“That is Jaraicejo,” said Antonio; “a bad place it is, and a bad place it
has ever been for the _Caló_ people.” {135}

“If it is such a bad place,” said I, “I hope we shall not have to pass
through it.”

“We must pass through it,” said Antonio, “for more reasons than one:
first, forasmuch as 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.”

We crossed the valley, and ascended the hill, and as we drew near to the
town, the gypsy said, “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_.”

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

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.  “Who are you?”
said he, in rather rough accents; “from whence do you come?”

“From Badajoz and Trujillo,” I replied; “why do you ask?”

“I am one of the national guard,” said the man, “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?”

“Do I look a person,” said I, “likely to keep company with gypsies?”

The national measured me from top to toe, and then looked me full in the
face with an expression which seemed to say, “likely enough.”  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 underfoot; 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’s growth.

“Have you a passport?” at length demanded the national.

I remembered having read that the best way to win a Spaniard’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,
“_Señor 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.”

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.

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.

_National_.—_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.

_Myself_.—I shall be very happy to afford so polite and honourable a
gentleman any information in my power.

_National_.—What is England doing?  Is she about to afford any assistance
to this country?  If she pleased she could put down the war in three
months.

_Myself_.—Be under no apprehension, _Señor nacional_; the war will be put
down, don’t doubt.  You have heard of the English legion, {138a} which my
Lord Palmerston has sent over?  Leave the matter in their hands, and you
will soon see the result.

_National_.—It appears to me that this _Caballero_ Balmerson must be a
very honest man.

_Myself_.—There can be no doubt of it.

_National_.—I have heard that he is a great general.

_Myself_.—There can be no doubt of it.  In some things neither Napoleon
nor the Sawyer {138b} would stand a chance with him for a moment.  _Es
mucho hombre_. {138c}

_National_.—I am glad to hear it.  Does he intend to head the legion
himself?

_Myself_.—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.

_National_.—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.

I showed him the signature, which he looked upon with profound reverence,
uncovering his head for a moment.  We then embraced and parted.

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’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.

“You have tarried long, brother,” said he; “I almost thought you had
played me false.”

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.

“I would I had him here,” said the gypsy, on hearing the epithets which
the former had lavished upon him—“I would I had him here, then should my
_chulí_ and his _carlo_ become better acquainted.”

“And what are you doing here yourself,” I demanded, “in this wild place,
amidst these thickets?”

“I am expecting a messenger down yon pass,” said the gypsy; “and till
that messenger arrive I can neither go forward nor return.  It is on
business of Egypt, brother, that I am here.”

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.

“Why do you not cook the game which I brought?” I demanded; “in this
place there is plenty of materials for a fire.”

“The smoke might discover us, brother,” said Antonio.  “I am desirous of
lying _escondido_ in this place until the arrival of the messenger.”

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.

_Antonio_.—Brother, I cannot imagine what business brought you to this
country.

_Myself_.—Perhaps the same which brings you to this moor—business of
Egypt.

_Antonio_.—Not so, brother; you speak the language of Egypt, it is true,
but your ways and words are neither those of the _Calés_ nor of the
_Busné_.

_Myself_.—Did you not hear me speak in the _foros_ about God and
_Tebleque_?  It was to declare His glory to the _Calés_ and Gentiles that
I came to the land of Spain.

_Antonio_.—And who sent you on this errand?

_Myself_.—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.

_Antonio_.—Are they _Caloré_ or _Busné_?

_Myself_.—What matters it?  Both _Caloré_ and _Busné_ are sons of the
same God.

_Antonio_.—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.  “Hurt not the animal,” said he; “for within it is the soul of
your own sister!”

_Myself_.—And do you believe in this wild doctrine, O Antonio?

_Antonio_.—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
_Caloró_—he was old, very old, upwards of a hundred years—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—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.

“I see a distant object,” I replied; “like a speck on the side of the
hill.”

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.

“It is a woman,” said I, at length, “mounted on a grey donkey.”

“Then it is my messenger,” said Antonio, “for it can be no other.”

