2]***


Transcribed from the 1896 John Murray edition by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org

                            [Picture: Toledo]





                           THE BIBLE IN SPAIN;


                    OR, THE JOURNEYS, ADVENTURES, AND
                      IMPRISONMENTS OF AN ENGLISHMAN
                        IN AN ATTEMPT TO CIRCULATE
                            THE SCRIPTURES IN
                              THE PENINSULA

                                    BY
                              GEORGE BORROW.

                                * * * * *

              _A NEW EDITION_, _WITH NOTES AND A GLOSSARY_,
                       BY ULICK RALPH BURKE, M.A.,
                   AUTHOR OF “A HISTORY OF SPAIN,” ETC.

                                * * * * *

                            _IN TWO VOLUMES_.
                                 VOL. II.

                                * * * * *

                         WITH MAP AND ENGRAVINGS.

                                * * * * *

                                 LONDON:
                      JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET.
                                  1896.

                                * * * * *

                                 LONDON:
               PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
                    STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.




CONTENTS OF VOL. II.

                                                                  PAGE
                            CHAPTER XXIX.
Arrival at Padron—Projected Enterprise—The Alquilador—Breach         1
of Promise—An Odd Companion—A Plain Story—Rugged Paths—The
Desertion—The Pony—A Dialogue—Unpleasant Situation—The
Estadea—Benighted—The Hut—The Traveller’s Pillow
                             CHAPTER XXX.
Autumnal Morning—The World’s End—Corcuvion—Duyo—The Cape—A          20
Whale—The Outer Bay—The Arrest—The Fisher-Magistrate—Calros
Rey—Hard of Belief—Where is your Passport?—The Beach—A Mighty
Liberal—The Handmaid—The Grand Baintham—Eccentric
Book—Hospitality
                            CHAPTER XXXI.
Corunna—Crossing the Bay—Ferrol—The Dock-yard—Where are we          41
now?—Greek Ambassador—Lantern-Light—The
Ravine—Viveiro—Evening—Marsh and Quagmire—Fair Words and Fair
Money—The Leathern Girth—Eyes of Lynx—The Knavish Guide
                            CHAPTER XXXII.
Martin of Rivadeo—The Factious Mare—Asturians—Luarca—The            57
Seven Bellotas—Hermits—The Asturian’s Tale—Strange Guests—The
Big Servant—Batuschca
                           CHAPTER XXXIII.
Oviedo—The Ten Gentlemen—The Swiss again—Modest Request—The         70
Robbers—Episcopal Benevolence—The Cathedral—Portrait of
Feijoo
                            CHAPTER XXXIV.
Departure from Oviedo—Villa Viciosa—The Young Man of the            82
Inn—Antonio’s Tale—The General and his Family—Woful
Tidings—To-morrow we die—San Vicente—Santander—An
Harangue—Flinter the Irishman
                            CHAPTER XXXV.
Departure from Santander—The Night Alarm—The Black Pass             95
                            CHAPTER XXXVI.
State of Affairs at Madrid—The New Ministry—Pope of Rome—The        99
Bookseller of Toledo—Sword-blades—Houses of Toledo—The
Forlorn Gypsy—Proceedings at Madrid—Another Servant
                           CHAPTER XXXVII.
Euscarra—Basque not Irish—Sanscrit and Tartar Dialects—A           111
Vowel Language—Popular Poetry—The Basques—Their
Persons—Basque Women
                           CHAPTER XXXVIII.
The Prohibition—Gospel Persecuted—Charge of Sorcery—Ofalia         121
                            CHAPTER XXXIX.
The Two Gospels—The Alguazil—The Warrant—The Good Maria—The        127
Arrest—Sent to Prison—Reflections—The Reception—The Prison
Room—Redress demanded
                             CHAPTER XL.
Ofalia—The Juez—Carcel de la Corte—Sunday in Prison—Robber         141
Dress—Father and Son—Characteristic Behaviour—The
Frenchman—Prison Allowance—Valley of the Shadow—Pure
Castilian—Balseiro—The Cave—Robber Glory
                             CHAPTER XLI.
Maria Diaz—Priestly Vituperation—Antonio’s Visit—Antonio at        159
Service—A Scene—Benedict Mol—Wandering in Spain—The Four
Evangelien
                            CHAPTER XLII.
Liberation from Prison—The Apology—Human Nature—The Greek’s        169
Return—Church of Rome—Light of Scripture—Archbishop of
Toledo—An Interview—Stones of Price—A Resolution—The Foreign
Language—Benedict’s Farewell—Treasure Hunt at
Compostella—Truth and Fiction
                            CHAPTER XLIII.
Villa Seca—Moorish House—The Puchera—The Rustic                    185
Council—Polite Ceremonial—The Flower of Spain—The Bridge of
Azeca—The Ruined Castle—Taking the Field—Demand for the
Word—The Old Peasant—The Curate and Blacksmith—Cheapness of
the Scriptures
                            CHAPTER XLIV.
Aranjuez—A Warning—A Night Adventure—A Fresh                       202
Expedition—Segovia—Abades—Factious Curas—Lopez in
Prison—Rescue of Lopez
                             CHAPTER XLV.
Return to Spain—Seville—A Hoary Persecutor—Manchegan               214
Prophetess—Antonio’s Dream
                            CHAPTER XLVI.
Work of Distribution resumed—Adventure at Cobeña—Power of the      220
Clergy—Rural Authorities—Fuente la Higuera—Victoriano’s
Mishap—Village Prison—The Rope—Antonio’s Errand—Antonio at
Mass
                            CHAPTER XLVII.
Termination of our Rural Labours—Alarm of the Clergy—A New         232
Experiment—Success at Madrid—Goblin-Alguazil—Staff of
Office—The Corregidor—An Explanation—The Pope in England—New
Testament expounded—Works of Luther
                           CHAPTER XLVIII.
Projected Journey—A Scene of Blood—The Friar—Seville—Beauties      245
of Seville—Orange Trees and Flowers—Murillo—The Guardian
Angel—Dionysius—My Coadjutors—Demand for the Bible
                            CHAPTER XLIX.
The Solitary House—The Dehesa—Johannes                             258
Chrysostom—Manuel—Bookselling at Seville—Dionysius and the
Priests—Athens and Rome—Proselytism—Seizure of
Testaments—Departure from Seville
                              CHAPTER L.
Night on the Guadalquivir—Gospel Light—Bonanza—Strand of San       271
Lucar—Andalusian Scenery—History of a Chest—Cosas de los
Ingleses—The Two Gypsies—The Driver—The Red Nightcap—The
Steam-Boat—Christian Language
                             CHAPTER LI.
Cadiz—The Fortifications—The Consul-General—Characteristic         286
Anecdote—Catalan Steamer—Trafalgar—Alonzo Guzman—Gibil
Muza—Orestes Frigate—The Hostile Lion—Works of the
Creator—Lizard of the Rock—The Concourse—Queen of the
Waters—Broken Prayer
                             CHAPTER LII.
The Jolly Hosteler—Aspirants for Glory—A                           305
Portrait—Hamáles—Solomons—An Expedition—The Yeoman
Soldier—The Excavations—The Pull by the Skirt—Judah and his
Father—Judah’s Pilgrimage—The Bushy Beard—The False
Moors—Judah and the King’s Son—Premature Old Age
                            CHAPTER LIII.
Genoese Mariners—Saint Michael’s Cave—Midnight Abysses—Young       326
American—A Slave Proprietor—The Fairy Man—Infidelity
                             CHAPTER LIV.
Again on Board—The Strange Visage—The Haji—Setting Sail—The        335
Two Jews—American Vessel—Tangier—Adun Oulem—The Struggle—The
Forbidden Thing
                             CHAPTER LV.
The Mole—The Two Moors—Djmah of Tangier—House of God—British       348
Consul—Curious Spectacle—The Moorish House—Joanna Correa—Ave
Maria
                             CHAPTER LVI.
The Mahasni—Sin Samani—The Bazaar—Moorish Saints—See the           359
Ayana!—The Prickly Fig—Jewish Graves—The Place of
Carcases—The Stable Boy—Horses of the Moslem—Dar-dwag
                            CHAPTER LVII.
Strange Trio—The Mulatto—The Peace-offering—Moors of               373
Granada—Vive la Guadeloupe—The Moors—Pascual Fava—Blind
Algerine—The Retreat
GLOSSARY                                                           385

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

                                   VOL. II.
TOLEDO.  _Etched by_ MANESSE                                    _Frontispiece_
SEGOVIA.  _From a Sketch by_ A. H. HALLAM MURRAY                 _To face_ 210

   _Engraved by_ MANESSE

CHAPTER XXIX.


Arrival at Padron—Projected Enterprise—The Alquilador—Breach of
Promise—An Odd Companion—A Plain Story—Rugged Paths—The Desertion—The
Pony—A Dialogue—Unpleasant Situation—The Estadea—Benighted—The Hut—The
Traveller’s Pillow.

I arrived at Padron late in the evening, on my return from Pontevedra and
Vigo.  It was my intention at this place to send my servant and horses
forward to Santiago, and to hire a guide to Cape Finisterre.  It would be
difficult to assign any plausible reason for the ardent desire which I
entertained to visit this place; but I remembered that last year I had
escaped almost by a miracle from shipwreck and death on the rocky sides
of this extreme point of the Old World, and I thought that to convey the
Gospel to a place so wild and remote might perhaps be considered an
acceptable pilgrimage in the eyes of my Maker.  True it is that but one
copy remained of those which I had brought with me on this last journey;
but this reflection, far from discouraging me in my projected enterprise,
produced the contrary effect, as I called to mind that, ever since the
Lord revealed Himself to man, it has seemed good to Him to accomplish the
greatest ends by apparently the most insufficient means; and I reflected
that this one copy might serve as an instrument for more good than the
four thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine copies of the edition of
Madrid.

I was aware that my own horses were quite incompetent to reach
Finisterre, as the roads or paths lie through stony ravines, and over
rough and shaggy hills, and therefore determined to leave them behind
with Antonio, whom I was unwilling to expose to the fatigues of such a
journey.  I lost no time in sending for an _alquilador_, or person who
lets out horses, and informing him of my intention.  He said he had an
excellent mountain pony at my disposal, and that he himself would
accompany me; but at the same time observed, that it was a terrible
journey for man and horse, and that he expected to be paid accordingly.
I consented to give him what he demanded, but on the express condition
that he would perform his promise of attending me himself, as I was
unwilling to trust myself four or five days amongst the hills with any
low fellow of the town whom he might select, and who it was very possible
might play me some evil turn.  He replied by the term invariably used by
the Spaniards when they see doubt or distrust exhibited: “_No tenga usted
cuidado_, {2} I will go myself.”  Having thus arranged the matter
perfectly satisfactorily, as I thought, I partook of a slight supper, and
shortly afterwards retired to repose.

I had requested the _alquilador_ to call me the next morning at three
o’clock; he, however, did not make his appearance till five, having, I
suppose, overslept himself, which was indeed my own case.  I arose in a
hurry, dressed, put a few things in a bag, not forgetting the Testament,
which I had resolved to present to the inhabitants of Finisterre.  I then
sallied forth and saw my friend the _alquilador_, who was holding by the
bridle the pony or _jaca_ which was destined to carry me in my
expedition.  It was a beautiful little animal, apparently strong and full
of life, without one single white hair in its whole body, which was black
as the plumage of the crow.

Behind it stood a strange-looking figure of the biped species, to whom,
however, at the moment, I paid little attention, but of whom I shall have
plenty to say in the sequel.

Having asked the horse-lender whether he was ready to proceed, and being
answered in the affirmative, I bade adieu to Antonio, and putting the
pony in motion, we hastened out of the town, taking at first the road
which leads towards Santiago.  Observing that the figure which I have
previously alluded to was following close at our heels, I asked the
_alquilador_ who it was, and the reason of its following us; to which he
replied that it was a servant of his, who would proceed a little way with
us and then return.  So on we went at a rapid rate, till we were within a
quarter of a mile of the Convent of the Esclavitud, a little beyond which
he had informed me that we should have to turn off from the high-road;
but here he suddenly stopped short, and in a moment we were all at a
standstill.  I questioned the guide as to the reason of this, but
received no answer.  The fellow’s eyes were directed to the ground, and
he seemed to be counting with the most intense solicitude the prints of
the hoofs of the oxen, mules, and horses in the dust of the road.  I
repeated my demand in a louder voice; when, after a considerable pause,
he somewhat elevated his eyes, without, however, looking me in the face,
and said that he believed that I entertained the idea that he himself was
to guide me to Finisterre, which if I did, he was very sorry for, the
thing being quite impossible, as he was perfectly ignorant of the way,
and, moreover, incapable of performing such a journey over rough and
difficult ground, as he was no longer the man he had been; and, over and
above all that, he was engaged that day to accompany a gentleman to
Pontevedra, who was at that moment expecting him.  “But,” continued he,
“as I am always desirous of behaving like a _caballero_ to everybody, I
have taken measures to prevent your being disappointed.  This person,”
pointing to the figure, “I have engaged to accompany you.  He is a most
trustworthy person, and is well acquainted with the route to Finisterre,
having been thither several times with this very _jaca_ on which you are
mounted.  He will, besides, be an agreeable companion to you on the way,
as he speaks French and English very well, and has been all over the
world.”  The fellow ceased speaking at last; and I was so struck with his
craft, impudence, and villany, that some time elapsed before I could find
an answer.  I then reproached him in the bitterest terms for his breach
of promise, and said that I was much tempted to return to the town
instantly, complain of him to the _alcalde_, and have him punished at any
expense.  To which he replied, “Sir Cavalier, by so doing you will be
nothing nearer Finisterre, to which you seem so eager to get.  Take my
advice, spur on the _jaca_, for you see it is getting late, and it is
twelve long leagues from hence to Corcuvion, where you must pass the
night; and from thence to Finisterre is no trifle.  As for the man, _no
tenga usted cuidado_, he is the best guide in Galicia, speaks English and
French, and will bear you pleasant company.”

By this time I had reflected that by returning to Padron I should indeed
be only wasting time, and that by endeavouring to have the fellow
punished no benefit would accrue to me; moreover, as he seemed to be a
scoundrel in every sense of the word, I might as well proceed in the
company of any person as in his.  I therefore signified my intention of
proceeding, and told him to go back, in the Lord’s name, and repent of
his sins.  But having gained one point, he thought he had best attempt
another; so placing himself about a yard before the _jaca_, he said that
the price which I had agreed to pay him for the loan of his horse (which,
by-the-by, was the full sum he had demanded) was by no means sufficient,
and that before I proceeded I must promise him two dollars more, adding
that he was either drunk or mad when he had made such a bargain.  I was
now thoroughly incensed, and without a moment’s reflection, spurred the
_jaca_, which flung him down in the dust, and passed over him.  Looking
back at the distance of a hundred yards, I saw him standing in the same
place, his hat on the ground, gazing after us, and crossing himself most
devoutly.  His servant, or whatever he was, far from offering any
assistance to his principal, no sooner saw the _jaca _in motion than he
ran on by its side, without word or comment, further than striking
himself lustily on the thigh with his right palm.  We soon passed the
Esclavitud, and presently afterwards turned to the left into a stony
broken path leading to fields of maize.  We passed by several
farm-houses, and at last arrived at a dingle, the sides of which were
plentifully overgrown with dwarf oaks, and which slanted down to a small
dark river shaded with trees, which we crossed by a rude bridge.  By this
time I had had sufficient time to scan my odd companion from head to
foot.  His utmost height, had he made the most of himself, might perhaps
have amounted to five feet one inch; but he seemed somewhat inclined to
stoop.  Nature had gifted him with an immense head, and placed it clean
upon his shoulders, for amongst the items of his composition it did not
appear that a neck had been included.  Arms long and brawny swung at his
sides, and the whole of his frame was as strong built and powerful as a
wrestler’s; his body was supported by a pair of short but very nimble
legs.  His face was very long, and would have borne some slight
resemblance to a human countenance had the nose been more visible, for
its place seemed to have been entirely occupied by a wry mouth and large
staring eyes.  His dress consisted of three articles: an old and tattered
hat of the Portuguese kind, broad at the crown and narrow at the eaves,
something which appeared to be a shirt, and dirty canvas trousers.
Willing to enter into conversation with him, and remembering that the
_alquilador_ had informed me that he spoke languages, I asked him, in
English, if he had always acted in the capacity of guide.  Whereupon he
turned his eyes with a singular expression upon my face, gave a loud
laugh, a long leap, and clapped his hands thrice above his head.
Perceiving that he did not understand me, I repeated my demand in French,
and was again answered by the laugh, leap, and clapping.  At last he
said, in broken Spanish, “Master mine, speak Spanish in God’s name, and I
can understand you, and still better if you speak Gallegan, but I can
promise no more.  I heard what the _alquilador_ told you, but he is the
greatest _embustero_ in the whole land, and deceived you then as he did
when he promised to accompany you.  I serve him for my sins; but it was
an evil hour when I left the deep sea and turned guide.”  He then
informed me that he was a native of Padron, and a mariner by profession,
having spent the greater part of his life in the Spanish navy, in which
service he had visited Cuba and many parts of the Spanish Americas,
adding, “when my master told you that I should bear you pleasant company
by the way, it was the only word of truth that has come from his mouth
for a month; and long before you reach Finisterre you will have rejoiced
that the servant, and not the master, went with you: he is dull and
heavy, but I am what you see.”  He then gave two or three first-rate
somersaults, again laughed loudly, and clapped his hands.  “You would
scarcely think,” he continued, “that I drove that little pony yesterday,
heavily laden, all the way from Corunna.  We arrived at Padron at two
o’clock this morning; but we are nevertheless both willing and able to
undertake a fresh journey.  _No tenga usted cuidado_, as my master said,
no one ever complains of that pony or of me.”  In this kind of discourse
we proceeded a considerable way through a very picturesque country, until
we reached a beautiful village at the skirt of a mountain.  “This
village,” said my guide, “is called Los Angeles, because its church was
built long since by the angels; they placed a beam of gold beneath it,
which they brought down from heaven, and which was once a rafter of God’s
own house.  It runs all the way under the ground from hence to the
cathedral of Compostella.”

Passing through the village, which he likewise informed me possessed
baths, and was much visited by the people of Santiago, we shaped our
course to the north-west, and by so doing doubled a mountain which rose
majestically over our heads, its top crowned with bare and broken rocks,
whilst on our right, on the other side of a spacious valley, was a high
range connected with the mountains to the northward of Saint James.  On
the summit of this range rose high embattled towers, which my guide
informed me were those of Altamira, an ancient and ruined castle,
formerly the principal residence in this province of the counts of that
name.  Turning now due west, we were soon at the bottom of a steep and
rugged pass, which led to more elevated regions.  The ascent cost us
nearly half an hour, and the difficulties of the ground were such that I
more than once congratulated myself on having left my own horses behind,
and being mounted on the gallant little pony, which, accustomed to such
paths, scrambled bravely forward, and eventually brought us in safety to
the top of the ascent.

Here we entered a Gallegan cabin, or _choza_, for the purpose of
refreshing the animal and ourselves.  The quadruped ate some maize,
whilst we two bipeds regaled ourselves on some _broa_ and _aguardiente_,
which a woman whom we found in the hut placed before us.  I walked out
for a few minutes to observe the aspect of the country, and on my return
found my guide fast asleep on the bench where I had left him.  He sat
bolt upright, his back supported against the wall, and his legs
pendulous, within three inches of the ground, being too short to reach
it.  I remained gazing upon him for at least five minutes, whilst he
enjoyed slumbers seemingly as quiet and profound as those of death
itself.  His face brought powerfully to my mind some of those uncouth
visages of saints and abbots which are occasionally seen in the niches of
the walls of ruined convents.  There was not the slightest gleam of
vitality in his countenance, which for colour and rigidity might have
been of stone, and which was as rude and battered as one of the stone
heads at Icolmkill, which have braved the winds of twelve hundred years.
I continued gazing on his face till I became almost alarmed, concluding
that life might have departed from its harassed and fatigued tenement.
On my shaking him rather roughly by the shoulder he slowly awoke, opening
his eyes with a stare, and then closing them again.  For a few moments he
was evidently unconscious of where he was.  On my shouting to him,
however, and inquiring whether he intended to sleep all day, instead of
conducting me to Finisterre, he dropped upon his legs, snatched up his
hat, which lay on the table, and instantly ran out of the door,
exclaiming, “Yes, yes, I remember; follow me, captain, and I will lead
you to Finisterre in no time.”  I looked after him, and perceived that he
was hurrying at a considerable pace in the direction in which we had
hitherto been proceeding.  “Stop,” said I, “stop! will you leave me here
with the pony?  Stop; we have not paid the reckoning.  Stop!”  He,
however, never turned his head for a moment, and in less than a minute
was out of sight.  The pony, which was tied to a crib at one end of the
cabin, began now to neigh terrifically, to plunge, and to erect its tail
and mane in a most singular manner.  It tore and strained at the halter
till I was apprehensive that strangulation would ensue.  “Woman,” I
exclaimed, “where are you, and what is the meaning of all this?”  But the
hostess had likewise disappeared, and though I ran about the _choza_,
shouting myself hoarse, no answer was returned.  The pony still continued
to scream and to strain at the halter more violently than ever.  “Am I
beset with lunatics?” I cried, and flinging down a _peseta_ on the table,
unloosed the halter, and attempted to introduce the bit into the mouth of
the animal.  This, however, I found impossible to effect.  Released from
the halter, the pony made at once for the door, in spite of all the
efforts which I could make to detain it.  “If you abandon me,” said I, “I
am in a pretty situation; but there is a remedy for everything!” with
which words I sprang into the saddle, and in a moment more the creature
was bearing me at a rapid gallop in the direction, as I supposed, of
Finisterre.  My position, however diverting to the reader, was rather
critical to myself.  I was on the back of a spirited animal, over which I
had no control, dashing along a dangerous and unknown path.  I could not
discover the slightest vestige of my guide, nor did I pass any one from
whom I could derive any information.  Indeed, the speed of the animal was
so great, that even in the event of my meeting or overtaking a passenger,
I could scarcely have hoped to exchange a word with him.  “Is the pony
trained to this work?” said I, mentally.  “Is he carrying me to some den
of banditti, where my throat will be cut, or does he follow his master by
instinct?”  Both of these suspicions I, however, soon abandoned.  The
pony’s speed relaxed; he appeared to have lost the road.  He looked about
uneasily: at last, coming to a sandy spot, he put his nostrils to the
ground, and then suddenly flung himself down, and wallowed in true pony
fashion.  I was not hurt, and instantly made use of this opportunity to
slip the bit into his mouth, which previously had been dangling beneath
his neck; I then remounted in quest of the road.

This I soon found, and continued my way for a considerable time.  The
path lay over a moor, patched with heath and furze, and here and there
strewn with large stones, or rather rocks.  The sun had risen high in the
firmament, and burned fiercely.  I passed several people, men and women,
who gazed at me with surprise, wondering, probably, what a person of my
appearance could be about, without a guide, in so strange a place.  I
inquired of two females whom I met whether they had seen my guide; but
they either did not or would not understand me, and, exchanging a few
words with each other in one of the hundred dialects of the Gallegan,
passed on.  Having crossed the moor, I came rather abruptly upon a
convent, overhanging a deep ravine, at the bottom of which brawled a
rapid stream.

It was a beautiful and picturesque spot: the sides of the ravine were
thickly clothed with wood, and on the other side a tall black hill
uplifted itself.  The edifice was large, and apparently deserted.
Passing by it, I presently reached a small village, as deserted, to all
appearance, as the convent, for I saw not a single individual, nor so
much as a dog to welcome me with his bark.  I proceeded, however, until I
reached a fountain, the waters of which gushed from a stone pillar into a
trough.  Seated upon this last, his arms folded, and his eyes fixed upon
the neighbouring mountain, I beheld a figure which still frequently
recurs to my thoughts, especially when asleep and oppressed by the
nightmare.  This figure was my runaway guide.

_Myself_.—Good day to you, my gentleman.  The weather is hot, and yonder
water appears delicious.  I am almost tempted to dismount and regale
myself with a slight draught.

_Guide_.—Your worship can do no better.  The day is, as you say, hot; you
can do no better than drink a little of this water.  I have myself just
drunk.  I would not, however, advise you to give that pony any; it
appears heated and blown.

_Myself_.—It may well be so.  I have been galloping at least two leagues
in pursuit of a fellow who engaged to guide me to Finisterre, but who
deserted me in a most singular manner; so much so, that I almost believe
him to be a thief, and no true man.  You do not happen to have seen him?

_Guide_.—What kind of a man might he be?

_Myself_.—A short, thick fellow, very much like yourself, with a hump
upon his back, and, excuse me, of a very ill-favoured countenance.

_Guide_.—Ha, ha!  I know him.  He ran with me to this fountain, where he
has just left me.  That man, Sir Cavalier, is no thief.  If he is
anything at all, he is a _Nuveiro_ {12}—a fellow who rides upon the
clouds, and is occasionally whisked away by a gust of wind.  Should you
ever travel with that man again, never allow him more than one glass of
anise at a time, or he will infallibly mount into the clouds and leave
you, and then he will ride and run till he comes to a water-brook, or
knocks his head against a fountain—then one draught, and he is himself
again.  So you are going to Finisterre, Sir Cavalier.  Now it is singular
enough, that a cavalier much of your appearance engaged me to conduct him
there this morning; I, however, lost him on the way; so it appears to me
our best plan to travel together until you find your own guide and I find
my own master.

It might be about two o’clock in the afternoon that we reached a long and
ruinous bridge, seemingly of great antiquity, and which, as I was
informed by my guide, was called the bridge of Don Alonzo.  It crossed a
species of creek, or rather frith, for the sea was at no considerable
distance, and the small town of Noyo lay at our right.  “When we have
crossed that bridge, captain,” said my guide, “we shall be in an unknown
country, for I have never been farther than Noyo, and as for Finisterre,
so far from having been there, I never heard of such a place; and though
I have inquired of two or three people since we have been upon this
expedition, they know as little about it as I do.  Taking all things,
however, into consideration, it appears to me that the best thing we can
do is to push forward to Corcuvion, which is five mad leagues from hence,
and which we may perhaps reach ere nightfall, if we can find the way or
get any one to direct us; for, as I told you before, I know nothing about
it.”  “To fine hands have I confided myself,” said I: “however, we had
best, as you say, push forward to Corcuvion, where, peradventure, we may
hear something of Finisterre, and find a guide to conduct us.”
Whereupon, with a hop, skip, and a jump, he again set forward at a rapid
pace, stopping occasionally at a _choza_, for the purpose, I suppose, of
making inquiries, though I understood scarcely anything of the jargon in
which he addressed the people, and in which they answered him.

We were soon in an extremely wild and hilly country, scrambling up and
down ravines, wading brooks, and scratching our hands and faces with
brambles, on which grew a plentiful crop of wild mulberries, to gather
some of which we occasionally made a stop.  Owing to the roughness of the
way, we made no great progress.  The pony followed close at the back of
the guide, so near, indeed, that its nose almost touched his shoulder.
The country grew wilder and wilder, and, since we had passed a
water-mill, we had lost all trace of human habitation.  The mill stood at
the bottom of a valley shaded by large trees, and its wheels were turning
with a dismal and monotonous noise.  “Do you think we shall reach
Corcuvion tonight?” said I to the guide, as we emerged from this valley
to a savage moor, which appeared of almost boundless extent.

_Guide_.—I do not, I do not.  We shall in no manner reach Corcuvion
to-night, and I by no means like the appearance of this moor.  The sun is
rapidly sinking, and then, if there come on a haze, we shall meet the
_Estadéa_.

_Myself_.—What do you mean by the _Estadéa_?

_Guide_.—What do I mean by the _Estadéa_?  My master asks me what I mean
by the _Estadinha_. {14} I have met the _Estadinha_ but once, and it was
upon a moor something like this.  I was in company with several women,
and a thick haze came on, and suddenly a thousand lights shone above our
heads in the haze, and there was a wild cry, and the women fell to the
ground screaming, ‘_Estadéa_!  _Estadéa_!’ and I myself fell to the
ground crying out, ‘_Estadinha_!’  The _Estadéa_ are the spirits of the
dead which ride upon the haze, bearing candles in their hands.  I tell
you frankly, my master, that if we meet the assembly of the souls, I
shall leave you at once, and then I shall run and run till I drown myself
in the sea, somewhere about Muros.  We shall not reach Corcuvion this
night; my only hope is that we may find some _choza_ upon these moors,
where we may hide our heads from the _Estadinha_.”

The night overtook us ere we had traversed the moor; there was, however,
no haze, to the great joy of my guide, and a corner of the moon partially
illumined our steps.  Our situation, however, was dreary enough: we were
upon the wildest heath of the wildest province of Spain, ignorant of our
way, and directing our course we scarcely knew whither, for my guide
repeatedly declared to me that he did not believe that such a place as
Finisterre existed, or if it did exist, it was some bleak mountain
pointed out in a map.  When I reflected on the character of this guide, I
derived but little comfort or encouragement: he was at best evidently
half-witted, and was by his own confession occasionally seized with
paroxysms which differed from madness in no essential respect; his wild
escapade in the morning of nearly three leagues, without any apparent
cause, and lastly his superstitious and frantic fears of meeting the
souls of the dead upon this heath, in which event he intended, as he
himself said, to desert me and make for the sea, operated rather
powerfully upon my nerves.  I likewise considered that it was quite
possible that we might be in the route neither of Finisterre nor
Corcuvion, and I therefore determined to enter the first cabin at which
we should arrive, in preference to running the risk of breaking our necks
by tumbling down some pit or precipice.  No cabin, however, appeared in
sight: the moor seemed interminable, and we wandered on until the moon
disappeared, and we were left in almost total darkness.

At length we arrived at the foot of a steep ascent, up which a rough and
broken pathway appeared to lead.  “Can this be our way?” said I to the
guide.

“There appears to be no other for us, captain,” replied the man; “let us
ascend it by all means, and when we are at the top, if the sea be in the
neighbourhood we shall see it.”

I then dismounted, for to ride up such a pass in such darkness would have
been madness.  We clambered up in a line, first the guide, next the pony,
with his nose as usual on his master’s shoulder, of whom he seemed
passionately fond, and I bringing up the rear, with my left hand grasping
the animal’s tail.  We had many a stumble, and more than one fall: once,
indeed, we were all rolling down the side of the hill together.  In about
twenty minutes we reached the summit, and looked around us, but no sea
was visible: a black moor, indistinctly seen, seemed to spread on every
side.

“We shall have to take up our quarters here till morning,” said I.

Suddenly my guide seized me by the hand.  “There is _lúme_, _senhor_,”
said he; “there is _lúme_.”  I looked in the direction in which he
pointed, and after straining my eyes for some time, imagined that I
perceived, far below and at some distance, a faint glow.  “That is
_lúme_,” shouted the guide, “and it proceeds from the chimney of a
_choza_.”

On descending the eminence, we roamed about for a considerable time,
until we at last found ourselves in the midst of about six or eight black
huts.  “Knock at the door of one of these,” said I to the guide, “and
inquire of the people whether they can shelter us for the night.”  He did
so, and a man presently made his appearance, bearing in his hand a
lighted firebrand.

“Can you shelter a _Cavalheiro_ from the night and the _Estadéa_?” said
my guide.

“From both, I thank God,” said the man, who was an athletic figure,
without shoes and stockings, and who, upon the whole, put me much in mind
of a Munster peasant from the bogs.  “Pray enter, gentlemen, we can
accommodate you both and your _cavalgadura_ besides.”

We entered the _choza_, which consisted of three compartments; in the
first we found straw, in the second cattle and ponies, and in the third
the family, consisting of the father and mother of the man who admitted
us, and his wife and children.

“You are a Catalan, sir Cavalier, and are going to your countrymen at
Corcuvion,” said the man in tolerable Spanish.  “Ah, you are brave
people, you Catalans, and fine establishments you have on the Gallegan
shores; pity that you take all the money out of the country.”

Now, under all circumstances, I had not the slightest objection to pass
for a Catalan; and I rather rejoiced that these wild people should
suppose that I had powerful friends and countrymen in the neighbourhood
who were, perhaps, expecting me.  I therefore favoured their mistake, and
began with a harsh Catalan accent to talk of the fish of Galicia, and the
high duties on salt.  The eye of my guide was upon me for an instant,
with a singular expression, half serious, half droll; he, however, said
nothing, but slapped his thigh as usual, and with a spring nearly touched
the roof of the cabin with his grotesque head.  Upon inquiry, I
discovered that we were still two long leagues distant from Corcuvion,
and that the road lay over moor and hill, and was hard to find.  Our host
now demanded whether we were hungry, and, upon being answered in the
affirmative, produced about a dozen eggs and some bacon.  Whilst our
supper was cooking, a long conversation ensued between my guide and the
family, but as it was carried on in Gallegan, I tried in vain to
understand it.  I believe, however, that it principally related to
witches and witchcraft, as the _Estadéa_ was frequently mentioned.  After
supper I demanded where I could rest: whereupon the host pointed to a
trapdoor in the roof, saying that above there was a loft where I could
sleep by myself, and have clean straw.  For curiosity’s sake, I asked
whether there was such a thing as a bed in the cabin.

“No,” replied the man; “nor nearer than Corcuvion.  I never entered one
in my life, nor any one of my family; we sleep around the hearth, or
among the straw with the cattle.”

I was too old a traveller to complain, but forthwith ascended by a ladder
into a species of loft, tolerably large and nearly empty, where I placed
my cloak beneath my head, and lay down on the boards, which I preferred
to the straw, for more reasons than one.  I heard the people below
talking in Gallegan for a considerable time, and could see the gleams of
the fire through the interstices of the floor.  The voices, however,
gradually died away, the fire sank low and could no longer be
distinguished.  I dozed, started, dozed again, and dropped finally into a
profound sleep, from which I was only roused by the crowing of the second
cock.




