He had been brought
up, he added, in the family of his present master, whom he had
followed in the greater part of his travels, and with whom he had
thrice visited Mecca. I asked him if he liked being a
slave? Whereupon he replied, that he was a slave no longer,
having been made free for some time past, on account of his
faithful services, as had likewise his companion. He would
have told me much more, but the hadji called him away, and
otherwise employed him, probably to prevent his being
contaminated by me.</p>

<p>Thus avoided by the Moslems, I betook myself to the Jews, whom
I found nowise backward in cultivating an intimacy. The
sage of the beard told me his history, which in some respects
reminded me of that of Judah Lib, as it seemed that, a year or
two previous, he had quitted Mogadore in pursuit of his son, who
had betaken himself to Portugal. On the arrival, however,
of the father at Lisbon, he discovered that the fugitive had, a
few days before, shipped himself for the Brazils. Unlike
Judah in quest of his father, he now became weary, and
discontinued the pursuit. The younger Jew from Mequinez was
exceedingly gay and lively as soon as he perceived that I was
capable of understanding him, and made me smile by his humorous
account of Christian life, as he had observed it at Gibraltar,
where he had made a stay of about a month. He then spoke of
Mequinez, which, he said, was a Jennut, or Paradise, compared
with which Gibraltar was a sty of hogs. So great, so
universal is the love of country. I soon saw that both
these people believed me to be of their own nation; indeed, the
young one, who was much the most familiar, taxed me with being
so, and spoke of the infamy of denying my own blood.
Shortly before our arrival off Tarifa, universal hunger seemed to
prevail amongst us. The hadji and his negroes produced
their store, and feasted on roast fowls, the Jews ate grapes and
bread, myself bread and cheese, whilst the crew prepared a mess
of anchovies. Two of them speedily came, with a large
portion, which they presented to me with the kindness of
brothers: I made no hesitation in accepting their present, and
found the anchovies delicious. As I sat between the Jews, I
offered them some, but they turned away their heads with disgust,
and cried <i>haloof</i> (hogsflesh). They at the same time,
however, shook me by the hand, and, uninvited, took a small
portion of my bread. I had a bottle of Cognac, which I had
brought with me as a preventive to sea sickness, and I presented
it to them; but this they also refused, exclaiming, <i>Haram</i>
(it is forbidden). I said nothing.</p>

<p>We were now close to the lighthouse of Tarifa, and turning the
head of the bark towards the west, we made directly for the coast
of Africa. The wind was now blowing very fresh, and as we
had it almost in our poop, we sprang along at a tremendous rate,
the huge lateen sails threatening every moment to drive us
beneath the billows, which an adverse tide raised up against
us. Whilst scudding along in this manner, we passed close
under the stern of a large vessel bearing American colours; she
was tacking up the straits, and slowly winning her way against
the impetuous Levanter. As we passed under her, I observed
the poop crowded with people gazing at us; indeed, we must have
offered a singular spectacle to those on board, who, like my
young American friend at Gibraltar, were visiting the Old World
for the first time. At the helm stood the Jew; his whole
figure enveloped in a gabardine, the cowl of which, raised above
his head, gave him almost the appearance of a spectre in its
shroud; whilst upon the deck, mixed with Europeans in various
kinds of dresses, all of them picturesque with the exception of
my own, trod the turbaned Moors, the haik of the hadji flapping
loosely in the wind. The view they obtained of us, however,
could have been but momentary, as we bounded past them literally
with the speed of a racehorses so that in about an hour&rsquo;s
time we were not more than a mile&rsquo;s distance from the
foreland on which stands the fortress Alminàr, and which
constitutes the boundary point of the bay of Tangier towards the
east. There the wind dropped and our progress was again
slow.</p>

<p>For a considerable time Tangier had appeared in sight.
Shortly after standing away from Tarifa, we had descried it in
the far distance, when it showed like a white dove brooding on
its nest. The sun was setting behind the town when we
dropped anchor in its harbour, amidst half a dozen barks and
felouks about the size of our own, the only vessels which we
saw. There stood Tangier before us, and a picturesque town
it was, occupying the sides and top of two hills, one of which,
bold and bluff, projects into the sea where the coast takes a
sudden and abrupt turn. Frowning and battlemented were its
walls, either perched on the top of precipitous rocks, whose base
was washed by the salt billows, or rising from the narrow strand
which separates the hill from the ocean.</p>

<p>Yonder are two or three tiers of batteries, displaying heavy
guns which command the harbour; above them you see the terraces
of the town rising in succession like steps for giants. But
all is white, perfectly white, so that the whole seems cut out of
an immense chalk rock, though true it is that you behold here and
there tall green trees springing up from amidst the whiteness:
perhaps they belong to Moorish gardens, and beneath them even now
peradventure is reclining many a dark-eyed Leila, akin to the
houries. Right before you is a high tower or minaret, not
white but curiously painted, which belongs to the principal
mosque of Tangier; a black banner waves upon it, for it is the
feast of Ashor. A noble beach of white sand fringes the bay
from the town to the foreland of Alminàr. To the
east rise prodigious hills and mountains; they are Gibil Muza and
his chain; and yon tall fellow is the peak of Tetuan; the grey
mists of evening are enveloping their sides. Such was
Tangier, such its vicinity, as it appeared to me whilst gazing
from the Genoese bark.</p>

<p>A boat was now lowered from the vessel, in which the captain,
who was charged with the mail from Gibraltar, the Jew secretary,
and the hadji and his attendant negroes departed for the
shore. I would have gone with them, but I was told that I
could not land that night, as ere my passport and bill of health
could be examined, the gates would be closed; so I remained on
board with the crew and the two Jews. The former prepared
their supper, which consisted simply of pickled tomatoes, the
other provisions having been consumed. The old Genoese
brought me a portion, apologizing at the same time, for the
plainness of the fare. I accepted it with thanks, and told
him that a million better men than myself had a worse
super. I never ate with more appetite. As the night
advanced, the Jews sang Hebrew hymns, and when they had
concluded, demanded of me why I was silent, so I lifted up my
voice and chanted Adun Oulem:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote><p>&ldquo;Reigned the Universe&rsquo;s Master, ere
were earthly things begun;<br />
When His mandate all created, Ruler was the name He won;<br />
And alone He&rsquo;ll rule tremendous when all things are past
and gone,<br />
He no equal has, nor consort, He, the singular and lone,<br />
Has no end and no beginning; His the sceptre, might and
throne.<br />
He&rsquo;s my God and living Saviour, rock to whom in need I
run;<br />
He&rsquo;s my banner and my refuge, fount of weal when called
upon;<br />
In His hand I place my spirit at nightfall and rise of sun,<br />
And therewith my body also; God&rsquo;s my God&mdash;I fear no
one.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>

<p>Darkness had now fallen over land and sea; not a sound was
heard save occasionally the distant barking of a dog from the
shore, or some plaintive Genoese ditty, which arose from a
neighbouring bark. The town seemed buried in silence and
gloom, no light, not even that of a taper, could be
descried. Turning our eyes in the direction of Spain,
however, we perceived a magnificent conflagration seemingly
enveloping the side and head of one of the lofty mountains
northward of Tarifa; the blaze was redly reflected in the waters
of the strait; either the brushwood was burning or the Carboneros
were plying their dusky toil. The Jews now complained, of
weariness, and the younger, uncording a small mattress, spread it
on the deck and sought repose. The sage descended into the
cabin, but he had scarcely time to lie down ere the old mate,
darting forward, dived in after him, and pulled him out by the
heels, for it was very shallow, and the descent was effected by
not more than two or three steps. After accomplishing this,
he called him many opprobrious names, and threatened him with his
foot, as he lay sprawling on the deck. &ldquo;Think
you,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;who are a dog and a Jew, and pay as a
dog and a Jew; think you to sleep in the cabin? Undeceive
yourself, beast; that cabin shall be slept in by none to-night
but this Christian Cavallero.&rdquo; The sage made no
reply, but arose from the deck and stroked his beard, whilst the
old Genoese proceeded in his philippic. Had the Jew been
disposed, he could have strangled the insulter in a moment, or
crushed him to death in his brawny arms, as I never remember to
have seen a figure so powerful and muscular; but he was evidently
slow to anger, and long-suffering; not a resentful word escaped
him, and his features retained their usual expression of
benignant placidity.</p>