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’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 “All!”  “Yes,” said she in a
louder tone, probably repeating the words which I had not caught before,
“All are captured.”

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 them 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, “All!  All!”

“Brother,” said he at last, “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 trust in _Undevel_,” I replied, “who wrote my fortune long ago.  But
how am I to journey?  I have no horse, for you doubtless want your own.”

The gypsy appeared to reflect.  “I want the horse, it is true, brother,”
he said, “and likewise the _macho_; but you shall not go _en pindré_;
{143} you shall purchase the _burra_ of Antonia, which I presented her
when I sent her upon this expedition.”

“The _burra_,” I replied, “appears both savage and vicious.”

“She is both, brother, and on that account I bought her; a savage and
vicious beast has generally four excellent legs.  You are a _Caló_,
brother, and can manage her; you shall therefore purchase the savage
_burra_, giving my daughter 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_.”

In less than an hour I was on the other side of the pass, mounted on the
savage _burra_.

CHAPTER XI.

The Pass of Mirabete—Wolves and Shepherds—Female Subtlety—Death by
Wolves—The Mystery solved—The Mountains—The Dark Hour—The Traveller of
the Night—Abarbenel—Hoarded Treasure—Force of Gold—The Archbishop—Arrival
at Madrid.

I proceeded down the pass of Mirabete, 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.

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

“Am I in New Castile?” I demanded of the ferryman, on reaching the
further bank.  “The _raya_ is many leagues from hence,” replied the
ferryman; “you seem a stranger.  Whence do you come?”  “From England,” 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’ distance
from the river’s bank.

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
{146} is celebrated; a broken soldier, just returned from the wars; and a
beggar, who, after demanding charity for the seven wounds of _Maria
Santísima_, 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 mean time, I sat by the fire listening to the
conversation of the company.

“I would I were a wolf,” said one of the shepherds; “or, indeed, anything
rather than what I am.  A pretty life is this of ours, out in the
_campo_, among the _carrascales_, 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.”

“But he frequently fares scurvily,” said I; “the shepherd and dogs fall
upon him, and then he pays for his temerity with the loss of his head.”

“That is not often the case, _señor_ traveller,” said the shepherd; “he
watches his opportunity, and seldom runs into harm’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.”

“A dangerous person is the wolf,” said the other shepherd, “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.”

“Not he,” said the other shepherd, “he is too good a judge; but he
fastens on the haunches, and hamstrings him in a moment.  Oh, 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.”

“Yet the mares know, occasionally, how to balk him,” replied his
companion.  “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—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 horseflesh.  He is mistaken, however; the mares
have balked him, and are as cunning as himself.  Not a tail is to be
seen—not a hinder quarter—but there stand the whole troop, their fronts
towards him ready to receive him, and as he runs round 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.”

“Worse than the he-wolf,” said the soldier, “is the female; for, as the
_señor 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.  ‘Those are wolves,’ said my companion;
‘let us get out of the way.’  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,
_deshonesta_, snapping and growling at a troop of demons, who followed
close behind, their tails uplifted, and their eyes like firebrands.  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’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 the 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.”

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
roused by a voice exclaiming in a loud tone, “All are captured!”  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.

“I beg your pardon, _Caballero_” said I, “but I did not hear the
commencement of your discourse.  Who are those who have been captured?”

“A band of accursed _Gitanos_, _Caballero_,” replied the beggar,
returning the title of courtesy which I had bestowed upon him.  “During
more than a fortnight they have infested the roads on the frontier of
Castile, and many have been the gentlemen 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.  _Todos estan presos_.” {150a}

“The mystery is now solved,” said I to myself, and proceeded to despatch
my supper, which was now ready.

The next day’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. {150b}  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.

“What mountains are those?” 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.  “They have many names, _Caballero_,”
replied the barber; “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
Guadarrama, 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—their
mysteries.  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 mid-day 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? {152}  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.”

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, {153} 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.

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.

“A cold night,” said I at last.  “Is this the way to Talavera?”