CHAPTER XXX.


Autumnal Morning—The World’s End—Corcuvion—Duyo—The Cape—A Whale—The
Outer Bay—The Arrest—The Fisher-Magistrate—Calros Rey—Hard of
Belief—Where is your Passport?—The Beach—A mighty Liberal—The
Handmaid—The Grand Baintham—Eccentric Book—Hospitality.

It was a beautiful autumnal morning when we left the _choza_ and pursued
our way to Corcuvion.  I satisfied our host by presenting him with a
couple of _pesetas_, and he requested as a favour, that if on our return
we passed that way, and were overtaken by the night, we would again take
up our abode beneath his roof.  This I promised, at the same time
determining to do my best to guard against the contingency; as sleeping
in the loft of a Gallegan hut, though preferable to passing the night on
a moor or mountain, is anything but desirable.

So we again started at a rapid pace along rough bridle-ways and
footpaths, amidst furze and brushwood.  In about an hour we obtained a
view of the sea, and, directed by a lad whom we found on the moor
employed in tending a few miserable sheep, we bent our course to the
north-west, and at length reached the brow of an eminence, where we
stopped for some time to survey the prospect before us.

It was not without reason that the Latins gave the name of _Finis terræ_
to this district.  We had arrived exactly at such a place as in my
boyhood I had pictured to myself as the termination of the world, beyond
which there was a wild sea, or abyss, or chaos.  I now saw far before me
an immense ocean, and below me a long and irregular line of lofty and
precipitous coast.  Certainly in the whole world there is no bolder coast
than the Gallegan shore, from the debouchement of the Minho to Cape
Finisterre.  It consists of a granite wall of savage mountains, for the
most part serrated at the top, and occasionally broken, where bays and
firths like those of Vigo and Pontevedra intervene, running deep into the
land.  These bays and firths are invariably of an immense depth, and
sufficiently capacious to shelter the navies of the proudest maritime
nations.

There is an air of stern and savage grandeur in everything around, which
strongly captivates the imagination.  This savage coast is the first
glimpse of Spain which the voyager from the north catches, or he who has
ploughed his way across the wide Atlantic: and well does it seem to
realize all his visions of this strange land.  “Yes,” he exclaims, “this
is indeed Spain—stern, flinty Spain—land emblematic of those spirits to
which she has given birth.  From what land but that before me could have
proceeded those portentous beings who astounded the Old World and filled
the New with horror and blood.  Alva and Philip, Cortez and Pizarro—stern
colossal spectres looming through the gloom of bygone years, like yonder
granite mountains through the haze, upon the eye of the mariner.  Yes,
yonder is indeed Spain; flinty, indomitable Spain; land emblematic of its
sons!”

As for myself, when I viewed that wide ocean and its savage shore, I
cried, “Such is the grave, and such are its terrific sides; those moors
and wilds, over which I have passed, are the rough and dreary journey of
life.  Cheered with hope, we struggle along through all the difficulties
of moor, bog, and mountain, to arrive at—what?  The grave and its dreary
sides.  Oh, may hope not desert us in the last hour—hope in the Redeemer
and in God!”

We descended from the eminence, and again lost sight of the sea amidst
ravines and dingles, amongst which patches of pine were occasionally
seen.  Continuing to descend, we at last came, not to the sea, but to the
extremity of a long narrow firth, where stood a village or hamlet; whilst
at a small distance, on the western side of the firth, appeared one
considerably larger, which was indeed almost entitled to the appellation
of town.  This last was Corcuvion; the first, if I forget not, was called
Ria de Silla.  We hastened on to Corcuvion, where I bade my guide make
inquiries respecting Finisterre.  He entered the door of a wine-house,
from which proceeded much noise and vociferation, and presently returned,
informing me that the village of Finisterre was distant about a league
and a half.  A man, evidently in a state of intoxication, followed him to
the door.  “Are you bound for Finisterre, _Cavalheiros_?” he shouted.

“Yes, my friend,” I replied, “we are going thither.”

“Then you are going amongst a _fato de borrachos_,” {22} he answered.
“Take care that they do not play you a trick.”

We passed on, and, striking across a sandy peninsula at the back of the
town, soon reached the shore of an immense bay, the north-westernmost end
of which was formed by the far-famed cape of Finisterre, which we now saw
before us stretching far into the sea.

Along a beach of dazzling white sand we advanced towards the cape, the
bourne of our journey.  The sun was shining brightly, and every object
was illumined by his beams.  The sea lay before us like a vast mirror,
and the waves which broke upon the shore were so tiny as scarcely to
produce a murmur.  On we sped along the deep winding bay, overhung by
gigantic hills and mountains.  Strange recollections began to throng upon
my mind.  It was upon this beach that, according to the tradition of all
ancient Christendom, Saint James, the patron saint of Spain, preached the
Gospel to the heathen Spaniards.  Upon this beach had once stood an
immense commercial city, the proudest in all Spain.  This now desolate
bay had once resounded with the voices of myriads, when the keels and
commerce of all the then known world were wafted to Duyo. {23}

“What is the name of this village?” said I to a woman, as we passed by
five or six ruinous houses at the bend of the bay, ere we entered upon
the peninsula of Finisterre.

“This is no village,” said the Gallegan, “this is no village, Sir
Cavalier; this is a city, this is Duyo.”

So much for the glory of the world!  These huts were all that the roaring
sea and the tooth of time had left of Duyo, the great city!  Onward now
to Finisterre.

It was mid-day when we reached the village of Finisterre, consisting of
about one hundred houses, and built on the southern side of the
peninsula, just before it rises into the huge bluff head which is called
the Cape.  We sought in vain for an inn or _venta_, where we might stable
our beast; at one moment we thought that we had found one, and had even
tied the animal to the manger.  Upon our going out, however, he was
instantly untied and driven forth into the street.  The few people whom
we saw appeared to gaze upon us in a singular manner.  We, however, took
little notice of these circumstances, and proceeded along the straggling
street until we found shelter in the house of a Castilian shopkeeper,
whom some chance had brought to this corner of Galicia—this end of the
world.  Our first care was to feed the animal, who now began to exhibit
considerable symptoms of fatigue.  We then requested some refreshment for
ourselves; and in about an hour, a tolerably savoury fish, weighing about
three pounds, and fresh from the bay, was prepared for us by an old woman
who appeared to officiate as housekeeper.  Having finished our meal, I
and my uncouth companion went forth, and prepared to ascend the mountain.

We stopped to examine a small dismantled fort or battery facing the bay,
and, whilst engaged in this examination, it more than once occurred to me
that we were ourselves the objects of scrutiny and investigation; indeed,
I caught a glimpse of more than one countenance peering upon us through
the holes and chasms of the walls.  We now commenced ascending
Finisterre; and, making numerous and long _détours_, we wound our way up
its flinty sides.  The sun had reached the top of heaven, whence he
showered upon us perpendicularly his brightest and fiercest rays.  My
boots were torn, my feet cut, and the perspiration streamed from my brow.
To my guide, however, the ascent appeared to be neither toilsome nor
difficult.  The heat of the day for him had no terrors, no moisture was
wrung from his tanned countenance; he drew not one short breath; and
hopped upon the stones and rocks with all the provoking agility of a
mountain goat.  Before we had accomplished one-half of the ascent, I felt
myself quite exhausted.  I reeled and staggered.  “Cheer up, master mine;
be of good cheer, and have no care,” said the guide.  “Yonder I see a
wall of stones; lie down beneath it in the shade.”  He put his long and
strong arm round my waist, and, though his stature compared with mine was
that of a dwarf, he supported me as if I had been a child to a rude wall
which seemed to traverse the greater part of the hill, and served
probably as a kind of boundary.  It was difficult to find a shady spot:
at last he perceived a small chasm, perhaps scooped by some shepherd as a
couch in which to enjoy his _siesta_.  In this he laid me gently down,
and, taking off his enormous hat, commenced fanning me with great
assiduity.  By degrees I revived, and, after having rested for a
considerable time, I again attempted the ascent, which, with the
assistance of my guide, I at length accomplished.

We were now standing at a great altitude between two bays, the wilderness
of waters before us.  Of all the ten thousand barks which annually plough
those seas in sight of that old cape, not one was to be descried.  It was
a blue shiny waste, broken by no object save the black head of a
spermaceti whale, which would occasionally show itself at the top,
casting up thin jets of brine.  The principal bay, that of Finisterre, as
far as the entrance, was beautifully variegated by an immense shoal of
_sardinhas_, on whose extreme skirts the monster was probably feasting.
From the other side of the cape we looked down upon a smaller bay, the
shore of which was overhung by rocks of various and grotesque shapes;
this is called the outer bay, or, in the language of the country, _Praia
do mar de fora_: {26} a fearful place in seasons of wind and tempest,
when the long swell of the Atlantic pouring in is broken into surf and
foam by the sunken rocks with which it abounds.  Even on the calmest day
there is a rumbling and a hollow roar in that bay which fill the heart
with uneasy sensations.

On all sides there was grandeur and sublimity.  After gazing from the
summit of the cape for nearly an hour, we descended.

On reaching the house where we had taken up our temporary habitation, we
perceived that the portal was occupied by several men, some of whom were
reclining on the floor drinking wine out of small earthen pans, which are
much used in this part of Galicia.  With a civil salutation I passed on,
and ascended the staircase to the room in which we had taken our repast.
Here there was a rude and dirty bed, on which I flung myself, exhausted
with fatigue.  I determined to take a little repose, and in the evening
to call the people of the place together, to read a few chapters of the
Scripture, and then to address them with a little Christian exhortation.
I was soon asleep, but my slumbers were by no means tranquil.  I thought
I was surrounded with difficulties of various kinds, amongst rocks and
ravines, vainly endeavouring to extricate myself; uncouth visages showed
themselves amidst the trees and in the hollows, thrusting out cloven
tongues, and uttering angry cries.  I looked around for my guide, but
could not find him; methought, however, that I heard his voice down a
deep dingle.  He appeared to be talking of me.  How long I might have
continued in these wild dreams I know not.  I was suddenly, however,
seized roughly by the shoulder, and nearly dragged from the bed.  I
looked up in amazement, and by the light of the descending sun I beheld
hanging over me a wild and uncouth figure; it was that of an elderly man,
built as strong as a giant, with much beard and whisker, and huge bushy
eyebrows, dressed in the habiliments of a fisherman; in his hand was a
rusty musket.

_Myself_.—Who are you, and what do you want?

_Figure_.—Who I am matters but little.  Get up and follow me; it is you I
want.

_Myself_.—By what authority do you thus presume to interfere with me?

_Figure_.—By the authority of the _justicia_ of Finisterre.  Follow me
peaceably, Calros, or it will be the worse for you.

“Calros,” said I, “what does the person mean?”  I thought it, however,
most prudent to obey his command, and followed him down the staircase.
The shop and the portal were now thronged with the inhabitants of
Finisterre, men, women, and children; the latter for the most part in a
state of nudity, and with bodies wet and dripping, having been probably
summoned in haste from their gambols in the brine.  Through this crowd
the figure whom I have attempted to describe pushed his way with an air
of authority.

On arriving in the street, he laid his heavy hand upon my arm, not
roughly, however.  “It is Calros! it is Calros!” said a hundred voices;
“he has come to Finisterre at last, and the _justicia_ have now got hold
of him.”  Wondering what all this could mean, I attended my strange
conductor down the street.  As we proceeded, the crowd increased every
moment, following and vociferating.  Even the sick were brought to the
doors to obtain a view of what was going forward, and a glance at the
redoubtable Calros.  I was particularly struck by the eagerness displayed
by one man, a <DW36>, who, in spite of the entreaties of his wife, mixed
with the crowd, and having lost his crutch, hopped forward on one leg,
exclaiming, “_Carracho_! _tambien voy yo_!” {28}

We at last reached a house of rather larger size than the rest; my guide,
having led me into a long low room, placed me in the middle of the floor,
and then hurrying to the door, he endeavoured to repulse the crowd who
strove to enter with us.  This he effected, though not without
considerable difficulty, being once or twice compelled to have recourse
to the butt of his musket to drive back unauthorized intruders.  I now
looked round the room.  It was rather scantily furnished: I could see
nothing but some tubs and barrels, the mast of a boat, and a sail or two.
Seated upon the tubs were three or four men coarsely dressed, like
fishermen or shipwrights.  The principal personage was a surly
ill-tempered looking fellow of about thirty-five, whom eventually I
discovered to be the _alcalde_ of Finisterre, and lord of the house in
which we now were.  In a corner I caught a glimpse of my guide, who was
evidently in durance, two stout fishermen standing before him, one with a
musket and the other with a boat-hook.  After I had looked about me for a
minute, the _alcalde_, giving his whiskers a twist, thus addressed me:—

“Who are you, where is your passport, and what brings you to Finisterre?”

_Myself_.—I am an Englishman.  Here is my passport, and I came to see
Finisterre.

This reply seemed to discomfit them for a moment.  They looked at each
other, then at my passport.  At length the _alcalde_, striking it with
his finger, bellowed forth:

“This is no Spanish passport; it appears to be written in French.”

_Myself_.—I have already told you that I am a foreigner.  I of course
carry a foreign passport.

_Alcalde_.—Then you mean to assert that you are not _Calros Rey_.

_Myself_.—I never heard before of such a king, nor indeed of such a name.

_Alcalde_.—Hark to the fellow! he has the audacity to say that he has
never heard of Calros the pretender, who calls himself king.

_Myself_.—If you mean by Calros, the pretender Don Carlos, all I can
reply is, that you can scarcely be serious.  You might as well assert
that yonder poor fellow, my guide, whom I see you have made prisoner, is
his nephew, the _Infante_ Don Sebastian. {29}

_Alcalde_.—See, you have betrayed yourself; that is the very person we
suppose him to be.

_Myself_.—It is true that they are both hunchbacks.  But how can I be
like Don Carlos?  I have nothing the appearance of a Spaniard, and am
nearly a foot taller than the pretender.

_Alcalde_.—That makes no difference; you of course carry many waistcoats
about you, by means of which you disguise yourself, and appear tall or
low according to your pleasure.

This last was so conclusive an argument that I had of course nothing to
reply to it.  The _alcalde_ looked around him in triumph, as if he had
made some notable discovery.  “Yes, it is Calros; it is Calros,” said the
crowd at the door.  “It will be as well to have these men shot
instantly,” continued the _alcalde_; “if they are not the two pretenders,
they are at any rate two of the factious.”

“I am by no means certain that they are either one or the other,” said a
gruff voice.

The _justicia_ of Finisterre turned their eyes in the direction from
which these words proceeded, and so did I.  Our glances rested upon the
figure who held watch at the door.  He had planted the barrel of his
musket on the floor, and was now leaning his chin against the butt.

“I am by no means certain that they are either one or the other,”
repeated he, advancing forward.  “I have been examining this man,”
pointing to myself, “and listening whilst he spoke, and it appears to me
that after all he may prove an Englishman; he has their very look and
voice.  Who knows the English better than Antonio de la Trava, and who
has a better right?  Has he not sailed in their ships; has he not eaten
their biscuit; and did he not stand by Nelson when he was shot dead?”

Here the _alcalde_ became violently incensed.  “He is no more an
Englishman than yourself,” he exclaimed; “if he were an Englishman would
he have come in this manner, skulking across the land?  Not so, I trow.
He would have come in a ship, recommended to some of us, or to the
Catalans.  He would have come to trade—to buy; but nobody knows him in
Finisterre, nor does he know anybody, and the first thing, moreover, that
he does when he reaches this place is to inspect the fort, and to ascend
the mountain, where, no doubt, he has been marking out a camp.  What
brings him to Finisterre, if he is neither Calros nor a _bribon_ of a
_faccioso_?”

I felt that there was a good deal of justice in some of these remarks,
and I was aware, for the first time, that I had indeed committed a great
imprudence in coming to this wild place, and among these barbarous
people, without being able to assign any motive which could appear at all
valid in their eyes.  I endeavoured to convince the _alcalde_ that I had
come across the country for the purpose of making myself acquainted with
the many remarkable objects which it contained, and of obtaining
information respecting the character and condition of the inhabitants.
He could understand no such motives.  “What did you ascend the mountain
for?”  “To see prospects.”  “_Disparate_!  I have lived at Finisterre
forty years, and never ascended that mountain.  I would not do it in a
day like this for two ounces of gold.  You went to take altitudes, and to
mark out a camp.”  I had, however, a staunch friend in old Antonio, who
insisted, from his knowledge of the English, that all I said might very
possibly be true.  “The English,” said he, “have more money than they
know what to do with, and on that account they wander all over the world,
paying dearly for what no other people care a groat for.”  He then
proceeded, notwithstanding the frowns of the _alcalde_, to examine me in
the English language.  His own entire knowledge of this tongue was
confined to two words—_knife_ and _fork_, which words I rendered into
Spanish by their equivalents, and was forthwith pronounced an Englishman
by the old fellow, who, brandishing his musket, exclaimed:—

“This man is not Calros; he is what he declares himself to be, an
Englishman, and whosoever seeks to injure him shall have to do with
Antonio de la Trava, _el valiente de Finisterra_.”  No person sought to
impugn this verdict, and it was at length determined that I should be
sent to Corcuvion, to be examined by the _alcalde mayor_ of the district.
“But,” said the _alcalde_ of Finisterre, “what is to be done with the
other fellow?  He at least is no Englishman.  Bring him forward, and let
us hear what he has to say for himself.  Now, fellow, who are you, and
what is your master?”

_Guide_.—I am Sebastianillo, a poor broken mariner of Padron, and my
master for the present is the gentleman whom you see, the most valiant
and wealthy of all the English.  He has two ships at Vigo laden with
riches.  I told you so when you first seized me up there in our _posada_.

_Alcalde_.—Where is your passport?

_Guide_.—I have no passport.  Who would think of bringing a passport to
such a place as this, where I don’t suppose there are two individuals who
can read?  I have no passport; my master’s passport of course includes
me.

_Alcalde_.—It does not.  And since you have no passport, and have
confessed that your name is Sebastian, you shall be shot.  Antonio de la
Trava, do you and the musketeers lead this Sebastianillo forth, and shoot
him before the door.

_Antonio de la Trava_.—With much pleasure, _Señor Alcalde_, since you
order it.  With respect to this fellow, I shall not trouble myself to
interfere.  He at least is no Englishman.  He has more the look of a
wizard or _nuveiro_; one of those devils who raise storms and sink
launches.  Moreover, he says he is from Padron, and those of that place
are all thieves and drunkards.  They once played me a trick, and I would
gladly be at the shooting of the whole _pueblo_.

I now interfered, and said that if they shot the guide they must shoot me
too; expatiating at the same time on the cruelty and barbarity of taking
away the life of a poor unfortunate fellow who, as might be seen at the
first glance, was only half-witted; adding, moreover, that if any person
was guilty in this case it was myself, as the other could only be
considered in the light of a servant acting under my orders.

“The safest plan, after all,” said the _alcalde_, “appears to be to send
you both prisoners to Corcuvion, where the head _alcalde_ can dispose of
you as he thinks proper.  You must, however, pay for your escort; for it
is not to be supposed that the housekeepers of Finisterre have nothing
else to do than to ramble about the country with every chance fellow who
finds his way to this town.”  “As for that matter,” said Antonio, “I will
take charge of them both.  I am the _valiente_ of Finisterre, and fear no
two men living.  Moreover, I am sure that the captain here will make it
worth my while, else he is no Englishman.  Therefore let us be quick, and
set out for Corcuvion at once, as it is getting late.  First of all,
however, captain, I must search you and your baggage.  You have no arms,
of course?  But it is best to make all sure.”

Long ere it was dark I found myself again on the pony, in company with my
guide, wending our way along the beach in the direction of Corcuvion.
Antonio de la Trava tramped heavily on before, his musket on his
shoulder.

_Myself_.—Are you not afraid, Antonio, to be thus alone with two
prisoners, one of whom is on horseback?  If we were to try, I think we
could overpower you.

_Antonio de la Trava_.—I am the _valiente de Finisterra_, and I fear no
odds.

_Myself_.—Why do you call yourself the _valiente_ of Finisterre?

_Antonio de la Trava_.—The whole district call me so.  When the French
came to Finisterre and demolished the fort, three perished by my hand.  I
stood on the mountain, up where I saw you scrambling to-day.  I continued
firing at the enemy, until three detached themselves in pursuit of me.
The fools! two perished amongst the rocks by the fire of this musket, and
as for the third, I beat his head to pieces with the stock.  It is on
that account that they call me the _valiente_ of Finisterre.

_Myself_.—How came you to serve with the English fleet?  I think I heard
you say that you were present when Nelson fell.

_Antonio de la Trava_.—I was captured by your countrymen, captain; and as
I had been a sailor from my childhood, they were glad of my services.  I
was nine months with them, and assisted at Trafalgar.  I saw the English
admiral die.  You have something of his face, and your voice, when you
spoke, sounded in my ears like his own.  I love the English, and on that
account I saved you.  Think not that I would toil along these sands with
you if you were one of my own countrymen.  Here we are at Duyo, captain.
Shall we refresh?

We did refresh, or rather Antonio de la Trava refreshed, swallowing pan
after pan of wine, with a thirst which seemed unquenchable.  “That man
was a greater wizard than myself,” whispered Sebastian, my guide, “who
told us that the drunkards of Finisterre would play us a trick.”  At
length the old hero of the Cape slowly rose, saying that we must hasten
on to Corcuvion, or the night would overtake us by the way.

“What kind of person is the _alcalde_ to whom you are conducting me?”
said I.

“Oh, very different from him of Finisterre,” replied Antonio.  “This is a
young _Señorito_, lately arrived from Madrid.  He is not even a Gallegan.
He is a mighty liberal, and it is owing chiefly to his orders that we
have lately been so much on the alert.  It is said that the Carlists are
meditating a descent on these parts of Galicia.  Let them only come to
Finisterre; we are liberals there to a man, and the old _valiente_ is
ready to play the same part as in the time of the French.  But, as I was
telling you before, the _alcalde_ to whom I am conducting you is a young
man, and very learned, and, if he thinks proper, he can speak English to
you, even better than myself, notwithstanding I was a friend of Nelson,
and fought by his side at Trafalgar.”

It was dark night before we reached Corcuvion.  Antonio again stopped to
refresh at a wine-shop, after which he conducted us to the house of the
_alcalde_.  His steps were by this time not particularly steady, and on
arriving at the gate of the house, he stumbled over the threshold and
fell.  He got up with an oath, and instantly commenced thundering at the
door with the stock of his musket.  “Who is it?” at length demanded a
soft female voice in Gallegan.  “The _valiente_ of Finisterre,” replied
Antonio; whereupon the gate was unlocked, and we beheld before us a very
pretty female with a candle in her hand.  “What brings you here so late,
Antonio?” she inquired.  “I bring two prisoners, _mi pulida_,” replied
Antonio.  “_Ave Maria_!” she exclaimed.  “I hope they will do no harm.”
“I will answer for one,” replied the old man; “but as for the other, he
is a _nuveiro_, and has sunk more ships than all his brethren in Galicia.
But be not afraid, my beauty,” he continued, as the female made the sign
of the cross: “first lock the gate, and then show me the way to the
_alcalde_.  I have much to tell him.”  The gate was locked, and bidding
us stay below in the court-yard, Antonio followed the young woman up a
stone stair, whilst we remained in darkness below.

After the lapse of about a quarter of an hour we again saw the candle
gleam upon the staircase, and the young female appeared.  Coming up to
me, she advanced the candle to my features, on which she gazed very
intently.  After a long scrutiny she went to my guide, and having
surveyed him still more fixedly, she turned to me, and said, in her best
Spanish, “_Señor_ Cavalier, I congratulate you on your servant.  He is
the best-looking _mozo_ in all Galicia.  _Vaya_! if he had but a coat to
his back, and did not go barefoot, I would accept him at once as a
_novio_; but I have unfortunately made a vow never to marry a poor man,
but only one who has got a heavy purse and can buy me fine clothes.  So
you are a Carlist, I suppose?  _Vaya_!  I do not like you the worse for
that.  But, being so, how went you to Finisterre, where they are all
_Cristinos_ and _negros_?  Why did you not go to my village?  None would
have meddled with you there.  Those of my village are of a different
stamp to the drunkards of Finisterre.  Those of my village never
interfere with honest people.  _Vaya_! how I hate that drunkard of
Finisterre who brought you; he is so old and ugly; were it not for the
love which I bear to the _Señor Alcalde_, I would at once unlock the gate
and bid you go forth, you and your servant, _el buen mozo_”. {37}

Antonio now descended.  “Follow me,” said he; “his worship the _alcalde_
will be ready to receive you in a moment.”  Sebastian and myself followed
him upstairs to a room, where, seated behind a table, we beheld a young
man of low stature, but handsome features, and very fashionably dressed.
He appeared to be inditing a letter, which, when he had concluded, he
delivered to a secretary to be transcribed.  He then looked at me for a
moment fixedly, and the following conversation ensued between us:—

_Alcalde_.—I see that you are an Englishman, and my friend Antonio here
informs me that you have been arrested at Finisterre.

_Myself_.—He tells you true; and but for him I believe that I should have
fallen by the hands of those savage fishermen.

_Alcalde_.—The inhabitants of Finisterre are brave, and are all liberals.
Allow me to look at your passport?  Yes, all in form.  Truly it was very
ridiculous that they should have arrested you as a Carlist.

_Myself_.—Not only as a Carlist, but as Don Carlos himself.

_Alcalde_.—Oh! most ridiculous; mistake a countryman of the grand
Baintham for such a Goth!

_Myself_.—Excuse me, sir, you speak of the grand somebody.

_Alcalde_.—The grand Baintham.  He who has invented laws for all the
world.  I hope shortly to see them adopted in this unhappy country of
ours.

_Myself_.—Oh! you mean Jeremy Bentham.  Yes! a very remarkable man in his
way.

_Alcalde_.—In his way! in all ways.  The most universal genius which the
world ever produced:—a Solon, a Plato, and a Lope de Vega.

_Myself_.—I have never read his writings.  I have no doubt that he was a
Solon; and as you say, a Plato.  I should scarcely have thought, however,
that he could be ranked as a poet with Lope de Vega.

_Alcalde_.—How surprising!  I see, indeed, that you know nothing of his
writings, though an Englishman.  Now, here am I, a simple _alcalde_ of
Galicia, yet I possess all the writings of Baintham on that shelf, and I
study them day and night.

_Myself_.—You doubtless, sir, possess the English language.

_Alcalde_.—I do.  I mean that part of it which is contained in the
writings of Baintham.  I am most truly glad to see a countryman of his in
these Gothic wildernesses.  I understand and appreciate your motives for
visiting them: excuse the incivility and rudeness which you have
experienced.  But we will endeavour to make you reparation.  You are this
moment free: but it is late; I must find you a lodging for the night.  I
know one close by which will just suit you.  Let us repair thither this
moment.  Stay, I think I see a book in your hand.

_Myself_.—The New Testament.

_Alcalde_.—What book is that?

_Myself_.—A portion of the sacred writings, the Bible.

_Alcalde_.—Why do you carry such a book with you?

_Myself_.—One of my principal motives in visiting Finisterre was to carry
this book to that wild place.

_Alcalde_.—Ha, ha! how very singular.  Yes, I remember.  I have heard
that the English highly prize this eccentric book.  How very singular
that the countrymen of the grand Baintham should set any value upon that
old monkish book!

It was now late at night, and my new friend attended me to the lodging
which he had destined for me, and which was at the house of a respectable
old female, where I found a clean and comfortable room.  On the way I
slipped a gratuity into the hand of Antonio, and on my arrival, formally,
and in the presence of the _alcalde_, presented him with the Testament,
which I requested he would carry back to Finisterre, and keep in
remembrance of the Englishman in whose behalf he had so effectually
interposed.

_Antonio_.—I will do so, your worship, and when the winds blow from the
north-west, preventing our launches from putting to sea, I will read your
present.  Farewell, my captain, and when you next come to Finisterre, I
hope it will be in a valiant English bark, with plenty of contraband on
board, and not across the country on a pony, in company with _nuveiros_
and men of Padron.

Presently arrived the handmaid of the _alcalde_ with a basket, which she
took into the kitchen, where she prepared an excellent supper for her
master’s friend.  On its being served up the _alcalde_ bade me farewell,
having first demanded whether he could in any way forward my plans.

“I return to Saint James to-morrow,” I replied, “and I sincerely hope
that some occasion will occur which will enable me to acquaint the world
with the hospitality which I have experienced from so accomplished a
scholar as the _Alcalde_ of Corcuvion.”




CHAPTER XXXI.


Corunna—Crossing the Bay—Ferrol—The Dock-yard—Where are we now?—Greek
Ambassador—Lantern-Light—The Ravine—Viveiro—Evening—Marsh and
Quagmire—Fair Words and Fair Money—The Leathern Girth—Eyes of Lynx—The
Knavish Guide.

From Corcuvion I returned to St. James and Corunna, and now began to make
preparation for directing my course to the Asturias.  In the first place
I parted with my Andalusian horse, which I considered unfit for the long
and mountainous journey I was about to undertake, his constitution having
become much debilitated from his Gallegan travels.  Owing to horses being
exceedingly scarce at Corunna, I had no difficulty in disposing of him at
a far higher price than he originally cost me.  A young and wealthy
merchant of Corunna, who was a national guardsman, became enamoured of
his glossy skin and long mane and tail.  For my own part, I was glad to
part with him for more reasons than one; he was both vicious and savage,
and was continually getting me into scrapes in the stables of the
_posadas_ where we slept or baited.  An old Castilian peasant, whose pony
he had maltreated, once said to me, “Sir Cavalier, if you have any love
or respect for yourself, get rid, I beseech you, of that beast, who is
capable of proving the ruin of a kingdom.”  So I left him behind at
Corunna, where I subsequently learned that he became glandered and died.
Peace to his memory!

From Corunna I crossed the bay to Ferrol, whilst Antonio with our
remaining horse followed by land, a rather toilsome and circuitous
journey, although the distance by water is scarcely three leagues.  I was
very sea-sick during the passage, and lay almost senseless at the bottom
of the small launch in which I had embarked, and which was crowded with
people.  The wind was adverse, and the water rough.  We could make no
sail, but were impelled along by the oars of five or six stout mariners,
who sang all the while Gallegan ditties.  Suddenly the sea appeared to
have become quite smooth, and my sickness at once deserted me.  I rose
upon my feet and looked around.  We were in one of the strangest places
imaginable.  A long and narrow passage overhung on either side by a
stupendous barrier of black and threatening rocks.  The line of the coast
was here divided by a natural cleft, yet so straight and regular that it
seemed not the work of chance but design.  The water was dark and sullen,
and of immense depth.  This passage, which is about a mile in length, is
the entrance to a broad basin, at whose farther extremity stands the town
of Ferrol.

Sadness came upon me as soon as I entered this place.  Grass was growing
in the streets, and misery and distress stared me in the face on every
side.  Ferrol is the grand naval arsenal of Spain, and has shared in the
ruin of the once splendid Spanish navy: it is no longer thronged with
those thousand shipwrights who prepared for sea the tremendous
three-deckers and long frigates, the greater part of which were destroyed
at Trafalgar.  Only a few ill-paid and half-starved workmen still linger
about, scarcely sufficient to repair any _guarda costa_ {43a} which may
put in dismantled by the fire of some English smuggling schooner from
Gibraltar.  Half the inhabitants of Ferrol {43b} beg their bread; and
amongst these, as it is said, are not unfrequently found retired naval
officers, many of them maimed or otherwise wounded, who are left to pine
in indigence: their pensions or salaries having been allowed to run three
or four years in arrear, owing to the exigencies of the times.  A crowd
of importunate beggars followed me to the _posada_, and even attempted to
penetrate to the apartment to which I was conducted.  “Who are you?” said
I to a woman who flung herself at my feet, and who bore in her
countenance evident marks of former gentility.  “A widow, sir,” she
replied, in very good French; “a widow of a brave officer, once admiral
of this port.”  The misery and degradation of modern Spain are nowhere so
strikingly manifested as at Ferrol.

Yet even here there is still much to admire.  Notwithstanding its present
state of desolation, it contains some good streets, and abounds with
handsome houses.  The _alameda_ is planted with nearly a thousand elms,
of which almost all are magnificent trees, and the poor Ferrolese, with
the genuine spirit of localism so prevalent in Spain, boast that their
town contains a better public walk than Madrid, of whose _prado_, when
they compare the two, they speak in terms of unmitigated contempt.  At
one end of this _alameda_ stands the church, the only one in Ferrol.  To
this church I repaired the day after my arrival, which was Sunday.  I
found it quite insufficient to contain the number of worshippers who,
chiefly from the country, not only crowded the interior, but, bareheaded,
were upon their knees before the door to a considerable distance down the
walk.

Parallel with the _alameda_ extends the wall of the naval arsenal and
dock.  I spent several hours in walking about these places, to visit
which it is necessary to procure a written permission from the
captain-general of Ferrol.  They filled me with astonishment.  I have
seen the royal dock-yards of Russia and England, but, for grandeur of
design and costliness of execution, they cannot for a moment compare with
these wonderful monuments of the bygone naval pomp of Spain.  I shall not
attempt to describe them, but content myself with observing that the
oblong basin, which is surrounded with a granite mole, is capacious
enough to permit a hundred first-rates to lie conveniently in ordinary:
but instead of such a force, I saw only a sixty-gun frigate and two brigs
lying in this basin; and to this inconsiderable number of vessels is the
present war marine of Spain reduced.

I waited for the arrival of Antonio two or three days at Ferrol, and
still he came not: late one evening, however, as I was looking down the
street, I perceived him advancing, leading our only horse by the bridle.
He informed me that, at about three leagues from Corunna, the heat of the
weather and the flies had so distressed the animal that it had fallen
down in a kind of fit, from which it had been only relieved by copious
bleeding, on which account he had been compelled to halt for a day upon
the road.  The horse was evidently in a very feeble state; and had a
strange rattling in its throat, which alarmed me at first.  I, however,
administered some remedies, and in a few days deemed him sufficiently
recovered to proceed.