<p>I now assured the mate that I had not the slightest objection
to the Jew&rsquo;s sharing the cabin with me, but rather wished
it, as there was room for us both and for more.
&ldquo;Excuse me, Sir Cavalier,&rdquo; replied the Genoese,
&ldquo;but I swear to permit no such thing; you are young and do
not know this canaille as I do, who have been backward and
forward to this coast for twenty years; if the beast is cold, let
him sleep below the hatches as I and the rest shall, but that
cabin he shall not enter.&rdquo; Observing that he was
obstinate I retired, and in a few minutes was in a sound sleep
which lasted till daybreak. Twice or thrice, indeed, I
thought that a struggle was taking place near me, but I was so
overpowered with weariness, or &ldquo;sleep drunken,&rdquo; as
the Germans call it, that I was unable to arouse myself
sufficiently to discover what was going on; the truth is, that
three times during the night, the sage feeling himself
uncomfortable in the open air by the side of his companion,
penetrated into the cabin, and was as many times dragged out by
his relentless old enemy, who, suspecting his intentions, kept
his eye upon him throughout the night.</p>

<p>About five I arose; the sun was shining brightly and
gloriously upon town, bay, and mountain; the crew were already
employed upon deck repairing a sail which had been shivered in
the wind of the preceding day. The Jews sat disconsolate on
the poop; they complained much of the cold they had suffered in
their exposed situation. Over the left eye of the sage I
observed a bloody cut, which he informed me he had received from
the old Genoese after he had dragged him out of the cabin for the
last time. I now produced my bottle of Cognac, begging that
the crew would partake of it as a slight return for their
hospitality. They thanked me, and the bottle went its
round; it was last in the hands of the old mate, who, after
looking for a moment at the sage, raised it to his mouth, where
he kept it a considerable time longer than any of his companions,
after which he returned it to me with a low bow. The sage
now inquired what the bottle contained: I told him Cognac or
aguardiente, whereupon with some eagerness he begged that I would
allow him to take a draught. &ldquo;How is this?&rdquo;
said I; &ldquo;yesterday you told me that it was a forbidden
thing, an abomination.&rdquo; &ldquo;Yesterday,&rdquo; said
he, &ldquo;I was not aware that it was brandy; I thought it wine,
which assuredly is an abomination, and a forbidden
thing.&rdquo; &ldquo;Is it forbidden in the Torah?&rdquo; I
inquired. &ldquo;Is it forbidden in the law of
God?&rdquo; &ldquo;I know not,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;but
one thing I know, that the sages have forbidden it.&rdquo;
&ldquo;Sages like yourself,&rdquo; cried I with warmth;
&ldquo;sages like yourself, with long beards and short
understandings: the use of both drinks is permitted, but more
danger lurks in this bottle than in a tun of wine. Well
said my Lord the Nazarene, &lsquo;ye strain at a gnat, and
swallow a camel&rsquo;; but as you are cold and shivering, take
the bottle and revive yourself with a small portion of its
contents.&rdquo; He put it to his lips and found not a
single drop. The old Genoese grinned.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Bestia,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I saw by your looks that
you wished to drink of that bottle, and I said within me, even
though I suffocate, yet will I not leave one drop of the
aguardiente of the Christian Cavalier to be wasted on that Jew,
on whose head may evil lightnings fall.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Now, Sir Cavalier,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;you can
go ashore; these two sailors shall row you to the Mole, and
convey your baggage where you think proper; may the Virgin bless
you wherever you go.&rdquo;</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER LV</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">The Mole&mdash;The Two Moors&mdash;Djmah of
Tangier&mdash;House of God&mdash;British Consul&mdash;Curious
Spectacle&mdash;The Moorish House&mdash;Joanna Correa&mdash;Ave
Maria.</p>

<p>So we rode to the Mole and landed. This Mole consists at
present of nothing more than an immense number of large loose
stones, which run about five hundred yards into the bay; they are
part of the ruins of a magnificent pier which the English, who
were the last foreign nation which held Tangier, destroyed when
they evacuated the place. The Moors have never attempted to
repair it; the surf at high water breaks over it with great
fury. I found it a difficult task to pick my way over the
slippery stones, and should once or twice have fallen but for the
kindness of the Genoese mariners. At last we reached the
beach, and were proceeding towards the gate of the town, when two
persons, Moors, came up to us. I almost started at sight of
the first; he was a huge old barbarian with a white uncombed
beard, dirty turban, haik, and trousers, naked legs, and immense
splay feet, the heels of which stood out a couple of inches at
least behind his rusty black slippers.</p>

<p>&ldquo;That is the captain of the port,&rdquo; said one of the
Genoese; &ldquo;pay him respect.&rdquo; I accordingly
doffed my hat and cried, &ldquo;<i>Sba alkheir a sidi</i>&rdquo;
(Good-morning, my lord). &ldquo;Are you Englishmans?&rdquo;
shouted the old grisly giant. &ldquo;Englishmans, my
lord,&rdquo; I replied, and, advancing, presented him my hand,
which he nearly wrung off with his tremendous gripe. The
other Moor now addressed me in a jargon composed of English,
Spanish, and Arabic. A queer-looking personage was he also,
but very different in most respects from his companion, being
shorter by a head at least, and less complete by one eye, for the
left orb of vision was closed, leaving him, as the Spaniards
style it, <i>tuerto</i>; he, however, far outshone the other in
cleanliness of turban, haik, and trousers. From what he
jabbered to me, I collected that he was the English
consul&rsquo;s mahasni or soldier; that the consul, being aware
of my arrival, had dispatched him to conduct me to his
house. He then motioned me to follow him, which I did, the
old port captain attending us to the gate, when he turned aside
into a building, which I judged to be a kind of custom-house from
the bales and boxes of every description piled up before
it. We passed the gate and proceeded up a steep and winding
ascent; on our left was a battery full of guns, pointing to the
sea, and on our right a massive wall, seemingly in part cut out
of the hill; a little higher up we arrived at an opening where
stood the mosque which I have already mentioned. As I gazed
upon the tower I said to myself, &ldquo;Surely we have here a
younger sister of the Giralda of Seville.&rdquo;</p>

<p>I know not whether the resemblance between the two edifices
has been observed by any other individual; and perhaps there are
those who would assert that no resemblance exists, especially if,
in forming an opinion, they were much swayed by size and colour:
the hue of the Giralda is red, or rather vermilion, whilst that
which predominates in the Djmah of Tangier is green, the bricks
of which it is built being of that colour; though between them,
at certain intervals, are placed others of a light red tinge, so
that the tower is beautifully variegated. With respect to
size, standing beside the giant witch of Seville, the Tangerine
Djmah would show like a ten-year sapling in the vicinity of the
cedar of Lebanon, whose trunk the tempests of five hundred years
have worn. And yet I will assert that the towers in other
respects are one and the same, and that the same mind and the
same design are manifested in both; the same shape do they
exhibit, and the same marks have they on their walls, even those
mysterious arches graven on the superficies of the bricks,
emblematic of I know not what. The two structures may,
without any violence, be said to stand in the same relation to
each other as the ancient and modern Moors. The Giralda is
the world&rsquo;s wonder, and the old Moor was all but the
world&rsquo;s conqueror. The modern Moor is scarcely known,
and who ever heard of the Tower of Tangier? Yet examine it
attentively, and you will find in that tower much, very much, to
admire, and certainly, if opportunity enable you to consider the
modern Moor as minutely, you will discover in him, and in his
actions, amongst much that is wild, uncouth, and barbarous, not a
little capable of amply rewarding laborious investigation.</p>

<p>As we passed the mosque I stopped for a moment before the
door, and looked in upon the interior: I saw nothing but a
quadrangular court paved with painted tiles and exposed to the
sky; on all sides were arched piazzas, and in the middle was a
fountain, at which several Moors were performing their
ablutions. I looked around for the abominable thing, and
found it not; no scarlet strumpet with a crown of false gold sat
nursing an ugly changeling in a niche. &ldquo;Come
here,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;papist, and take a lesson; here is a
house of God, in externals at least, such as a house of God
should be: four walls, a fountain, and the eternal firmament
above, which mirrors his glory. Dost thou build such houses
to the God who hast said, &lsquo;Thou shalt make to thyself no
graven image&rsquo;? Fool, thy walls are stuck with idols;
thou callest a stone thy Father, and a piece of rotting wood the
Queen of Heaven. Fool, thou knowest not even the Ancient of
Days, and the very Moor can instruct thee. He at least
knows the Ancient of Days who has said, &lsquo;Thou shalt have no
other gods but me.&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>