“It is the way to Talavera, and the night is cold.”

“I am going to Talavera,” said I, “as I suppose you are yourself.”

“I am going thither, so are you, _bueno_.”

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, _bueno_, was spoken.
I had heard something like it before, but where or when I could by no
means remember. {154}  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.

“Are you not afraid,” said I at last, “to travel these roads in the dark?
It is said that there are robbers abroad.”

“Are you not rather afraid,” replied the figure, “to travel these roads
in the dark?—you who are ignorant of the country, who are a foreigner, an
Englishman?”

“How is it that you know me to be an Englishman?” demanded I, much
surprised.

“That is no difficult matter,” replied the figure; “the sound of your
voice was enough to tell me that.”

“You speak of voices,” said I; “suppose the tone of your own voice were
to tell me who you are?”

“That it will not do,” replied my companion; “you know nothing about
me—you can know nothing about me.

“Be not sure of that, my friend; I am acquainted with many things of
which you have little idea.”

“_Por exemplo_,” said the figure.

“For example,” said I, “you speak two languages.”

The figure moved on, seemed to consider a moment and then said slowly,
“_Bueno_.”

“You have two names,” I continued; “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.”

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—

“Are you then _one of us_?”

It was late at night when we arrived at Talavera.  We went to a large
gloomy house, which my companion informed me was the principle _posada_
of the town.  We entered the kitchen, at the extremity of which a large
fire was blazing.  “Pepita,” {156a} said my companion to a handsome girl
who advanced smiling towards us, “a _brasero_ and a private apartment.
This cavalier is a friend of mine, and we shall sup together.”  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.

_Myself_.—Of course you have conversed with Englishmen before, else you
could not have recognized me by the tone of my voice.

_Abarbenel_. {156b}—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’s house, where he conceived a great affection for
me.  On his departure, with the consent of my father, I attended him
through both 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.

_Myself_.—And what kind of life do you pursue, and by what means do you
obtain support?

_Abarbenel_.—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—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.

_Myself_.—Have you any children?  Are you married?

_Abarbenel_.—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.
{157a}  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.

_Myself_.—You say you are wealthy.  In what does your wealth consist?

_Abarbenel_.—In gold and silver, and stones of price; for I have
inherited all the hoards of my forefathers.  The greater part is buried
underground; 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; {157b} 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.

_Myself_.—Are there more of you than yourself and your two wives?

_Abarbenel_.—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.

_Myself_.—And whither are you bound at present?

_Abarbenel_.—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.

_Myself_.—Are you known for what you are?  Do the authorities molest you?

_Abarbenel_.—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—“What do
you here?”  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 anything 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.

_Myself_.—Do the priests interfere with you?

_Abarbenel_.—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.

_Myself_.—Have you a head in Spain, in whom is vested the chief
authority?

_Abarbenel_.—Not exactly.  There are, however, certain holy families who
enjoy much consideration; my own is one of these—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.

_Myself_.—How can that be?  What reverence could an archbishop entertain
for one like yourself or your grandsire?

_Abarbenel_.—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 _ruah_ 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.

_Myself_.—What you say surprises me.  Have you reason to suppose that
many of you are to be found amongst the priesthood?

_Abarbenel_.—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.

_Myself_.—Are you numerous in the large towns?

_Abarbenel_.—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.

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.  “And if you respect my counsel,” said he, “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.”
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.

CHAPTER XII.

Lodging at Madrid—My Hostess—British
Ambassador—Mendizabal—Baltasar—Duties of a National—Young Blood—The
Execution—Population of Madrid—The Higher Orders—The Lower Classes—The
Bull-fighter—The Crabbed Gitano.

It was the commencement of February, 1837, 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, {162} 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.

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.  “Did you ever see a more
magnificent apartment?” demanded the former; “is it not fit for a king’s
son?  Last winter it was occupied by the great General Espartero.” {163}

The hostess was an exceedingly fat woman, a native of Valladolid, in Old
Castile.  “Have you any other family,” I demanded, “besides these
daughters?”  “Two sons,” she replied; “one of them an officer in the
army, father of this urchin,” pointing to a wicked but clever-looking boy
of about twelve, who at that moment bounded into the room; “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 bullfighters and people still
worse.”