We accordingly started from Ferrol, having first hired a pony for myself,
and a guide who was to attend us as far as Rivadeo, {45} twenty leagues
from Ferrol, and on the confines of the Asturias.  The day at first was
fine, but ere we reached Novales, a distance of three leagues, the sky
became overcast, and a mist descended, accompanied by a drizzling rain.
The country through which we passed was very picturesque.  At about two
in the afternoon we could descry through the mist the small fishing-town
of Santa Marta on our left, with its beautiful bay.  Travelling along the
summit of a line of hills, we presently entered a chestnut forest, which
appeared to be without limit: the rain still descended, and kept up a
ceaseless pattering among the broad green leaves.  “This is the
commencement of the autumnal rains,” said the guide.  “Many is the
wetting that you will get, my masters, before you reach Oviedo.”  “Have
you ever been as far as Oviedo?” I demanded.  “No,” he replied, “and once
only to Rivadeo, the place to which I am now conducting you, and I tell
you frankly that we shall soon be in wildernesses where the way is hard
to find, especially at night, and amidst rain and waters.  I wish I were
fairly back to Ferrol, for I like not this route, which is the worst in
Galicia, in more respects than one; but where my master’s pony goes,
there must I go too; such is the life of us guides.”  I shrugged my
shoulders at this intelligence, which was by no means cheering, but made
no answer.  At length, about nightfall, we emerged from the forest, and
presently descended into a deep valley at the foot of lofty hills.

“Where are we now?” I demanded of the guide, as we crossed a rude bridge
at the bottom of the valley, down which a rivulet swollen by the rain
foamed and roared.  “In the valley of Coisa Doiro,” {46} he replied; “and
it is my advice that we stay here for the night and do not venture among
those hills, through which lies the path to Viveiro; for as soon as we
get there, _adios_!  I shall be bewildered, which will prove the
destruction of us all.”  “Is there a village nigh?”  “Yes, the village is
right before us, and we shall be there in a moment.”  We soon reached the
village, which stood amongst some tall trees at the entrance of a pass
which led up amongst the hills.  Antonio dismounted, and entered two or
three of the cabins, but presently came to me, saying, “We cannot stay
here, _mon maître_, without being devoured by vermin; we had better be
amongst the hills than in this place.  There is neither fire nor light in
these cabins, and the rain is streaming through the roofs.”  The guide,
however, refused to proceed.  “I could scarcely find my way amongst those
hills by daylight,” he cried surlily, “much less at night, ’midst storm
and _bretima_.”  We procured some wine and maize bread from one of the
cottages.  Whilst we were partaking of these, Antonio said, “_Mon
maître_, the best thing we can do in our present situation is to hire
some fellow of this village to conduct us through the hills to Viveiro.
There are no beds in this place, and if we lie down in the litter in our
damp clothes we shall catch a tertian of Galicia. {47}  Our present guide
is of no service; we must therefore find another to do his duty.”
Without waiting for a reply, he flung down the crust of _broa_ which he
was munching and disappeared.  I subsequently learned that he went to the
cottage of the _alcalde_, and demanded, in the queen’s name, a guide for
the Greek ambassador, who was benighted on his way to the Asturias.  In
about ten minutes I again saw him, attended by the local functionary,
who, to my surprise, made me a profound bow, and stood bare-headed in the
rain.  “His excellency,” shouted Antonio, “is in need of a guide to
Viveiro.  People of our description are not compelled to pay for any
service which they may require; however, as his excellency has bowels of
compassion, he is willing to give three _pesetas_ to any competent person
who will accompany him to Viveiro, and as much bread and wine as he can
eat and drink on his arrival.”  “His excellency shall be served,” said
the alcalde; “however, as the way is long and the path is bad, and there
is much _bretima_ amongst the hills, it appears to me that, besides the
bread and wine, his excellency can do no less than offer four pesetas to
the guide who may be willing to accompany him to Viveiro; and I know no
one better than my own son-in-law, Juanito.”  “Content, _Señor Alcalde_,”
I replied; “produce the guide, and the extra _peseta_ shall be
forthcoming in due season.”

Soon appeared Juanito with a lantern in his hand.  We instantly set
forward.  The two guides began conversing in Gallegan.  “_Mon maître_,”
said Antonio, “this new scoundrel is asking the old one what he thinks we
have got in our portmanteaus.”  Then, without awaiting my answer, he
shouted, “Pistols, ye barbarians!  Pistols, as you shall learn to your
cost, if you do not cease speaking in that gibberish and converse in
Castilian.”  The Gallegans were silent, and presently the first guide
dropped behind, whilst the other with the lantern moved before.  “Keep in
the rear,” said Antonio to the former, “and at a distance: know one
thing, moreover, that I can see behind as well as before.  _Mon maître_,”
said he to me, “I don’t suppose these fellows will attempt to do us any
harm, more especially as they do not know each other; it is well,
however, to separate them, for this is a time and place which might tempt
any one to commit robbery and murder too.”

The rain still continued to fall uninterruptedly, the path was rugged and
precipitous, and the night was so dark that we could only see
indistinctly the hills which surrounded us.  Once or twice our guide
seemed to have lost his way: he stopped, muttered to himself, raised his
lantern on high, and would then walk slowly and hesitatingly forward.  In
this manner we proceeded for three or four hours, when I asked the guide
how far we were from Viveiro.  “I do not know exactly where we are, your
worship,” he replied, “though I believe we are in the route.  We can
scarcely, however, be less than two mad leagues from Viveiro.”  “Then we
shall not arrive there before morning,” interrupted Antonio, “for a mad
league of Galicia means at least two of Castile; and perhaps we are
doomed never to arrive there, if the way thither leads down this
precipice.”  As he spoke, the guide seemed to descend into the bowels of
the earth.  “Stop,” said I; “where are you going?”  “To Viveiro,
_Senhor_,” replied the fellow: “this is the way to Viveiro; there is no
other.  I now know where we are.”  The light of the lantern shone upon
the dark red features of the guide, who had turned round to reply, as he
stood some yards down the side of a dingle or ravine overgrown with thick
trees, beneath whose leafy branches a frightfully steep path descended.
I dismounted from the pony, and delivering the bridle to the other guide,
said, “Here is your master’s horse; if you please you may lead him down
that abyss, but as for myself I wash my hands of the matter.”  The
fellow, without a word of reply, vaulted into the saddle, and with a
_vamos_, _Perico_! {49} to the pony, impelled the creature to the
descent.  “Come, _Senhor_,” said he with the lantern, “there is no time
to be lost; my light will be presently extinguished, and this is the
worst bit in the whole road.”  I thought it very probable that he was
about to lead us to some den of cut-throats, where we might be
sacrificed; but, taking courage, I seized our own horse by the bridle,
and followed the fellow down the ravine amidst rocks and brambles.  The
descent lasted nearly ten minutes, and ere we had entirely accomplished
it, the light in the lantern went out, and we remained in nearly total
darkness.

Encouraged, however, by the guide, who assured us there was no danger, we
at length reached the bottom of the ravine; here we encountered a rill of
water, through which we were compelled to wade as high as the knee.  In
the midst of the water I looked up and caught a glimpse of the heavens
through the branches of the trees, which all around clothed the shelving
sides of the ravine, and completely embowered the channel of the stream:
to a place more strange and replete with gloom and horror no benighted
traveller ever found his way.  After a short pause we commenced scaling
the opposite bank, which we did not find so steep as the other, and a few
minutes’ exertion brought us to the top.

Shortly afterwards the rain abated, and the moon arising, cast a dim
light through the watery mists.  The way had become less precipitous, and
in about two hours we descended to the shore of an extensive creek, along
which we proceeded till we reached a spot where many boats and barges lay
with their keels upward upon the sand.  Presently we beheld before us the
walls of Viveiro, upon which the moon was shedding its sickly lustre.  We
entered by a lofty and seemingly ruinous archway, and the guide conducted
us at once to the _posada_.

Every person in Viveiro appeared to be buried in profound slumber; not so
much as a dog saluted us with his bark.  After much knocking we were
admitted into the _posada_, a large and dilapidated edifice.  We had
scarcely housed ourselves and horses when the rain began to fall with yet
more violence than before, attended with much thunder and lightning.
Antonio and I, exhausted with fatigue, betook ourselves to flock beds in
a ruinous chamber, into which the rain penetrated through many a cranny,
whilst the guides ate bread and drank wine till the morning.

When I arose I was gladdened by the sight of a fine day.  Antonio
forthwith prepared a savoury breakfast of stewed fowl, of which we stood
in much need after the ten-league journey of the preceding day over the
ways which I have attempted to describe.  I then walked out to view the
town, which consists of little more than one long street, on the side of
a steep mountain thickly clad with forest and fruit-trees.  At about ten
we continued our journey, accompanied by our first guide, the other
having returned to Coisa Doiro some hours previously.

Our route throughout this day was almost constantly within sight of the
shores of the Cantabrian sea, whose windings we followed.  The country
was barren, and in many parts covered with huge stones: cultivated spots,
however, were to be seen, where vines were growing.  We met with but few
human habitations.  We, however, journeyed on cheerfully, for the sun was
once more shining in full brightness, gilding the wild moors, and shining
upon the waters of the distant sea, which lay in unruffled calmness.

At evening fall we were in the neighbourhood of the shore, with a range
of wood-covered hills on our right.  Our guide led us towards a creek
bordered by a marsh, but he soon stopped, and declared that he did not
know whither he was conducting us.

“_Mon maître_,” said Antonio, “let us be our own guides; it is, as you
see, of no use to depend upon this fellow, whose whole science consists
in leading people into quagmires.”

We therefore turned aside, and proceeded along the marsh for a
considerable distance, till we reached a narrow path which led us into a
thick wood, where we soon became completely bewildered.  On a sudden,
after wandering about a considerable time, we heard the noise of water,
and presently the clack of a wheel.  Following the sound, we arrived at a
low stone mill, built over a brook; here we stopped and shouted, but no
answer was returned.  “The place is deserted,” said Antonio; “here,
however, is a path, which, if we follow it, will doubtless lead us to
some human habitation.  So we went along the path, which, in about ten
minutes, brought us to the door of a cabin, in which we saw lights.
Antonio dismounted and opened the door: “Is there any one here who can
conduct us to Rivadeo?” he demanded.

“_Senhor_,” answered a voice, “Rivadeo is more than five leagues from
here, and, moreover, there is a river to cross.”

“Then to the next village,” continued Antonio.

“I am a _vecino_ of the next village, which is on the way to Rivadeo,”
said another voice, “and I will lead you thither, if you will give me
fair words, and, what is better, fair money.”

A man now came forth, holding in his hand a large stick.  He strode
sturdily before us, and in less than half an hour led us out of the wood.
In another half-hour he brought us to a group of cabins situated near the
sea; he pointed to one of these, and having received a _peseta_, bade us
farewell.

The people of the cottage willingly consented to receive us for the
night; it was much more cleanly and commodious than the wretched huts of
the Gallegan peasantry in general.  The ground floor consisted of a
keeping room and stable, whilst above was a long loft, in which were some
neat and comfortable flock beds.  I observed several masts and sails of
boats.  The family consisted of two brothers, with their wives and
families.  One was a fisherman; but the other, who appeared to be the
principal person, informed me that he had resided for many years in
service at Madrid, and, having amassed a small sum, he had at length
returned to his native village, where he had purchased some land, which
he farmed.  All the family used the Castilian language in their common
discourse, and on inquiry I learned that the Gallegan was not much spoken
in that neighbourhood.  I have forgotten the name of this village, which
is situated on the estuary of the Foz, which rolls down from Mondonedo.
In the morning we crossed this estuary in a large boat, with our horses,
and about noon arrived at Rivadeo.

“Now, your worship,” said the guide, who had accompanied us from Ferrol,
“I have brought you as far as I bargained, and a hard journey it has
been: I therefore hope you will suffer Perico and myself to remain here
to-night at your expense, and to-morrow we will go back; at present we
are both sorely tired.”

“I never mounted a better pony than Perico,” said I, “and never met with
a worse guide than yourself.  You appear to be perfectly ignorant of the
country, and have done nothing but bring us into difficulties.  You may,
however, stay here for the night, as you say you are tired, and to-morrow
you may return to Ferrol, where I counsel you to adopt some other trade.”
This was said at the door of the _posada_ of Rivadeo.

“Shall I lead the horses to a stable?” said the fellow.

“As you please,” said I.

Antonio looked after him for a moment, as he was leading the animals
away, and then, shaking his head, followed slowly after.  In about a
quarter of an hour he returned, laden with the furniture of our own
horse, and with a smile upon his countenance.  “_Mon maître_,” said he,
“I have throughout the journey had a bad opinion of this fellow, and now
I have detected him: his motive in requesting permission to stay was a
desire to purloin something from us.  He was very officious in the stable
about our horse, and I now miss the new leathern girth which secured the
saddle, and which I observed him looking at frequently on the road.  He
has by this time doubtless hid it somewhere; we are quite secure of him,
however, for he has not yet received the hire for the pony, nor the
gratuity for himself.”

The guide returned just as he had concluded speaking.  Dishonesty is
always suspicious.  The fellow cast a glance upon us, and probably
beholding in our countenances something which he did not like, he
suddenly said, “Give me the horse-hire and my own _propina_, for Perico
and I wish to be off instantly.”

“How is this?” said I; “I thought you and Perico were both fatigued, and
wished to rest here for the night: you have soon recovered from your
weariness.”

“I have thought over the matter,” said the fellow, “and my master will be
angry if I loiter here: pay up, therefore, and let us go.”

“Certainly,” said I, “if you wish it.  Is the horse furniture all right?”

“Quite so,” said he; “I delivered it all to your servant.”

“It is all here,” said Antonio, “with the exception of the leathern
girth.”

“I have not got it,” said the guide.

“Of course not,” said I.  “Let us proceed to the stable; we shall perhaps
find it there.”

To the stable we went, which we searched through: no girth, however, was
forthcoming.  “He has got it buckled round his middle beneath his
pantaloons, _mon maître_,” said Antonio, whose eyes were moving about
like those of a lynx; “I saw the protuberance as he stooped down.
However, let us take no notice: he is here surrounded by his countrymen,
who, if we were to seize him, might perhaps take his part.  As I said
before, he is in our power, as we have not paid him.”

The fellow now began to talk in Gallegan to the bystanders (several
persons having collected), wishing the _Denho_ to take him if he knew
anything of the missing property.  Nobody, however, seemed inclined to
take his part; and those who listened only shrugged their shoulders.  We
returned to the portal of the _posada_, the fellow following us,
clamouring for the horse-hire and _propina_.  We made him no answer, and
at length he went away, threatening to apply to the _justicia_; in about
ten minutes, however, he came running back with the girth in his hand.
“I have just found it,” said he, “in the street: your servant dropped
it.”

I took the leather and proceeded very deliberately to count out the sum
to which the horse-hire amounted, and having delivered it to him in the
presence of witnesses, I said, “During the whole journey you have been of
no service to us whatever; nevertheless, you have fared like ourselves,
and have had all you could desire to eat and drink.  I intended, on your
leaving us, to present you, moreover, with a _propina_ of two dollars;
but since, notwithstanding our kind treatment, you endeavoured to pillage
us, I will not give you a _cuarto_: go, therefore, about your business.”

All the audience expressed their satisfaction at this sentence, and told
him that he had been rightly-served, and that he was a disgrace to
Galicia.  Two or three women crossed themselves, and asked him if he was
not afraid that the _Denho_, whom he had invoked, would take him away.
At last, a respectable-looking man said to him, “Are you not ashamed to
have attempted to rob two innocent strangers?”

“Strangers!” roared the fellow, who was by this time foaming with rage,
“innocent strangers, _carracho_! they know more of Spain and Galicia,
too, than the whole of us.  Oh, _Denho_, that servant is no man, but a
wizard, a _nuveiro_.—Where is Perico?”

He mounted Perico, and proceeded forthwith to another _posada_.  The
tale, however, of his dishonesty had gone before him, and no person would
house him; whereupon he returned on his steps, and seeing me looking out
of the window of the house, he gave a savage shout, and shaking his fist
at me, galloped out of the town, the people pursuing him with hootings
and revilings.




CHAPTER XXXII.


Martin of Rivadeo—The Factious Mare—Asturians—Luarca—The Seven
Bellotas—Hermits—The Asturian’s Tale—Strange Guests—The Big
Servant—Batuschca.

“What may your business be?” said I to a short, thick, merry-faced fellow
in a velveteen jerkin and canvas pantaloons, who made his way into my
apartment in the dusk of the evening.

“I am Martin of Rivadeo, your worship,” replied the man, “an _alquilador_
by profession.  I am told that you want a horse for your journey into the
Asturias to-morrow, and of course a guide: now, if that be the case, I
counsel you to hire myself and mare.”

“I am become tired of guides,” I replied; “so much so that I was thinking
of purchasing a pony, and proceeding without any guide at all.  The last
which we had was an infamous character.”

“So I have been told, your worship, and it was well for the _bribon_ that
I was not in Rivadeo when the affair to which you allude occurred.  But
he was gone with the pony Perico before I came back, or I would have bled
the fellow to a certainty with my knife.  He is a disgrace to the
profession, which is one of the most honourable and ancient in the world.
Perico himself must have been ashamed of him, for Perico, though a pony,
is a gentleman, one of many capacities, and well known upon the roads.
He is only inferior to my mare.”

“Are you well acquainted with the road to Oviedo?” I demanded.

“I am not, your worship; that is, no farther than Luarca, {58a} which is
the first day’s journey.  I do not wish to deceive you, therefore let me
go with you no farther than that place; though perhaps I might serve for
the whole journey, for though I am unacquainted with the country, I have
a tongue in my head, and nimble feet to run and ask questions.  I will,
however, answer for myself no farther than Luarca, where you can please
yourselves.  Your being strangers is what makes me wish to accompany you,
for I like the conversation of strangers, from whom I am sure to gain
information both entertaining and profitable.  I wish, moreover, to
convince you that we guides of Galicia are not all thieves, which I am
sure you will not suppose if you only permit me to accompany you as far
as Luarca.”

I was so much struck with the fellow’s good humour and frankness, and
more especially by the originality of character displayed in almost every
sentence which he uttered, that I readily engaged him to guide us to
Luarca; whereupon he left me, promising to be ready with his mare at
eight next morning.

Rivadeo is one of the principal seaports of Galicia, and is admirably
situated for commerce, on a deep firth, into which the river Mirando
{58b} debouches.  It contains many magnificent buildings, and an
extensive square or _plaza_, which is planted with trees.  I observed
several vessels in the harbour; and the population, which is rather
numerous, exhibited none of those marks of misery and dejection which I
had lately observed among the Ferrolese.

On the morrow Martin of Rivadeo made his appearance at the appointed hour
with his mare.  It was a lean haggard animal, not much larger than a
pony; it had good points, however, and was very clean in its hinder legs,
and Martin insisted that it was the best animal of its kind in all Spain.
“It is a factious mare,” said he, “and I believe an Alavese.  When the
Carlists came here it fell lame, and they left it behind, and I purchased
it for a dollar.  It is not lame now, however, as you shall soon see.”

We had now reached the firth which divides Galicia from the Asturias.  A
kind of barge was lying about two yards from the side of the quay,
waiting to take us over.  Towards this Martin led his mare, and giving an
encouraging shout, the creature without any hesitation sprang over the
intervening space into the barge.  “I told you she was a _facciosa_,”
said Martin; “none but a factious animal would have taken such a leap.”

We all embarked in the barge and crossed over the firth, which is in this
place nearly a mile broad, to Castro Pol, {59} the first town in the
Asturias.  I now mounted the factious mare, whilst Antonio followed on my
own horse.  Martin led the way, exchanging jests with every person whom
he met on the road, and occasionally enlivening the way with an
extemporaneous song.

We were now in the Asturias, and about noon we reached Navias, a small
fishing-town, situate on a _ria_ or firth: in the neighbourhood are
ragged mountains called the Sierra de Buron, which stand in the shape of
a semicircle.  We saw a small vessel in the harbour, which we
subsequently learned was from the Basque provinces, come for a cargo of
cider or _sagadua_, the beverage so dearly loved by the Basques.  As we
passed along the narrow street, Antonio was hailed with an “_Ola_!” from
a species of shop in which three men, apparently shoemakers, were seated.
He stopped for some time to converse with them, and when he joined us at
the _posada_ where we halted, I asked him who they were: “_Mon maître_,”
said he, “_ce sont des messieurs de ma connoissance_.  I have been
fellow-servant at different times with all three; and I tell you
beforehand, that we shall scarcely pass through a village in this country
where I shall not find an acquaintance.  All the Asturians, at some
period of their lives, make a journey to Madrid, where, if they can
obtain a situation, they remain until they have scraped up sufficient to
turn to advantage in their own country; and as I have served in all the
great houses in Madrid, I am acquainted with the greatest part of them.
I have nothing to say against the Asturians, save that they are close and
penurious whilst at service; but they are not thieves, neither at home
nor abroad, and though we must have our wits about us in their country, I
have heard we may travel from one end of it to the other without the
slightest fear of being either robbed or ill-treated, which is not the
case in Galicia, where we were always in danger of having our throats
cut.”

Leaving Navias, we proceeded through a wild desolate country, till we
reached the pass of Baralla, which lies up the side of a huge wall of
rocks, which at a distance appear of a light green colour, though
perfectly bare of herbage or plants of any description.

“This pass,” said Martin of Rivadeo, “bears a very evil reputation, and I
should not like to travel it after sunset.  It is not infested by
robbers, but by things much worse, the _duendes_ of two friars of Saint
Francis.  It is said that in the old time, long before the convents were
suppressed, two friars of the order of Saint Francis left their convent
to beg.  It chanced that they were very successful, but as they were
returning at nightfall by this pass, they had a quarrel about what they
had collected, each insisting that he had done his duty better than the
other; at last, from high words they fell to abuse, and from abuse to
blows.  What do you think these demons of friars did?  They took off
their cloaks, and at the end of each they made a knot, in which they
placed a large stone, and with these they thrashed and belaboured each
other till both fell dead.  Master, I know not which are the worst
plagues, friars, curates, or sparrows:

    ‘May the Lord God preserve us from evil birds three:
    From all friars and curates and sparrows that be;
    For the sparrows eat up all the corn that we sow,
    The friars drink down all the wine that we grow,
    Whilst the curates have all the fair dames at their nod:
    From these three evil curses preserve us, Lord God.’”

In about two hours from this time we reached Luarca, the situation of
which is most singular.  It stands in a deep hollow, whose sides are so
precipitous that it is impossible to descry the town until you stand just
above it.  At the northern extremity of this hollow is a small harbour,
the sea entering by a narrow cleft.  We found a large and comfortable
_posada_, and by the advice of Martin, made inquiry for a fresh guide and
horse; we were informed, however, that all the horses of the place were
absent, and that if we waited for their return, we must tarry for two
days.  “I had a presentiment,” said Martin, “when we entered Luarca, that
we were not doomed to part at present.  You must now hire my mare and me
as far as Gijon, {62a} from whence there is a conveyance to Oviedo.  To
tell you the truth, I am by no means sorry that the guides are absent,
for I am pleased with your company, as I make no doubt you are with mine.
I will now go and write a letter to my wife at Rivadeo, informing her
that she must not expect to see me back for several days.”  He then went
out of the room, singing the following stanza:—

    “A handless man a letter did write,
    A dumb dictated it word for word:
    The person who read it had lost his sight,
    And deaf was he who listened and heard.” {62b}

Early the next morning we emerged from the hollow of Luarca; about an
hour’s riding brought us to Caneiro, a deep and romantic valley of rocks,
shaded by tall chestnut trees.  Through the midst of this valley rushes a
rapid stream, which we crossed in a boat.  “There is not such a stream
for trout in all the Asturias,” said the ferryman.  “Look down into the
waters and observe the large stones over which it flows; now in the
proper season, and in fine weather, you cannot see those stones for the
multitudes of fish which cover them.”

Leaving the valley behind us, we entered into a wild and dreary country,
stony and mountainous.  The day was dull and gloomy, and all around
looked sad and melancholy.  “Are we in the way for Gijon and Oviedo?”
demanded Martin of an ancient female, who stood at the door of a cottage.

“For Gijon and Oviedo!” replied the crone; “many is the weary step you
will have to make before you reach Gijon and Oviedo.  You must first of
all crack the _bellotas_: you are just below them.”

“What does she mean by cracking the _bellotas_?” demanded I of Martin of
Rivadeo.

“Did your worship never hear of the seven _bellotas_?” replied our guide.
“I can scarcely tell you what they are, as I have never seen them; I
believe they are seven hills which we have to cross, and are called
_bellotas_ from some resemblance to acorns which it is fancied they bear.
I have often heard of these acorns, and am not sorry that I have now an
opportunity of seeing them, though it is said that they are rather hard
things for horses to digest.”

The Asturian mountains in this part rise to a considerable altitude.
They consist for the most part of dark granite, covered here and there
with a thin layer of earth.  They approach very near to the sea, to which
they <DW72> down in broken ridges, between which are deep and precipitous
defiles, each with its rivulet, the tribute of the hills to the salt
flood.  The road traverses these defiles.  There are seven of them, which
are called, in the language of the country, _Las siete bellotas_.  Of all
these the most terrible is the midmost, down which rolls an impetuous
torrent.  At the upper end of it rises a precipitous wall of rock, black
as soot, to the height of several hundred yards; its top, as we passed,
was enveloped with a veil of _bretima_.  From this gorge branch off, on
either side, small dingles or glens, some of them so overgrown with trees
and copsewood, that the eye is unable to penetrate the obscurity beyond a
few yards.

“Fine places would some of these dingles prove for hermitages,” said I to
Martin of Rivadeo.  “Holy men might lead a happy life there on roots and
water, and pass many years absorbed in heavenly contemplation without
ever being disturbed by the noise and turmoil of the world.”

“True, your worship,” replied Martin; “and perhaps on that very account
there are no hermitages in the _barrancos_ of the seven _bellotas_.  Our
hermits had little inclination for roots and water, and had no kind of
objection to be occasionally disturbed in their meditations.  _Vaya_!  I
never yet saw a hermitage that was not hard by some rich town or village,
or was not a regular resort for all the idle people in the neighbourhood.
Hermits are not fond of living in dingles, amongst wolves and foxes; for
how in that case could they dispose of their poultry?  A hermit of my
acquaintance left, when he died, a fortune of seven hundred dollars to
his niece, the greatest part of which he scraped up by fattening
turkeys.”

At the top of this _bellota_ we found a wretched _venta_, where we
refreshed ourselves, and then continued our journey.  Late in the
afternoon we cleared the last of these difficult passes.  The wind began
now to rise, bearing on its wings a drizzling rain.  We passed by Soto
Luino, and shaping our course through a wild but picturesque country, we
found ourselves about nightfall at the foot of a steep hill, up which led
a narrow bridle-way, amidst a grove of lofty trees.  Long before we had
reached the top it had become quite dark, and the rain had increased
considerably.  We stumbled along in the obscurity, leading our horses,
which were occasionally down on their knees, owing to the slipperiness of
the path.  At last we accomplished the ascent in safety, and pushing
briskly forward, we found ourselves in about half an hour at the entrance
of Muros, a large village situated just on the declivity of the farther
side of the hill.

A blazing fire in the _posada_ soon dried our wet garments, and in some
degree recompensed us for the fatigues which we had undergone in
scrambling up the _bellotas_.  A rather singular place was this same
_posada_ of Muros.  It was a large rambling house, with a spacious
kitchen, or common room, on the ground floor.  Above stairs was a large
dining apartment, with an immense oak table, and furnished with cumbrous
leathern chairs with high backs, apparently three centuries old at least.
Communicating with this apartment was a wooden gallery, open to the air,
which led to a small chamber, in which I was destined to sleep, and which
contained an old-fashioned tester-bed with curtains.  It was just one of
those inns which romance writers are so fond of introducing in their
descriptions, especially when the scene of adventure lies in Spain.  The
host was a talkative Asturian.

The wind still howled, and the rain descended in torrents.  I sat before
the fire in a very drowsy state, from which I was presently aroused by
the conversation of the host.  “_Señor_,” said he, “it is now three years
since I beheld foreigners in my house.  I remember it was about this time
of the year, and just such a night as this, that two men on horseback
arrived here.  What was singular, they came without any guide.  Two more
strange-looking individuals I never yet beheld with eye-sight.  I shall
never forget them.  The one was as tall as a giant, with much tawny
moustache, like the coat of a badger, growing about his mouth.  He had a
huge ruddy face, and looked dull and stupid, as he no doubt was, for when
I spoke to him he did not seem to understand, and answered in a jabber,
_valgame Dios_! {66} so wild and strange, that I remained staring at him
with mouth and eyes open.  The other was neither tall nor red-faced, nor
had he hair about his mouth, and indeed he had very little upon his head.
He was very diminutive, and looked like a _jorobado_; but, _valgame
Dios_! such eyes, like wild cats’, so sharp and full of malice.  He spoke
as good Spanish as I myself do, and yet he was no Spaniard.  Spaniard
never looked like that man.  He was dressed in a _zamarra_, with much
silver and embroidery, and wore an Andalusian hat, and I soon found that
he was master, and that the other was servant.

“_Valgame Dios_! what an evil disposition had that same foreign
_jorobado_! and yet he had much grace, much humour, and said occasionally
to me such comical things, that I was fit to die of laughter.  So he sat
down to supper in the room above, and I may as well tell you here, that
he slept in the same chamber where your worship will sleep to-night, and
his servant waited behind his chair.  Well, I had curiosity, so I sat
myself down at the table too, without asking leave.  Why should I?  I was
in my own house, and an Asturian is fit company for a king, and is often
of better blood.  Oh, what a strange supper was that.  If the servant
made the slightest mistake in helping him, up would start the _jorobado_,
jump upon his chair, and seizing the big giant by the hair, would cuff
him on both sides of his face till I was afraid his teeth would have
fallen out.  The giant, however, did not seem to care about it much.  He
was used to it, I suppose.  _Valgame Dios_! if he had been a Spaniard he
would not have submitted to it so patiently.  But what surprised me most
was, that after beating his servant the master would sit down, and the
next moment would begin conversing and laughing with him as if nothing
had happened, and the giant also would laugh and converse with his
master, for all the world as if he had not been beaten.

“You may well suppose, _Señor_, that I understood nothing of their
discourse, for it was all in that strange unchristian tongue in which the
giant answered me when I spoke to him; the sound of it is still ringing
in my ears.  It was nothing like other languages.  Not like Bascuen, {67}
not like the language in which your worship speaks to my namesake
_Signor_ Antonio here.  _Valgame Dios_!  I can compare it to nothing but
the sound a person makes when he rinses his mouth with water.  There is
one word which I think I still remember, for it was continually
proceeding from the giant’s lips, but his master never used it.

“But the strangest part of the story is yet to be told.  The supper was
ended, and the night was rather advanced; the rain still beat against the
windows, even as it does at this moment.  Suddenly the _jorobado_ pulled
out his watch.  _Valgame Dios_! such a watch!  I will tell you one thing,
_Señor_, that I could purchase all the Asturias, and Muros besides, with
the brilliants which shone about the sides of that same watch; the room
wanted no lamp, I trow, so great was the splendour which they cast.  So
the _jorobado_ looked at his watch, and then said to me, ‘I shall go to
rest.’  He then took the lamp, and went through the gallery to his room,
followed by his big servant.  Well, _Señor_, I cleared away the things,
and then waited below for the servant, for whom I had prepared a
comfortable bed, close by my own.  _Señor_, I waited patiently for an
hour, till at last my patience was exhausted, and I ascended to the
supper apartment, and passed through the gallery till I came to the door
of the strange guest.  _Señor_, what do you think I saw at the door?”

“How should I know?” I replied.  “His riding-boots, perhaps.”

“No, _Señor_, I did not see his riding-boots; but, stretched on the floor
with his head against the door, so that it was impossible to open it
without disturbing him, lay the big servant fast asleep, his immense legs
reaching nearly the whole length of the gallery.  I crossed myself, as
well I might, for the wind was howling even as it is now, and the rain
was rushing down into the gallery in torrents; yet there lay the big
servant fast asleep, without any covering, without any pillow, not even a
log, stretched out before his master’s door.

“_Señor_, I got little rest that night, for I said to myself, I have evil
wizards in my house, folks who are not human.  Once or twice I went up
and peeped into the gallery, but there still lay the big servant fast
asleep; so I crossed myself, and returned to my bed again.”

“Well,” said I, “and what occurred next day?”

“Nothing particular occurred next day: the _jorobado_ came down and said
comical things to me in good Spanish; and the big servant came down, but
whatever he said, and he did not say much, I understood not, for it was
in that disastrous jabber.  They stayed with me throughout the day till
after supper-time, and then the _jorobado_ gave me a gold ounce, and
mounting their horses, they both departed as strangely as they had come,
in the dark night, I know not whither.”

“Is that all?” I demanded.

“No, _Señor_, it is not all; for I was right in supposing them evil
_brujos_: the very next day an express arrived, and a great search was
made after them, and I was arrested for having harboured them.  This
occurred just after the present wars had commenced.  It was said they
were spies and emissaries of I don’t know what nation, and that they had
been in all parts of the Asturias, holding conferences with some of the
disaffected.  They escaped, however, and were never heard of more, though
the animals which they rode were found without their riders, wandering
amongst the hills; they were common ponies, and were of no value.  As for
the _brujos_, it is believed that they embarked in some small vessel
which was lying concealed in one of the _rias_ of the coast.”

_Myself_.—What was the word which you continually heard proceeding from
the lips of the big servant, and which you think you can remember?