<p>And as I said these words, I heard a cry like the roaring of a
lion, and an awful voice in the distance exclaim, &ldquo;<i>Kapul
Udbagh</i>&rdquo; (there is no god but one).</p>

<p>We now turned to the left through a passage which passed under
the tower, and had scarcely proceeded a few steps, when I heard a
prodigious hubbub of infantine voices: I listened for a moment,
and distinguished verses of the Koran; it was a school.
Another lesson for thee, papist. Thou callest thyself a
Christian, yet the book of Christ thou persecutest; thou huntest
it even to the sea-shore, compelling it to seek refuge upon the
billows of the sea. Fool, learn a lesson from the Moor, who
teaches his child to repeat with its first accents the most
important portions of the book of his law, and considers himself
wise or foolish, according as he is versed in or ignorant of that
book; whilst thou, blind slave, knowest not what the book of thy
own law contains, nor wishest to know: yet art thou not to be
judged by thy own law? Idolmonger, learn consistency from
the Moor: he says that he shall be judged after his own law, and
therefore he prizes and gets by heart the entire book of his
law.</p>

<p>We were now at the consul&rsquo;s house, a large roomy
habitation, built in the English style. The soldier led me
through a court into a large hall hung with the skins of all
kinds of ferocious animals, from the kingly lion to the snarling
jackal. Here I was received by a Jew domestic, who
conducted me at once to the consul, who was in his library.
He received me with the utmost frankness and genuine kindness,
and informed me that, having received a letter from his excellent
friend Mr. B., in which I was strongly recommended, he had
already engaged me a lodging in the house of a Spanish woman, who
was, however, a British subject, and with whom he believed that I
should find myself as comfortable as it was possible to be in
such a place as Tangier. He then inquired if I had any
particular motive for visiting the place, and I informed him
without any hesitation that I came with the intention of
distributing a certain number of copies of the New Testament in
the Spanish language amongst the Christian residents of the
place. He smiled, and advised me to proceed with
considerable caution, which I promised to do. We then
discoursed on other subjects, and it was not long before I
perceived that I was in the company of a most accomplished
scholar, especially in the Greek and Latin classics; he appeared
likewise to be thoroughly acquainted with the Barbary empire and
with the Moorish character.</p>

<p>After half an hour&rsquo;s conversation, exceedingly agreeable
and instructive to myself, I expressed a wish to proceed to my
lodging: whereupon he rang the bell, and the same Jewish domestic
entering who had introduced me, he said to him in the English
language, &ldquo;Take this gentleman to the house of Joanna
Correa, the Mahonese widow, and enjoin her, in my name, to take
care of him and attend to his comforts; by doing which she will
confirm me in the good opinion which I at present entertain of
her, and will increase my disposition to befriend her.&rdquo;</p>

<p>So, attended by the Jew, I now bent my steps to the lodging
prepared for me. Having ascended the street in which the
house of the consul was situated, we entered a small square which
stands about half way up the hill. This, my companion
informed me, was the soc, or market-place. A curious
spectacle here presented itself. All round the square were
small wooden booths, which very much resembled large boxes turned
on their sides, the lid being supported above by a string.
Before each of these boxes was a species of counter, or rather
one long counter ran in front of the whole line, upon which were
raisins, dates, and small barrels of sugar, soap, and butter, and
various other articles. Within each box, in front of the
counter, and about three feet from the ground, sat a human being,
with a blanket on its shoulders, a dirty turban on its head, and
ragged trousers, which descended as far as the knee, though in
some instances, I believe, these were entirely dispensed
with. In its hand it held a stick, to the end of which was
affixed a bunch of palm leaves, which it waved incessantly as a
fan, for the purpose of scaring from its goods the million flies
which, engendered by the Barbary sun, endeavoured to settle upon
them. Behind it, and on either side, were piles of the same
kind of goods. <i>Shrit hinai</i>, <i>shrit hinai</i>, (buy
here, buy here), was continually proceeding from its mouth.
Such are the grocers of Tangier, such their shops.</p>

<p>In the middle of the soc, upon the stones, were pyramids of
melons and sandias, (the water species), and also baskets filled
with other kinds of fruit, exposed for sale, whilst round cakes
of bread were lying here and there upon the stones, beside which
sat on their hams the wildest-looking beings that the most
extravagant imagination ever conceived, the head covered with an
enormous straw hat, at least two yards in circumference, the
eaves of which, flapping down, completely concealed the face,
whilst the form was swathed in a blanket, from which occasionally
were thrust skinny arms and fingers. These were Moorish
women, who were, I believe, in all instances, old and ugly,
judging from the countenances of which I caught a glimpse as they
lifted the eaves of their hats to gaze on me as I passed, or to
curse me for stamping on their bread. The whole soc was
full of peoples and there was abundance of bustle, screaming, and
vociferation, and as the sun, though the hour was still early,
was shining with the greatest brilliancy, I thought that I had
scarcely ever witnessed a livelier scene.</p>

<p>Crossing the soc we entered a narrow street with the same kind
of box-shops on each side, some of which, however, were either
unoccupied or not yet opened, the lid being closed. We
almost immediately turned to the left, up a street somewhat
similar, and my guide presently entered the door of a low house,
which stood at the corner of a little alley, and which he
informed me was the abode of Joanna Correa. We soon stood
in the midst of this habitation. I say the midst, as all
the Moorish houses are built with a small court in the
middle. This one was not more than ten feet square.
It was open at the top, and around it on three sides were
apartments; on the fourth a small staircase, which communicated
with the upper story, half of which consisted of a terrace
looking down into the court, over the low walls of which you
enjoyed a prospect of the sea and a considerable part of the
town. The rest of the story was taken up by a long room,
destined for myself, and which opened upon the terrace by a pair
of folding-doors. At either end of this apartment stood a
bed, extending transversely from wall to wall, the canopy
touching the ceiling. A table and two or three chairs
completed the furniture.</p>

<p>I was so occupied in inspecting the house of Joanna Correa,
that at first I paid little attention to that lady herself.
She now, however, came up upon the terrace where my guide and
myself were standing. She was a woman about five and forty,
with regular features, which had once been handsome, but had
received considerable injury from time, and perhaps more from
trouble. Two of her front teeth had disappeared, but she
still had fine black hair. As I looked upon her
countenance, I said within myself, if there be truth in
physiognomy, thou art good and gentle, O Joanna; and, indeed, the
kindness I experienced from her during the six weeks which I
spent beneath her roof would have made me a convert to that
science had I doubted in it before. I believe no warmer and
more affectionate heart ever beat in human bosom than in that of
Joanna Correa, the Mahonese widow, and it was indexed by features
beaming with benevolence and good nature, though somewhat clouded
with melancholy.</p>

<p>She informed me that she had been married to a Genoese, the
master of a felouk which passed between Gibraltar and Tangier,
who had been dead about four years, leaving her with a family of
four children, the eldest of which was a lad of thirteen; that
she had experienced great difficulty in providing for her family
and herself since the death of her husband, but that Providence
had raised her up a few excellent friends, especially the British
consul; that besides letting lodgings to such travellers as
myself, she made bread which was in high esteem with the Moors,
and that she was likewise in partnership in the sale of liquors
with an old Genoese. She added, that this last person lived
below in one of the apartments; that he was a man of great
ability and much learning, but that she believed he was
occasionally somewhat touched here, pointing with her finger to
her forehead, and she therefore hoped that I would not be
offended at anything extraordinary in his language or
behaviour. She then left me, as she said, to give orders
for my breakfast; whereupon the Jewish domestic, who had
accompanied me from the consul, finding that I was established in
the house, departed.</p>

<p>I speedily sat down to breakfast in an apartment on the left
side of the little wustuddur, the fare was excellent; tea, fried
fish, eggs, and grapes, not forgetting the celebrated bread of
Joanna Correa. I was waited upon by a tall Jewish youth of
about twenty years, who informed me that his name was Haim Ben
Atar, that he was a native of Fez, from whence his parents
brought him at a very early age to Tangier, where he had passed
the greater part of his life principally in the service of Joanna
Correa, waiting upon those who, like myself, lodged in the
house. I had completed my meal, and was seated in the
little court, when I heard in the apartment opposite to that in
which I had breakfasted several sighs, which were succeeded by as
many groans, and then came &ldquo;<i>Ave Maria</i>, <i>gratia
plena</i>, <i>ora pro me</i>,&rdquo; and finally a croaking voice
chanted:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote><p>&ldquo;Gentem auferte perfidam<br />
Credentium de finibus,<br />
Ut Christo laudes debitas<br />
Persolvamus alacriter.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>