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.

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.

Mendizabal {164a} 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.

Before taking this step, however, I deemed it advisable to wait upon Mr.
Villiers, {164b} 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.

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 Guadarrama,
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
anteroom, 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.  “If you have no
objection, I will myself deliver it to his Excellency,” 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.

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.

His secretary, a fine intellectual-looking man, who, as I was
subsequently informed, had acquired a name both in English and Spanish
literature, {166a} stood at one end of the table with papers in his
hands.

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.

“I have seen a glance very similar to that amongst the Beni Israel,”
{166b} thought I to myself. . . .

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.

As I was going away he said, “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.”

_Myself_.—There will be no end to the troubles of this afflicted country
until the Gospel have free circulation.

_Mendizabal_.—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.

“_Don Jorge_,” said my hostess, coming into my apartment one morning,
whilst I sat at breakfast, with my feet upon the _brasero_, “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?”

I did not state to his mother what I thought; it appeared to me, however,
that she was quite right in 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’s old great-coat.

“I am glad to make your acquaintance, _señor nacional_,” said I to him,
after his mother had departed and Baltasar had taken his seat, and of
course lighted a paper cigar {168} at the _brasero_.  “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.”

_Baltasar_.—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.

_Myself_.—Is the duty of a national particularly hard?

_Baltasar_.—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.

_Myself_.—Of course none but persons of liberal opinions are to be found
amongst the nationals?

_Baltasar_.—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.

_Myself_.—Are there many in Madrid of the Carlist opinion?

_Baltasar_.—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 greybeards 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_, {169} but on the
hands of stout, gallant nationals, like myself and friends, _Don Jorge_.

_Myself_.—I am sorry to learn from your lady-mother that you are
strangely dissipated.

_Baltasar_.—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 _funcion_ 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 _Germanía_:— {170a}

    “Una romí sin pachí
    Le penó á su chindomar,” {170b} etc., etc.

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. {170c}  I never miss a _funcion_ of bulls, _Don Jorge_.
Baltasar is sure to be there with his _amiga_.  _Don Jorge_, there are no
bull-funcions in the winter, or I would carry you to one, but happily
to-morrow there is an execution, a _funcion de la horca_; {171} and there
we will go, _Don Jorge_.

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 broken 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 was almost instantly a corpse; but, as the screw went round,
the priest began to shout, “_pax et misericordia et tranquillitas_,”
{172} 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’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, “_Misericordia_,” 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’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.

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
_perruquiers_, 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
Guipuzcoa, _toreros_ from Andalusia, _reposteros_ 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_, {174a} whose terrible
knives, on the second morning of May, {174b} worked such grim havoc
amongst the legions of Murat!

And the higher orders—the ladies and gentlemen, the cavaliers and
_señoras_—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 _señoras_, 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. {175}  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.

Apropos of bull-fighters:—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 peñas_,
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
halfway 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:—

“_Otra copita_! _vamos Inglesito_: _Otra copita_!” {176}

“Thank you, my good sir, you are very kind.  You appear to know me, but I
have not the honour of knowing you.”

“Not know me!” replied the being.  “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.”

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—

“Cavaliers, and strong men, this cavalier is the friend of a friend of
mine.  _Es mucho hombre_. {177a}  There is none like him in Spain.  He
speaks the crabbed _Gitano_, though he is an _Inglesito_.”

“We do not believe it,” replied several grave voices.  “It is not
possible.”

“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—come forward and speak to his worship in the crabbed _Gitano_.”

A low, slight, but active figure stepped forward.  He was in his
shirt-sleeves, and wore a _montero_ cap; {177b} his features were
handsome, but they were those of a demon.

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_ {177c} was.

“_Vamos Inglesito_,” shouted Sevilla, in a voice of thunder; “answer the
_monró_ in the crabbed _Gitano_.”