_Host_.—_Señor_, it is now three years since I heard it, and at times I
can remember it, and at others not; sometimes I have started up in my
sleep repeating it.  Stay, _Señor_, I have it now at the point of my
tongue: it was _Patusca_.

_Myself_.—_Batuschca_, you mean; the men were Russians.




CHAPTER XXXIII.


Oviedo—The Ten Gentlemen—The Swiss again—Modest Request—The
Robbers—Episcopal Benevolence—The Cathedral—Portrait of Feijoo.

I must now take a considerable stride in my journey, no less than from
Muros to Oviedo, contenting myself with observing, that we proceeded from
Muros to Velez, {70} and from thence to Gijon, where our guide Martin
bade us farewell, and returned with his mare to Rivadeo.  The honest
fellow did not part without many expressions of regret; indeed he even
expressed a desire that I should take him and his mare into my service.
“For,” said he, “I have a great desire to run through all Spain, and even
the world: and I am sure I shall never have a better opportunity than by
attaching myself to your worship’s skirts.”  On my reminding him,
however, of his wife and family, for he had both, he said, “True, true, I
had forgotten them: happy the guide whose only wife and family are a mare
and foal.”

Oviedo is about three leagues from Gijon.  Antonio rode the horse, whilst
I proceeded thither in a kind of diligence which runs daily between the
two towns.  The road is good, but mountainous.  I arrived safely at the
capital of the Asturias, although at a rather unpropitious season, for
the din of war was at the gate, and there was the cry of the captains and
the shouting. {71}  Castile, at the time of which I am writing, was in
the hands of the Carlists, who had captured and plundered Valladolid in
much the same manner as they had Segovia some time before.  They were
every day expected to march on Oviedo, in which case they might perhaps
have experienced some resistance, a considerable body of troops being
stationed there, who had erected some redoubts, and strongly fortified
several of the convents, especially that of Santa Clara de la Vega.  All
minds were in a state of feverish anxiety and suspense, more especially
as no intelligence arrived from Madrid, which by the last accounts was
said to be occupied by the bands of Cabrera and Palillos.

So it came to pass that one night I found myself in the ancient town of
Oviedo, in a very large, scantily furnished, and remote room in an
ancient _posada_, formerly a palace of the counts of Santa Cruz.  It was
past ten, and the rain was descending in torrents.  I was writing, but
suddenly ceased on hearing numerous footsteps ascending the creaking
stairs which led to my apartment.  The door was flung open, and in walked
nine men of tall stature, marshalled by a little hunchbacked personage.
They were all muffled in the long cloaks of Spain, but I instantly knew
by their demeanour that they were _caballeros_, or gentlemen.  They
placed themselves in a rank before the table where I was sitting.
Suddenly and simultaneously they all flung back their cloaks, and I
perceived that every one bore a book in his hand; a book which I knew
full well.  After a pause, which I was unable to break, for I sat lost in
astonishment, and almost conceived myself to be visited by apparitions,
the hunchback, advancing somewhat before the rest, said in soft silvery
tones, “_Señor_ Cavalier, was it you who brought this book to the
Asturias?”  I now supposed that they were the civil authorities of the
place come to take me into custody, and, rising from my seat, I
exclaimed, “It certainly was I, and it is my glory to have done so.  The
book is the New Testament of God: I wish it was in my power to bring a
million.”  “I heartily wish so too,” said the little personage with a
sigh.  “Be under no apprehension, Sir Cavalier; these gentlemen are my
friends.  We have just purchased these books in the shop where you placed
them for sale, and have taken the liberty of calling upon you, in order
to return you our thanks for the treasure you have brought us.  I hope
you can furnish us with the Old Testament also.”  I replied, that I was
sorry to inform him that at present it was entirely out of my power to
comply with his wish, as I had no Old Testaments in my possession, but
did not despair of procuring some speedily from England.  He then asked
me a great many questions concerning my biblical travels in Spain, and my
success, and the views entertained by the Society with respect to Spain,
adding, that he hoped we should pay particular attention to the Asturias,
which he assured me was the best ground in the Peninsula for our labour.
After about half an hour’s conversation, he suddenly said, in the English
language, “Good night, sir,” wrapped his cloak around him, and walked out
as he had come.  His companions, who had hitherto not uttered a word, all
repeated, “Good night, sir,” and, adjusting their cloaks, followed him.

In order to explain this strange scene, I must state, that in the morning
I had visited the petty bookseller of the place, Longoria, and having
arranged preliminaries with him, I sent him in the evening a package of
forty Testaments, all I possessed, with some advertisements.  At the time
he assured me that, though he was willing to undertake the sale, there
was, nevertheless, not a prospect of success, as a whole month had
elapsed since he had sold a book of any description, on account of the
uncertainty of the times, and the poverty which pervaded the land; I
therefore felt much dispirited.  This incident, however, admonished me
not to be cast down when things look gloomiest, as the hand of the Lord
is generally then most busy: that men may learn to perceive, that
whatever good is accomplished is not their work, but His.

Two or three days after this adventure, I was once more seated in my
large scantily-furnished room; it was about ten, of a dark melancholy
morning, and the autumnal rain was again falling.  I had just
breakfasted, and was about to sit down to my journal, when the door was
flung open and in bounded Antonio.

“_Mon maître_,” said he, quite breathless, “who do you think has
arrived?”

“The Pretender, I suppose,” said I, in some trepidation; “if so, we are
prisoners.”

“Bah, bah!” said Antonio, “it is not the Pretender, but one worth twenty
of him; it is the Swiss of Saint James.”

“Benedict Mol, the Swiss!” said I.  “What! has he found the treasure?
But how did he come?  How is he dressed?”

“_Mon maître_,” said Antonio, “he came on foot, if we may judge by his
shoes, through which his toes are sticking; and as for his dress, he is
in most villanous apparel.”

“There must be some mystery in this,” said I.  “Where is he at present?”

“Below, _mon maître_,” replied Antonio; “he came in quest of us.  But I
no sooner saw him, than I hurried away to let you know.”

In a few minutes Benedict Mol found his way upstairs.  He was, as Antonio
had remarked, in most villanous apparel, and nearly barefooted; his old
Andalusian hat was dripping with rain.

“_Och_, _lieber Herr_,” said Benedict, “how rejoiced I am to see you
again!  Oh, the sight of your countenance almost repays me for all the
miseries I have undergone since I parted with you at Saint James.”

_Myself_.—I can scarcely believe that I really see you here at Oviedo.
What motive can have induced you to come to such an out-of-the-way place
from such an immense distance?

_Benedict_.—_Lieber Herr_, I will sit down and tell you all that has
befallen me.  Some few days after I saw you last, the _canonigo_
persuaded me to go to the captain-general to apply for permission to
disinter the _Schatz_, and also to crave assistance.  So I saw the
captain-general, who at first received me very kindly, asked me several
questions, and told me to come again.  So I continued visiting him till
he would see me no longer, and, do what I might, I could not obtain a
glance of him.  The canon now became impatient, more especially as he had
given me a few _pesetas_ out of the charities of the church.  He
frequently called me a _bribon_ and impostor.  At last, one morning I
went to him, and said that I proposed to return to Madrid, in order to
lay the matter before the government, and requested that he would give me
a certificate to the effect that I had performed a pilgrimage to Saint
James, which I imagined would be of assistance to me upon the way, as it
would enable me to beg with some colour of authority.  He no sooner heard
this request, than, without saying a word or allowing me a moment to put
myself on my defence, he sprang upon me like a tiger, clasping my throat
so hard that I thought he would have strangled me.  I am a Swiss,
however, and a man of Lucerne, and when I had recovered myself a little,
I had no difficulty in flinging him off; I then threatened him with my
staff and went away.  He followed me to the gate with the most horrid
curses, saying, that if I presumed to return again, he would have me
thrown at once into prison as a thief and a heretic.  So I went in quest
of yourself, _lieber Herr_, but they told me that you were departed for
Corunna; I then set out for Corunna after you.

_Myself_.—And what befell you on the road?

_Benedict_.—I will tell you: about half-way between Saint James and
Corunna, as I was walking along, thinking of the _Schatz_, I heard a loud
galloping, and looking around me I saw two men on horseback coming across
the field with the swiftness of the wind, and making directly for me.
“_Lieber Gott_,” said I, “these are thieves, these are factious;” and so
they were.  They came up to me in a moment and bade me stand; so I flung
down my staff, took off my hat, and saluted them.  “Good day,
_caballeros_,” said I to them.  “Good day, countryman,” said they to me,
and then we stood staring at each other for more than a minute.  _Lieber
Himmel_, {75} I never saw such robbers; so finely dressed, so well armed,
and mounted so bravely on two fiery little _hakkas_, {76} that looked as
if they could have taken wing and flown up into the clouds!  So we
continued staring at each other, till at last one asked me who I was,
whence I came, and where I was going.  “Gentlemen,” said I, “I am a
Swiss; I have been to Saint James to perform a religious vow, and am now
returning to my own country.”  I said not a word about the treasure, for
I was afraid that they would have shot me at once, conceiving that I
carried part of it about me.  “Have you any money?” they demanded.
“Gentlemen,” I replied, “you see how I travel on foot, with my shoes torn
to pieces; I should not do so if I had money.  I will not deceive you,
however; I have a _peseta_ and a few _cuartos_;” and thereupon I took out
what I had and offered it to them.  “Fellow,” said they, “we are
_caballeros_ of Galicia, and do not take _pesetas_, much less _cuartos_.
Of what opinion are you?  Are you for the queen?”  “No, gentlemen,” said
I, “I am not for the queen; but, at the same time, allow me to tell you
that I am not for the king either.  I know nothing about the matter; I am
a Swiss, and fight neither for nor against anybody unless I am paid.”
This made them laugh, and then they questioned me about Saint James, and
the troops there, and the captain-general; and not to disoblige them, I
told them all I knew, and much more.  Then one of them, who looked the
fiercest and most determined, took his trombone in his hand, and pointing
it at me, said, “Had you been a Spaniard, we should have blown your head
to shivers, for we should have thought you a spy; but we see you are a
foreigner, and believe what you have said.  Take, therefore, this
_peseta_ and go your way; but beware that you tell nobody anything about
us, for if you do, _carracho_!”  He then discharged his trombone just
over my head, so that for a moment I thought myself shot; and then with
an awful shout, they both galloped away, their horses leaping over the
_barrancos_, as if possessed with many devils.

_Myself_.—And what happened to you on your arrival at Corunna?

_Benedict_.—When I arrived at Corunna, I inquired after yourself, _lieber
Herr_, and they informed me that, only the day before my arrival, you had
departed for Oviedo: and when I heard that, my heart died within me, for
I was now at the far end of Galicia, without a friend to help me.  For a
day or two I knew not what to do; at last I determined to make for the
frontier of France, passing through Oviedo in the way, where I hoped to
see you, and ask counsel of you.  So I begged and bettled among the
Germans of Corunna.  I, however, got very little from them, only a few
_cuarts_, less than the thieves had given me on the road from Saint
James, and with these I departed for the Asturias by the way of
Mondonedo.  _Och_, what a town is that, full of canons, priests, and
_pfaffen_, all of them more Carlist than Carlos himself.

One day I went to the bishop’s palace and spoke to him, telling him I was
a pilgrim from Saint James, and requesting assistance.  He told me,
however, that he could not relieve me, and as for my being a pilgrim from
Saint James, he was glad of it, and hoped that it would be of service to
my soul.  So I left Mondonedo, and got amongst the wild mountains,
begging and bettling at the door of every _choza_ that I passed; telling
all I saw that I was a pilgrim from Saint James, and showing my passport
in proof that I had been there.  _Lieber Herr_, no person gave me a
_cuart_, nor even a piece of _broa_, and both Gallegans and Asturians
laughed at Saint James, and told me that his name was no longer a
passport in Spain.  I should have starved if I had not sometimes plucked
an ear or two out of the maize fields; I likewise gathered grapes from
the _parras_ and berries from the brambles, and in this manner I
subsisted till I arrived at the _bellotas_, where I slaughtered a stray
kid which I met, and devoured part of the flesh raw, so great was my
hunger.  It made me, however, very ill; and for two days I lay in a
_barranco_ half dead and unable to help myself; it was a mercy that I was
not devoured by the wolves.  I then struck across the country for Oviedo:
how I reached it I do not know; I was like one walking in a dream.  Last
night I slept in an empty hog-sty about two leagues from here, and ere I
left it, I fell down on my knees and prayed to God that I might find you,
_lieber Herr_, for you were my last hope.

_Myself_.—And what do you propose to do at present?

_Benedict_.—What can I say, _lieber Herr_?  I know not what to do.  I
will be guided in everything by your counsel.

_Myself_.—I shall remain at Oviedo a few days longer, during which time
you can lodge at this _posada_, and endeavour to recover from the fatigue
of your disastrous journeys; perhaps before I depart, we may hit on some
plan to extricate you from your present difficulties.

Oviedo contains about fifteen thousand inhabitants.  It is picturesquely
situated between two mountains, Morcin and Naranco; the former is very
high and rugged, and during the greater part of the year is covered with
snow; the sides of the latter are cultivated and planted with vines.  The
principal ornament of the town is the cathedral, {79a} the tower of which
is exceedingly lofty, and is perhaps one of the purest specimens of
Gothic architecture at present in existence.  The interior of the
cathedral is neat and appropriate, but simple and unadorned.  I observed
but one picture, the Conversion of Saint Paul.  One of the chapels is a
cemetery, in which rest the bones of eleven Gothic kings; to whose souls
be peace.

I bore a letter of recommendation from Corunna to a merchant of Oviedo.
This person received me very courteously, and generally devoted some
portion of every day to showing me the remarkable things of Oviedo.

One morning he thus addressed me: “You have doubtless heard of Feijoo,
{79b} the celebrated philosophic monk of the order of Saint Benedict,
whose writings have so much tended to remove the popular fallacies and
superstitions so long cherished in Spain; he is buried in one of our
convents, where he passed a considerable portion of his life.  Come with
me and I will show you his portrait.  Carlos Tercero, {80} our great
king, sent his own painter from Madrid to execute it.  It is now in the
possession of a friend of mine, Don Ramon Valdez, an advocate.”

Thereupon he led me to the house of Don Ramon Valdez, who very politely
exhibited the portrait of Feijoo.  It was circular in shape, about a foot
in diameter, and was surrounded by a little brass frame, something like
the rim of a barber’s basin.  The countenance was large and massive, but
fine, the eyebrows knit, the eyes sharp and penetrating, nose aquiline.
On the head was a silken skull-cap; the collar of the coat or vest was
just perceptible.  The painting was decidedly good, and struck me as
being one of the very best specimens of modern Spanish art which I had
hitherto seen.

A day or two after this I said to Benedict Mol, “To-morrow I start from
hence for Santander.  It is therefore high time that you decide upon some
course, whether to return to Madrid or to make the best of your way to
France, and from thence proceed to your own country.”

“_Lieber Herr_,” said Benedict, “I will follow you to Santander by short
journeys, for I am unable to make long ones amongst these hills; and when
I am there, peradventure I may find some means of passing into France.
It is a great comfort, in my horrible journeys, to think that I am
travelling over the ground which yourself have trodden, and to hope that
I am proceeding to rejoin you once more.  This hope kept me alive in the
_bellotas_, and without it I should never have reached Oviedo.  I will
quit Spain as soon as possible, and betake me to Lucerne, though it is a
hard thing to leave the _Schatz_ behind me in the land of the Gallegans.”

Thereupon I presented him with a few dollars.

“A strange man is this Benedict,” said Antonio to me next morning, as,
accompanied by a guide, we sallied forth from Oviedo; “a strange man,
_mon maître_, is this same Benedict.  A strange life has he led, and a
strange death he will die,—it is written on his countenance.  That he
will leave Spain I do not believe, or if he leave it, it will be only to
return, for he is bewitched about this treasure.  Last night he sent for
a _sorcière_ whom he consulted in my presence: and she told him that he
was doomed to possess it, but that first of all he must cross water.  She
cautioned him likewise against an enemy, which he supposes must be the
canon of Saint James.  I have often heard people speak of the avidity of
the Swiss for money, and here is a proof of it.  I would not undergo what
Benedict has suffered in these last journeys of his to possess all the
treasures in Spain.”




CHAPTER XXXIV.


Departure from Oviedo—Villa Viciosa—The Young Man of the Inn—Antonio’s
Tale—The General and his Family—Woful Tidings—To-morrow we die—San
Vicente—Santander—An Harangue—Flinter the Irishman.

So we left Oviedo and directed our course towards Santander.  The man who
accompanied us as guide, and from whom I hired the pony on which I rode,
had been recommended to me by my friend the merchant of Oviedo.  He
proved, however, a lazy, indolent fellow; he was generally loitering two
or three hundred yards in our rear, and instead of enlivening the way
with song and tale, like our late guide, Martin of Rivadeo, he scarcely
ever opened his lips, save to tell us not to go so fast, or that I should
burst his pony if I spurred him so.  He was thievish withal, and though
he had engaged to make the journey _seco_, {82} that is, to defray the
charges of himself and beast, he contrived throughout to keep both at our
expense.  When journeying in Spain, it is invariably the cheapest plan to
agree to maintain the guide and his horse or mule, for by so doing the
hire is diminished at least one-third, and the bills upon the road are
seldom increased; whereas, in the other case, he pockets the difference,
and yet goes shot free, and at the expense of the traveller, through the
connivance of the innkeepers, who have a kind of fellow-feeling with the
guides.

Late in the afternoon we reached Villa Viciosa, a small dirty town, at
the distance of eight leagues from Oviedo: it stands beside a creek which
communicates with the Bay of Biscay.  It is sometimes called La Capital
de las Avellanas, or the Capital of the Filberts, from the immense
quantity of this fruit which is grown in the neighbourhood; and the
greatest part of which is exported to England.  As we drew nigh we
overtook numerous carts laden with _avellanas_ proceeding in the
direction of the town.  I was informed that several small English vessels
were lying in the harbour.  Singular as it may seem, however,
notwithstanding we were in the Capital of the Avellanas, it was with the
utmost difficulty that I procured a scanty handful for my dessert, and of
these more than one-half were decayed.  The people of the house informed
me that the nuts were intended for exportation, and that they never
dreamt either of partaking of them themselves or of offering them to
their guests.

At an early hour on the following day we reached Colunga, a beautiful
village on a rising ground, thickly planted with chestnut trees.  It is
celebrated, at least in the Asturias, as being the birthplace of
Arguëlles, the father of the Spanish constitution.

As we dismounted at the door of the _posada_, where we intended to
refresh ourselves, a person who was leaning out of an upper window
uttered an exclamation and disappeared.  We were yet at the door, when
the same individual came running forth and cast himself on the neck of
Antonio.  He was a good-looking young man, apparently about
five-and-twenty, genteelly dressed, with a _montero_ cap on his head.
Antonio looked at him for a moment, and then with an “_Ah_, _Monsieur_,
_est ce bien vous_?” shook him affectionately by the hand.  The stranger
then motioned him to follow him, and they forthwith proceeded to the room
above.

Wondering what this could mean, I sat down to my morning repast.  Nearly
an hour elapsed, and still Antonio did not make his appearance.  Through
the boards, however, which composed the ceiling of the kitchen where I
sat, I could hear the voices of himself and his acquaintance, and thought
that I could occasionally distinguish the sound of broken sobs and
groans.  At last there was a long pause.  I became impatient, and was
about to summon Antonio, when he made his appearance, but unaccompanied
by the stranger.  “What, in the name of all that is singular,” I
demanded, “have you been about?  Who is that man?”  “_Mon maître_,” said
Antonio, “_c’est un monsieur de ma connaissance_.  With your permission I
will now take a mouthful, and as we journey along I will tell you all
that I know of him.”

“_Monsieur_,” said Antonio, as we rode out of Colunga, “you are anxious
to know the history of the gentleman whom you saw embrace me at the inn.
Know, _mon maître_, that these Carlist and _Cristino_ wars have been the
cause of much misery and misfortune in this country; but a being so
thoroughly unfortunate as that poor young gentleman of the inn, I do not
believe is to be found in Spain, and his misfortunes proceed entirely
from the spirit of party and faction which for some time past has been so
prevalent.

“_Mon maître_, as I have often told you, I have lived in many houses and
served many masters, and it chanced that about ten years ago I served the
father of this gentleman, who was then a mere boy.  It was a very high
family, for _monsieur_ the father was a general in the army, and a man of
large possessions.  The family consisted of the general, his lady, and
two sons; the youngest of whom is the person you have just seen, the
other was several years older.  _Pardieu_!  I felt myself very
comfortable in that house, and every individual of the family had all
kind of complaisance for me.  It is singular enough, that though I have
been turned out of so many families, I was never turned out of that; and
though I left it thrice, it was of my own free will.  I became
dissatisfied with the other servants, or with the dog or the cat.  The
last time I left was on account of the quail which was hung out of the
window of _madame_, and which waked me in the morning with its call.  _Eh
bien_, _mon maître_, things went on in this way during the three years
that I continued in the family, out and in; at the end of which time it
was determined that the young gentleman should travel, and it was
proposed that I should attend him as valet.  This I wished very much to
do.  However, _par malheur_, I was at this time very much dissatisfied
with _madame_ his mother about the quail, and insisted that before I
accompanied him the bird should be slaughtered for the kitchen.  To this
_madame_ would by no means consent; and even the young gentleman, who had
always taken my part on other occasions, said that I was unreasonable: so
I left the house in a huff, and never entered it again.

“_Eh bien_, _mon maître_, the young gentleman went upon his travels, and
continued abroad several years; and from the time of his departure until
we met him at Colunga, I have not set eyes upon, nor indeed heard of him.
I have heard enough, however, of his family; of _monsieur_ the father, of
_madame_, and of the brother, who was an officer of cavalry.  A short
time before the troubles, I mean before the death of Ferdinand,
_monsieur_ the father was appointed captain-general of Corunna.  Now
_monsieur_, though a good master, was rather a proud man, and fond of
discipline, and all that kind of thing, and of obedience.  He was,
moreover, no friend to the populace, to the _canaille_, and he had a
particular aversion to the nationals.  So, when Ferdinand died, it was
whispered about at Corunna that the general was no liberal, and that he
was a better friend to Carlos than Christina.  _Eh bien_, it chanced that
there was a grand _fête_, or festival, at Corunna, on the water, and the
nationals were there, and the soldiers.  And I know not how it befell,
but there was an _émeute_, and the nationals laid hands on _monsieur_ the
general, and tying a rope round his neck, flung him overboard from the
barge in which he was, and then dragged him astern about the harbour
until he was drowned.  They then went to his house, and pillaged it, and
so ill-treated _madame_, who at that time happened to be _enceinte_, that
in a few hours she expired.

“I tell you what, _mon maître_, when I heard of the misfortune of
_madame_ and the general, you would scarcely believe it, but I actually
shed tears, and was sorry that I had parted with them in unkindness on
account of that pernicious quail.

“_Eh bien_, _mon maître_, _nous poursuivrons notre histoire_.  The eldest
son, as I told you before, was a cavalry officer, and a man of
resolution, and when he heard of the death of his father and mother, he
vowed revenge.  Poor fellow!  So what does he do but desert, with two or
three discontented spirits of his troop, and going to the frontier of
Galicia, he raised a small faction, and proclaimed Don Carlos.  For some
little time he did considerable damage to the liberals, burning and
destroying their possessions, and putting to death several nationals that
fell into his hands.  However, this did not last long; his faction was
soon dispersed, and he himself taken and hanged, and his head stuck on a
pole.

“_Nous sommes déjà presque au bout_.  When we arrived at the inn, the
young man took me above, as you saw, and there for some time he could do
nothing but weep and sob.  His story is soon told:—he returned from his
travels, and the first intelligence which awaited him on his arrival in
Spain was, that his father was drowned, his mother dead, and his brother
hanged, and, moreover, all the possessions of his family confiscated.
This was not all: wherever he went, he found himself considered in the
light of a factious and discontented person, and was frequently assailed
by the nationals with blows of sabres and cudgels.  He applied to his
relations, and some of these, who were of the Carlist persuasion, advised
him to betake himself to the army of Don Carlos, and the Pretender
himself, who was a friend of his father, and remembered the services of
his brother, offered to give him a command in his army.  But, _mon
maître_, as I told you before, he was a pacific young gentleman, and as
mild as a lamb, and hated the idea of shedding blood.  He was, moreover,
not of the Carlist opinion, for during his studies he had read books
written a long time ago by countrymen of mine, all about republics and
liberties, and the rights of man, so that he was much more inclined to
the liberal than the Carlist system; he therefore declined the offer of
Don Carlos, whereupon all his relations deserted him, whilst the liberals
hunted him from one place to another like a wild beast.  At last, he sold
some little property which still remained to him, and with the proceeds
he came to this remote place of Colunga, where no one knew him, and where
he has been residing for several months, in a most melancholy manner,
with no other amusement than that which he derives from a book or two, or
occasionally hunting a leveret with his spaniel.

“He asked me for counsel, but I had none to give him, and could only weep
with him.  At last he said, ‘Dear Antonio, I see there is no remedy.  You
say your master is below; beg him, I pray, to stay till tomorrow, and we
will send for the maidens of the neighbourhood, and for a violin and
bagpipe, and we will dance and cast away care for a moment.’  And then he
said something in old Greek, which I scarcely understood, but which I
think was equivalent to, ‘Let us eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow
we die!’

“_Eh bien_, _mon maître_, I told him that you were a serious gentleman,
who never took any amusement, and that you were in a hurry.  Whereupon he
wept again, and embraced me, and bade me farewell.  And now, _mon
maître_, I have told you the history of the young man of the inn.”

We slept at Ribida de Sella, and the next day at noon arrived at Llanes.
Our route lay between the coast and an immense range of mountains, which
rose up like huge ramparts at about a league’s distance from the sea.
The ground over which we passed was tolerably level, and seemingly well
cultivated.  There was no lack of vines and trees, whilst at short
intervals rose the _cortijos_ of the proprietors—square stone buildings
surrounded with an outer wall.  Llanes is an old town, formerly of
considerable strength.  In its neighbourhood is the convent of San
Cilorio, one of the largest monastic edifices in all Spain.  It is now
deserted, and stands alone and desolate upon one of the peninsulas of the
Cantabrian shore.  Leaving Llanes, we soon entered one of the most dreary
and barren regions imaginable, a region of rock and stone, where neither
grass nor trees were to be seen.  Night overtook us in these places.  We
wandered on, however, until we reached a small village, termed Santo
Colombo.  Here we passed the night, in the house of a carabineer of the
revenue, a tall athletic figure, who met us at the gate, armed with a
gun.  He was a Castilian, and with all that ceremonious formality and
grave politeness for which his countrymen were at one time so celebrated.
He chid his wife for conversing with her handmaid about the concerns of
the house before us.  “Barbara,” said he, “this is not conversation
calculated to interest the strange cavaliers; hold your peace, or go
aside with the _muchacha_.”  In the morning he refused any remuneration
for his hospitality, “I am a _caballero_,” said he, “even as yourselves.
It is not my custom to admit people into my house for the sake of lucre.
I received you because you were benighted and the _posada_ distant.”

Rising early in the morning, we pursued our way through a country equally
stony and dreary as that which we had entered upon the preceding day.  In
about four hours we reached San Vicente, a large and dilapidated town,
chiefly inhabited by miserable fishermen.  It retains, however, many
remarkable relics of former magnificence: the bridge, which bestrides the
broad and deep firth on which stands the town, has no less than
thirty-two arches, and is built of grey granite.  It is very ancient, and
in some parts in so ruinous a condition as to be dangerous.

Leaving San Vicente behind us, we travelled for some leagues on the
seashore, crossing occasionally a narrow inlet or firth.  The country at
last began to improve, and in the neighbourhood of Santillana was both
beautiful and fertile.  About a league before we reached the country of
Gil Blas we passed through an extensive wood, in which were rocks and
precipices; it was exactly such a place as that in which the cave of
Rolando was situated, as described in the novel.  The wood has an evil
name, and our guide informed us that robberies were occasionally
committed in it.  No adventure, however, befell us, and we reached
Santillana at about six in the evening.

We did not enter the town, but halted at a large _venta_, or _posada_, at
the entrance, before which stood an immense ash tree.  We had scarcely
housed ourselves when a tremendous storm of rain and wind commenced,
accompanied with thunder and lightning, which continued without much
interruption for several hours, and the effects of which were visible in
our journey of the following day, the streams over which we passed being
much swollen, and several trees lying uptorn by the wayside.  Santillana
contains four thousand inhabitants, and is six short leagues’ distance
from Santander, where we arrived early the next day.

Nothing could exhibit a stronger contrast to the desolate tracts and the
half-ruined towns through which we had lately passed, than the bustle and
activity of Santander, which, though it stands on the confines of the
Basque provinces, the stronghold of the Pretender, is almost the only
city in Spain which has not suffered by the Carlist wars.  Till the close
of the last century it was little better than an obscure fishing town,
but it has of late years almost entirely engrossed the commerce of the
Spanish transatlantic possessions, especially of the Havannah.  The
consequence of which has been, that whilst Santander has rapidly
increased in wealth and magnificence, both Corunna and Cadiz have been as
rapidly hastening to decay.  At present it possesses a noble quay, on
which stands a line of stately edifices, far exceeding in splendour the
palaces of the aristocracy of Madrid.  These are built in the French
style, and are chiefly occupied by the merchants.  The population of
Santander is estimated at sixty thousand souls.

On the day of my arrival I dined at the _table-d’hôte_ of the principal
inn, kept by a Genoese.  The company was very miscellaneous—French,
Germans, and Spaniards, all speaking in their respective languages,
whilst at the ends of the table, confronting each other, sat two Catalan
merchants, one of whom weighed nearly twenty stone, grunting across the
board in their harsh dialect.  Long, however, before dinner was concluded
the conversation was entirely engrossed and the attention of all present
directed to an individual who sat on one side of the bulky Catalan.  He
was a thin man of about the middle height, with a remarkably red face,
and something in his eyes which, if not a squint, bore a striking
resemblance to it.  He was dressed in a blue military frock, and seemed
to take much more pleasure in haranguing than in the fare which was set
before him.  He spoke perfectly good Spanish, yet his voice betrayed
something of a foreign accent.  For a long time he descanted with immense
volubility on war and all its circumstances, freely criticizing the
conduct of the generals, both Carlist and _Cristinos_, in the present
struggle, till at last he exclaimed, “Had I but twenty thousand men
allowed me by the government, I would bring the war to a conclusion in
six months.”

“Pardon me, sir,” said a Spaniard who sat at the table, “the curiosity
which induces me to request the favour of your distinguished name.”

“I am Flinter,” replied the individual in the military frock, “a name
which is in the mouth of every man, woman, and child in Spain.  I am
Flinter {92} the Irishman, just escaped from the Basque provinces and the
claws of Don Carlos.  On the decease of Ferdinand, I declared for
Isabella, esteeming it the duty of every good cavalier and Irishman in
the Spanish service to do so.  You have all heard of my exploits, and
permit me to tell you they would have been yet more glorious had not
jealousy been at work and cramped my means.  Two years ago I was
despatched to Estremadura, to organize the militias.  The bands of Gomez
and Cabrera entered the province, and spread devastation around.  They
found me, however, at my post; and had I been properly seconded by those
under my command, the two rebels would never have returned to their
master to boast of their success.  I stood behind my intrenchments.  A
man advanced and summoned us to surrender.  ‘Who are you?’ I demanded.
‘I am Cabrera,’ he replied; ‘and I am Flinter,’ I retorted flourishing my
sabre; ‘retire to your battalions, or you will forthwith die the death.’
He was awed, and did as I commanded.  In an hour we surrendered.  I was
led a prisoner to the Basque provinces; and the Carlists rejoiced in the
capture they had made, for the name of Flinter had long sounded amongst
the Carlist ranks.  I was flung into a loathsome dungeon, where I
remained twenty months.  I was cold; I was naked; but I did not on that
account despond—my spirit was too indomitable for such weakness.  My
keeper at last pitied my misfortunes.  He said that ‘it grieved him to
see so valiant a man perish in inglorious confinement.’  We laid a plan
to escape together; disguises were provided, and we made the attempt.  We
passed unobserved till we arrived at the Carlist lines above Bilbao:
there we were stopped.  My presence of mind, however, did not desert me.
I was disguised as a carman, as a Catalan, and the coolness of my answers
deceived my interrogators.  We were permitted to pass, and soon were safe
within the walls of Bilbao.  There was an illumination that night in the
town, for the lion had burst his toils, Flinter had escaped, and was once
more returned to reanimate a drooping cause.  I have just arrived at
Santander, on my way to Madrid, where I intend to ask of the government a
command, with twenty thousand men.”

Poor Flinter! a braver heart and a more gasconading mouth were surely
never united in the same body.  He proceeded to Madrid, and through the
influence of the British ambassador, who was his friend, he obtained the
command of a small division, with which he contrived to surprise and
defeat, in the neighbourhood of Toledo, a body of the Carlists, commanded
by Orejita, whose numbers more than trebled his own.  In reward for this
exploit he was persecuted by the government, which, at that time, was the
_moderado_ or _juste milieu_, with the most relentless animosity; the
prime minister, Ofalia, supporting with all his influence numerous and
ridiculous accusations of plunder and robbery brought against the too
successful general by the Carlist canons of Toledo.  He was likewise
charged with a dereliction of duty, in having permitted, after the battle
of Valdepeñas, which he likewise won in the most gallant manner, the
Carlist force to take possession of the mines of Almaden, although the
government, who were bent on his ruin, had done all in their power to
prevent him from following up his successes, by denying him the slightest
supplies and reinforcements.  The fruits of victory thus wrested from
him, his hopes blighted, a morbid melancholy seized upon the Irishman; he
resigned his command, and, in less than ten months from the period when I
saw him at Santander, afforded his dastardly and malignant enemies a
triumph which satisfied even them, by cutting his own throat with a
razor.