<p>&ldquo;That is the old Genoese,&rdquo; whispered Haim Ben
Atar, &ldquo;praying to his God, which he always does with
particular devotion when he happens to have gone to bed the
preceding evening rather in liquor. He has in his room a
picture of Maria Buckra, before which he generally burns a taper,
and on her account he will never permit me to enter his
apartment. He once caught me looking at her, and I thought
he would have killed me, and since then he always keeps his
chamber locked, and carries the key in his pocket when he goes
out. He hates both Jew and Moor, and says that he is now
living amongst them for his sins.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;They do not place tapers before pictures,&rdquo; said
I, and strolled forth to see the wonders of the land.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER LVI</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">The Mahasni&mdash;Sin Samani&mdash;The
Bazaar&mdash;Moorish Saints&mdash;See the Ayana!&mdash;The
Prickly Fig&mdash;Jewish Graves&mdash;The Place of
Carcases&mdash;The Stable Boy&mdash;Horses of the
Moslem&mdash;Dar Dwag.</p>

<p>I was standing in the market-place, a spectator of much the
same scene as I have already described, when a Moor came up to me
and attempted to utter a few words in Spanish. He was a
tall elderly man, with sharp but rather whimsical features, and
might have been called good-looking, had he not been one-eyed, a
very common deformity in this country. His body was swathed
in an immense haik. Finding that I could understand
Moorish, he instantly began talking with immense volubility, and
I soon learned that he was a Mahasni. He expatiated
diffusely on the beauties of Tangier, of which he said he was a
native, and at last exclaimed, &ldquo;Come, my sultan, come, my
lord, and I will show you many things which will gladden your
eyes, and fill your heart with sunshine; it were a shame in me,
who have the advantage of being a son of Tangier, to permit a
stranger who comes from an island in the great sea, as you tell
me you do, for the purpose of seeing this blessed land, to stand
here in the soc with no one to guide him. By Allah, it
shall not be so. Make room for my sultan, make room for my
lord,&rdquo; he continued, pushing his way through a crowd of men
and children who had gathered round us; &ldquo;it is his
highness&rsquo; pleasure to go with me. This way, my lord,
this way&rdquo;; and he led the way up the hill, walking at a
tremendous rate and talking still faster. &ldquo;This
street,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;is the Siarrin, and its like is
not to be found in Tangier; observe how broad it is, even half
the breadth of the soc itself; here are the shops of the most
considerable merchants, where are sold precious articles of all
kinds. Observe those two men, they are Algerines and good
Moslems; they fled from Zair (<i>Algiers</i>) when the Nazarenes
conquered it, not by force of fighting, not by valour, as you may
well suppose, but by gold; the Nazarenes only conquer by
gold. The Moor is good, the Moor is strong, who so good and
strong? but he fights not with gold, and therefore he lost
Zair.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Observe you those men seated on the benches by those
portals: they are Mahasniah, they are my brethren. See
their haiks how white, see their turbans how white. O that
you could see their swords in the day of war, for bright, bright
are their swords. Now they bear no swords. Wherefore
should they? Is there not peace in the land? See you
him in the shop opposite? That is the Pasha of Tangier,
that is the Hamed Sin Samani, the under Pasha of Tangier; the
elder Pasha, my lord, is away on a journey; may Allah send him a
safe return. Yes, that is Hamed; he sits in his hanutz as
were he nought more than a merchant, yet life and death are in
his hands. There he dispenses justice, even as he dispenses
the essence of the rose and cochineal, and powder of cannon and
sulphur; and these two last he sells on the account of
Abderrahman, my lord and sultan, for none can sell powder and the
sulphur dust in his land but the sultan. Should you wish to
purchase atar del nuar, should you wish to purchase the essence
of the rose, you must go to the hanutz of Sin Samani, for there
only you will get it pure; you must receive it from no common
Moor, but only from Hamed. May Allah bless Hamed. The
Mahasniah, my brethren, wait to do his orders, for wherever sits
the Pasha, there is a hall of judgment. See, now we are
opposite the bazaar; beneath yon gate is the court of the bazaar;
what will you not find in that bazaar? Silks from Fez you
will find there; and if you wish for sibat, if you wish for
slippers for your feet, you must seek them there, and there also
are sold curious things from the towns of the Nazarenes.
Those large houses on our left are habitations of Nazarene
consuls; you have seen many such in your own land, therefore why
should you stay to look at them? Do you not admire this
street of the Siarrin? Whatever enters or goes out of
Tangier by the land passes through this street. Oh, the
riches that pass through this street! Behold those camels,
what a long train; twenty, thirty, a whole cafila descending the
street. Wullah! I know those camels, I know the
driver. Good day, O Sidi Hassim, in how many days from
Fez? And now we are arrived at the wall, and we must pass
under this gate. This gate is called Bab del Faz; we are
now in the Soc de Barra.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The Soc de Barra is an open place beyond the upper wall of
Tangier, on the side of the hill. The ground is irregular
and steep; there are, however, some tolerably level spots.
In this place, every Thursday and Sunday morning, a species of
mart is held, on which account it is called Soc de Barra, or the
outward market-place. Here and there, near the town ditch,
are subterranean pits with small orifices, about the
circumference of a chimney, which are generally covered with a
large stone, or stuffed with straw. These pits are
granaries, in which wheat, barley, and other species of grain
intended for sale are stored. On one side are two or three
rude huts, or rather sheds, beneath which keep watch the
guardians of the corn. It is very dangerous to pass over
this hill at night, after the town gates are closed, as at that
time numerous large and ferocious dogs are let loose, who would
to a certainty pull down, and perhaps destroy, any stranger who
should draw nigh. Half way up the hill are seen four white
walls, inclosing a spot about ten feet square, where rest the
bones of Sidi Mokhfidh, a saint of celebrity, who died some
fifteen years ago. Here terminates the soc; the remainder
of the hill is called El Kawar, or the place of graves, being the
common burying ground of Tangier; the resting places of the dead
are severally distinguished by a few stones arranged so as to
form an oblong circle. Near Mokhfidh sleeps Sidi Gali; but
the principal saint of Tangier lies interred on the top of the
hill, in the centre of a small plain. A beautiful chapel or
mosque, with vaulted roof, is erected there in his honour, which
is in general adorned with banners of various dyes. The
name of this saint is Mohammed el Hadge, and his memory is held
in the utmost veneration in Tangier and its vicinity. His
death occurred at the commencement of the present century.</p>

<p>These details I either gathered at the time or on subsequent
occasions. On the north side of the soc, close by the town,
is a wall with a gate. &ldquo;Come,&rdquo; said the old
Mahasni, giving a flourish with his hand; &ldquo;Come, and I will
show you the garden of a Nazarene consul.&rdquo; I followed
him through the gate, and found myself in a spacious garden laid
out in the European taste, and planted with lemon and pear trees,
and various kinds of aromatic shrubs. It was, however,
evident that the owner chiefly prided himself on his flowers, of
which there were numerous beds. There was a handsome
summerhouse, and art seemed to have exhausted itself in making
the place complete.</p>

<p>One thing was wanting, and its absence was strangely
remarkable in a garden at this time of the year; scarcely a leaf
was to be seen. The direst of all the plagues which
devastated Egypt was now busy in this part of Africa&mdash;the
locust was at work, and in no place more fiercely than in the
particular spot where I was now standing. All around looked
blasted. The trees were brown and bald as in winter.
Nothing green save the fruits, especially the grapes, huge
clusters of which were depending from the &ldquo;parras&rdquo;;
for the locust touches not the fruit whilst a single leaf remains
to be devoured. As we passed along the walks these horrible
insects flew against us in every direction, and perished by
hundreds beneath our feet. &ldquo;See the ayanas,&rdquo;
said the old Mahasni, &ldquo;and hear them eating. Powerful
is the ayana, more powerful than the sultan or the consul.
Should the sultan send all his Mahasniah against the ayana,
should he send me with them, the ayana would say, &lsquo;Ha!
ha!&rsquo; Powerful is the ayana! He fears not the
consul. A few weeks ago the consul said, &lsquo;I am
stronger than the ayana, and I will extirpate him from the
land.&rsquo; So he shouted through the city, &lsquo;O
Tangerines! speed forth to fight the ayana,&mdash;destroy him in
the egg; for know that whosoever shall bring me one pound weight
of the eggs of the ayana, unto him will I give five reals of
Spain; there shall be no ayanas this year.&rsquo; So all
Tangier rushed forth to fight the ayana, and to collect the eggs
which the ayana had laid to hatch beneath the sand on the sides
of the hills, and in the roads, and in the plains. And my
own child, who is seven years old, went forth to fight the ayana,
and he alone collected eggs to the weight of five pounds, eggs
which the ayana had placed beneath the sand, and he carried them
to the consul, and the consul paid the price. And hundreds
carried eggs to the consul, more or less, and the consul paid
them the price, and in less than three days the treasure chest of
the consul was exhausted. And then he cried, &lsquo;Desist,
O Tangerines! perhaps we have destroyed the ayana, perhaps we
have destroyed them all.&rsquo; Ha! ha! Look around
you, and beneath you, and above you, and tell me whether the
consul has destroyed the ayana. Oh, powerful is the
ayana! More powerful than the consul, more powerful than
the sultan and all his armies.&rdquo;</p>