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.

“I believe it is the crabbed _Gitano_,” muttered Balseiro.  “It is either
that or English, for I understand not a word of it.”

“Did I not say to you,” cried the bull-fighter, “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. {178}  _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!”

And he clapped his hand repeatedly on his breast, reiterating, “I,
Sevilla!  I—”

CHAPTER XIII.

Intrigues at Court—Quesada and Galiano—Dissolution of the Cortes—The
Secretary—Aragonese Pertinacity—The Council of Trent—The Asturian—The
Three Thieves—Benedict Mol—The Men of Lucerne—The Treasure.

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.

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 Angoulême
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.

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.

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, {180a} 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.

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, {180b} 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.

Thereupon {181a} Isturitz {181b} 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. {181c}

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.

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.  “I am afraid that I shall have some difficulty in inducing
Mendizabal to give me permission to print the Testament,” said I to him
one day.  “Mendizabal is a jackass,” replied Galiano.  “Caligula made his
horse consul, which I suppose induced Lord --- to send over this huge
_burro_ of the Stock Exchange to be our minister.”

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, “that now or never was the time to make
an effort in my behalf.”  “I will do so,” said he, in a waspish tone; for
he always spoke waspishly whether to friend or foe; “but you must have
patience for a few days; we are very much occupied at present.  We have
been out-voted 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_.”

After an hour’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: “Go to my
secretary; go to my secretary—_el hará por usted el gusto_.” {183}  So I
went to the secretary, whose name was Oliban, an Aragonese, who was not
handsome, and whose manners were neither elegant nor affable.  “You want
permission to print the Testament?”  “I do,” said I.  “And you have come
to his Excellency about it?” continued Oliban.  “Very true,” I replied.
“I suppose you intend to print it without notes?”  “Yes.”  “Then his
Excellency cannot give you permission,” said the Aragonese secretary.
“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.”  “How many years was that ago?” I demanded.  “I do not know how
many years ago it was,” said Oliban; “but such was the decree of the
Council of Trent.”  “Is Spain at present governed according to the
decrees of the Council of Trent?” I inquired.  “In some points she is,”
answered the Aragonese, “and this is one.  But tell me, who are you?  Are
you known to the British minister?”  “Oh yes, and he takes a great
interest in the matter.”  “Does he?” said Oliban; “that indeed alters the
case: if you can show me that his Excellency takes an interest in this
business, I certainly shall not oppose myself to it.”

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, “_Al secretario_, _el hará por
usted el gusto_.”  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.  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, “Amongst the
decrees of the Council of Trent is one to the effect . . .”

“Oh dear!” said I.

“A singular person is this Oliban,” said I to Galiano; “you cannot
imagine what trouble he gives me; he is continually talking about the
Council of Trent.”

“I wish he was in the Trent up to the middle,” said Galiano, who, as I
have observed already, spoke excellent English; “I wish he was there for
talking such nonsense.  However,” said he, “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.”

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, “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—farewell.”  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.

“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—”

“Now for it,” thought I.

“Bu—”  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—what shall I call it?—mere φλυαρία.
{186}

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

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 {187} 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—for
Spain is not the land of feathered choristers—but to the prattle of the
_narangero_, or man who sold oranges and water by a little deserted
water-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.  “I have wandered
throughout Spain,” said he, “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 seashore; 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.”  And he pointed across the Manzanares,
where, on the declivity of a gentle hill, at about a league’s distance,
shone brightly in the sunshine the white walls of the _Campo Santo_, or
common burying-ground of Madrid.

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.  “These two
gentry,” 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; “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—_vaya_—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’t take off your hat to her, amigo—she has
neither formality nor politeness; 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, _Señor Don_
Francisco.  _Que tal_. {188}  Very fine weather this—_vaya su merced con
Dios_.  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;
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 some one 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
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.
Murcian oranges, as you see; the genuine dragon’s blood.  Water sweet and
cold.  Those two boys are the children of Gabiria, comptroller of the
queen’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—_Señor Don_
Benito Mol, how do you do?”