Ardent spirits of foreign climes, who hope to distinguish yourselves in
the service of Spain, and to earn honours and rewards, remember the fate
of Columbus, and of another as brave and as ardent—Flinter!




CHAPTER XXXV.


Departure from Santander—The Night Alarm—The Black Pass.

I had ordered two hundred Testaments to be sent to Santander from Madrid:
I found, however, to my great sorrow, that they had not arrived, and I
supposed that they had either been seized on the way by the Carlists, or
that my letter had miscarried.  I then thought of applying to England for
a supply, but I abandoned the idea for two reasons.  In the first place,
I should have to remain idly loitering, at least a month, before I could
receive them, at a place where every article was excessively dear; and,
secondly, I was very unwell, and unable to procure medical advice at
Santander.  Ever since I left Corunna, I had been afflicted with a
terrible dysentery, and latterly with an ophthalmia, the result of the
other malady.  I therefore determined on returning to Madrid.  To effect
this, however, seemed no very easy task.  Parties of the army of Don
Carlos, which, in a partial degree, had been routed in Castile, were
hovering about the country through which I should have to pass, more
especially in that part called “The Mountains,” so that all communication
had ceased between Santander and the southern districts.  Nevertheless, I
determined to trust as usual in the Almighty, and to risk the danger.  I
purchased, therefore, a small horse, and sallied forth with Antonio.

Before departing, however, I entered into conference with the booksellers
as to what they should do in the event of my finding an opportunity of
sending them a stock of Testaments from Madrid; and, having arranged
matters to my satisfaction, I committed myself to Providence.  I will not
dwell long on this journey of three hundred miles.  We were in the midst
of the fire, yet, strange to say, escaped without a hair of our heads
being singed.  Robberies, murders, and all kinds of atrocities were
perpetrated before, behind, and on both sides of us; but not so much as a
dog barked at us, though in one instance a plan had been laid to
intercept us.  About four leagues from Santander, whilst we were baiting
our horses at a village hostelry, I saw a fellow run off after having
held a whispering conversation with a boy who was dealing out barley to
us.  I instantly inquired of the latter what the man had said to him, but
only obtained an evasive answer.  It appeared afterwards that the
conversation was about ourselves.  Two or three leagues farther there was
an inn and village where we had proposed staying, and indeed had
expressed our intention of doing so; but on arriving there, finding that
the sun was still far from its bourne, I determined to proceed farther,
expecting to meet with a resting-place at the distance of a league;
though I was mistaken, as we found none until we reached Montaneda, nine
leagues and a half from Santander, where was stationed a small detachment
of soldiers.  At the dead of night, we were aroused from our sleep by a
cry that the “factious” were not far off.  A messenger had arrived from
the _alcalde_ of the village where we had previously intended staying,
who stated that a party of Carlists had just surprised that place, and
were searching for an English spy, whom they supposed to be at the inn.
The officer commanding the soldiers, upon hearing this, not deeming his
own situation a safe one, instantly drew off his men, falling back on a
stronger party stationed in a fortified village near at hand.  As for
ourselves, we saddled our horses and continued our way in the dark.  Had
the Carlists succeeded in apprehending me, I should instantly have been
shot, and my body cast on the rocks to feed the vultures and wolves.  But
“it was not so written,” said Antonio, who, like many of his countrymen,
was a fatalist.  The next night we had another singular escape: we had
arrived near the entrance of a horrible pass called “_El puerto de la
puente de las tablas_,” or the pass of the bridge of planks, which wound
through a black and frightful mountain, on the farther side of which was
the town of Oñas, where we meant to tarry for the night.  The sun had set
about a quarter of an hour.  Suddenly a man, with his face covered with
blood, rushed out of the pass.  “Turn back, sir,” he said, “in the name
of God; there are murderers in that pass; they have just robbed me of my
mule, and all I possess, and I have hardly escaped with life from their
hands!”  I scarcely know why, but I made him no answer, and proceeded;
indeed I was so weary and unwell that I cared not what became of me.  We
entered; the rocks rose perpendicularly, right and left, entirely
intercepting the scanty twilight, so that the darkness of the grave, or
rather the blackness of the valley of the shadow of death, reigned around
us, and we knew not where we went, but trusted to the instinct of the
horses, who moved on with their heads close to the ground.  The only
sound which we heard was the plash of a stream, which tumbled down the
pass.  I expected every moment to feel a knife at my throat, but “_it was
not so written_.”  We threaded the pass without meeting a human being,
and within three-quarters of an hour after the time we entered it, we
found ourselves within the _posada_ of the town of Oñas, which was filled
with troops and armed peasants expecting an attack from the grand Carlist
army, which was near at hand.

Well, we reached Burgos in safety; {98} we reached Valladolid in safety;
we passed the Guadarrama in safety; and were at length safely housed in
Madrid.  People said we had been very lucky; Antonio said, “It was so
written;” but I say, Glory be to the Lord for His mercies vouchsafed to
us.




CHAPTER XXXVI.


State of Affairs at Madrid—The New Ministry—Pope of Rome—The Bookseller
of Toledo—Sword-blades—Houses of Toledo—The Forlorn Gypsy—Proceedings at
Madrid—Another Servant.

During my journey in the northern provinces of Spain, which occupied a
considerable portion of the year 1837, I had accomplished but a slight
portion of what I proposed to myself to effect in the outset.
Insignificant are the results of man’s labours compared with the swelling
ideas of his presumption; something, however, had been effected by the
journey which I had just concluded.  The New Testament of Christ was now
enjoying a quiet sale in the principal towns of the north, and I had
secured the friendly interest and co-operation of the booksellers of
those parts, particularly of him the most considerable of them all, old
Rey of Compostella.  I had, moreover, disposed of a considerable number
of Testaments with my own hands, to private individuals, entirely of the
lower classes, namely, muleteers, carmen, _contrabandistas_, etc., so
that upon the whole I had abundant cause for gratitude and thanksgiving.

I did not find our affairs in a very prosperous state at Madrid, few
copies having been sold in the booksellers’ shops; yet what could be
rationally expected during these latter times?  Don Carlos, with a large
army, had been at the gates; plunder and massacre had been expected; so
that people were too much occupied in forming plans to secure their lives
and property to give much attention to reading of any description.

The enemy, however, had now retired to his strongholds in Alava and
Guipuzcoa.  I hoped that brighter days were dawning, and that the work,
under my own superintendence, would, with God’s blessing, prosper in the
capital of Spain.  How far the result corresponded with my expectations
will be seen in the sequel.

During my absence in the north, a total change of ministers had occurred.
The liberal party had been ousted from the cabinet, and in their place
had entered individuals attached to the _moderado_ or court party:
unfortunately, however, for my prospects, they consisted of persons with
whom I had no acquaintance whatever, and with whom my former friends,
Galiano and Isturitz, had little or no influence.  These gentlemen were
now regularly laid on the shelf, and their political career appeared to
be terminated for ever. {100}

From the present ministry I could expect but little; they consisted of
men the greater part of whom had been either courtiers or employés of the
deceased King Ferdinand, who were friends to absolutism, and by no means
inclined to do or to favour anything calculated to give offence to the
court of Rome, which they were anxious to conciliate, hoping that
eventually it might be induced to recognize the young queen, not as the
constitutional but as the absolute Queen Isabella the Second.

Such was the party which continued in power throughout the remainder of
my sojourn in Spain, and which persecuted me less from rancour and malice
than from policy.  It was not until the conclusion of the war of the
succession that it lost the ascendency, when it sank to the ground with
its patroness the queen-mother, before the dictatorship of Espartero.

The first step which I took after my return to Madrid, towards
circulating the Scriptures, was a very bold one.  It was neither more nor
less than the establishment of a shop for the sale of Testaments.  This
shop was situated in the Calle del Principe, a respectable and
well-frequented street in the neighbourhood of the Square of Cervantes.
I furnished it handsomely with glass cases and chandeliers, and procured
an acute Gallegan of the name of Pepe Calzado, to superintend the
business, who gave me weekly a faithful account of the copies sold.

“How strangely times alter,” said I, the second day subsequent to the
opening of my establishment, as I stood on the opposite side of the
street, leaning against the wall with folded arms, surveying my shop, on
the windows of which were painted in large yellow characters, _Despacho
de la Sociedad Bíblica y Estrangera_; {101} “how strangely times alter!
Here have I been during the last eight months running about old Popish
Spain, distributing Testaments, as agent of what the <DW7>s call an
heretical society, and have neither been stoned nor burnt; and here am I
now in the capital, doing that which one would think were enough to cause
all the dead inquisitors and officials buried within the circuit of the
walls to rise from their graves and cry abomination; and yet no one
interferes with me.  Pope of Rome!  Pope of Rome! look to thyself.  That
shop may be closed; but oh! what a sign of the times, that it has been
permitted to exist for one day.  It appears to me, my Father, that the
days of your sway are numbered in Spain; that you will not be permitted
much longer to plunder her, to scoff at her, and to scourge her with
scorpions, as in bygone periods.  See I not the hand on the wall?  See I
not in yonder letters a ‘_Mene_, _Mene_, _Tekel_, _Upharsin_’?  Look to
thyself, _Batuschca_.”

And I remained for two hours, leaning against the wall, staring at the
shop.

A short time after the establishment of the _despacho_ at Madrid, I once
more mounted the saddle, and, attended by Antonio, rode over to Toledo,
for the purpose of circulating the Scriptures, sending beforehand by a
muleteer a cargo of one hundred Testaments.  I instantly addressed myself
to the principal bookseller of the place, whom, from the circumstance of
his living in a town so abounding with canons, priests, and ex-friars as
Toledo, I expected to find a Carlist, or a _servil_ at least.  I was
never more mistaken in my life: on entering the shop, which was very
large and commodious, I beheld a stout athletic man, dressed in a kind of
cavalry uniform, with a helmet on his head, and an immense sabre in his
hand.  This was the bookseller himself, who, I soon found, was an officer
in the national cavalry.  Upon learning who I was, he shook me heartily
by the hand, and said that nothing would give him greater pleasure than
taking charge of the books, which he would endeavour to circulate to the
utmost of his ability.

“Will not your doing so bring you into odium with the clergy?”

“_Ca_!” {103a} said he; “who cares?  I am rich, and so was my father
before me.  I do not depend on them; they cannot hate me more than they
do already, for I make no secret of my opinions.  I have just returned
from an expedition,” said he; “my brother nationals and myself have, for
the last three days, been occupied in hunting down the factious and
thieves of the neighbourhood; we have killed three and brought in several
prisoners.  Who cares for the cowardly priests?  I am a liberal, _Don
Jorge_, and a friend of your countryman, Flinter.  Many is the Carlist
guerilla-curate and robber-friar whom I have assisted him to catch.  I am
rejoiced to hear that he has just been appointed captain-general of
Toledo; there will be fine doings here when he arrives, _Don Jorge_.  We
will make the clergy shake between us, I assure you.”

Toledo was formerly the capital of Spain.  Its population at present is
barely fifteen thousand souls, though, in the time of the Romans, and
also during the Middle Ages, it is said to have amounted to between two
and three hundred thousand.  It is situated about twelve leagues, or
forty miles, westward {103b} of Madrid, and is built upon a steep rocky
hill, round which flows the Tagus, on all sides but the north.  It still
possesses a great many remarkable edifices, notwithstanding that it has
long since fallen into decay.  Its cathedral is the most magnificent of
Spain, and is the see of the primate.  In the tower of this cathedral is
the famous bell of Toledo, the largest in the world with the exception of
the monster bell of Moscow, which I have also seen.  It weighs 1543
_arrobas_, or 37,032 pounds.  It has, however, a disagreeable sound,
owing to a cleft in its side.  Toledo could once boast the finest
pictures in Spain, but many were stolen or destroyed by the French during
the Peninsular war, and still more have lately been removed by order of
the government.  Perhaps the most remarkable one still remains; I allude
to that which represents the burial of the Count of Orgas, the
masterpiece of Domenico, {104} the Greek, a most extraordinary genius,
some of whose productions possess merit of a very high order.  The
picture in question is in the little parish church of San Tomé, at the
bottom of the aisle, on the left side of the altar.  Could it be
purchased, I should say it would be cheap at five thousand pounds.

Amongst the many remarkable things which meet the eye of the curious
observer at Toledo, is the manufactory of arms, where are wrought the
swords, spears, and other weapons intended for the army, with the
exception of firearms, which mostly come from abroad.

In old times, as is well known, the sword-blades of Toledo were held in
great estimation, and were transmitted as merchandise throughout
Christendom.  The present manufactory, or _fabrica_, as it is called, is
a handsome modern edifice, situated without the wall of the city, on a
plain contiguous to the river, with which it communicates by a small
canal.  It is said that the water and the sand of the Tagus are essential
for the proper tempering of the swords.  I asked some of the principal
workmen whether, at the present day, they could manufacture weapons of
equal value to those of former days, and whether the secret had been
lost.

“_Ca_!” said they, “the swords of Toledo were never so good as those
which we are daily making.  It is ridiculous enough to see strangers
coming here to purchase old swords, the greater part of which are mere
rubbish, and never made at Toledo, yet for such they will give a large
price, whilst they would grudge two dollars for this jewel, which was
made but yesterday;” thereupon putting into my hand a middle-sized
rapier.  “Your worship,” said they, “seems to have a strong arm; prove
its temper against the stone wall—thrust boldly and fear not.”

I _have_ a strong arm, and dashed the point with my utmost force against
the solid granite: my arm was numbed to the shoulder from the violence of
the concussion, and continued so for nearly a week, but the sword
appeared not to be at all blunted, or to have suffered in any respect.

“A better sword than that,” said an ancient workman, a native of Old
Castile, “never transfixed Moor out yonder on the _sagra_.”

During my stay at Toledo, I lodged at the Posada de los Caballeros, which
signifies the inn of the gentlemen, which name, in some respects, it
certainly well deserved, for there are many palaces far less magnificent
than this inn of Toledo.  By magnificence it must not be supposed,
however, that I allude to costliness of furniture or any kind of luxury
which pervaded the culinary department.  The rooms were as empty as those
of Spanish inns generally are, and the fare, though good in its kind, was
plain and homely; but I have seldom seen a more imposing edifice.  It was
of immense size, consisting of several stories, and was built something
in the Moorish taste, with a quadrangular court in the centre, beneath
which was an immense _algibe_ or tank, serving as a reservoir for
rain-water.  All the houses in Toledo are supplied with tanks of this
description, into which the waters in the rainy season flow from the
roofs through pipes.  No other water is used for drinking; that of the
Tagus, not being considered salubrious, is only used for purposes of
cleanliness, being conveyed up the steep narrow streets on donkeys, in
large stone jars.  The city, standing on a rocky mountain, has no wells.
As for the rain-water, it deposits a sediment in the tank, and becomes
very sweet and potable: these tanks are cleaned out twice every year.
During the summer, at which time the heat in this part of Spain is
intense, the families spend the greater part of the day in the courts,
which are overhung with a linen awning, the heat of the atmosphere being
tempered by the coolness arising from the tank below, which answers the
same purpose as the fountain in the southern provinces of Spain.

I spent about a week at Toledo, during which time several copies of the
Testament were disposed of in the shop of my friend the bookseller.
Several priests took it up from the _mostrador_ on which it lay, examined
it, but made no remarks; none of them purchased it.  My friend showed me
through his house, almost every apartment of which was lined from roof to
floor with books, many of which were highly valuable.  He told me that he
possessed the best collection in Spain of the ancient literature of the
country.  He was, however, less proud of his library than his stud;
finding that I had some acquaintance with horses, his liking for me and
also his respect considerably increased.  “All I have,” said he, “is at
your service; I see you are a man after my own heart.  When you are
disposed to ride out upon the _sagra_, you have only to apply to my
groom, who will forthwith saddle you my famed Cordovese _entero_; I
purchased him from the stables at Aranjuez, when the royal stud was
broken up.  There is but one other man to whom I would lend him, and that
man is Flinter.”

At Toledo I met with a forlorn gypsy woman and her son, a lad of about
fourteen years of age; she was not a native of the place, but had come
from La Mancha, her husband having been cast into the prison of Toledo on
a charge of mule-stealing: the crime had been proved against him, and in
a few days he was to depart for Malaga, with the chain of galley-slaves.
He was quite destitute of money, and his wife was now in Toledo, earning
a few _cuartos_ by telling fortunes about the streets, to support him in
prison.  She told me that it was her intention to follow him to Malaga,
where she hoped to be able to effect his escape.  What an instance of
conjugal affection! and yet the affection here was all on one side, as is
too frequently the case.  Her husband was a worthless scoundrel, who had
previously abandoned her and betaken himself to Madrid, where he had long
lived in concubinage with the notorious she-thug Aurora, {107} at whose
instigation he had committed the robbery for which he was now held in
durance.  “Should your husband escape from Malaga, in what direction will
he fly?” I demanded.

“To the _chim_ of the _Corahai_, my son; to the land of the Moors, to be
a soldier of the Moorish king.”

“And what will become of yourself?” I inquired; “think you that he will
take you with him?”

“He will leave me on the shore, my son; and as soon as he has crossed the
black _pawnee_, he will forget me and never think of me more.”

“And knowing his ingratitude, why should you give yourself so much
trouble about him?”

“Am I not his _romí_, my son; and am I not bound by the law of the
_Calés_ to assist him to the last?  Should he return from the land of the
_Corahai_ at the end of a hundred years, and should find me alive, and
should say, ‘I am hungry, little wife; go forth and steal or tell
_baji_,’ I must do it, for he is the _rom_ and I the _romí_.”

On my return to Madrid, I found the _despacho_ still open.  Various
Testaments had been sold, though the number was by no means considerable:
the work had to labour under great disadvantage, from the ignorance of
the people at large with respect to its tenor and contents.  It was no
wonder, then, that little interest was felt respecting it.  To call,
however, public attention to the _despacho_, I printed three thousand
advertisements on paper, yellow, blue, and crimson, with which I almost
covered the sides of the streets, and, besides this, inserted an account
of it in all the journals and periodicals: the consequence was, that in a
short time almost every person in Madrid was aware of its existence.
Such exertions in London or Paris would probably have ensured the sale of
the entire edition of the New Testament within a few days.  In Madrid,
however, the result was not quite so flattering; for after the
establishment had been open an entire month, the copies disposed of
barely amounted to one hundred.

These proceedings of mine did not fail to cause a great sensation: the
priests and their partisans were teeming with malice and fury, which, for
some time, however, they thought proper to exhibit only in words; it
being their opinion that I was favoured by the ambassador and by the
British government; but there was no attempt, however atrocious, that
might not be expected from their malignity; and were it right and seemly
for me, the most insignificant of worms, to make such a comparison, I
might say, like Paul at Ephesus, I was fighting with wild beasts.

On the last day of the year 1837, my servant Antonio thus addressed me:
“_Mon maître_, it is necessary that I leave you for a time.  Ever since
we have returned from our journeys, I have become unsettled and
dissatisfied with the house, the furniture, and with Doña Marequita.  I
have therefore engaged myself as cook in the house of the Count of ---,
where I am to receive four dollars per month less than what your worship
gives me.  I am fond of change, though it be for the worse.  _Adieu_,
_mon maître_; may you be as well served as you deserve.  Should you
chance, however, to have any pressing need _de mes soins_, send for me
without hesitation, and I will at once give my new master warning, if I
am still with him, and come to you.”

Thus I was deprived for a time of the services of Antonio.  I continued
for a few days without a domestic, at the end of which time I hired a
certain Cantabrian or Basque, a native of the village of Hernani, in
Guipuzcoa, who was strongly recommended to me.




CHAPTER XXXVII.


Euscarra—Basque not Irish—Sanscrit and Tartar Dialects—A Vowel
Language—Popular Poetry—The Basques—Their Persons—Basque Women.

I now entered upon the year 1838, perhaps the most eventful of all those
which I passed in Spain.  The _despacho_ still continued open, with a
somewhat increasing sale.  Having at this time little of particular
moment with which to occupy myself, I committed to the press two works,
which for some time past had been in the course of preparation.  These
were the Gospel of St. Luke in the Spanish gypsy and the Euscarra
languages. {111a}

With respect to the gypsy Gospel, I have little to say, having already
spoken of it in a former work; {111b} it was translated by myself,
together with the greater part of the New Testament, during my long
intercourse with the Spanish gypsies.  Concerning the Luke in Euscarra,
however, it will be as well to be more particular, and to avail myself of
the present opportunity to say a few words concerning the language in
which it was written, and the people for whom it was intended.

The Euscarra, then, is the proper term for a certain speech or language,
supposed to have been at one time prevalent throughout Spain, but which
is at present confined to certain districts, both on the French and
Spanish side of the Pyrenees, which are laved by the waters of the
Cantabrian Gulf, or Bay of Biscay.  This language is commonly known as
the Basque, or Biscayan, which words are mere modifications of the word
Euscarra, the consonant B having been prefixed for the sake of euphony.
Much that is vague, erroneous, and hypothetical has been said and written
concerning this tongue.  The Basques assert that it was not only the
original language of Spain, but also of the world, and that from it all
other languages are derived; but the Basques are a very ignorant people,
and know nothing of the philosophy of language.  Very little importance,
therefore, need be attached to any opinion of theirs on such a subject.
A few amongst them, however, who affect some degree of learning, contend
that it is neither more nor less than a dialect of the Phœnician, and
that the Basques are the descendants of a Phœnician colony, established
at the foot of the Pyrenees at a very remote period.  Of this theory, or
rather conjecture, as it is unsubstantiated by the slightest proof, it is
needless to take further notice than to observe that, provided the
Phœnician language, as many of the _truly learned_ have supposed, and
almost proved, was a dialect of the Hebrew, or closely allied to it, it
were as unreasonable to suppose that the Basque is derived from it as
that the Kamschatkan and Cherokee are dialects of the Greek and Latin.

There is, however, another opinion with respect to the Basque which
deserves more especial notice, from the circumstance of its being
extensively entertained amongst the _literati_ of various countries of
Europe, more especially England.  I allude to the Celtic origin of this
tongue, and its close connexion with the most cultivated of all the
Celtic dialects—the Irish.  People who pretend to be well conversant with
the subject, have even gone so far as to assert, that so little
difference exists between the Basque and Irish tongues, that individuals
of the two nations, when they meet together, find no difficulty in
understanding each other, with no other means of communication than their
respective languages; in a word, that there is scarcely a greater
difference between the two than between the French and the Spanish
Basque.  Such similarity, however, though so strongly insisted upon, by
no means exists in fact; and perhaps in the whole of Europe it would be
difficult to discover two languages which exhibit fewer points of mutual
resemblance than the Basque and Irish.

The Irish, like most other European languages, is a dialect of the
Sanscrit, a _remote_ one, as may well be supposed; the corner of the
western world in which it is still preserved being, of all countries in
Europe, the most distant from the proper home of the parent tongue.  It
is still, however, a dialect of that venerable and most original speech,
not so closely resembling it, it is true, as the English, Danish, and
those which belong to what is called the Gothic family, and far less than
those of the Sclavonian; for the nearer we approach to the East, in equal
degree the assimilation of languages to this parent stock becomes more
clear and distinct; but still a dialect, agreeing with the Sanscrit in
structure, in the arrangement of words, and in many instances in the
words themselves, which, however modified, may still be recognized as
Sanscrit.  But what is the Basque, and to what family does it properly
pertain?

To two great Asiatic languages all the dialects spoken at present in
Europe may be traced.  These two, if not now spoken, still exist in
books, and are, moreover, the languages of two of the principal religions
of the East.  I allude to the Tibetian and Sanscrit—the sacred languages
of the followers of Buddh and Bramah.  These tongues, though they possess
many words in common, which is easily to be accounted for by their close
proximity, are properly distinct, being widely different in structure.
In what this difference consists, I have neither time nor inclination to
state; suffice it to say, that the Celtic, Gothic, and Sclavonian
dialects in Europe belong to the Sanscrit family, even as in the East the
Persian, and to a less degree the Arabic, Hebrew, etc.; {114} whilst to
the Tibetian or Tartar family in Asia pertain the Mandchou and Mongolian,
the Calmuc and the Turkish of the Caspian sea; and in Europe, the
Hungarian and the Basque _partially_.

Indeed, this latter language is a strange anomaly, so that upon the whole
it is less difficult to say what it is not, than what it is.  It abounds
with Sanscrit words to such a degree that its surface seems strewn with
them.  Yet would it be wrong to term it a Sanscrit dialect, for in the
collocation of these words the Tartar form is most decidedly observable.
A considerable proportion of Tartar words is likewise to be found in this
language, though perhaps not in equal numbers to the terms derived from
the Sanscrit.  Of these Tartar etymons I shall at present content myself
with citing one, though, if necessary, it were easy to adduce hundreds.
This word is _Jauna_, or, as it is pronounced, _Khauna_—a word in
constant use amongst the Basques, and which is the _Khan_ of the Mongols
and Mandchous, and of the same signification—_Lord_.

Having closely examined the subject in all its various bearings, and
having weighed what is to be said on one side against what is to be
advanced on the other, I am inclined to rank the Basque rather amongst
the Tartar than the Sanscrit dialects.  Whoever should have an
opportunity of comparing the enunciation of the Basques and Tartars
would, from that alone, even if he understood them not, come to the
conclusion that their respective languages were formed on the same
principles.  In both occur periods seemingly interminable, during which
the voice gradually ascends to a climax, and then gradually sinks down.

I have spoken of the surprising number of Sanscrit words contained in the
Basque language, specimens of some of which will be found below.  It is
remarkable enough, that in the greater part of the derivatives from the
Sanscrit, the Basque has dropped the initial consonant, so that the word
commences with a vowel.  The Basque, indeed, may be said to be almost a
vowel language, the number of consonants employed being comparatively
few; perhaps eight words out of ten commence and terminate with a vowel,
owing to which it is a language to the highest degree soft and melodious,
far excelling in this respect any other language in Europe, not even
excepting the Italian.  Here follow a few specimens of Basque words with
the Sanscrit roots in juxtaposition:—



    BASQUE.         SANSCRIT.
Ardoa {116a}      Sandhána        _Wine_.
Arratsa           Ratri           _Night_.
Beguia            Akshi           _Eye_.
Choria            Chiria {116a}   _Bird_.
Chacurra          Cucura          _Dog_.
Erreguiña         Rani            _Queen_.
{116a}
Icusi             Iksha           _To see_.
Iru               Treya           _Three_.
Jan (Khan)        Khana           _To eat_.
Uria {116a}       Puri            _City_.
Urruti            Dura            _Far_.

Such is the tongue in which I brought out Saint Luke’s Gospel at Madrid.
The translation I procured originally from a Basque physician of the name
of Oteiza. {116b}  Previous to being sent to the press, the version had
lain nearly two years in my possession, during which time, and
particularly during my travels, I lost no opportunity of submitting it to
the inspection of those who were considered competent scholars in the
Euscarra.  It did not entirely please me; but it was in vain to seek for
a better translation.

In my early youth I had obtained a slight acquaintance with the Euscarra,
as it exists in books.  This acquaintance I considerably increased during
my stay in Spain, and, by occasionally mingling with Basques, was enabled
to understand the spoken language to a certain extent, and even to speak
it, but always with considerable hesitation; for to speak Basque, even
tolerably, it is necessary to have lived in the country from a very early
period.  So great are the difficulties attending it, and so strange are
its peculiarities, that it is very rare to find a foreigner possessed of
any considerable skill in the oral language, and the Spaniards consider
the obstacles so formidable that they have a proverb to the effect that
Satan once lived seven years in Biscay, and then departed, finding
himself unable either to understand or to make himself understood.

There are few inducements to the study of this language.  In the first
place, the acquisition of it is by no means necessary even to those who
reside in the countries where it is spoken, the Spanish being generally
understood throughout the Basque provinces pertaining to Spain, and the
French in those pertaining to France.

In the second place, neither dialect is in possession of any peculiar
literature capable of repaying the toil of the student.  There are
various books extant both in French and Spanish Basque, {117} but these
consist entirely of Popish devotion, and are for the most part
translations.

It will, perhaps, here be asked whether the Basques do not possess
popular poetry, like most other nations, however small and
inconsiderable.  They have certainly no lack of songs, ballads, and
stanzas, but of a character by no means entitled to the appellation of
poetry.  I have noted down from recitation, a considerable portion of
what they call their poetry, but the only tolerable specimen of verse
which I ever discovered amongst them was the following stanza, which,
after all, is not entitled to very high praise:—

    “Ichasoa urac aundi,
    Estu ondoric agueri—
    Pasaco ninsaqueni andic
    Maitea icustea gatic.” {118a}

_i.e._ “The waters of the sea are vast, and their bottom cannot be seen;
but over them I will pass, that I may behold my love.”

The Basques are a singing rather than a poetical people.  Notwithstanding
the facility with which their tongue lends itself to the composition of
verse, they have never produced among them a poet with the slightest
pretensions to reputation; but their voices are singularly sweet, and
they are known to excel in musical composition.  It is the opinion of a
certain author, the Abbé D’Iharce, {118b} who has written about them,
that they derived the name _Cantabri_, by which they are known to the
Romans, from _Khantor-ber_, signifying sweet singers.  They possess much
music of their own, some of which is said to be exceedingly ancient.  Of
this music specimens were published at Donostian (San Sebastian) in the
year 1826, edited by a certain Juan Ignacio Iztueta. {118c}  These
consist of wild and thrilling marches, to the sound of which it is
believed that the ancient Basques were in the habit of descending from
their mountains to combat with the Romans, and subsequently with the
Moors.  Whilst listening to them it is easy to suppose one’s self in the
close vicinity of some desperate encounter.  We seem to hear the charge
of cavalry on the sounding plain, the clash of swords, and the rushing of
men down the gorges of hills.  This music is accompanied with words, but
such words!  Nothing can be imagined more stupid, commonplace, and
uninteresting.  So far from being martial, they relate to everyday
incidents, and appear to have no connexion whatever with the music.  They
are evidently of modern date.

In person the Basques are of the middle size, and are active and
athletic.  They are in general of fair complexions and handsome features,
and in appearance bear no slight resemblance to certain Tartar tribes of
the Caucasus.  Their bravery is unquestionable, and they are considered
as the best soldiery belonging to the Spanish crown: a fact highly
corroborative of the supposition that they are of Tartar origin, the
Tartars being of all races the most warlike, and amongst whom the most
remarkable conquerors have been produced.  They are faithful and honest,
and capable of much disinterested attachment; kind and hospitable to
strangers; all of which points are far from being at variance with the
Tartar character.  But they are somewhat dull, and their capacities are
by no means of a high order, and in these respects they again resemble
the Tartars.

No people on earth are prouder than the Basques, but theirs is a kind of
republican pride.  They have no nobility amongst them, and no one will
acknowledge a superior.  The poorest carman is as proud as the governor
of Tolosa.  “He is more powerful than I,” he will say, “but I am of as
good blood; perhaps hereafter I may become a governor myself.”  They
abhor servitude, at least out of their own country; and though
circumstances frequently oblige them to seek masters, it is very rare to
find them filling the places of common domestics; they are stewards,
secretaries, accountants, etc.  True it is, that it was my own fortune to
obtain a Basque domestic; but then he always treated me more as an equal
than a master, would sit down in my presence, give me his advice unasked,
and enter into conversation with me at all times and occasions.  Did I
check him?  Certainly not!  For in that case he would have left me, and a
more faithful creature I never knew.  His fate was a mournful one, as
will appear in the sequel.

I have said that the Basques abhor servitude, and are rarely to be found
serving as domestics amongst the Spaniards.  I allude, however, merely to
the males.  The females, on the contrary, have no objection whatever to
enter houses as servants.  Women, indeed, amongst the Basques are not
looked upon with all the esteem which they deserve, and are considered as
fitted for little else than to perform menial offices, even as in the
East, where they are viewed in the light of servants and slaves.  The
Basque females differ widely in character from the men; they are quick
and vivacious, and have in general much more talent.  They are famous for
their skill as cooks, and in most respectable houses of Madrid a Biscayan
female may be found in the kitchen, queen supreme of the culinary
department. {120}




CHAPTER XXXVIII.


The Prohibition—Gospel Persecuted—Charge of Sorcery—Ofalia.

About the middle of January {121a} a swoop was made upon me by my
enemies, in the shape of a peremptory prohibition from the political
governor of Madrid to sell any more New Testaments.  This measure by no
means took me by surprise, as I had for some time previously been
expecting something of the kind, on account of the political sentiments
of the ministers then in power.  I forthwith paid a visit to Sir George
Villiers, informing him of what had occurred.  He promised to do all he
could to cause the prohibition to be withdrawn.  Unfortunately, at this
time he had not much influence, having opposed with all his might the
entrance of the _moderado_ {121b} ministry to power, and the nomination
of Ofalia {121c} to the presidency of the cabinet.  I however, never lost
confidence in the Almighty, in whose cause I was engaged.

Matters were going on very well before this check.  The demand for
Testaments was becoming considerable, so much so that the clergy were
alarmed, and this step was the consequence.  But they had previously
recourse to another, well worthy of them; they attempted to act upon my
fears.  One of the ruffians of Madrid, called _Manolos_, came up to me
one night, in a dark street, and told me that unless I discontinued
selling my “Jewish books,” I should have a knife “_nailed in my heart_;”
but I told him to go home, say his prayers, and tell his employers that I
pitied them; whereupon he turned away with an oath.  A few days after, I
received an order to send two copies of the Testament to the office of
the political governor, with which I complied, and in less than
twenty-four hours an _alguazil_ arrived at the shop with a notice
prohibiting the further sale of the work.

One circumstance rejoiced me.  Singular as it may appear, the authorities
took no measures to cause my little _despacho_ to be closed, and I
received no prohibition respecting the sale of any work but the New
Testament, and as the Gospel of Saint Luke, in Romany and Basque, would
within a short time be ready for delivery, I hoped to carry on matters in
a small way till better times should arrive.