<p>It will be as well to observe here, that within a week from
this time all the locusts had disappeared, no one knew how, only
a few stragglers remained. But for this providential
deliverance, the fields and gardens in the vicinity of Tangier
would have been totally devastated. These insects were of
an immense size, and of a loathly aspect.</p>

<p>We now passed over the soc to the opposite side, where stand
the huts of the guardians. Here a species of lane presents
itself, which descends to the sea-shore; it is deep and
precipitous, and resembles a gully or ravine. The banks on
either side are covered with the tree which bears the prickly
fig, called in Moorish, <i>Kermous del Inde</i>. There is
something wild and grotesque in the appearance of this tree or
plant, for I know not which to call it. Its stem, though
frequently of the thickness of a man&rsquo;s body, has no head,
but divides itself, at a short distance from the ground, into
many crooked branches, which shoot in all directions, and bear
green and uncouth leaves, about half an inch in thickness, and
which, if they resemble anything, present the appearance of the
fore fins of a seal, and consist of multitudinous fibres.
The fruit, which somewhat resembles a pear, has a rough tegument
covered with minute prickles, which instantly enter the hand
which touches them, however slightly, and are very difficult to
extract. I never remember to have seen vegetation in ranker
luxuriance than that which these fig-trees exhibited, nor upon
the whole a more singular spot. &ldquo;Follow me,&rdquo;
said the Mahasni, &ldquo;and I will show you something which you
will like to see.&rdquo; So he turned to the left, leading
the way by a narrow path up the steep bank, till we reached the
summit of a hillock, separated by a deep ditch from the wall of
Tangier. The ground was thickly covered with the trees
already described, which spread their strange arms along the
surface, and whose thick leaves crushed beneath our feet as we
walked along. Amongst them I observed a large number of
stone slabs lying horizontally; they were rudely scrawled over
with odd characters, which I stooped down to inspect.
&ldquo;Are you Talib enough to read those signs?&rdquo; exclaimed
the old Moor. &ldquo;They are letters of the accursed Jews;
this is their mearrah, as they call it, and here they inter their
dead. Fools, they trust in Muza, when they might believe in
Mohammed, and therefore their dead shall burn everlastingly in
Jehinnim. See, my sultan, how fat is the soil of this
mearrah of the Jews; see what kermous grow here. When I was
a boy I often came to the mearrah of the Jews to eat kermous in
the season of their ripeness. The Moslem boys of Tangier
love the kermous of the mearrah of the Jews; but the Jews will
not gather them. They say that the waters of the springs
which nourish the roots of these trees, pass among the bodies of
their dead, and for that reason it is an abomination to taste of
these fruits. Be this true, or be it not, one thing is
certain, in whatever manner nourished, good are the kermous which
grow in the mearrah of the Jews.&rdquo;</p>

<p>We returned to the lane by the same path by which we had come:
as we were descending it he said, &ldquo;Know, my sultan, that
the name of the place where we now are, and which you say you
like much, is Dar Sinah (<i>the house of the trades</i>).
You will ask me why it bears that name, as you see neither house
nor man, neither Moslem, Nazarene, nor Jew, only our two selves;
I will tell you, my sultan, for who can tell you better than
myself? Learn, I pray you, that Tangier was not always what
it is now, nor did it occupy always the place which it does
now. It stood yonder (pointing to the east) on those hills
above the shore, and ruins of houses are still to be seen there,
and the spot is called Old Tangier. So in the old time, as
I have heard say, this Dar Sinah was a street, whether without or
within the wall matters not, and there resided men of all trades;
smiths of gold and silver, and iron, and tin, and artificers of
all kinds: you had only to go to the Dar Sinah if you wished for
anything wrought, and there instantly you would find a master of
the particular craft. My sultan tells me he likes the look
of Dar Sinah at the present day; truly I know not why, especially
as the kermous are not yet in their ripeness nor fit to
eat. If he likes Dar Sinah now, how would my sultan have
liked it in the olden time, when it was filled with gold and
silver, and iron and tin, and was noisy with the hammers, and the
masters and the cunning men? We are now arrived at the
Chali del Bahar (sea-shore). Take care, my sultan, we tread
upon bones.&rdquo;</p>

<p>We had emerged from the Dar Sinah, and the sea-shore was
before us; on a sudden we found ourselves amongst a multitude of
bones of all kinds of animals, and seemingly of all dates; some
being blanched with time and exposure to sun and wind, whilst to
others the flesh still partly clung; whole carcases were here,
horses, asses, and even the uncouth remains of a camel.
Gaunt dogs were busy here, growling, tearing, and gnawing;
amongst whom, unintimidated, stalked the carrion vulture,
fiercely battening and even disputing with the brutes the
garbage; whilst the crow hovered overhead and croaked wistfully,
or occasionally perched upon some upturned rib bone.
&ldquo;See,&rdquo; said the Mahasni, &ldquo;the kawar of the
animals. My sultan has seen the kawar of the Moslems and
the mearrah of the Jews; and he sees here the kawar of the
animals. All the animals which die in Tangier by the hand
of God, horse, dog, or camel, are brought to this spot, and here
they putrefy or are devoured by the birds of the heaven or the
wild creatures that prowl on the chali. Come, my sultan, it
is not good to remain long in this place.&rdquo;</p>

<p>We were preparing to leave the spot, when we heard a galloping
down the Dar Sinah, and presently a horse and rider darted at
full speed from the mouth of the lane and appeared upon the
strand; the horseman, when he saw us, pulled up his steed with
much difficulty, and joined us. The horse was small but
beautiful, a sorrel with long mane and tail; had he been
hoodwinked he might perhaps have been mistaken for a Cordovese
jaca; he was broad-chested, and rotund in his hind quarters, and
possessed much of the plumpness and sleekness which distinguish
that breed, but looking in his eyes you would have been
undeceived in a moment; a wild savage fire darted from the
restless orbs, and so far from exhibiting the docility of the
other noble and loyal animal, he occasionally plunged
desperately, and could scarcely be restrained by a strong curb
and powerful arm from resuming his former headlong course.
The rider was a youth, apparently about eighteen, dressed as a
European, with a Montero cap on his head: he was athletically
built, but with lengthy limbs, his feet, for he rode without
stirrups or saddle, reaching almost to the ground; his complexion
was almost as dark as that of a Mulatto; his features very
handsome, the eyes particularly so, but filled with an expression
which was bold and bad; and there was a disgusting look of
sensuality about the mouth. He addressed a few words to the
Mahasni, with whom he seemed to be well acquainted, inquiring who
I was. The old man answered, &ldquo;O Jew, my sultan
understands our speech, thou hadst better address thyself to
him.&rdquo; The lad then spoke to me in Arabic, but almost
instantly dropping that language proceeded to discourse in
tolerable French. &ldquo;I suppose you are French,&rdquo;
said he with much familiarity, &ldquo;shall you stay long in
Tangier?&rdquo; Having received an answer, he proceeded,
&ldquo;as you are an Englishman, you are doubtless fond of
horses, know, therefore, whenever you are disposed for a ride, I
will accompany you, and procure you horses. My name is
Ephraim Fragey: I am stable-boy to the Neapolitan consul, who
prizes himself upon possessing the best horses in Tangier; you
shall mount any you please. Would you like to try this
little aoud (<i>stallion</i>)?&rdquo; I thanked him, but
declined his offer for the present, asking him at the same time
how he had acquired the French language, and why he, a Jew, did
not appear in the dress of his brethren? &ldquo;I am in the
service of a consul,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;and my master
obtained permission that I might dress myself in this manner; and
as to speaking French, I have been to Marseilles and Naples, to
which last place I conveyed horses, presents from the
Sultan. Besides French, I can speak Italian.&rdquo;
He then dismounted, and holding the horse firmly by the bridle
with one hand, proceeded to undress himself, which having
accomplished, he mounted the animal and rode into the
water. The skin of his body was much akin in colour to that
of a frog or toad, but the frame was that of a young Titan.
The horse took to the water with great unwillingness, and at a
small distance from the shore commenced struggling with his
rider, whom he twice dashed from his back; the lad, however,
clung to the bridle, and detained the animal. All his
efforts, however, being unavailing to ride him deeper in, he fell
to washing him strenuously with his hands, then leading him out,
he dressed himself and returned by the way he came.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Good are the horses of the Moslems,&rdquo; said my old
friend, &ldquo;where will you find such? They will descend
rocky mountains at full speed and neither trip nor fall, but you
must be cautious with the horses of the Moslems, and treat them
with kindness, for the horses of the Moslems are proud, and they
like not being slaves. When they are young and first
mounted, jerk not their mouths with your bit, for be sure if you
do they will kill you; sooner or later, you will perish beneath
their feet. Good are our horses; and good our riders, yea,
very good are the Moslems at mounting the horse; who are like
them? I once saw a Frank rider compete with a Moslem on
this beach, and at first the Frank rider had it all his own way,
and he passed the Moslem, but the course was long, very long, and
the horse of the Frank rider, which was a Frank also, panted; but
the horse of the Moslem panted not, for he was a Moslem also, and
the Moslem rider at last gave a cry and the horse sprang forward
and he overtook the Frank horse, and then the Moslem rider stood
up in his saddle. How did he stand? Truly he stood on
his head, and these eyes saw him; he stood on his head in the
saddle as he passed the Frank rider; and he cried ha! ha! as he
passed the Frank rider; and the Moslem horse cried ha! ha! as he
passed the Frank breed, and the Frank lost by a far
distance. Good are the Franks; good their horses; but
better are the Moslems, and better the horses of the
Moslems.&rdquo;</p>