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’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.

Upon my asking him who he was, the following conversation ensued between
us:—

“I am a Swiss of Lucerne, Benedict Mol {190} by name, once a soldier in
the Walloon guard, and now a soap-boiler, at your service.”

“You speak the language of Spain very imperfectly,” said I; “how long
have you been in the country?”

“Forty-five years,” replied Benedict; “but when the guard was broken up,
I went to Minorca, where I lost the Spanish language without acquiring
the Catalan.”

“You have been a soldier of the king of Spain,” said I; “how did you like
the service?”

“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.”

“Have you, then, realized a large capital in Spain?” said I, glancing at
his hat and the rest of his apparel.

“Not a _cuart_, {191} not a _cuart_; these two wash-balls are all that I
possess.”

“Perhaps you are the son of good parents, and have lands and money in
your own country wherewith to support yourself.”

“Not a _heller_, not a _heller_; my father was hangman of Lucerne, and
when he died, his body was seized to pay his debts.”

“Then, doubtless,” said I, “you intend to ply your trade of soap-boiling
at Lucerne.  You are right, my friend; I know of no occupation more
honourable or useful.”

“I have no thoughts of plying my trade at Lucerne,” replied Benedict;
“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.  _In kurzem_, {192} I
know little more of soap-boiling than I do of tailoring, horse-farriery,
or shoe-making, all of which I have practised.”

“Then I know not how you can hope to live like a _Herzog_ 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.”

“_Lieber Herr_,” said Benedict, “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.”

“I hope you do not intend to rob the church,” said I; “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.”

“My good German _Herr_,” said Benedict, “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 death-bed 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; {193a} 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_, {193b} and
says that if I desert her she will breathe a spell which shall cling to
me for ever.  _Dem Gottsey Dank_, {193c} she is now in the hospital, and
daily expected to die.  This is my history, _lieber Herr_.”

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.

CHAPTER XIV.

State of Spain—Isturitz—Revolution of the Granja—The Disturbance—Signs of
Mischief—Newspaper Reporters—Quesada’s Onslaught—The closing Scene—Flight
of the Moderados—The Coffee Bowl.

In the mean time 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 _Cristinos_, for the Carlists were
pushing it on with considerable vigour; parties of their _guerillas_
{194} 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.

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 this 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 forbore 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.  “The duke,” said he, “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 _funcion_ between us, at which Isturitz laughed
heartily.  By-the-by,” continued he, “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 the 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.”

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.  “I have
lived long in England,” said he; “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.”  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. {196}

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 doorkeeper.  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—suicide.

And a few days showed that he had, indeed, cause for much melancholy
meditation: in less than a week occurred the revolution of La Granja,
{197} as it is called.  La Granja, or the Grange, is a royal country
seat, situated amongst pine forests on the other side of the Guadarrama
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, Muñoz, bound
and blindfolded.  “Swear to the constitution, you she-rogue,” vociferated
the swarthy sergeant.  “Never!” said the spirited daughter of the
Neapolitan Bourbons.  “Then your _cortejo_ shall die!” replied the
sergeant.  “Ho! ho! my lads; get ready your arms, and send four bullets
through the fellow’s brain.”  Muñoz 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’s heart,
suddenly started forward with a shriek, exclaiming, “Hold, hold!  I sign,
I sign!”

The day after this event {198} 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—in general—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, “_Viva la constitucion_!”—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, “_La Granja_!
_La Granja_!” which words were sure to be succeeded by the shout of
“_Viva la constitucion_!”  Opposite the _Casa de Postas_ {199} 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,
“Long live the constitutional queen!  Long live the constitution!”

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.  “What has become of the
_moderado_ government?” 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; “have the ministers been deposed
and others put in their place?”

“Not yet, _Don Jorge_,” said the little soldier-tailor; “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—ho! ho! _Don Jorge_, you
shall see something—I am prepared for him, ho! ho!” 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.

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, “Long live the
constitution!” 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 rank.