I was advised to erase from the shop windows the words “_Despacho_ of the
British and Foreign Bible Society.”  This, however, I refused to do.
Those words had tended very much to call attention, which was my grand
object.  Had I attempted to conduct things in an underhand manner, I
should, at the time of which I am speaking, scarcely have sold thirty
copies in Madrid, instead of nearly three hundred.  People who know me
not, may be disposed to call me rash; but I am far from being so, as I
never adopt a venturous course when any other is open to me.  I am not,
however, a person to be terrified by any danger, when I see that braving
it is the only way to achieve an object.

The booksellers were unwilling to sell my work; I was compelled to
establish a shop of my own.  Every shop in Madrid has a name.  What name
could I give it but the true one?  I was not ashamed of my cause or my
colours.  I hoisted them, and fought beneath them, not without success.

The priestly party in Madrid, in the mean time, spared no effort to
vilify me.  They started a publication called _The Friend of the
Christian Religion_, in which a stupid but furious attack upon me
appeared, which I, however, treated with the contempt it deserved.  But
not satisfied with this, they endeavoured to incite the populace against
me, by telling them that I was a sorcerer, and a companion of gypsies and
witches, and their agents even called me so in the streets.  That I was
an associate of gypsies and fortune-tellers I do not deny.  Why should I
be ashamed of their company when my Master mingled with publicans and
thieves?  Many of the gypsy race came frequently to visit me; received
instruction, and heard parts of the Gospel read to them in their own
language, and when they were hungry and faint, I gave them to eat and
drink.  This might be deemed sorcery in Spain, but I am not without hope
that it will be otherwise estimated in England; and had I perished at
this period, I think there are some who would have been disposed to
acknowledge that I had not lived altogether in vain (always as an
instrument of the “Most Highest”), having been permitted to turn one of
the most valuable books of God into the speech of the most degraded of
His creatures.

In the mean time I endeavoured to enter into negotiations with the
ministry for the purpose of obtaining permission to sell the New
Testament in Madrid, and the nullification of the prohibition.  I
experienced, however, great opposition, which I was unable to surmount.
Several of the ultra-popish bishops, then resident in Madrid, had
denounced the Bible, the Bible Society, and myself.  Nevertheless,
notwithstanding their powerful and united efforts, they were unable to
effect their principal object, namely, my expulsion from Madrid and
Spain.  The Count Ofalia, notwithstanding he had permitted himself to be
made the instrument, to a certain extent, of these people, would not
consent to be pushed to such a length.  Throughout this affair I cannot
find words sufficiently strong to do justice to the zeal and interest
which Sir George Villiers displayed in the cause of the Testament.  He
had various interviews with Ofalia on the subject, and in these he
expressed to him his sense of the injustice and tyranny which had been
practised in this instance towards his countryman.

Ofalia had been moved by these remonstrances, and more than once promised
to do all in his power to oblige Sir George; but then the bishops again
beset him, and playing upon his political if not religious fears,
prevented him from acting a just, honest, and honourable part.  At the
desire of Sir George Villiers, I drew up a brief account of the Bible
Society, and an exposition of its views, especially in respect to Spain,
which he presented with his own hand to the Count.  I shall not trouble
the reader by inserting this memorial, but content myself with observing,
that I made no attempts to flatter and cajole, but expressed myself
honestly and frankly, as a Christian ought.  Ofalia, on reading it, said,
“What a pity that this is a Protestant society, and that all its members
are not Catholics!”

A few days subsequently, to my great astonishment, he sent a message to
me by a friend, requesting that I would send him a copy of my gypsy
Gospel.  I may as well here state, that the fame of this work, though not
yet published, had already spread like wildfire through Madrid, and every
person was passionately eager to possess a copy: indeed, several grandees
of Spain sent messages with similar requests, all of which I however
denied.  I instantly resolved to take advantage of this overture on the
part of Count Ofalia, and to call on him myself.  I therefore caused a
copy of the Gospel to be handsomely bound, and proceeding to the palace,
was instantly admitted to him.  He was a dusky, diminutive person,
between fifty and sixty years of age, with false hair and teeth, but
exceedingly gentlemanly manners.  He received me with great affability,
and thanked me for my present; but on my proceeding to speak of the New
Testament, he told me that the subject was surrounded with difficulties,
and that the great body of the clergy had taken up the matter against me;
he conjured me, however, to be patient and peaceable, in which case he
said he would endeavour to devise some plan to satisfy me.  Amongst other
things, he observed that the bishops hated a sectarian more than an
atheist.  Whereupon I replied, that, like the Pharisees of old, they
cared more for the gold of the temple than the temple itself.  Throughout
the whole of our interview he evidently laboured under great fear, and
was continually looking behind and around him, seemingly in dread of
being overheard, which brought to my mind an expression of a friend of
mine, that if there be any truth in metempsychosis, the soul of Count
Ofalia must have originally belonged to a mouse.  We parted in kindness,
and I went away, wondering by what strange chance this poor man had
become prime minister of a country like Spain.




CHAPTER XXXIX.


The Two Gospels—The Alguazil—The Warrant—The Good Maria—The Arrest—Sent
to Prison—Reflections—The Reception—The Prison Room—Redress demanded.

At length the Gospel of Saint Luke in the gypsy language was in a state
of readiness.  I therefore deposited a certain number of copies in the
_despacho_, and announced them for sale.  The Basque, which was by this
time also printed, was likewise advertised.  For this last work there was
little demand.  Not so, however, for the gypsy Luke, of which I could
easily have disposed of the whole edition in less than a fortnight.
Long, however, before this period had expired the clergy were up in arms.
“Sorcery!” said one bishop.  “There is more in this than we can dive
into,” exclaimed a second.  “He will convert all Spain by means of the
gypsy language,” cried a third.  And then came the usual chorus on such
occasions, of _Que infamia_!  _Que picardia_!  At last, having consulted
together, away they hurried to their tool the _corregidor_ or, according
to the modern term, the _gefe politico_ {127} of Madrid.  I have
forgotten the name of this worthy, of whom I had myself no personal
knowledge whatever.  Judging from his actions, however, and from common
report, I should say that he was a stupid, wrong-headed creature, savage
withal—a _mélange_ of _borrico_, mule, and wolf.  Having an inveterate
antipathy to all foreigners, he lent a willing ear to the complaint of my
accusers, and forthwith gave orders to make a seizure of all the copies
of the gypsy Gospel which could be found in the _despacho_.  The
consequence was, that a numerous body of _alguazils_ directed their steps
to the Calle del Principe; some thirty copies of the book in question
were pounced upon, and about the same number of Saint Luke in Basque.
With this spoil these satellites returned in triumph to the _gefatura
politica_, where they divided the copies of the gypsy volume amongst
themselves, selling subsequently the greater number at a large price, the
book being in the greatest demand, and thus becoming unintentionally
agents of an heretical society.  But every one must live by his trade,
say these people, and they lose no opportunity of making their words
good, by disposing to the best advantage of any booty which falls into
their hands.  As no person cared about the Basque Gospel, it was safely
stowed away, with other unmarketable captures, in the warehouses of the
office.

The gypsy Gospels had now been seized, at least as many as were exposed
for sale in the _despacho_.  The _corregidor_ and his friends, however,
were of opinion that many more might be obtained by means of a little
management.  Fellows, therefore, hangers on of the police-office, were
daily despatched to the shop in all kinds of disguises, inquiring, with
great seeming anxiety, for “gypsy books,” and offering high prices for
copies.  They, however, returned to their employers empty-handed.  My
Gallegan was on his guard, informing all who made inquiries, that books
of no description would be sold at the establishment for the present.
Which was in truth the case, as I had given him particular orders to sell
no more under any pretence whatever.

I got no credit, however, for my frank dealing.  The _corregidor_ and his
confederates could not persuade themselves but that, by some means
mysterious and unknown to them, I was daily selling hundreds of these
gypsy books, which were to revolutionize the country, and annihilate the
power of the Father of Rome.  A plan was therefore resolved upon, by
means of which they hoped to have an opportunity of placing me in a
position which would incapacitate me for some time from taking any active
measures to circulate the Scriptures, either in gypsy or in any other
language.

It was on the morning of the first of May, {129a} [1838,] if I forget
not, that an unknown individual made his appearance in my apartment as I
was seated at breakfast; he was a mean-looking fellow, about the middle
stature, with a countenance on which knave was written in legible
characters.  The hostess ushered him in, and then withdrew.  I did not
like the appearance of my visitor, but assuming some degree of courtesy,
I requested him to sit down, and demanded his business.  “I come from his
excellency the political {129b} chief of Madrid,” he replied, “and my
business is to inform you that his excellency is perfectly aware of your
proceedings, and is at any time able to prove that you are still
disposing of in secret those evil books which you have been forbidden to
sell.”  “Is he so?” I replied; “pray let him do so forthwith; but what
need of giving me information?”  “Perhaps,” continued the fellow, “you
think his worship has no witnesses; know, however, that he has many, and
respectable ones too.”  “Doubtless,” I replied, “and from the
respectability of your own appearance, you are perhaps one of them.  But
you are occupying my time unprofitably; begone, therefore, and tell
whoever sent you, that I have by no means a high opinion of his wisdom.”
“I shall go when I please,” retorted the fellow; “do you know to whom you
are speaking?  Are you aware that if I think fit I can search your
apartment, yes, even below your bed?  What have we here,” he continued,
and commenced with his stick poking a heap of papers which lay upon a
chair; “what have we here?  Are these also papers of the gypsies?”  I
instantly determined upon submitting no longer to this behaviour, and
taking the fellow by the arm, led him out of the apartment; and then,
still holding him, conducted him downstairs from the third floor in which
I lived, into the street, looking him steadfastly in the face the whole
while.

The fellow had left his _sombrero_ on the table, which I despatched to
him by the landlady, who delivered it into his hand as he stood in the
street staring with distended eyes at the balcony of my apartment.

“A _trampa_ has been laid for you, _Don Jorge_,” said Maria Diaz, when
she had re-ascended from the street; “that _corchete_ came here with no
other intention than to have a dispute with you.  Out of every word you
have said he will make a long history, as is the custom with these
people; indeed, he said, as I handed him his hat, that ere twenty-four
hours were over, you should see the inside of the prison of Madrid.”

In effect, during the course of the morning, I was told that a warrant
had been issued for my apprehension.  The prospect of incarceration,
however, did not fill me with much dismay; an adventurous life and
inveterate habits of wandering having long familiarized me to situations
of every kind, so much so as to feel myself quite as comfortable in a
prison as in the gilded chambers of palaces; indeed, more so, as in the
former place I can always add to my store of useful information, whereas
in the latter, ennui frequently assails me.  I had, moreover, been
thinking for some time past of paying a visit to the prison, partly in
the hope of being able to say a few words of Christian instruction to the
criminals, and partly with the view of making certain investigations in
the robber language of Spain, a subject about which I had long felt much
curiosity; indeed, I had already made application for admittance into the
Carcel de la Corte, {131} but had found the matter surrounded with
difficulties, as my friend Ofalia would have said.  I rather rejoiced,
then, in the opportunity which was now about to present itself of
entering the prison, not in the character of a visitor for an hour, but
as a martyr, and as one suffering in the holy cause of religion.  I was
determined, however, to disappoint my enemies for that day at least, and
to render null the threat of the _alguazil_, that I should be imprisoned
within twenty-four hours.  I therefore took up my abode for the rest of
the day in a celebrated French tavern in the Calle del Caballero de
Gracia, which, as it was one of the most fashionable and public places in
Madrid, I naturally concluded was one of the last where the _corregidor_
would think of seeking me.

About ten at night, Maria Diaz, to whom I had communicated the place of
my retreat, arrived with her son, Juan Lopez.  “_O_, _señor_,” said she,
on seeing me, “they are already in quest of you; the _alcalde_ of the
_barrio_, with a large _comitiva_ of _alguazils_ and such-like people,
have just been at our house with a warrant for your imprisonment from the
_corregidor_.  They searched the whole house, and were much disappointed
at not finding you.  Woe is me, what will they do when they catch you?”
“Be under no apprehensions, good Maria,” said I; “you forget that I am an
Englishman, and so it seems does the _corregidor_.  Whenever he catches
me, depend upon it he will be glad enough to let me go.  For the present,
however, we will permit him to follow his own course, for the spirit of
folly seems to have seized him.”

I slept at the tavern, and in the forenoon of the following day repaired
to the Embassy, where I had an interview with Sir George, to whom I
related every circumstance of the affair.  He said that he could scarcely
believe that the _corregidor_ entertained any serious intentions of
imprisoning me; in the first place, because I had committed no offence;
and in the second, because I was not under the jurisdiction of that
functionary, but under that of the captain-general, who was alone
empowered to decide upon matters which relate to foreigners, and before
whom I must be brought in the presence of the consul of my nation.
“However,” said he, “there is no knowing to what length these jacks in
office may go.  I therefore advise you, if you are under any
apprehension, to remain as my guest at the Embassy for a few days, for
here you will be quite safe.”  I assured him that I was under no
apprehension whatever, having long been accustomed to adventures of this
kind.  From the apartment of Sir George I proceeded to that of the first
secretary of embassy, Mr. Southern, with whom I entered into
conversation.  I had scarcely been there a minute when my servant
Francisco rushed in, much out of breath, and in violent agitation,
exclaiming in Basque, “_Niri jauna_, the _alguaziloac_, and the
_corchetoac_, and all the other _lapurrac_ {133} are again at the house.
They seem half mad, and not being able to find you, are searching your
papers, thinking, I suppose, that you are hid among them.”  Mr. Southern
here interrupting him, inquired of me what all this meant.  Whereupon I
told him, saying at the same time, that it was my intention to proceed at
once to my lodgings.  “But perhaps these fellows will arrest you,” said
Mr. S., “before we can interfere.”  “I must take my chance as to that,” I
replied, and presently afterwards departed.

Ere, however, I had reached the middle of the street of Alcalá, two
fellows came up to me, and telling me that I was their prisoner,
commanded me to follow them to the office of the _corregidor_.  They
were, in fact, _alguazils_, who, suspecting that I might enter or come
out of the Embassy, had stationed themselves in the neighbourhood.  I
instantly turned round to Francisco, and told him in Basque to return to
the Embassy, and to relate there to the secretary what had just occurred.
The poor fellow set off like lightning, turning half round, however, to
shake his fist, and to vent a Basque execration at the two _lapurrac_, as
he called the _alguazils_.

They conducted me to the _gefatura_, or office of the _corregidor_, where
they ushered me into a large room, and motioned me to sit down on a
wooden bench.  They then stationed themselves on each side of me.  There
were at least twenty people in the apartment beside ourselves, evidently
from their appearance officials of the establishment.  They were all well
dressed, for the most part in the French fashion, in round hats, coats,
and pantaloons, and yet they looked what in reality they were, Spanish
_alguazils_, spies, and informers: and Gil Blas, could he have waked from
his sleep of two centuries, would, notwithstanding the change of fashion,
have had no difficulty in recognizing them.  They glanced at me as they
stood lounging about the room; then gathered themselves together in a
circle and began conversing in whispers.  I heard one of them say, “He
understands the seven gypsy jargons.” {134a}  Then presently another,
evidently from his language an Andalusian, said, “_Es muy diestro_,
{134b} and can ride a horse and dart a knife full as well as if he came
from my own country.”  Thereupon they all turned round and regarded me
with a species of interest, evidently mingled with respect, which most
assuredly they would not have exhibited had they conceived that I was
merely an honest man bearing witness in a righteous cause.

I waited patiently on the bench at least one hour, expecting every moment
to be summoned before my lord the _corregidor_.  I suppose, however, that
I was not deemed worthy of being permitted to see so exalted a personage,
for at the end of that time, an elderly man—one, however, of the
_alguazil_ genus—came into the room and advanced directly towards me.
“Stand up,” said he.  I obeyed.  “What is your name?” he demanded.  I
told him.  “Then,” he replied, exhibiting a paper which he held in his
hand, “_señor_, it is the will of his excellency the _corregidor_, that
you be forthwith sent to prison.”

He looked at me steadfastly as he spoke, perhaps expecting that I should
sink into the earth at the formidable name of prison; I, however, only
smiled.  He then delivered the paper, which I suppose was the warrant for
my committal, into the hand of one of my two captors, and obeying a sign
which they made, I followed them.

I subsequently learned that the secretary of legation, Mr. Southern, had
been despatched by Sir George, as soon as the latter had obtained
information of my arrest, and had been waiting at the office during the
greater part of the time that I was there.  He had demanded an audience
of the _corregidor_, in which he had intended to have remonstrated with
him, and pointed out to him the danger to which he was subjecting himself
by the rash step which he was taking.  The sullen functionary, however,
had refused to see him, thinking, perhaps, that to listen to reason would
be a dereliction of dignity; by this conduct, however, he most
effectually served me, as no person, after such a specimen of
uncalled-for insolence, felt disposed to question the violence and
injustice which had been practised towards me.

The _alguazils_ conducted me across the Plaza Mayor to the Carcel de la
Corte, or prison of the court, as it is called.  Whilst going across the
square, I remembered that this was the place where, in “the good old
times,” the Inquisition of Spain was in the habit of holding its solemn
_Autos da fé_, and I cast my eye to the balcony of the city hall, where
at the most solemn of them all, the last of the Austrian line in Spain
sat, and after some thirty heretics, of both sexes, had been burnt by
fours and by fives, wiped his face, perspiring with heat, and black with
smoke, and calmly inquired, “_No hay mas_?” {136} for which exemplary
proof of patience he was much applauded by his priests and confessors,
who subsequently poisoned him.  “And here am I,” thought I, “who have
done more to wound Popery than all the poor Christian martyrs that ever
suffered in this accursed square, merely sent to prison, from which I am
sure to be liberated in a few days, with credit and applause.  Pope of
Rome!  I believe you to be as malicious as ever, but you are sadly
deficient in power.  You are become paralytic, _Batuschca_, and your club
has degenerated to a crutch.”

We arrived at the prison, which stands in a narrow street not far from
the great square.  We entered a dusky passage, at the end of which was a
wicket door.  My conductors knocked, a fierce visage peered through the
wicket; there was an exchange of words, and in a few moments I found
myself within the prison of Madrid, in a kind of corridor which
overlooked at a considerable altitude what appeared to be a court, from
which arose a hubbub of voices, and occasionally wild shouts and cries.
Within the corridor, which served as a kind of office, were several
people; one of them sat behind a desk, and to him the _alguazils_ went
up, and after discoursing with him some time in low tones, delivered the
warrant into his hands.  He perused it with attention, then rising he
advanced to me.  What a figure!  He was about forty years of age, and his
height might have amounted to some six feet two inches, had he not been
curved much after the fashion of the letter S.  No weazel ever appeared
lanker, and he looked as if a breath of air would have been sufficient to
blow him away.  His face might certainly have been called handsome, had
it not been for its extraordinary and portentous meagreness; his nose was
like an eagle’s bill, his teeth white as ivory, his eyes black—oh, how
black!—and fraught with a strange expression; his skin was dark, and the
hair of his head like the plumage of the raven.  A deep quiet smile dwelt
continually on his features; but with all the quiet it was a cruel smile,
such a one as would have graced the countenance of a Nero.  “_Mais en
revanche personne n’étoit plus honnête_”.  “_Caballero_,” said he, “allow
me to introduce myself to you as the _alcayde_ of this prison.  I
perceive by this paper that I am to have the honour of your company for a
time, a short time doubtless, beneath this roof; I hope you will banish
every apprehension from your mind.  I am charged to treat you with all
the respect which is due to the illustrious nation to which you belong,
and which a cavalier of such exalted category as yourself is entitled to
expect.  A needless charge, it is true, as I should only have been too
happy of my own accord to have afforded you every comfort and attention.
_Caballero_, you will rather consider yourself here as a guest than a
prisoner; you will be permitted to roam over every part of this house
whenever you think proper.  You will find matters here not altogether
below the attention of a philosophic mind.  Pray issue whatever commands
you may think fit to the turnkeys and officials, even as if they were
your own servants, I will now have the honour of conducting you to your
apartment—the only one at present unoccupied.  We invariably reserve it
for cavaliers of distinction.  I am happy to say that my orders are again
in consonance with my inclination.  No charge whatever will be made for
it to you, though the daily hire of it is not unfrequently an ounce of
gold.  I entreat you, therefore, to follow me, cavalier, who am at all
times and seasons the most obedient and devoted of your servants.”  Here
he took off his hat and bowed profoundly.

Such was the speech of the _alcayde_ of the prison of Madrid; a speech
delivered in pure sonorous Castilian, with calmness, gravity, and almost
with dignity; a speech which would have done honour to a gentleman of
high birth, to Monsieur Bassompierre, of the Old Bastile, receiving an
Italian prince, or the High Constable of the Tower an English duke
attainted of high treason.  Now, who in the name of wonder was this
_alcayde_?

One of the greatest rascals in all Spain.  A fellow who had more than
once, by his grasping cupidity, and by his curtailment of the miserable
rations of the prisoners, caused an insurrection in the court below, only
to be repressed by bloodshed, and by summoning military aid; a fellow of
low birth, who, only five years previous, had been _drummer_ to a band of
royalist volunteers!

But Spain is the land of extraordinary characters.

I followed the _alcayde_ to the end of the corridor, where was a massive
grated door, on each side of which sat a grim fellow of a turnkey.  The
door was opened, and turning to the right we proceeded down another
corridor, in which were many people walking about, whom I subsequently
discovered to be prisoners like myself, but for political offences.  At
the end of this corridor, which extended the whole length of the _patio_,
we turned into another, and the first apartment in this was the one
destined for myself.  It was large and lofty, but totally destitute of
every species of furniture with the exception of a huge wooden pitcher,
intended to hold my daily allowance of water.  “_Caballero_,” said the
_alcayde_, “the apartment is without furniture, as you see.  It is
already the third hour of the _tarde_, I therefore advise you to lose no
time in sending to your lodgings for a bed and whatever you may stand in
need of; the _llavero_ shall do your bidding.  _Caballero_, adieu, till I
see you again.”

I followed his advice, and, writing a note in pencil to Maria Diaz, I
despatched it by the _llavero_, and then, sitting down on the wooden
pitcher, I fell into a reverie, which continued for a considerable time.

Night arrived, and so did Maria Diaz, attended by two porters and
Francisco, all loaded with furniture.  A lamp was lighted, charcoal was
kindled in the _brasero_, and the prison gloom was to a certain degree
dispelled.

I now left my seat on the pitcher, and sitting down on a chair, proceeded
to despatch some wine and viands, which my good hostess had not forgotten
to bring with her.  Suddenly Mr. Southern entered.  He laughed heartily
at finding me engaged in the manner I have described.  “B---,” said he,
“you are the man to get through the world, for you appear to take all
things coolly, and as matters of course.  That, however, which most
surprises me with respect to you is, your having so many friends; here
you are in prison, surrounded by people ministering to your comforts.
Your very servant is your friend, instead of being your worst enemy, as
is usually the case.  That Basque of yours is a noble fellow.  I shall
never forget how he spoke for you, when he came running to the Embassy to
inform us of your arrest.  He interested both Sir George and myself in
the highest degree: should you ever wish to part with him, I hope you
will give me the refusal of his services.  But now to other matters.”  He
then informed me that Sir George had already sent in an official note to
Ofalia, demanding redress for such a wanton outrage on the person of a
British subject.  “You must remain in prison,” said he, “to-night, but
depend upon it that to-morrow, if you are disposed, you may quit in
triumph.”  “I am by no means disposed for any such thing,” I replied.
“They have put me in prison for their pleasure, and I intend to remain
here for my own.”  “If the confinement is not irksome to you,” said Mr.
Southern, “I think, indeed, it will be your wisest plan; the government
have committed themselves sadly with regard to you; and, to speak
plainly, we are by no means sorry for it.  They have on more than one
occasion treated ourselves very cavalierly, and we have now, if you
continue firm, an excellent opportunity of humbling their insolence.  I
will instantly acquaint Sir George with your determination, and you shall
hear from us early on the morrow.”  He then bade me farewell; and
flinging myself on my bed, I was soon asleep in the prison of Madrid.




CHAPTER XL.


Ofalia—The Juez—Carcel de la Corte—Sunday in Prison—Robber Dress—Father
and Son—Characteristic Behaviour—The Frenchman—Prison Allowance—Valley of
the Shadow—Pure Castilian—Balseiro—The Cave—Robber Glory.

Ofalia quickly perceived that the imprisonment of a British subject in a
manner so illegal as that which had attended my own was likely to be
followed by rather serious consequences.  Whether he himself had at all
encouraged the _corregidor_ in his behaviour towards me, it is impossible
to say; the probability is that he had not: the latter, however, was an
officer of his own appointing, for whose actions himself and the
government were to a certain extent responsible.  Sir George had already
made a very strong remonstrance upon the subject, and had even gone so
far as to state in an official note that he should desist from all
farther communication with the Spanish government until full and ample
reparation had been afforded me for the violence to which I had been
subjected.  Ofalia’s reply was, that immediate measures should be taken
for my liberation, and that it would be my own fault if I remained in
prison.  He forthwith ordered a _juez de la primera instancia_, {141} a
kind of solicitor-general, to wait upon me, who was instructed to hear my
account of the affair, and then to dismiss me with an admonition to be
cautious for the future.  My friends of the Embassy, however, had advised
me how to act in such a case.  Accordingly, when the _juez_ on the second
night of my imprisonment made his appearance at the prison, and summoned
me before him, I went, but on his proceeding to question me, I absolutely
refused to answer.  “I deny your right to put any questions to me,” said
I; “I entertain, however, no feelings of disrespect to the government or
to yourself, _Caballero Juez_; but I have been illegally imprisoned.  So
accomplished a jurist as yourself cannot fail to be aware that, according
to the laws of Spain, I, as a foreigner, could not be committed to prison
for the offence with which I had been charged, without previously being
conducted before the captain-general of this royal city, whose duty it is
to protect foreigners, and see that the laws of hospitality are not
violated in their persons.

_Juez_.—Come, come, _Don Jorge_, I see what you are aiming at; but listen
to reason: I will not now speak to you as a _juez_, but as a friend who
wishes you well, and who entertains a profound reverence for the British
nation.  This is a foolish affair altogether; I will not deny that the
political chief acted somewhat hastily on the information of a person not
perhaps altogether worthy of credit.  No great damage, however, has been
done to you, and to a man of the world like yourself, a little adventure
of this kind is rather calculated to afford amusement than anything else.
Now be advised, forget what has happened; you know that it is the part
and duty of a Christian to forgive.  So, _Don Jorge_, I advise you to
leave this place forthwith; I dare say you are getting tired of it.  You
are this moment free to depart; repair at once to your lodgings, where I
promise you that no one shall be permitted to interrupt you for the
future.  It is getting late, and the prison doors will speedily be closed
for the night.  _Vamos_, _Don Jorge_, _á la casa_, _á la posada_! {143a}

_Myself_.—“But Paul said unto them, they have beaten us openly
uncondemned, being Romans, and have cast us into prison; and now do they
thrust us out privily?  Nay, verily: but let them come themselves and
fetch us out.” {143b}

I then bowed to the _juez_, who shrugged his shoulders and took snuff.
On leaving the apartment I turned to the _alcayde_, who stood at the
door: “Take notice,” said I, “that I will not quit this prison till I
have received full satisfaction for being sent hither uncondemned.  You
may expel me if you please, but any attempt to do so shall be resisted
with all the bodily strength of which I am possessed.”

“Your worship is right,” said the _alcayde_, with a bow, but in a low
voice.

Sir George, on hearing of this affair, sent me a letter in which he
highly commended my resolution not to leave the prison for the present,
at the same time begging me to let him know if there were anything that
he could send me from the Embassy to render my situation more tolerable.

I will now leave for the present my own immediate affairs, and proceed to
give some account of the prison of Madrid and its inmates.

The Carcel de la Corte, where I now was, though the principal prison of
Madrid, is one which certainly in no respect does credit to the capital
of Spain.  Whether it was originally intended for the purpose to which it
is at present applied, I have no opportunity of knowing.  The chances,
however, are, that it was not; indeed it was not till of late years that
the practice of building edifices expressly intended and suited for the
incarceration of culprits came at all into vogue.  Castles, convents, and
deserted palaces, have in all countries, at different times, been
converted into prisons, which practice still holds good upon the greater
part of the continent, and more particularly in Spain and Italy, which
accounts to a certain extent for the insecurity of the prisons, and the
misery, want of cleanliness, and unhealthiness which in general pervade
them.

I shall not attempt to enter into a particular description of the prison
of Madrid; indeed it would be quite impossible to describe so irregular
and rambling an edifice.  Its principal features consisted of two courts,
the one behind the other: intended for the great body of the prisoners to
take air and recreation in.  Three large vaulted dungeons, or
_calabozos_, occupied three sides of this court, immediately below the
corridors of which I have already spoken.  These dungeons were roomy
enough to contain respectively from one hundred to one hundred and fifty
prisoners, who were at night secured therein with lock and bar, but
during the day were permitted to roam about the courts as they thought
fit.  The second court was considerably larger than the first, though it
contained but two dungeons, horribly filthy and disgusting places; this
second court being used for the reception of the lower grades of thieves.
Of the two dungeons one was, if possible, yet more horrible than the
other; it was called the _gallineria_, or chicken-coop, and within it
every night were pent up the young fry of the prison, wretched boys from
seven to fifteen years of age, the greater part almost in a state of
nudity.  The common bed of all the inmates of these dungeons was the
ground, between which and their bodies nothing intervened, save
occasionally a _manta_ or horse-cloth, or perhaps a small mattress; this
latter luxury was, however, of exceedingly rare occurrence.

Besides the _calabozos_ connected with the courts were other dungeons in
various parts of the prison; some of them quite dark, intended for the
reception of those whom it might be deemed expedient to treat with
peculiar severity.  There was likewise a ward set apart for females.
Connected with the principal corridor were many small apartments, where
resided prisoners confined for debt or for political offences.  And,
lastly, there was a small _capilla_, or chapel, in which prisoners cast
for death passed the last three days of their existence in company of
their ghostly advisers.

I shall not soon forget my first Sunday in prison, Sunday is the gala day
of the prison, at least of that of Madrid, and whatever robber finery is
to be found within it is sure to be exhibited on that day of holiness.
There is not a set of people in the world more vain than robbers in
general, more fond of cutting a figure whenever they have an opportunity,
and of attracting the eyes of their fellow-creatures by the gallantry of
their appearance.  The famous Sheppard of olden times delighted in
sporting a suit of Genoese velvet, and when he appeared in public
generally wore a silver-hilted sword at his side; whilst Vaux and
Hayward, heroes of a later day, were the best dressed men on the _pavé_
of London.  Many of the Italian bandits go splendidly decorated, and the
very gypsy robber has a feeling for the charms of dress; the cap alone of
the Haram Pasha, or leader of the cannibal gypsy band which infested
Hungary towards the conclusion of the last century, was adorned with gold
and jewels to the value of four thousand guilders.  Observe, ye vain and
frivolous, how vanity and crime harmonize!  The Spanish robbers are as
fond of this species of display as their brethren of other lands, and,
whether in prison or out of it, are never so happy as when, decked out in
a profusion of white linen, they can loll in the sun, or walk jauntily up
and down.

Snow-white linen, indeed, constitutes the principal feature in the robber
foppery of Spain.  Neither coat nor jacket is worn over the shirt, the
sleeves of which are wide and flowing, only a waistcoat of green or blue
silk with an abundance of silver buttons, which are intended more for
show than use, as the vest is seldom buttoned.  Then there are wide
trousers, something after the Turkish fashion; around the waist is a
crimson _faja_, or girdle, and about the head is tied a gaudily 
handkerchief from the loom of Barcelona; light pumps and silk stockings
complete the robber’s array.  This dress is picturesque enough, and well
adapted to the fine sunshiny weather of the Peninsula; there is a dash of
effeminacy about it, however, hardly in keeping with the robber’s
desperate trade.  It must not, however, be supposed that it is every
robber who can indulge in all this luxury; there are various grades of
thieves, some poor enough, with scarcely a rag to cover them.  Perhaps in
the crowded prison of Madrid there were not more than twenty who
exhibited the dress which I have attempted to describe above; these were
_jente de reputacion_, {146} tip-top thieves, mostly young fellows, who,
though they had no money of their own, were supported in prison by their
_majas_ and _amigas_, {147a} females of a certain class, who form
friendships with robbers, and whose glory and delight it is to administer
to the vanity of these fellows with the wages of their own shame and
abasement.  These females supplied their _cortejos_ with the snowy linen,
washed, perhaps, by their own hands in the waters of the Manzanares, for
the display of the Sunday, when they would themselves make their
appearance, dressed _à la maja_, and from the corridors would gaze with
admiring eyes upon the robbers vapouring about in the court below.

Amongst those of the snowy linen who most particularly attracted my
attention, were a father and son; the former was a tall athletic figure
of about thirty, by profession a housebreaker, and celebrated throughout
Madrid for the peculiar dexterity which he exhibited in his calling.  He
was now in prison for a rather atrocious murder committed in the dead of
night, in a house at Caramanchel, {147b} in which his only accomplice was
his son, a child under seven years of age.  “The apple,” as the Danes
say, “had not fallen far from the tree;” the imp was in every respect the
counterpart of the father, though in miniature.  He, too, wore the robber
shirt-sleeves, the robber waistcoat with the silver buttons, the robber
kerchief round his brow, and, ridiculous enough, a long Manchegan knife
in the crimson _faja_.  He was evidently the pride of the ruffian father,
who took all imaginable care of this chick of the gallows, would dandle
him on his knee, and would occasionally take the cigar from his own
moustached lips and insert it in the urchin’s mouth.  The boy was the pet
of the court, for the father was one of the _valientes_ of the prison,
and those who feared his prowess, and wished to pay their court to him,
were always fondling the child.  What an enigma is this world of ours!
How dark and mysterious are the sources of what is called crime and
virtue!  If that infant wretch become eventually a murderer like his
father, is he to blame?  Fondled by robbers, already dressed as a robber,
born of a robber, whose own history was perhaps similar.  Is it right? . . .