<p>We now directed our steps towards the town, but not by the
path we came: turning to the left under the hill of the mearrah,
and along the strand, we soon came to a rudely paved way with a
steep ascent, which wound beneath the wall of the town to a gate,
before which, on one side, were various little pits like graves,
filled with water or lime. &ldquo;This is Dar Dwag,&rdquo;
said the Mahasni; &ldquo;this is the house of the bark, and to
this house are brought the hides; all those which are prepared
for use in Tangier are brought to this house, and here they are
cured with lime, and bran, and bark, and herbs. And in this
Dar Dwag there are one hundred and forty pits; I have counted
them myself; and there were more which have now ceased to be, for
the place is very ancient. And these pits are hired not by
one, nor by two, but by many people, and whosoever list can rent
one of these pits and cure the hides which he may need; but the
owner of all is one man, and his name is Cado Ableque. And
now my sultan has seen the house of the bark, and I will show him
nothing more this day; for to-day is Youm al Jumal
(<i>Friday</i>), and the gates will be presently shut whilst the
Moslems perform their devotions. So I will accompany my
sultan to the guest house, and there I will leave him for the
present.&rdquo;</p>

<p>We accordingly passed through a gate, and ascending a street
found ourselves before the mosque where I had stood in the
morning; in another minute or two we were at the door of Joanna
Correa. I now offered my kind guide a piece of silver as a
remuneration for his trouble, whereupon he drew himself up and
said:&mdash;</p>

<p>&ldquo;The silver of my sultan I will not take, for I consider
that I have done nothing to deserve it. We have not yet
visited all the wonderful things of this blessed town. On a
future day I will conduct my sultan to the castle of the
governor, and to other places which my sultan will be glad to
see; and when we have seen all we can, and my sultan is content
with me, if at any time he see me in the soc of a morning, with
my basket in my hand, and he see nothing in that basket, then is
my sultan at liberty as a friend to put grapes in my basket, or
bread in my basket, or fish or meat in my basket. That will
I not refuse of my sultan, when I shall have done more for him
than I have now. But the silver of my sultan will I not
take now nor at any time.&rdquo; He then waved his hand
gently and departed.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>CHAPTER LVII</h2>

<p class="gutsumm">Strange Trio&mdash;The Mulatto&mdash;The
Peace-offering&mdash;Moors of Granada&mdash;Vive la
Guadeloupe&mdash;The Moors&mdash;Pascual Fava&mdash;Blind
Algerine&mdash;The Retreat.</p>

<p>Three men were seated in the wustuddur of Joanna Correa, when
I entered; singular-looking men they all were, though perhaps
three were never gathered together more unlike to each other in
all points. The first on whom I cast my eye was a man about
sixty, dressed in a grey kerseymere coat with short lappets,
yellow waistcoat, and wide coarse canvas trousers; upon his head
was a very broad dirty straw hat, and in his hand he held a thick
cane with ivory handle; his eyes were bleared and squinting, his
face rubicund, and his nose much carbuncled. Beside him sat
a good-looking black, who perhaps appeared more negro than he
really was, from the circumstance of his being dressed in
spotless white jean&mdash;jerkin, waistcoat, and pantaloons being
all of that material: his head gear consisted of a blue Montero
cap. His eyes sparkled like diamonds, and there was an
indescribable expression of good humour and fun upon his
countenance. The third man was a Mulatto, and by far the
most remarkable personage of the group: he might be between
thirty and forty; his body was very long, and though uncouthly
put together, exhibited every mark of strength and vigour; it was
cased in a ferioul of red wool, a kind of garment which descends
below the hips. His long muscular and hairy arms were naked
from the elbow, where the sleeves of the ferioul terminate; his
under limbs were short in comparison with his body and arms; his
legs were bare, but he wore blue kandrisa as far as the knee;
every feature of his face was ugly, exceedingly and bitterly
ugly, and one of his eyes was sightless, being covered with a
white film. By his side on the ground was a large barrel,
seemingly a water-cask, which he occasionally seized with a
finger and thumb, and waved over his head as if it had been a
quart pot. Such was the trio who now occupied the wustuddur
of Joanna Correa: and I had scarcely time to remark what I have
just recorded, when that good lady entered from a back court with
her handmaid Johar, or the pearl, an ugly fat Jewish girl with an
immense mole on her cheek.</p>

<p>&ldquo;<i>Que Dios remate tu nombre</i>,&rdquo; exclaimed the
Mulatto; &ldquo;may Allah blot out your name, Joanna, and may he
likewise blot out that of your maid Johar. It is more than
fifteen minutes that I have been seated here, after having poured
out into the tinaja the water which I brought from the fountain,
and during all that time I have waited in vain for one single
word of civility from yourself or from Johar. <i>Usted no
tiene modo</i>, you have no manner with you, nor more has
Johar. This is the only house in Tangier where I am not
received with fitting love and respect, and yet I have done more
for you than for any other person. Have I not filled your
tinaja with water when other people have gone without a
drop? When even the consul and the interpreter of the
consul had no water to slake their thirst, have you not had
enough to wash your wustuddur? And what is my return?
When I arrive in the heat of the day, I have not one kind word
spoken to me, nor so much as a glass of makhiah offered to me;
must I tell you all that I do for you, Joanna? Truly I
must, for you have no manner with you. Do I not come every
morning just at the third hour; and do I not knock at your door;
and do you not arise and let me in, and then do I not knead your
bread in your presence, whilst you lie in bed, and because I
knead it, is not yours the best bread in Tangier? For am I
not the strongest man in Tangier, and the most noble
also?&rdquo; Here he brandished his barrel over his head,
and his face looked almost demoniacal. &ldquo;Hear me,
Joanna,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;you know that I am the
strongest man in Tangier, and I tell you again, for the
thousandth time, that I am the most noble. Who are the
consuls? Who is the Pasha? They are pashas and
consuls now, but who were their fathers? I know not, nor do
they. But do I not know who my fathers were? Were
they not Moors of Garnata (<i>Granada</i>), and is it not on that
account that I am the strongest man in Tangier? Yes, I am
of the old Moors of Garnata, and my family has lived here, as is
well known, since Garnata was lost to the Nazarenes, and now I am
the only one of my family of the blood of the old Moors in all
this land, and on that account I am of nobler blood than the
sultan, for the sultan is not of the blood of the Moors of
Garnata. Do you laugh, Joanna? Does your maid Johar
laugh? Am I not Hammin Widdir, <i>el hombre mas valido de
Tanger</i>? And is it not true that I am of the blood of
the Moors of Garnata? Deny it, and I will kill you both,
you and your maid Johar.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;You have been eating hashish and majoon, Hammin,&rdquo;
said Joanna Correa, &ldquo;and the Shaitan has entered into you,
as he but too frequently does. I have been busy, and so has
Johar, or we should have spoken to you before; however, mai
doorshee (<i>it does not signify</i>), I know how to pacify you
now and at all times, will you take some gin-bitters, or a glass
of common makhiah?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;May you burst, O Joanna,&rdquo; said the Mulatto,
&ldquo;and may Johar also burst; I mean, may you both live many
years, and know neither pain nor sorrow. I will take the
gin-bitters, O Joanna, because they are stronger than the
makhiah, which always appears to me like water; and I like not
water, though I carry it. Many thanks to you, Joanna, here
is health to you, Joanna, and to this good company.&rdquo;</p>