“Those men mean mischief,” said I to my friend D---, of the _Morning
Chronicle_, who at this moment joined me; “and depend upon it, that if
they are ordered they will commence firing, caring nothing whom they hit.
But what can those cavalry fellows behind them mean, who are evidently of
the other opinion by their shouting?  Why don’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?”

D--- turned upon me his broad red good-humoured English countenance, with
a peculiarly arch look, as much as to say, . . . (whatever you think most
applicable, gentle reader), then taking me by the arm, “Let us get,” said
he, “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.”  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.

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 _Cristino 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.

We had scarcely been five minutes at the window, when we suddenly heard
the clattering of horses’ 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’s
uniform, and mounted on a bright bay thoroughbred 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.

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
Calle del Alcalá.  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, “Long
live the absolute queen!” 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.

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 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.

This was the glorious day of Quesada’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 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 “brute bull” that I frequently, during
his wild onset, shouted “_Viva Quesada_!” for I wished him well.  Not
that I am of any political party or system.  No, no!  I have lived too
long with _Romany Chals_ {204a} and _Petulengres_ {204b} 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 La 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 recognized at a village about three
leagues from Madrid, and cast into the 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.  “The nationals
are coming,” said a _paisano_ to Quesada.  “Then,” said he, “I am lost,”
and forthwith prepared himself for death.

There is a celebrated coffee-house in the Calle del Alcalá, 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:—

    “Que es lo que abaja
    Por aquel cerro?
    Ta ra ra ra ra.
    Son los huesos de Quesada,
    Que los trae un perro—
    Ta ra ra ra ra.” {206}

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, “_El pañuelo_!”  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.  “Cups! cups!” cried the nationals. . . .

“Ho, ho, _Don Jorge_,” cried Baltasarito, coming up to me with a cup of
coffee, “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_?

    ‘Una noche sinava en tucue.’ {207a}

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 _monró_, it shall not be that, but something liberal,
something patriotic, the Hymn of Riego. {207b}  _Hasta despues_, _Don
Jorge_!” {207c}

CHAPTER XV.

The Steamer—Cape Finisterre—The Storm—Arrival at Cadiz—The New
Testament—Seville—Italica—The Amphitheatre—The Prisoners—The
Encounter—Baron Taylor—The Street and Desert.

At the commencement of November {208} 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.

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 were poor consumptive individuals, and other invalids
fleeing from the cold blasts of England’s winter to the sunny shores of
Portugal and Madeira.  In a more uncomfortable vessel, especially
steamship, 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.

On Monday, the 7th, 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—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.

By about eight o’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.

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, “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.  None of us will see
the morning.”  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, _veered right about_, and pushed us from the horrible coast
faster than it had previously driven us towards it.

The oldest sailors on board acknowledged that they had never witnessed so
providential an escape.  I said, from the bottom of my heart, “Our
Father—hallowed be Thy name.”

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.

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—Freire {212a} in
Portugal, and Quesada in Spain.  The news which reached me at Lisbon from
the latter country was rather startling.  The hordes of Gomez {212b} were
ravaging Andalusia, which I was about to visit on my way to Madrid;
Cordova had been sacked and abandoned, after a three days’ 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.

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’hôte_ 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.

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—most professing a perfect indifference.  I
afterwards went into a bookseller’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.

Early on the 24th I embarked for Seville, in the small Spanish steamer
the _Betis_. {214}  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 San 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 round, and particularly myself, who had till
then been lying on the deck in a dull melancholy stupor.  We entered the
mouth of “The Great River,” for that is the English translation of _Wady
al Kebir_, as the Moors designated the ancient Betis.  We came to anchor
for a few minutes at a little village called Bonanza, 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 150 to 200 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’clock of a lovely moonlight night.

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,
{215} 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, {216a} 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.

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, {216b} 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.

On the right side of the river is a large suburb, called Triana,
communicating with Seville by means of a bridge of boats; {216c} 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 Santi 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 birthplace of Silius Italicus and Trajan, from which latter
personage Triana derives its name.

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.

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.