Oh, man, man, seek not to dive into the mystery of moral good and evil;
confess thyself a worm, cast thyself on the earth, and murmur with thy
lips in the dust, Jesus, Jesus!

What most surprised me with respect to the prisoners was their good
behaviour; I call it good when all things are taken into consideration,
and when I compare it with that of the general class of prisoners in
foreign lands.  They had their occasional bursts of wild gaiety, their
occasional quarrels, which they were in the habit of settling in a corner
of the interior court with their long knives; {148} the result not
unfrequently being death, or a dreadful gash in the face or the abdomen;
but, upon the whole, their conduct was infinitely superior to what might
have been expected from the inmates of such a place.  Yet this was not
the result of coercion, or any particular care which was exercised over
them; for perhaps in no part of the world are prisoners so left to
themselves and so utterly neglected as in Spain: the authorities having
no farther anxiety about them than to prevent their escape; not the
slightest attention being paid to their moral conduct, and not a thought
bestowed upon their health, comfort, or mental improvement, whilst within
the walls.  Yet in this prison of Madrid, and I may say in Spanish
prisons in general, for I have been an inmate of more than one, {149} the
ears of the visitor are never shocked with horrid blasphemy and
obscenity, as in those of some other countries, and more particularly in
civilized France; nor are his eyes outraged and himself insulted, as he
would assuredly be, were he to look down upon the courts from the
galleries of the Bicêtre.  And yet in this prison of Madrid were some of
the most desperate characters in Spain; ruffians who had committed acts
of cruelty and atrocity sufficient to make the flesh shudder.  But
gravity and sedateness are the leading characteristics of the Spaniards,
and the very robber, except in those moments when he is engaged in his
occupation, and then no one is more sanguinary, pitiless, and wolfishly
eager for booty, is a being who can be courteous and affable, and who
takes pleasure in conducting himself with sobriety and decorum.

Happily, perhaps, for me, that my acquaintance with the ruffians of Spain
commenced and ended in the towns about which I wandered, and in the
prisons into which I was cast for the Gospel’s sake, and that,
notwithstanding my long and frequent journeys, I never came in contact
with them on the road or in the _despoblado_.

The most ill-conditioned being in the prison was a Frenchman, though
probably the most remarkable.  He was about sixty years of age, of the
middle stature, but thin and meagre, like most of his countrymen; he had
a villanously formed head, according to all the rules of craniology, and
his features were full of evil expression.  He wore no hat, and his
clothes, though in appearance nearly new, were of the coarsest
description.  He generally kept aloof from the rest, and would stand for
hours together leaning against the walls with his arms folded, glaring
sullenly on what was passing before him.  He was not one of the professed
_valientes_, for his age prevented his assuming so distinguished a
character, and yet all the rest appeared to hold him in a certain awe:
perhaps they feared his tongue, which he occasionally exerted in pouring
forth withering curses upon those who incurred his displeasure.  He spoke
perfectly good Spanish, and to my great surprise excellent Basque, in
which he was in the habit of conversing with Francisco, who, lolling from
the window of my apartment, would exchange jests and witticisms with the
prisoners in the court below, with whom he was a great favourite.

One day when I was in the _patio_, to which I had free admission whenever
I pleased, by permission of the _alcayde_, I went up to the Frenchman,
who stood in his usual posture, leaning against the wall, and offered him
a cigar.  I do not smoke myself, but it will never do to mix among the
lower classes of Spain unless you have a cigar to present occasionally.
The man glared at me ferociously for a moment, and appeared to be on the
point of refusing my offer with perhaps a hideous execration.  I repeated
it, however, pressing my hand against my heart, whereupon suddenly the
grim features relaxed, and with a genuine French grimace, and a low bow,
he accepted the cigar, exclaiming, “_Ah_, _monsieur_, _pardon_, _mais
c’est faire trop d’honneur à un pauvre diable comme moi_.”

“Not at all,” said I, “we are both fellow-prisoners in a foreign land,
and being so we ought to countenance each other.  I hope that whenever I
have need of your co-operation in this prison you will afford it me.”

“_Ah_, _monsieur_,” exclaimed the Frenchman in rapture, “_vous avez bien
raison_; _il faut que les étrangers se donnent la main dans ce . . . pays
de barbares_.  _Tenez_,” he added in a whisper, “if you have any plan for
escaping, and require my assistance, I have an arm and a knife at your
service: you may trust me, and that is more than you could any of these
_sacrées gens ici_,” glancing fiercely round at his fellow-prisoners.

“You appear to be no friend to Spain and the Spaniards,” said I.  “I
conclude that you have experienced injustice at their hands.  For what
have they immured you in this place?”

“_Pour rien du tout_, _c’est à dire pour une bagatelle_; but what can you
expect from such animals?  For what are you imprisoned?  Did I not hear
say for gypsyism and sorcery?”

“Perhaps you are here for your opinions?”

“_Ah_, _mon Dieu_, _non_; _je ne suis pas homme à semblable betise_.  I
have no opinions.  _Je faisois . . . mais ce n’importe_; _je me trouve
ici_, _où je crève de faim_.”

“I am sorry to see a brave man in such a distressed condition,” said I;
“have you nothing to subsist upon beyond the prison allowance?  Have you
no friends?”

“Friends in this country?  You mock me; here one has no friends, unless
one buy them.  I am bursting with hunger.  Since I have been here I have
sold the clothes off my back, that I might eat, for the prison allowance
will not support nature, and of half of that we are robbed by the _Batu_,
as they called the barbarian of a governor.  _Les haillons_ which now
cover me were given by two or three devotees who sometimes visit here.  I
would sell them if they would fetch aught.  I have not a _sou_, and for
want of a few crowns I shall be garroted within a month unless I can
escape, though, as I told you before, I have done nothing, a mere
bagatelle; but the worst crimes in Spain are poverty and misery.”

“I have heard you speak Basque; are you from French Biscay?”

“I am from Bordeaux, _monsieur_; but I have lived much on the Landes and
in Biscay, _travaillant à mon métier_.  I see by your look that you wish
to know my history.  I shall not tell it you.  It contains nothing that
is remarkable.  See, I have smoked out your cigar; you may give me
another, and add a dollar if you please, _nous sommes crevés ici de
faim_.  I would not say as much to a Spaniard, but I have a respect for
your countrymen; I know much of them; I have met them at Maida and the
other place.” {152}

“Nothing remarkable in his history!”  Why, or I greatly err, one chapter
of his life, had it been written, would have unfolded more of the wild
and wonderful than fifty volumes of what are in general called adventures
and hairbreadth escapes by land and sea.  A soldier! what a tale could
that man have told of marches and retreats, of battles lost and won,
towns sacked, convents plundered! perhaps he had seen the flames of
Moscow ascending to the clouds, and had “tried his strength with nature
in the wintry desert,” pelted by the snowstorm, and bitten by the
tremendous cold of Russia.  And what could he mean by plying his trade in
Biscay and Landes, but that he had been a robber in those wild regions,
of which the latter is more infamous for brigandage and crime than any
other part of the French territory?  Nothing remarkable in his history!
then what history in the world contains aught that is remarkable?

I gave him the cigar and dollar.  He received them, and then once more
folding his arms, leaned back against the wall, and appeared to sink
gradually into one of his reveries.  I looked him in the face and spoke
to him, but he did not seem either to hear or see me.  His mind was
perhaps wandering in that dreadful valley of the shadow, into which the
children of earth, whilst living, occasionally find their way: that
dreadful region where there is no water, where hope dwelleth not, where
nothing lives but the undying worm.  This valley is the facsimile of
hell, and he who has entered it has experienced here on earth for a time
what the spirits of the condemned are doomed to suffer through ages
without end.

He was executed about a month from this time.  The bagatelle for which he
was confined was robbery and murder by the following strange device.  In
concert with two others, he hired a large house in an unfrequented part
of the town, to which place he would order tradesmen to convey valuable
articles, which were to be paid for on delivery; those who attended paid
for their credulity with the loss of their lives and property.  Two or
three had fallen into the snare.  I wished much to have had some private
conversation with this desperate man, and in consequence begged of the
_alcayde_ to allow him to dine with me in my own apartment; whereupon
Monsieur Bassompierre, for so I will take the liberty of calling the
governor, his real name having escaped my memory, took off his hat, and,
with his usual smile and bow, replied in purest Castilian, “English
cavalier, and I hope I may add friend, pardon me, that it is quite out of
my power to gratify your request, founded, I have no doubt, on the most
admirable sentiments of philosophy.  Any of the other gentlemen beneath
my care shall, at any time you desire it, be permitted to wait upon you
in your apartment.  I will even go so far as to cause their irons, if
irons they wear, to be knocked off in order that they may partake of your
refection with that comfort which is seemly and convenient: but to the
gentleman in question I must object; he is the most evil disposed of the
whole of this family, and would most assuredly breed a _funcion_ either
in your apartment or in the corridor, by an attempt to escape.  Cavalier,
_me pesa_, {154} but I cannot accede to your request.  But with respect
to any other gentleman, I shall be most happy, even Balseiro, who, though
strange things are told of him, still knows how to comport himself, and
in whose behaviour there is something both of formality and politeness,
shall this day share your hospitality if you desire it, cavalier.”

Of Balseiro I have already had occasion to speak in the former part of
this narrative.  He was now confined in an upper story of the prison, in
a strong room, with several other malefactors.  He had been found guilty
of aiding and assisting one Pepe Candelas, a thief of no inconsiderable
renown, in a desperate robbery perpetrated in open daylight upon no less
a personage than the queen’s milliner, a Frenchwoman, whom they bound in
her own shop, from which they took goods and money to the amount of five
or six thousand dollars.  Candelas had already expiated his crime on the
scaffold, but Balseiro, who was said to be by far the worst ruffian of
the two, had by dint of money, an ally which his comrade did not possess,
contrived to save his own life; the punishment of death, to which he was
originally sentenced, having been commuted to twenty years’ hard labour
in the _presidio_ of Malaga.  I visited this worthy, and conversed with
him for some time through the wicket of the dungeon.  He recognized me,
and reminded me of the victory which I had once obtained over him, in the
trial of our respective skill in the crabbed _Gitano_, at which Sevilla
the bull-fighter was umpire.

Upon my telling him that I was sorry to see him in such a situation, he
replied that it was an affair of no manner of consequence, as within six
weeks he should be conducted to the _presidio_, from which, with the
assistance of a few ounces distributed amongst the guards, he could at
any time escape.  “But whither would you flee?” I demanded.  “Can I not
flee to the land of the Moors,” replied Balseiro, “or to the English in
the camp of Gibraltar; or, if I prefer it, cannot I return to this
_foro_, and live as I have hitherto done, _choring_ the _gachos_; {155}
what is to hinder me?  Madrid is large, and Balseiro has plenty of
friends, especially among the _lumias_,” he added, with a smile.  I spoke
to him of his ill-fated accomplice Candelas; whereupon his face assumed a
horrible expression.  “I hope he is in torment,” exclaimed the robber.
The friendship of the unrighteous is never of long duration; the two
worthies had, it seems, quarrelled in prison; Candelas having accused the
other of bad faith and an undue appropriation to his own use of the
_corpus delicti_ in various robberies which they had committed in
company.

I cannot refrain from relating the subsequent history of this Balseiro.
Shortly after my own liberation, too impatient to wait until the
_presidio_ should afford him a chance of regaining his liberty, he, in
company with some other convicts, broke through the roof of the prison
and escaped.  He instantly resumed his former habits, committing several
daring robberies, both within and without the walls of Madrid.  I now
come to his last, I may call it his master crime, a singular piece of
atrocious villany.  Dissatisfied with the proceeds of street robbery and
house-breaking, he determined upon a bold stroke, by which he hoped to
acquire money sufficient to support him in some foreign land in luxury
and splendour.

There was a certain comptroller of the queen’s household, by name
Gabiria, {156} a Basque by birth, and a man of immense possessions: this
individual had two sons, handsome boys, between twelve and fourteen years
of age, whom I had frequently seen, and indeed conversed with, in my
walks on the bank of the Manzanares, which was their favourite promenade.
These children, at the time of which I am speaking, were receiving their
education at a certain seminary in Madrid.  Balseiro, being well
acquainted with the father’s affection for his children, determined to
make it subservient to his own rapacity.  He formed a plan, which was
neither more nor less than to steal the children, and not to restore them
to their parent until he had received an enormous ransom.  This plan was
partly carried into execution: two associates of Balseiro, well dressed,
drove up to the door of the seminary where the children were, and, by
means of a forged letter, purporting to be written by the father, induced
the schoolmaster to permit the boys to accompany them for a country
jaunt, as they pretended.  About five leagues from Madrid Balseiro had a
cave, in a wild unfrequented spot between the Escurial and a village
called Torre Lodones: to this cave the children were conducted, where
they remained in durance under the custody of the two accomplices;
Balseiro in the mean time remaining in Madrid for the purpose of
conducting negociations with the father.  The father, however, was a man
of considerable energy, and instead of acceding to the terms of the
ruffian, communicated in a letter, instantly took the most vigorous
measures for the recovery of his children.  Horse and foot were sent out
to scour the country, and in less than a week the children were found
near the cave, having been abandoned by their keepers, who had taken
fright on hearing of the decided measures which had been resorted to;
they were, however, speedily arrested and identified by the boys as their
ravishers.  Balseiro, perceiving that Madrid was becoming too hot to hold
him, attempted to escape, but whether to the camp of Gibraltar or to the
land of the Moor, I know not; he was recognized, however, at a village in
the neighbourhood of Madrid, and being apprehended, was forthwith
conducted to the capital, where he shortly after terminated his existence
on the scaffold, with his two associates; Gabiria and his children being
present at the ghastly scene, which they surveyed from a chariot at their
ease.

Such was the end of Balseiro, of whom I should certainly not have said so
much, but for the affair of the crabbed _Gitano_.  Poor wretch! he
acquired that species of immortality which is the object of the
aspirations of many a Spanish thief, whilst vapouring about in the
_patio_, dressed in the snowy linen; the rape of the children of Gabiria
made him at once the pet of the fraternity.  A celebrated robber, with
whom I was subsequently imprisoned at Seville, spoke his eulogy in the
following manner:—

“Balseiro was a very good subject, and an honest man.  He was the head of
our family, _Don Jorge_; we shall never see his like again; pity that he
did not sack the _parné_, and escape to the camp of the Moor, _Don
Jorge_.”




CHAPTER XLI.


Maria Diaz—Priestly Vituperation—Antonio’s Visit—Antonio at Service—A
Scene—Benedict Mol—Wandering in Spain—The Four Evangelien.

“Well,” said I to Maria Diaz, on the third morning after my imprisonment,
“what do the people of Madrid say to this affair of mine?”

“I do not know what the people of Madrid in general say about it,
probably they do not take much interest in it; indeed, imprisonments at
the present time are such common matters, that people seem to be quite
indifferent to them; the priests, however, are in no slight commotion,
and confess that they have committed an imprudent thing in causing you to
be arrested by their friend the _corregidor_ of Madrid.”

“How is that?” I inquired.  “Are they afraid that their friend will be
punished?”

 “Not so, _señor_,” replied Maria; “slight grief indeed would it cause
them, however great the trouble in which he had involved himself on their
account; for this description of people have no affection, and would not
care if all their friends were hanged, provided they themselves escaped.
But they say that they have acted imprudently in sending you to prison,
inasmuch as by so doing they have given you an opportunity of carrying a
plan of yours into execution.  ‘This fellow is a _bribon_,’ say they,
‘and has commenced tampering with the prisoners; they have taught him
their language, which he already speaks as well as if he were a son of
the prison.  As soon as he comes out he will publish a thieves’ Gospel,
which will be a still more dangerous affair than the gypsy one, for the
gypsies are few, but the thieves! woe is us; we shall all be
Lutheranized.  What infamy, what rascality!  It was a trick of his own.
He was always eager to get into prison, and now, in evil hour, we have
sent him there, _el bribonazo_; there will be no safety for Spain until
he is hanged; he ought to be sent to the four hells, where at his leisure
he might translate his fatal gospels into the language of the demons.’”

“I but said three words to the _alcayde_ of the prison,” said I,
“relative to the jargon used by the children of the prison.”

“Three words!  _Don Jorge_; and what may not be made out of three words?
You have lived amongst us to little purpose if you think we require more
than three words to build a system with.  Those three words about the
thieves and their tongue were quite sufficient to cause it to be reported
throughout Madrid that you had tampered with the thieves, had learnt
their language, and had written a book which was to overturn Spain, open
to the English the gates of Cadiz, give Mendizabal all the church plate
and jewels, and to Don Martin Luther the archiepiscopal palace of
Toledo.”

Late in the afternoon of rather a gloomy day, as I was sitting in the
apartment which the _alcayde_ had allotted me, I heard a rap at the door.
“Who is that?” I exclaimed.  “_C’est moi_, _mon maître_,” cried a
well-known voice, and presently in walked Antonio Buchini, dressed in the
same style as when I first introduced him to the reader, namely, in a
handsome but rather faded French surtout, vest, and pantaloons, with a
diminutive hat in one hand, and holding in the other a long and slender
cane.

“_Bon jour_, _mon maître_,” said the Greek; then, glancing around the
apartment, he continued, “I am glad to find you so well lodged.  If I
remember right, _mon maître_, we have slept in worse places during our
wanderings in Galicia and Castile.”

“You are quite right, Antonio,” I replied; “I am very comfortable.  Well,
this is kind of you to visit your ancient master, more especially now he
is in the toils; I hope, however, that by so doing you will not offend
your present employer.  His dinner hour must be at hand; why are you not
in the kitchen?”

“Of what employer are you speaking, _mon maître_?” demanded Antonio.

“Of whom should I speak but Count ---, to serve whom you abandoned me,
being tempted by an offer of a monthly salary less by four dollars than
that which I was giving you?”

“Your worship brings an affair to my remembrance which I had long since
forgotten.  I have at present no other master than yourself, _Monsieur
Georges_, for I shall always consider you as my master, though I may not
enjoy the felicity of waiting upon you.”

“You have left the Count, then,” said I, “after remaining three days in
the house, according to your usual practice.”

“Not three hours, _mon maître_,” replied Antonio; “but I will tell you
the circumstances.  Soon after I left you I repaired to the house of
_Monsieur le Comte_; I entered the kitchen, and looked about me.  I
cannot say that I had much reason to be dissatisfied with what I saw: the
kitchen was large and commodious, and everything appeared neat and in its
proper place, and the domestics civil and courteous; yet, I know not how
it was, the idea at once rushed into my mind that the house was by no
means suited to me, and that I was not destined to stay there long; so,
hanging my haversack upon a nail, and sitting down on the dresser, I
commenced singing a Greek song, as I am in the habit of doing when
dissatisfied.  The domestics came about me, asking questions.  I made
them no answer, however, and continued singing till the hour for
preparing the dinner drew nigh, when I suddenly sprang on the floor, and
was not long in thrusting them all out of the kitchen, telling them that
they had no business there at such a season.  I then at once entered upon
my functions.  I exerted myself, _mon maître_—I exerted myself, and was
preparing a repast which would have done me honour; there was, indeed,
some company expected that day, and I therefore determined to show my
employer that nothing was beyond the capacity of his Greek cook.  _Eh
bien_, _mon maître_, all was going on remarkably well, and I felt almost
reconciled to my new situation, when who should rush into the kitchen but
_le fils de la maison_, my young master, an ugly urchin of thirteen years
or thereabouts.  He bore in his hand a manchet of bread, which, after
prying about for a moment, he proceeded to dip in the pan where some
delicate woodcocks were in the course of preparation.  You know, _mon
maître_, how sensitive I am on certain points, for I am no Spaniard, but
a Greek, and have principles of honour.  Without a moment’s hesitation I
took my young master by the shoulders, and hurrying him to the door,
dismissed him in the manner which he deserved.  Squalling loudly, he
hurried away to the upper part of the house.  I continued my labours, but
ere three minutes had elapsed, I heard a dreadful confusion above stairs,
_on faisoit une horrible tintamarre_, and I could occasionally
distinguish oaths and execrations.  Presently doors were flung open, and
there was an awful rushing downstairs, a gallopade.  It was my lord the
count, his lady, and my young master, followed by a regular bevy of women
and _filles de chambre_.  Far in advance of all, however, was my lord
with a drawn sword in his hand, shouting, ‘Where is the wretch who has
dishonoured my son, where is he?  He shall die forthwith.’  I know not
how it was, _mon maître_, but I just then chanced to spill a large bowl
of _garbanzos_, which were intended for the _puchera_ of the following
day.  They were uncooked, and were as hard as marbles; these I dashed
upon the floor, and the greater part of them fell just about the doorway.
_Eh bien_, _mon maître_, in another moment in bounded the count, his eyes
sparkling like coals, and, as I have already said, with a rapier in his
hand. ‘_Tenez_, _gueux enragé_,’ he screamed, making a desperate lunge at
me; but ere the words were out of his mouth, his foot slipping on the
pease, he fell forward with great violence at his full length, and his
weapon flew out of his hand, _comme une flêche_.  You should have heard
the outcry which ensued—there was a terrible confusion: the count lay
upon the floor to all appearance stunned.  I took no notice, however,
continuing busily employed.  They at last raised him up, and assisted him
till he came to himself, though very pale and much shaken.  He asked for
his sword: all eyes were now turned upon me, and I saw that a general
attack was meditated.  Suddenly I took a large _casserole_ from the fire
in which various eggs were frying; this I held out at arm’s length,
peering at it along my arm as if I were curiously inspecting it, my right
foot advanced and the other thrown back as far as possible.  All stood
still, imagining, doubtless, that I was about to perform some grand
operation, and so I was: for suddenly the sinister leg advancing, with
one rapid _coup de pied_, I sent the _casserole_ and its contents flying
over my head, so that they struck the wall far behind me.  This was to
let them know that I had broken my staff and had shaken the dust off my
feet; so casting upon the count the peculiar glance of the Sceirote cooks
when they feel themselves insulted, and extending my mouth on either side
nearly as far as the ears, I took down my haversack and departed, singing
as I went the song of the ancient Demos, who, when dying, asked for his
supper, and water wherewith to lave his hands—

    Ό ἤλιος ἐβασίλευε, κἰ ὁ Δημος διατάζει,
    Σύρτε, παιδιά μου, ’σ τὸ νερὸν ψωμὶ νὰ φάτ' ὰπόψε. {164}

And in this manner, _mon maître_, I left the house of the Count of ---.”

_Myself_.—And a fine account you have given of yourself; by your own
confession, your behaviour was most atrocious.  Were it not for the many
marks of courage and fidelity which you have exhibited in my service, I
would from this moment hold no further communication with you.

_Antonio_.—_Mais qu’est ce que vous voudriez_, _mon maître_?  Am I not a
Greek, full of honour and sensibility?  Would you have the cooks of
Sceira and Stambul submit to be insulted here in Spain by the sons of
counts rushing into the temple with manchets of bread?  _Non_, _non_,
_mon maître_, you are too noble to require that, and what is more, _too
just_.  But we will talk of other things.  _Mon maître_, I came not
alone, there is one now waiting in the corridor anxious to speak to you.

_Myself_.—Who is it?

_Antonio_.—One whom you have met, _mon maître_, in various and strange
places.

_Myself_.—But who is it?

_Antonio_.—One who will come to a strange end, _for so it is written_.
The most extraordinary of all the Swiss, he of Saint James—_Der Schatz
Gräber_. {165}

_Myself_.—Not Benedict Mol?

“_Yaw_, _mein lieber Herr_,” said Benedict, pushing open the door which
stood ajar; “it is myself.  I met _Herr Anton_ in the street, and hearing
that you were in this place, I came with him to visit you.”

_Myself_.—And in the name of all that is singular, how is it that I see
you in Madrid again?  I thought that by this time you were returned to
your own country.

_Benedict_.—Fear not, _lieber Herr_, I shall return thither in good time;
but not on foot, but with mules and coach.  The _Schatz_ is still yonder,
waiting to be dug up, and now I have better hope than ever; plenty of
friends, plenty of money.  See you not how I am dressed, _lieber Herr_?

And verily his habiliments were of a much more respectable appearance
than any which he had sported on former occasions.  His coat and
pantaloons, which were of light green, were nearly new.  On his head he
still wore an Andalusian hat, but the present one was neither old nor
shabby, but fresh and glossy, and of immense altitude of cone; whilst in
his hand, instead of the ragged staff which I had observed at Saint James
and Oviedo, he now carried a huge bamboo rattan, surmounted by the grim
head of either a bear or lion, curiously cut out of pewter.

“You have all the appearance of a treasure-seeker returned from a
successful expedition,” I exclaimed.

“Or rather,” interrupted Antonio, “of one who has ceased to trade on his
own bottom, and now goes seeking treasures at the cost and expense of
others.”

I questioned the Swiss minutely concerning his adventures since I last
saw him, when I left him at Oviedo to pursue my route to Santander.  From
his answers I gathered that he had followed me to the latter place; he
was, however, a long time in performing the journey, being weak from
hunger and privation.  At Santander he could hear no tidings of me, and
by this time the trifle which he had received from me was completely
exhausted.  He now thought of making his way into France, but was afraid
to venture through the disturbed provinces, lest he should fall into the
hands of the Carlists, who he conceived might shoot him as a spy.  No one
relieving him at Santander, he departed and begged his way till he found
himself in some part of Aragon, but where he scarcely knew.  “My misery
was so great,” said Benedict, “that I nearly lost my senses.  Oh, the
horror of wandering about the savage hills and wide plains of Spain,
without money and without hope!  Sometimes I became desperate, when I
found myself amongst rocks and _barrancos_, perhaps after having tasted
no food from sunrise to sunset; and then I would raise my staff towards
the sky and shake it, crying, _Lieber Herr Gott_, _ach lieber Herr Gott_,
you must help me now or never; if you tarry I am lost; you must help me
now, now!  And once, when I was raving in this manner, methought I heard
a voice—nay, I am sure I heard it—sounding from the hollow of a rock,
clear and strong; and it cried, ‘_Der Schatz_, _der Schatz_, it is not
yet dug up; to Madrid, to Madrid.  The way to the _Schatz_ is through
Madrid.’  And then the thought of the _Schatz_ once more rushed into my
mind, and I reflected how happy I might be, could I but dig up the
_Schatz_.  No more begging then; no more wandering amidst horrid
mountains and deserts; so I brandished my staff, and my body and my limbs
became full of new and surprising strength, and I strode forward, and was
not long before I reached the high road; and then I begged and bettled as
I best could, until I reached Madrid.”

“And what has befallen you since you reached Madrid?” I inquired.  “Did
you find the treasure in the streets?”

On a sudden Benedict became reserved and taciturn, which the more
surprised me, as, up to the present moment, he had at all times been
remarkably communicative with respect to his affairs and prospects.  From
what I could learn from his broken hints and innuendos, it appeared that,
since his arrival at Madrid, he had fallen into the hands of certain
people who had treated him with kindness, and provided him both with
money and clothes; not from disinterested motives, however, but having an
eye to the treasure.  “They expect great things from me,” said the Swiss;
“and perhaps, after all, it would have been more profitable to have dug
up the treasure without their assistance, always provided that were
possible.”  Who his new friends were he either knew not or would not tell
me, save that they were people in power.  He said something about Queen
Christina and an oath which he had taken in the presence of a bishop on
the crucifix and the four _Evangelien_.  I thought that his head was
turned, and forbore questioning.  Just before taking his departure, he
observed, “_Lieber Herr_, pardon me for not being quite frank towards
you, to whom I owe so much, but I dare not; I am not now my own man.  It
is, moreover, an evil thing at all times to say a word about treasure
before you have secured it.  There was once a man in my own country who
dug deep into the earth until he arrived at a copper vessel which
contained a _Schatz_.  Seizing it by the handle, he merely exclaimed in
his transport, ‘I have it!’ that was enough, however: down sank the
kettle, though the handle remained in his grasp.  That was all he ever
got for his trouble and digging.  Farewell, _lieber Herr_, I shall
speedily be sent back to Saint James to dig up the _Schatz_; but I will
visit you ere I go—farewell.”




CHAPTER XLII.


Liberation from Prison—The Apology—Human Nature—The Greek’s Return—Church
of Rome—Light of Scripture—Archbishop of Toledo—An Interview—Stones of
Price—A Resolution—The Foreign Language—Benedict’s Farewell—Treasure Hunt
at Compostella—Truth and Fiction.

I remained about three weeks in the prison of Madrid, and then left it.
If I had possessed any pride, or harboured any rancour against the party
who had consigned me to durance, the manner in which I was restored to
liberty would no doubt have been highly gratifying to those evil
passions; the government having acknowledged, by a document transmitted
to Sir George, that I had been incarcerated on insufficient grounds, and
that no stigma attached itself to me from the imprisonment I had
undergone; at the same time agreeing to defray all the expenses to which
I had been subjected throughout the progress of this affair.

It moreover expressed its willingness to dismiss the individual owing to
whose information I had been first arrested, namely, the _corchete_, or
police officer, who had visited me in my apartments in the Calle de
Santiago, and behaved himself in the manner which I have described in a
former chapter.  I declined, however, to avail myself of this
condescension of the government, more especially as I was informed that
the individual in question had a wife and family, who, if he were
disgraced, would be at once reduced to want.  I moreover considered that,
in what he had done and said, he had probably only obeyed some private
orders which he had received; I therefore freely forgave him, and if he
does not retain his situation at the present moment, it is certainly no
fault of mine.

I likewise refused to accept any compensation for my expenses, which were
considerable.  It is probable that many persons in my situation would
have acted very differently in this respect, and I am far from saying
that herein I acted discreetly or laudably; but I was averse to receive
money from people such as those of which the Spanish Government was
composed, people whom I confess I heartily despised, and I was unwilling
to afford them an opportunity of saying that after they had imprisoned an
Englishman unjustly, and without a cause, he condescended to receive
money at their hands.  In a word, I confess my own weakness; I was
willing that they should continue my debtors, and have little doubt that
they had not the slightest objection to remain so: they kept their money,
and probably laughed in their sleeves at my want of common sense.

The heaviest loss which resulted from my confinement, and for which no
indemnification could be either offered or received, was in the death of
my affectionate and faithful Basque Francisco, who, having attended me
during the whole time of my imprisonment, caught the pestilential typhus
or gaol fever, which was then raging in the Carcel de la Corte, of which
he expired within a few days subsequent to my liberation. {170}  His
death occurred late one evening.  The next morning, as I was lying in bed
ruminating on my loss, and wondering of what nation my next servant would
be, I heard a noise which seemed to be that of a person employed
vigorously in cleaning boots or shoes, and at intervals a strange
discordant voice singing snatches of a song in some unknown language:
wondering who it could be, I rang the bell.

“Did you ring, _mon maître_?” said Antonio, appearing at the door with
one of his arms deeply buried in a boot.

“I certainly did ring,” said I, “but I scarcely expected that you would
have answered the summons.”

“_Mais pourquoi non_, _mon maître_?” cried Antonio.  “Who should serve
you now but myself?  _N’est pas que le sieur François est mort_?  And did
I not say, as soon as I heard of his departure, I shall return to my
functions _chez mon maître_, _Monsieur Georges_?”

“I suppose you had no other employment, and on that account you came.”

“_Au contraire_, _mon maître_,” replied the Greek, “I had just engaged
myself at the house of the Duke of Frias, {171} from whom I was to
receive ten dollars per month more than I shall accept from your worship;
but on hearing that you were without a domestic, I forthwith told the
duke, though it was late at night, that he would not suit me; and here I
am.”

“I shall not receive you in this manner,” said I; “return to the duke,
apologize for your behaviour, request your dismission in a regular way;
and then, if his grace is willing to part with you, as will most probably
be the case, I shall be happy to avail myself of your services.”

It is reasonable to expect that after having been subjected to an
imprisonment which my enemies themselves admitted to be unjust, I should
in future experience more liberal treatment at their hands than that
which they had hitherto adopted towards me.  The sole object of my
ambition at this time was to procure toleration for the sale of the
Gospel in this unhappy and distracted kingdom, and to have attained this
end I would not only have consented to twenty such imprisonments in
succession as that which I had undergone, but would gladly have
sacrificed life itself.  I soon perceived, however, that I was likely to
gain nothing by my incarceration; on the contrary, I had become an object
of personal dislike to the government since the termination of this
affair, which it was probable I had never been before; their pride and
vanity were humbled by the concessions which they had been obliged to
make in order to avoid a rupture with England.  This dislike they were
now determined to gratify, by thwarting my views as much as possible.  I
had an interview with Ofalia on the subject uppermost in my mind; I found
him morose and snappish.  “It will be for your interest to be still,”
said he; “beware! you have already thrown the whole _corte_ into
confusion; beware, I repeat; another time you may not escape so easily.”
“Perhaps not,” I replied, “and perhaps I do not wish it; it is a pleasant
thing to be persecuted for the Gospel’s sake.  I now take the liberty of
inquiring whether, if I attempt to circulate the Word of God, I am to be
interrupted.”  “Of course,” exclaimed Ofalia; “the Church forbids such
circulation.”  “I shall make the attempt, however,” I exclaimed.  “Do you
mean what you say?” demanded Ofalia, arching his eyebrows and elongating
his mouth.  “Yes,” I continued, “I shall make the attempt in every
village in Spain to which I can penetrate.”