<p>She had handed him a large tumbler filled to the brim; he put
it to his nostrils, snuffed in the flavour, and then applying it
to his mouth, removed it not whilst one drop of the fluid
remained. His features gradually relaxed from their former
angry expression, and looking particularly amiable at Joanna, he
at last said:</p>

<p>&ldquo;I hope that within a little time, O Joanna, you will be
persuaded that I am the strongest man in Tangier, and that I am
sprung from the blood of the Moors of Garnata, as then you will
no longer refuse to take me for a husband, you and your maid
Johar, and to become Moors. What a glory to you, after
having been married to a Genoui, and given birth to Genouillos,
to receive for a husband a Moor like me, and to bear him children
of the blood of Garnata. What a glory too for Johar, how
much better than to marry a vile Jew, even like Hayim Ben Atar,
or your cook Sabia, both of whom I could strangle with two
fingers, for am I not Hammin Widdir Moro de Garnata, <i>el hombre
mas valido be Tanger</i>?&rdquo; He then shouldered his
barrel and departed.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Is that Mulatto really what he pretends to be?&rdquo;
said I to Joanna; &ldquo;is he a descendant of the Moors of
Granada?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;He always talks about the Moors of Granada when he is
mad with majoon or aguardiente,&rdquo; interrupted, in bad
French, the old man whom I have before described, and in the same
croaking voice which I had heard chanting in the morning.
&ldquo;Nevertheless it may be true, and if he had not heard
something of the kind from his parents, he would never have
imagined such a thing, for he is too stupid. As I said
before, it is by no means impossible: many of the families of
Granada settled down here when their town was taken by the
Christians, but the greater part went to Tunis. When I was
there, I lodged in the house of a Moor who called himself Zegri,
and was always talking of Granada and the things which his
forefathers had done there. He would moreover sit for hours
singing romances of which I understood not one word, praised be
the mother of God, but which he said all related to his family;
there were hundreds of that name in Tunis, therefore why should
not this Hammin, this drunken water-carrier, be a Moor of Granada
also? He is ugly enough to be emperor of all the
Moors. O the accursed canaille, I have lived amongst them
for my sins these eight years, at Oran and here. Monsieur,
do you not consider it to be a hard case for an old man like
myself, who am a Christian, to live amongst a race who know not
God, nor Christ, nor anything holy?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;What do you mean,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;by asserting
that the Moors know not God? There is no people in the
world who entertain sublimer notions of the uncreated eternal God
than the Moors, and no people have ever shown themselves more
zealous for his honour and glory; their very zeal for the glory
of God has been and is the chief obstacle to their becoming
Christians. They are afraid of compromising his dignity by
supposing that he ever condescended to become man. And with
respect to Christ, their ideas even of him are much more just
than those of the Papists, they say he is a mighty prophet,
whilst, according to the others, he is either a piece of bread or
a helpless infant. In many points of religion the Moors are
wrong, dreadfully wrong, but are the Papists less so? And
one of their practices sets them immeasurably below the Moors in
the eyes of any unprejudiced person: they bow down to idols,
Christian idols if you like, but idols still, things graven of
wood and stone and brass, and from these things, which can
neither hear, nor speak, nor feel, they ask and expect to obtain
favours.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;<i>Vive la France</i>, <i>Vive la
Guadeloupe</i>,&rdquo; said the black, with a good French
accent. &ldquo;In France and in Guadeloupe there is no
superstition, and they pay as much regard to the Bible as to the
Koran; I am now learning to read in order that I may understand
the writings of Voltaire, who, as I am told, has proved that both
the one and the other were written with the sole intention of
deceiving mankind. <i>O vive la France</i>! where will you
find such an enlightened country as France; and where will you
find such a plentiful country as France? Only one in the
world, and that is Guadeloupe. Is it not so, Monsieur
Pascual? Were you ever at Marseilles? <i>Ah quel bon
pays est celui-la pour les vivres</i>, <i>pour les petits
poulets</i>, <i>pour les poulardes</i>, <i>pour les perdrix</i>,
<i>pour les perdreaux</i>, <i>pour les alouettes</i>, <i>pour les
becasses</i>, <i>pour les becassines</i>, <i>enfin</i>, <i>pour
tout</i>.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Pray, sir, are you a cook?&rdquo; demanded I.</p>

<p>&ldquo;<i>Monsieur</i>, <i>je le suis pour vous rendre
service</i>, <i>mon nom c&rsquo;est Gerard</i>, <i>et j&rsquo;ai
l&rsquo;honneur d&rsquo;etre chef de cuisine chez monsieur le
consul Hollandois</i>. <i>A present je prie permission de
vous saluer</i>; <i>il faut que j&rsquo;aille a la maison pour
faire le diner de mon maitre</i>.&rdquo;</p>

<p>At four I went to dine with the British consul. Two
other English gentlemen were present, who had arrived at Tangier
from Gibraltar about ten days previously for a short excursion,
and were now detained longer than they wished by the Levant
wind. They had already visited the principal towns in
Spain, and proposed spending the winter either at Cadiz or
Seville. One of them, Mr. ---, struck me as being one of
the most remarkable men I had ever conversed with; he travelled
not for diversion nor instigated by curiosity, but merely with
the hope of doing spiritual good, chiefly by conversation.
The consul soon asked me what I thought of the Moors and their
country. I told him that what I had hitherto seen of both
highly pleased me. He said that were I to live amongst them
ten years, as he had done, he believed I should entertain a very
different opinion; that no people in the world were more false
and cruel; that their government was one of the vilest
description, with which it was next to an impossibility for any
foreign power to hold amicable relations, as it invariably acted
with bad faith, and set at nought the most solemn treaties.
That British property and interests were every day subjected to
ruin and spoliation, and British subjects exposed to unheard-of
vexations, without the slightest hope of redress being afforded,
save recourse was had to force, the only argument to which the
Moors were accessible. He added, that towards the end of
the preceding year an atrocious murder had been perpetrated in
Tangier: a Genoese family of three individuals had perished, all
of whom were British subjects, and entitled to the protection of
the British flag. The murderers were known, and the
principal one was even now in prison for the fact, yet all
attempts to bring him to condign punishment had hitherto proved
abortive, as he was a Moor, and his victims Christians.
Finally he cautioned me, not to take walks beyond the wall
unaccompanied by a soldier, whom he offered to provide for me
should I desire it, as otherwise I incurred great risk of being
ill-treated by the Moors of the interior whom I might meet, or
perhaps murdered, and he instanced the case of a British officer
who not long since had been murdered on the beach for no other
reason than being a Nazarene, and appearing in a Nazarene
dress. He at length introduced the subject of the Gospel,
and I was pleased to learn that, during his residence in Tangier,
he had distributed a considerable quantity of Bibles amongst the
natives in the Arabic language, and that many of the learned men,
or Talibs, had read the holy volume with great interest, and that
by this distribution, which, it is true, was effected with much
caution, no angry or unpleasant feeling had been excited.
He finally asked whether I had come with the intention of
circulating the Scripture amongst the Moors.</p>

<p>I replied that I had no opportunity of doing so, as I had not
one single copy either in the Arabic language or character.
That the few Testaments which were in my possession were in the
Spanish language, and were intended for circulation amongst the
Christians of Tangier, to whom they might be serviceable, as they
all understood the language.</p>

<p>It was night, and I was seated in the wustuddur of Joanna
Correa, in company with Pascual Fava the Genoese. The old
man&rsquo;s favourite subject of discourse appeared to be
religion, and he professed unbounded love for the Saviour, and
the deepest sense of gratitude for his miraculous atonement for
the sins of mankind. I should have listened to him with
pleasure had he not smelt very strongly of liquor, and by certain
incoherence of language and wildness of manner given indications
of being in some degree the worse for it. Suddenly two
figures appeared beneath the doorway; one was that of a
bare-headed and bare-legged Moorish boy of about ten years of
age, dressed in a gelaba; he guided by the hand an old man, whom
I at once recognised as one of the Algerines, the good Moslems of
whom the old Mahasni had spoken in terms of praise in the morning
whilst we ascended the street of the Siarrin. He was very
short of stature and dirty in his dress; the lower part of his
face was covered with a stubbly white beard; before his eyes he
wore a large pair of spectacles, from which he evidently received
but little benefit, as he required the assistance of the guide at
every step. The two advanced a little way into the
wustuddur and there stopped. Pascual Fava no sooner beheld
them, than assuming a jovial air he started nimbly up, and
leaning on his stick, for he had a bent leg, limped to a
cupboard, out of which he took a bottle and poured out a glass of
wine, singing in the broken kind of Spanish used by the Moors of
the coast:</p>

<blockquote><p>&ldquo;Argelino,<br />
Moro fino,<br />
No beber vino,<br />
Ni comer tocino.&rdquo;</p>

<p>(Algerine,<br />
Moor so keen,<br />
No drink wine,<br />
No taste swine.)</p>
</blockquote>

<p>He then handed the wine to the old Moor, who drank it off, and
then, led by the boy, made for the door without saying a
word.</p>

<p>&ldquo;<i>Hade mushe halal</i>,&rdquo; (that is not lawful,)
said I to him with a loud voice.</p>

<p>&ldquo;<i>Cul shee halal</i>,&rdquo; (everything is lawful,)
said the old Moor, turning his sightless and spectacled eyes in
the direction from which my voice reached him. &ldquo;Of
everything which God has given, it is lawful for the children of
God to partake.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Who is that old man?&rdquo; said I to Pascual Fava,
after the blind and the leader of the blind had departed.
&ldquo;Who is he!&rdquo; said Pascual; &ldquo;who is he! He
is a merchant now, and keeps a shop in the Siarrin, but there was
a time when no bloodier pirate sailed out of Algier. That
old blind wretch has cut more throats than he has hairs in his
beard. Before the French took the place he was the rais or
captain of a frigate, and many was the poor Sardinian vessel
which fell into his hands. After that affair he fled to
Tangier, and it is said that he brought with him a great part of
the booty which he had amassed in former times. Many other
Algerines came hither also, or to Tetuan, but he is the strangest
guest of them all. He keeps occasionally very extraordinary
company for a Moor, and is rather over intimate with the
Jews. Well, that&rsquo;s no business of mine; only let him
look to himself. If the Moors should once suspect him, it
were all over with him. Moors and Jews, Jews and
Moors! Oh my poor sins, my poor sins, that brought me to
live amongst them!&mdash;</p>

<blockquote><p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Ave Maris stella,<br />
Dei Mater alma,<br />
Atque semper virgo,<br />
Felix cœli porta!&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>

<p>He was proceeding in this manner when I was startled by the
sound of a musket.</p>

<p>&ldquo;That is the retreat,&rdquo; said Pascual Fava.
&ldquo;It is fired every night in the soc at half-past eight, and
it is the signal for suspending all business, and shutting
up. I am now going to close the doors, and whosoever
knocks, I shall not admit them till I know their voice.
Since the murder of the poor Genoese last year, we have all been
particularly cautious.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Thus had passed Friday, the sacred day of the Moslems, and the
first which I had spent in Tangier. I observed that the
Moors followed their occupations as if the day had nothing
particular in it. Between twelve and one, the hour of
prayer in the mosque, the gates of the town were closed, and no
one permitted either to enter or go out. There is a
tradition, current amongst them, that on this day, and at this
hour, their eternal enemies, the Nazarenes, will arrive to take
possession of their country; on which account they hold
themselves prepared against a surprisal.</p>
<div class="gapspace"></div>
<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">the
end</span>.</p>
<div class="gapspace"></div>
<p style="text-align: center">Printed by <span
class="smcap">Ballantyne</span>, <span class="smcap">Hanson &amp;
Co.</span><br />
Edinburgh &amp; London</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2>Footnotes</h2>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="footnote8"></a><a href="#citation8">[8]</a> &ldquo;Om Frands Gonzales,
og Rodrik Cid.<br />
End siunges i Sierra Murene!&rdquo;</p>

<p class="footnote">
<i>Kr&ouml;nike Riim</i>. By Severin Grundtvig. Copenhagen, 1829.</p>

<p class="footnote"><a name="footnote90"></a><a href="#citation90">[90]</a>
Doing business, doing business&mdash;he has much business to do.</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="footnote93a"></a><a href="#citation93a">[93a]</a> The Gypsy word for
Antonio.</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="footnote93b"></a><a href="#citation93b">[93b]</a> Devil.</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="footnote97"></a><a href="#citation97">[97]</a> &ldquo;Say nothing to him, my
lad, he is a hog of an alguazil.&rdquo;</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="footnote104"></a><a href="#citation104">[104]</a> El Serrador, a Carlist partisan,
who about this period was much talked of in Spain.</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="footnote127"></a><a href="#citation127">[127]</a> At the last attack on Warsaw,
when the loss of the Russians amounted to upwards of twenty
thousand men, the soldiery mounted the breach, repeating in
measured chant, one of their popular songs: &ldquo;Come, let us
cut the cabbage,&rdquo; &amp;c.</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="footnote128"></a><a href="#citation128">[128]</a> Twelve ounces of bread, small
pound, as given in the prison.</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="footnote138"></a><a href="#citation138">[138]</a> Witch. Ger. Hexe.</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="footnote145"></a><a href="#citation145">[145]</a> A compound of the modern Greek
&pi;&#941;&tau;&alpha;&lambda;&omicron;&nu;, and the Sanskrit
<i>kara</i>, the literal meaning being <i>Lord</i> of the
horse-shoe (i.e. <i>maker</i>); it is one of the private
cognominations of &ldquo;The Smiths,&rdquo; an English Gypsy
clan.</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="footnote146"></a><a href="#citation146">[146]</a> Of these lines the following
translation, in the style of the old English ballad, will,
perhaps, not be unacceptable:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote><p>&ldquo;What down the hill comes hurrying
there?&mdash;<br />
 With a hey, with a ho, a sword, and a gun!<br />
Quesada&rsquo;s bones, which a hound doth bear.&mdash;<br />
 Hurrah, brave brothers!&mdash;the work is
done.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="footnote163"></a><a href="#citation163">[163]</a> &ldquo;The king arrived, the
king arrived, and disembarked at Belem.&rdquo;&mdash;<i>Miguelite
song</i>.</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="footnote170"></a><a href="#citation170">[170]</a> &ldquo;How should I
know?&rdquo;</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="footnote171"></a><a href="#citation171">[171]</a> Qu. The Epistle to the
Romans.</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="footnote181"></a><a href="#citation181">[181]</a> This was possibly the period
when Admiral Duckworth attempted to force the passage of the
Dardanelles.</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="footnote196"></a><a href="#citation196">[196]</a> &ldquo;See the crossing! see
what devilish crossing!&rdquo;</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="footnote245"></a><a href="#citation245">[245]</a> The ancient Lethe.</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="footnote274"></a><a href="#citation274">[274]</a> <i>Inha</i>, when affixed to
words, serves as a diminutive. It is much in use amongst
the Gallegans.</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="footnote359"></a><a href="#citation359">[359]</a> Perhaps Waterloo.</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="footnote384"></a><a href="#citation384">[384]</a> About thirty pounds.</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="footnote403"></a><a href="#citation403">[403]</a>
&Kappa;&alpha;&tau;&alpha; &tau;&#972;&nu; &tau;&#972;&pi;&omicron;&nu;
&kappa;&alpha;&iota; &alpha; &tau;&rho;&#972;&pi;&omicron;&sigmaf;, as Antonio
said.</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="footnote429"></a><a href="#citation429">[429]</a> Nothing at all.</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="footnote459"></a><a href="#citation459">[459]</a> A Rabbinical book,
very difficult to be understood, though written avowedly for the purpose of
elucidating many points connected with the religious ceremonies of the Hebrews.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

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