Throughout my residence in Spain the clergy were the party from which I
experienced the strongest opposition; and it was at their instigation
that the government originally adopted those measures which prevented any
extensive circulation of the sacred volume through the land.  I shall not
detain the course of my narrative with reflections as to the state of a
Church, which, though it pretends to be founded on Scripture, would yet
keep the light of Scripture from all mankind, if possible.  But Rome is
fully aware that she is not a Christian Church, and having no desire to
become so, she acts prudently in keeping from the eyes of her followers
the page which would reveal to them the truths of Christianity.  Her
agents and minions throughout Spain exerted themselves to the utmost to
render my humble labours abortive, and to vilify the work which I was
attempting to disseminate.  All the ignorant and fanatical clergy (the
great majority) were opposed to it, and all those who were anxious to
keep on good terms with the court of Rome were loud in their cry against
it.  There was, however, one section of the clergy, a small one, it is
true, rather favourably disposed towards the circulation of the Gospel,
though by no means inclined to make any particular sacrifice for the
accomplishment of such an end: these were such as professed liberalism,
which is supposed to mean a disposition to adopt any reform, both in
civil and Church matters, which may be deemed conducive to the weal of
the country.  Not a few amongst the Spanish clergy were supporters of
this principle, or at least declared themselves so; some doubtless for
their own advancement, hoping to turn the spirit of the times to their
own personal profit: others, it is to be hoped, from conviction, and a
pure love of the principle itself.  Amongst these were to be found, at
the time of which I am speaking, several bishops.  It is worthy of
remark, however, that of all these not one but owed his office, not to
the Pope, who disowned them one and all, but to the Queen Regent, the
professed head of liberalism throughout all Spain.  It is not, therefore,
surprising that men thus circumstanced should feel rather disposed than
not to countenance any measure or scheme at all calculated to favour the
advancement of liberalism; and surely such an one was the circulation of
the Scriptures.  I derived but little assistance from their good will,
however, supposing that they entertained some, as they never took any
decided stand, nor lifted up their voices in a bold and positive manner,
denouncing the conduct of those who would withhold the light of Scripture
from the world.  At one time I hoped by their instrumentality to
accomplish much in Spain in the Gospel cause; but I was soon undeceived,
and became convinced that reliance on what they would effect was like
placing the hand on a staff of reed, which will only lacerate the flesh.
More than once some of them sent messages to me, expressive of their
esteem, and assuring me how much the cause of the Gospel was dear to
their hearts.  I even received an intimation that a visit from me would
be agreeable to the Archbishop of Toledo, the Primate of Spain.

Of this personage I can say but little, his early history being entirely
unknown to me.  At the death of Ferdinand, I believe, he was Bishop of
Mallorca, a small insignificant see, of very scanty revenues, which
perhaps he had no objection to exchange for one more wealthy.  It is
probable, however, that had he proved a devoted servant of the Pope, and
consequently a supporter of legitimacy, he would have continued to the
day of his death to fill the episcopal chair of Mallorca; but he was said
to be a liberal, and the Queen Regent thought fit to bestow upon him the
dignity of Archbishop of Toledo, by which he became the head of the
Spanish Church.  The Pope, it is true, had refused to ratify the
nomination, on which account all good Catholics were still bound to
consider him as Bishop of Mallorca, and not as Primate of Spain.  He,
however, received the revenues belonging to the see, which, though only a
shadow of what they originally were, were still considerable, and lived
in the primate’s palace at Madrid, so that if he were not archbishop _de
jure_, he was what many people would have considered much better,
archbishop _de facto_. {175}

Hearing that this personage was a personal friend of Ofalia, who was said
to entertain a very high regard for him, I determined upon paying him a
visit, and accordingly one morning betook myself to the palace in which
he resided.  I experienced no difficulty in obtaining an interview, being
forthwith conducted to his presence by a common kind of footman, an
Asturian, I believe, whom I found seated on a stone bench in the
entrance-hall.  When I was introduced, the archbishop was alone, seated
behind a table in a large apartment, a kind of drawing-room; he was
plainly dressed, in a black cassock and silken cap; on his finger,
however, glittered a superb amethyst, the lustre of which was truly
dazzling.  He rose for a moment as I advanced, and motioned me to a chair
with his hand.  He might be about sixty years of age; his figure was very
tall, but he stooped considerably, evidently from feebleness, and the
pallid hue of ill-health overspread his emaciated features.  When he had
reseated himself, he dropped his head, and appeared to be looking on the
table before him.

“I suppose your lordship knows who I am?” said I, at last breaking
silence.

The archbishop bent his head towards the right shoulder, in a somewhat
equivocal manner, but said nothing.

“I am he whom the _Manolos_ of Madrid call _Don Jorgito el Ingles_; I am
just come out of prison, whither I was sent for circulating my Lord’s
Gospel in this kingdom of Spain.”

The archbishop made the same equivocal motion with his head, but still
said nothing.

“I was informed that your lordship was desirous of seeing me, and on that
account I have paid you this visit.”

“I did not send for you,” said the archbishop, suddenly, raising his head
with a startled look.

“Perhaps not: I was, however, given to understand that my presence would
be agreeable; but as that does not seem to be the case, I will leave.”

“Since you are come, I am very glad to see you.”

“I am very glad to hear it,” said I, reseating myself; “and since I am
here, we may as well talk of an all-important matter, the circulation of
the Scripture.  Does your lordship see any way by which an end so
desirable might be brought about?”

“No,” said the archbishop, faintly.

“Does not your lordship think that a knowledge of the Scripture would
work inestimable benefit in these realms?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is it probable that the government may be induced to consent to the
circulation?”

“How should I know?” and the archbishop looked me in the face.

I looked in the face of the archbishop; there was an expression of
helplessness in it, which almost amounted to dotage.  “Dear me,” thought
I, “whom have I come to on an errand like mine?  Poor man! you are not
fitted to play the part of Martin Luther, and least of all in Spain.  I
wonder why your friends selected you to be Archbishop of Toledo; they
thought perhaps that you would do neither good nor harm, and made choice
of you, as they sometimes do primates in my own country, for your
incapacity.  You do not seem very happy in your present situation; no
very easy stall this of yours.  You were more comfortable, I trow, when
you were the poor Bishop of Mallorca; could enjoy your _puchera_ then
without fear that the salt would turn out sublimate.  No fear then of
being smothered in your bed.  A _siesta_ is a pleasant thing when one is
not subject to be disturbed by ‘the sudden fear.’  I wonder whether they
have poisoned you already,” I continued, half aloud, as I kept my eyes
fixed on his countenance, which methought was becoming ghastly.

“Did you speak, _Don Jorge_?” demanded the archbishop.

“That is a fine brilliant on your lordship’s hand,” said I.

“You are fond of brilliants, _Don Jorge_,” said the archbishop, his
features brightening up; “_vaya_! so am I; they are pretty things.  Do
you understand them?”

“I do,” said I, “and I never saw a finer brilliant than your own, one
excepted; it belonged to an acquaintance of mine, a Tartar Khan.  He did
not bear it on his finger, however; it stood in the frontlet of his
horse, where it shone like a star.  He called it _Daoud Scharr_, which,
being interpreted, meaneth _light of war_.”

“_Vaya_!” said the archbishop, “how very extraordinary!  I am glad you
are fond of brilliants, _Don Jorge_.  Speaking of horses, reminds me that
I have frequently seen you on horseback.  _Vaya_! how you ride!  It is
dangerous to be in your way.”

“Is your lordship fond of equestrian exercise?”

“By no means, _Don Jorge_; I do not like horses.  It is not the practice
of the Church to ride on horseback.  We prefer mules; they are the
quieter animals.  I fear horses, they kick so violently.”

“The kick of a horse is death,” said I, “if it touches a vital part.  I
am not, however, of your lordship’s opinion with respect to mules: a good
_ginete_ may retain his seat on a horse however vicious, but a
mule—_vaya_! when a false mule _tira por detras_, {178a} I do not believe
that the Father of the Church himself could keep the saddle a moment,
however sharp his bit.”

As I was going away, I said, “And with respect to the Gospel, your
lordship, what am I to understand?”

“_No sé_,” {178b} said the archbishop, again bending his head towards the
right shoulder, whilst his features resumed their former vacant
expression.  And thus terminated my interview with the Archbishop of
Toledo.

“It appears to me,” said I to Maria Diaz, on returning home; “it appears
to me, _Marequita mia_, that if the Gospel in Spain is to wait for
toleration until these liberal bishops and archbishops come forward
boldly in its behalf, it will have to tarry a considerable time.”

“I am much of your worship’s opinion,” answered Maria; “a fine thing,
truly, it would be to wait till they exerted themselves in its behalf.
_Ca_! {179a} the idea makes me smile.  Was your worship ever innocent
enough to suppose that they cared one tittle about the Gospel or its
cause?  _Vaya_! they are true priests, and had only self-interest in view
in their advances to you.  The Holy Father disowns them, and they would
now fain, by awaking his fears and jealousy, bring him to some terms; but
let him once acknowledge them, and see whether they would admit you to
their palaces or hold any intercourse with you!  ‘Forth with the fellow!’
they would say; ‘_vaya_! is he not a Lutheran?  Is he not an enemy to the
Church?  _Á la horca_, _á la horca_!’ {179b}  I know this family better
than you do, _Don Jorge_.”

“It is useless tarrying,” said I; “nothing, however, can be done in
Madrid.  I cannot sell the work at the _despacho_, and I have just
received intelligence that all the copies exposed for sale in the
libraries in the different parts of Spain which I have visited have been
sequestrated by order of the government.  My resolution is taken: I shall
mount my horses, which are neighing in the stable, and betake myself to
the villages and plains of dusty Spain.  _Al campo_, _al campo_: {180a}
‘Ride forth, because of the word of righteousness, and thy right hand
shall show thee terrible things. {180b}  I will ride forth, Maria.”

“Your worship can do no better; and allow me here to tell you, that for
every single book you might sell in a _despacho_ in the city, you may
dispose of one hundred amongst the villages, always provided you offer
them cheap; for in the country money is rather scant.  _Vaya_! should I
not know? am I not a villager myself, a _villana_ from the Sagra?  Ride
forth, therefore: your horses are neighing in the stall, as your worship
says, and you might almost have added that the _Señor_ Antonio is
neighing in the house.  He says he has nothing to do, on which account he
is once more dissatisfied and unsettled.  He finds fault with everything,
but more particularly with myself.  This morning I saluted him, and he
made me no reply, but twisted his mouth in a manner very uncommon in this
land of Spain.”

“A thought strikes me,” said I; “you have mentioned the Sagra; why should
not I commence my labours amongst the villages of that district?”

“Your worship can do no better,” replied Maria; “the harvest is just over
there, and you will find the people comparatively unemployed, with
leisure to attend and listen to you; and if you follow my advice, you
will establish yourself at Villa Seca, in the house of my fathers, where
at present lives my lord and husband.  Go, therefore, to Villa Seca in
the first place, and from thence you can sally forth with the _Señor_
Antonio upon your excursions.  Peradventure, my husband will accompany
you; and if so, you will find him highly useful.  The people of Villa
Seca are civil and courteous, your worship; when they address a
foreigner, they speak to him at the top of their voice and in Gallegan.”

“In Gallegan!” I exclaimed.

“They all understand a few words of Gallegan, which they have acquired
from the mountaineers, who occasionally assist them in cutting the
harvest, and as Gallegan is the only foreign language they know, they
deem it but polite to address a foreigner in that tongue.  _Vaya_! it is
not a bad village, that of Villa Seca, nor are the people; the only
ill-conditioned person living there is his reverence the curate.”

I was not long in making preparations for my enterprise.  A considerable
stock of Testaments were sent forward by an _arriero_, I myself followed
the next day.  Before my departure, however, I received a visit from
Benedict Mol.

“I am come to bid you farewell, _lieber Herr_; tomorrow I return to
Compostella.”

“On what errand?”

“To dig up the _Schatz_, _lieber Herr_.  For what else should I go?  For
what have I lived until now, but that I may dig up the _Schatz_ in the
end?”

“You might have lived for something better,” I exclaimed.  “I wish you
success, however.  But on what grounds do you hope?  Have you obtained
permission to dig?  Surely you remember your former trials in Galicia?”

“I have not forgotten them, _lieber Herr_, nor the journey to Oviedo, nor
‘the seven acorns,’ nor the fight with death in the _barranco_.  But I
must accomplish my destiny.  I go now to Galicia, as is becoming a Swiss,
at the expense of the government, with coach and mule, I mean in the
_galera_.  I am to have all the help I require, so that I can dig down to
the earth’s centre if I think fit.  I—but I must not tell your worship,
for I am sworn on ‘the four _Evangelien_,’ not to tell.”

“Well, Benedict, I have nothing to say, save that I hope you will succeed
in your digging.”

“Thank you, _lieber Herr_, thank you; and now farewell.  Succeed!  I
shall succeed!”  Here he stopped short, started, and looking upon me with
an expression of countenance almost wild, he exclaimed, “_Heiliger Gott_!
I forgot one thing.  Suppose I should not find the treasure after all!”

“Very rationally said; pity, though, that you did not think of that
contingency till now.  I tell you, my friend, that you have engaged in a
most desperate undertaking.  It is true that you may find a treasure.
The chances are, however, a hundred to one that you do not, and in that
event what will be your situation?  You will be looked upon as an
impostor, and the consequences may be horrible to you.  Remember where
you are, and amongst whom you are.  The Spaniards are a credulous people,
but let them once suspect that they have been imposed upon, and above all
laughed at, and their thirst for vengeance knows no limit.  Think not
that your innocence will avail you.  That you are no impostor I feel
convinced; but they would never believe it.  It is not too late.  Return
your fine clothes and magic rattan to those from whom you had them.  Put
on your old garments, grasp your ragged staff, and come with me to the
Sagra, to assist in circulating the illustrious Gospel amongst the
rustics on the Tagus’ bank.”

Benedict mused for a moment, then, shaking his head, he cried, “No, no, I
must accomplish my destiny.  The _Schatz_ is not yet dug up.  So said the
voice in the _barranco_.  To-morrow to Compostella.  I shall find it—the
_Schatz_—it is still there—it _must_ be there.”

He went, and I never saw him more.  What I heard, however, was
extraordinary enough.  It appeared that the government had listened to
his tale, and had been so struck with Benedict’s exaggerated description
of the buried treasure, that they imagined that, by a little trouble and
outlay, gold and diamonds might be dug up at Saint James sufficient to
enrich themselves and to pay off the national debt of Spain.  The Swiss
returned to Compostella “like a duke,” to use his own words.  The affair,
which had at first been kept a profound secret, was speedily divulged.
It was, indeed, resolved that the investigation, which involved
consequences of so much importance, should take place in a manner the
most public and imposing.  A solemn festival was drawing nigh, and it was
deemed expedient that the search should take place upon that day.  The
day arrived.  All the bells in Compostella pealed.  The whole populace
thronged from their houses, a thousand troops were drawn up in the
square, the expectation of all was wound up to the highest pitch.  A
procession directed its course to the church of San Roque; at its head
was the captain-general and the Swiss, brandishing in his hand the magic
rattan; close behind walked the _meiga_, the Gallegan witch-wife, by whom
the treasure-seeker had been originally guided in the search; numerous
masons brought up the rear, bearing implements to break up the ground.
The procession enters the church, they pass through it in solemn march,
they find themselves in a vaulted passage.  The Swiss looks around.  “Dig
here,” said he suddenly.  “Yes, dig here,” said the _meiga_.  The masons
labour, the floor is broken up,—a horrible and fetid odour arises. . . .

Enough; no treasure was found, and my warning to the unfortunate Swiss
turned out but too prophetic.  He was forthwith seized and flung into the
horrid prison of Saint James, amidst the execrations of thousands, who
would have gladly torn him limb from limb.

The affair did not terminate here.  The political opponents of the
government did not allow so favourable an opportunity to escape for
launching the shafts of ridicule.  The _moderados_ were taunted in the
cortes for their avarice and credulity, whilst the liberal press wafted
on its wings through Spain the story of the treasure-hunt at Saint James.

“After all, it was a _trampa_ of _Don Jorge’s_,” said one of my enemies.
“That fellow is at the bottom of half the _picardias_ which happen in
Spain.”

Eager to learn the fate of the Swiss, I wrote to my old friend Rey
Romero, at Compostella.  In his answer he states: “I saw the Swiss in
prison, to which place he sent for me, craving my assistance, for the
sake of the friendship which I bore to you.  But how could I help him?
He was speedily after removed from Saint James, I know not whither.  It
is said that he disappeared on the road.”

Truth is sometimes stranger than fiction.  Where in the whole cycle of
romance shall we find anything more wild, grotesque, and sad, than the
easily authenticated history of Benedict Mol, the treasure-digger of
Saint James?




CHAPTER XLIII.


Villa Seca—Moorish House—The Puchera—The Rustic Council—Polite
Ceremonial—The Flower of Spain—The Bridge of Azeca—The Ruined
Castle—Taking the Field—Demand for the Word—The Old Peasant—The Curate
and Blacksmith—Cheapness of the Scriptures.

It was one of the most fiercely hot days in which I ever braved the sun,
when I arrived at Villa Seca.  The heat in the shade must have amounted
at least to one hundred degrees, and the entire atmosphere seemed to
consist of flickering flame.  At a place called Leganez, six leagues from
Madrid, and about half way to Toledo, we diverged from the highway,
bending our course seemingly towards the south-east.  We rode over what
are called plains in Spain, but which, in any other part of the world,
would be called undulating and broken ground.  The crops of corn and
barley had already disappeared, the last vestiges discoverable being here
and there a few sheaves, which the labourers were occupied in removing to
their garners in the villages.  The country could scarcely be called
beautiful, being perfectly naked, exhibiting neither trees nor verdure.
It was not, however, without its pretensions to grandeur and
magnificence, like every part of Spain.  The most prominent objects were
two huge calcareous hills, or rather one cleft in twain, which towered up
on high; the summit of the nearest being surmounted by the ruins of an
ancient castle, that of Villaluenga.  About an hour past noon we reached
Villa Seca.

We found it a large village, containing about seven hundred inhabitants,
and surrounded by a mud wall.  A _plaza_, or market-place, stood in the
midst, one side of which is occupied by what is called a palace, a clumsy
quadrangular building of two stories, belonging to some noble family, the
lords of the neighbouring soil.  It was deserted, however; being only
occupied by a kind of steward, who stored up in its chambers the grain
which he received as rent from the tenants and _villanos_ who farmed the
surrounding district.

The village stands at the distance of about a quarter of a league from
the bank of the Tagus, which even here, in the heart of Spain, is a
beautiful stream, not navigable, however, on account of the sand-banks,
which in many places assume the appearance of small islands, and are
covered with trees and brushwood.  The village derives its supply of
water entirely from the river, having none of its own—such, at least, as
is potable—the water of its wells being all brackish, on which account it
is probably termed Villa Seca, which signifies “the dry hamlet.”  The
inhabitants are said to have been originally Moors; certain it is, that
various customs are observable here highly favourable to such a
supposition.  Amongst others, a very curious one: it is deemed infamous
for a woman of Villa Seca to go across the market-place, or to be seen
there, though they have no hesitation in showing themselves in the
streets and lanes.  A deep-rooted hostility exists between the
inhabitants of this place and those of a neighbouring village, called
Vargas; they rarely speak when they meet, and never intermarry.  There is
a vague tradition that the people of the latter place are old Christians,
and it is highly probable that these neighbours were originally of widely
different blood; those of Villa Seca being of particularly dark
complexions, whilst the indwellers of Vargas are light and fair.  Thus
the old feud between Moor and Christian is still kept up in the
nineteenth century in Spain.

Drenched in perspiration, which fell from our brows like rain, we arrived
at the door of Juan Lopez, the husband of Maria Diaz.  Having heard of
our intention to pay him a visit, he was expecting us, and cordially
welcomed us to his habitation, which, like a genuine Moorish house,
consisted only of one story.  It was amply large, however, with a court
and stable.  All the apartments were deliciously cool.  The floors were
of brick or stone; and the narrow and trellised windows, which were
without glass, scarcely permitted a ray of sun to penetrate into the
interior.

A _puchera_ had been prepared in expectation of our arrival; the heat had
not taken away my appetite, and it was not long before I did full justice
to this the standard dish of Spain.  Whilst I ate, Lopez played upon the
guitar, singing occasionally snatches of Andalusian songs.  He was a
short, merry-faced, active fellow, whom I had frequently seen at Madrid,
and was a good specimen of the Spanish _labrador_, or yeoman.  Though far
from possessing the ability and intellect of his wife, Maria Diaz, he was
by no means deficient in shrewdness and understanding.  He was, moreover,
honest and disinterested, and performed good service in the Gospel cause,
as will presently appear.

When the repast was concluded, Lopez thus addressed me:—“_Señor Don
Jorge_, your arrival in our village has already caused a sensation; more
especially as these are times of war and tumult, and every person is
afraid of another, and we dwell here close on the confines of the
factious country: for, as you well know, the greater part of La Mancha is
in the hands of the _Carlinos_ and thieves, parties of whom frequently
show themselves on the other side of the river; on which account the
_alcalde_ of this city, with the other grave and notable people thereof,
are desirous of seeing your worship, and conversing with you, and of
examining your passport.”  “It is well,” said I; “let us forthwith pay a
visit to these worthy people.”  Whereupon he conducted me across the
_plaza_, to the house of the _alcalde_, where I found the rustic
dignitary seated in the passage, enjoying the refreshing coolness of a
draught of air which rushed through.  He was an elderly man, of about
sixty, with nothing remarkable in his appearance or his features, which
latter were placid and good-humoured.  There were several people with
him, amongst whom was the surgeon of the place, a tall and immensely
bulky man, an Alavese by birth, from the town of Vitoria.  There was also
a red fiery-faced individual, with a nose very much turned on one side,
who was the blacksmith of the village, and was called in general _El
Tuerto_, {188} from the circumstance of his having but one eye.  Making
the assembly a low bow, I pulled out my passport, and thus addressed
them:—

“Grave men and cavaliers of this city of Villa Seca, as I am a stranger,
of whom it is not possible that you should know anything, I have deemed
it my duty to present myself before you, and to tell you who I am.  Know,
then, that I am an Englishman of good blood and fathers, travelling in
these countries for my own profit and diversion, and for that of other
people also.  I have now found my way to Villa Seca, where I propose to
stay some time, doing that which may be deemed convenient; sometimes
riding across the plain, and sometimes bathing myself in the waters of
the river, which are reported to be of advantage in times of heat.  I
therefore beg that, during my sojourn in this capital, I may enjoy such
countenance and protection from its governors as they are in the habit of
affording to those who are of quiet and well-ordered life, and are
disposed to be buxom and obedient to the customs and laws of the
republic.”

“He speaks well,” said the _alcalde_, glancing around.

“Yes, he speaks well,” said the bulky Alavese; “there is no denying it.”

“I never heard any one speak better,” cried the blacksmith, starting up
from a stool on which he was seated.  “_Vaya_! he is a big man and a fair
complexioned, like myself.  I like him, and have a horse that will just
suit him; one that is the flower of Spain, and is eight inches above the
mark.”

I then, with another bow, presented my passport to the _alcalde_, who,
with a gentle motion of his hand, appeared to decline taking it, at the
same time saying, “It is not necessary.”  “Oh, not at all,” exclaimed the
surgeon.  “The housekeepers of Villa Seca know how to comport themselves
with formality,” observed the blacksmith.  “They would be very loth to
harbour any suspicion against a cavalier so courteous and well spoken.”
Knowing, however, that this refusal amounted to nothing, and that it
merely formed part of a polite ceremonial, I proffered the passport a
second time, whereupon it was instantly taken, and in a moment the eyes
of all present were bent upon it with intense curiosity.  It was examined
from top to bottom, and turned round repeatedly, and though it is not
probable that an individual present understood a word of it, it being
written in French, it gave nevertheless universal satisfaction; and when
the _alcalde_, carefully folding it up, returned it to me, they all
observed that they had never seen a better passport in their lives, or
one which spake in higher terms of the bearer.

Who was it said that “Cervantes sneered Spain’s chivalry away”? {190}  I
know not; and the author of such a line scarcely deserves to be
remembered.  How the rage for scribbling tempts people at the present day
to write about lands and nations of which they know nothing, or worse
than nothing!  _Vaya_!  It is not from having seen a bull-fight at
Seville or Madrid, or having spent a handful of ounces at a _posada_ in
either of those places, kept perhaps by a Genoese or a Frenchman, that
you are competent to write about such a people as the Spaniards, and to
tell the world how they think, how they speak, and how they act.  Spain’s
chivalry sneered away!  Why, there is every probability that the great
body of the Spanish nation speak, think, and live precisely as their
forefathers did six centuries ago.

In the evening the blacksmith, or, as he would be called in Spanish, _El
Herrador_, made his appearance at the door of Lopez on horseback.
“_Vamos_, _Don Jorge_,” he shouted.  “Come with me, if your worship is
disposed for a ride.  I am going to bathe my horse in the Tagus, by the
bridge of Azeca.”  I instantly saddled my _jaca Cordovesa_, and joining
him, we rode out of the village, directing our course across the plain
towards the river.  “Did you ever see such a horse as this of mine, _Don
Jorge_?” he demanded.  “Is he not a jewel—an _alhaja_?”  And in truth the
horse was a noble and gallant creature, in height at least sixteen hands,
broad-chested, but of clean and elegant limbs.  His neck was superbly
arched, and his head towered on high like that of a swan.  In colour he
was a bright chestnut, save his flowing mane and tail, which were almost
black.  I expressed my admiration; whereupon the _herrador_, in high
spirits, pressed his heels to the creature’s sides, and flinging the
bridle on its neck, speeded over the plain with prodigious swiftness,
shouting the old Spanish cry, _Cierra_!  I attempted to keep up with him,
but had not a chance.  “I call him the flower of Spain,” said the
_herrador_, rejoining me.  “Purchase him, _Don Jorge_; his price is but
three thousand _reals_. {192}  I would not sell him for double that sum,
but the Carlist thieves have their eyes upon him, and I am apprehensive
that they will some day make a dash across the river and break into Villa
Seca, all to get possession of my horse, ‘The Flower of Spain.’”

It may be as well to observe here, that, within a month from this period,
my friend the _herrador_, not being able to find a regular purchaser for
his steed, entered into negociations with the aforesaid thieves
respecting him, and finally disposed of the animal to their leader,
receiving not the three thousand _reals_ he demanded, but an entire herd
of horned cattle, probably driven from the plains of La Mancha.  For this
transaction, which was neither more nor less than high treason, he was
cast into the prison of Toledo, where, however, he did not continue long;
for during a short visit to Villa Seca, which I made in the spring of the
following year, I found him _alcalde_ of that “republic.”

We arrived at the bridge of Azeca, which is about half a league from
Villa Seca: close beside it is a large water-mill, standing upon a dam
which crosses the river.  Dismounting from his steed, the _herrador_
proceeded to divest it of the saddle, then causing it to enter the
mill-pool, he led it by means of a cord to a particular spot, where the
water reached halfway up its neck, then fastening the cord to a post on
the bank, he left the animal standing in the pool.  I thought I could do
no better than follow his example; and, accordingly, procuring a rope
from the mill, I led my own horse into the water.  “It will refresh their
blood, _Don Jorge_,”, said the _herrador_; “let us leave them there for
an hour, whilst we go and divert ourselves.”

Near the bridge, on the side of the river on which we were, was a kind of
guard-house, where were three carbineers of the revenue, who collected
the tolls of the bridge.  We entered into conversation with them: “Is not
this a dangerous position of yours,” said I to one of them, who was a
Catalan, “close beside the factious country?  Surely it would not be
difficult for a body of the _Carlinos_ or bandits to dash across the
bridge and make prisoners of you all.”

“It would be easy enough at any moment, cavalier,” replied the Catalan;
“we are, however, all in the hands of God, and he has preserved us
hitherto, and perhaps still will.  True it is that one of our number, for
there were four of us originally, fell the other day into the hands of
the _canaille_.  He had wandered across the bridge amongst the thickets
with his gun in search of a hare or rabbit, when three or four of them
fell upon him and put him to death in a manner too horrible to relate.
But patience! every man who lives must die.  I shall not sleep the worse
to-night because I may chance to be hacked by the knives of these
_malvados_ to-morrow.  Cavalier, I am from Barcelona, and have seen there
mariners of your nation; this is not so good a country as Barcelona.
_Paciencia_!  Cavalier, if you will step into our house, I will give you
a glass of water; we have some that is cool, for we dug a deep hole in
the earth and buried there our pitcher; it is cool, as I told you, but
the water of Castile is not like that of Catalonia.”

The moon had arisen when we mounted our horses to return to the village,
and the rays of the beauteous luminary danced merrily on the rushing
waters of the Tagus, silvered the plain over which we were passing, and
bathed in a flood of brightness the bold sides of the calcareous hill of
Villaluenga and the antique ruins which crowned its brow.  “Why is that
the Castle of Villaluenga?” I demanded.

“From a village of that name, which stands on the other side of the hill,
_Don Jorge_,” replied the _herrador_.  “_Vaya_! it is a strange place,
that castle: some say it was built by the Moors in the old times, and
some by the Christians when they first laid siege to Toledo.  It is not
inhabited now, save by rabbits, which breed there in abundance amongst
the long grass and broken stones, and by eagles and vultures, which build
on the tops of the towers.  I occasionally go there with my gun to shoot
a rabbit.  On a fine day you may descry both Toledo and Madrid from its
walls.  I cannot say I like the place, it is so dreary and melancholy.
The hill on which it stands is all of chalk, and is very difficult of
ascent.  I heard my grandame say that once, when she was a girl, a cloud
of smoke burst from that hill, and that flames of fire were seen, just as
if it contained a volcano, as perhaps it does, _Don Jorge_.”

The grand work of Scripture circulation soon commenced in the Sagra.
Notwithstanding the heat of the weather, I rode about in all directions.
It was well that heat agrees with my constitution, otherwise it would
have been impossible to effect anything in this season, when the very
_arrieros_ frequently fall dead from their mules, smitten by a
sun-stroke.  I had an excellent assistant in Antonio, who, disregarding
the heat like myself, and afraid of nothing, visited several villages
with remarkable success.  “_Mon maître_,” said he, “I wish to show you
that nothing is beyond my capacity.”  But he who put the labours of us
both to shame, was my host, Juan Lopez, whom it had pleased the Lord to
render favourable to the cause.  “_Don Jorge_,” said he, “_yo quiero
engancharme con usted_; {195a} I am a liberal, and a foe to superstition;
I will take the field, and, if necessary, will follow you to the end of
the world: _Viva Inglaterra_; _viva el Evangelio_.”  Thus saying, he put
a large bundle of Testaments into a satchel, and, springing upon the
crupper of his grey donkey, he cried, “_Arrhé_! _burra_!” {195b} and
hastened away.  I sat down to my journal.

Ere I had finished writing I heard the voice of the _burra_ in the
courtyard, and going out, I found my host returned.  He had disposed of
his whole cargo of twenty Testaments at the village of Vargas, distant
from Villa Seca about a league.  Eight poor harvest-men, who were
refreshing themselves at the door of a wine-house, purchased each a copy,
whilst the village schoolmaster secured the rest for the little ones
beneath his care, lamenting, at the same time, the great difficulty he
had long experienced in obtaining religious books, owing to their
scarcity and extravagant price.  Many other persons were also anxious to
purchase Testaments, but Lopez was unable to supply them: at his
departure they requested him to return within a few days.

I was aware that I was playing rather a daring game, and that it was very
possible that, when I least expected it, I might be seized, tied to the
tail of a mule, and dragged either to the prison of Toledo or Madrid.
Yet such a prospect did not discourage me in the least, but rather urged
me to persevere; for, at this time, without the slightest wish to magnify
myself, I could say that I was eager to lay down my life for the cause,
and whether a bandit’s bullet or the gaol fever brought my career to a
close, was a matter of indifference to me; I was not then a stricken man:
“Ride on, because of the word of righteousness,” was my cry.

The news of the arrival of the book of life soon spread like wildfire
through the villages of the Sagra of Toledo, and wherever my people and
myself directed our course we found the inhabitants disposed to receive
our merchandise; it was even called for where not exhibited.  One night
as I was bathing myself and horse in the Tagus, a knot of people gathered
on the bank, crying, “Come out of the water, Englishman, and give us
books; we have got our money in our hands.”  The poor creatures then held
out their hands, filled with _cuartos_, a copper coin of the value of a
farthing, but unfortunately I had no Testaments to give them.  Antonio,
however, who was at a short distance, having exhibited one, it was
instantly torn from his hands by the people, and a scuffle ensued to
obtain possession of it.  It very frequently occurred that the poor
labourers in the neighbourhood, being eager to obtain Testaments, and
having no money to offer us in exchange, brought various articles to our
habitation as equivalents; for example, rabbits, fruit, and barley; and I
made a point never to disappoint them, as such articles were of utility
either for our own consumption or that of the horses.

In Villa Seca there was a school in which fifty-seven children were
taught the first rudiments of education.  One morning the schoolmaster, a
tall slim figure of about sixty, bearing on his head one of the peaked
hats of Andalusia, and wrapped, notwithstanding the excessive heat of the
weather, in a long cloak, made his appearance, and having seated himself,
requested to be shown one of our books.  Having delivered it to him, he
remained examining it for nearly an hour, without uttering a word.  At
last he laid it down with a sigh, and said that he should be very happy
to purchase some of these books for his school, but from their
appearance, especially from the quality of the paper and binding, he was
apprehensive that to pay for them would exceed the means of the parents
of his pupils, as they were almost destitute of money, being poor
labourers.  He then commenced blaming the government, which, he said,
established schools without affording the necessary books, adding that in
his school there were but two books for the use of all his pupils, and
these, he confessed, contained but little good.  I asked him what he
considered the Testaments were worth?  He said, “_Señor_ Cavalier, to
speak frankly, I have in other times paid twelve _reals_ for books
inferior to yours in every respect; but I assure you that my poor pupils
would be utterly unable to pay the half of that sum.”  I replied, “I will
sell you as many as you please for three _reals_ each.  I am acquainted
with the poverty of the land, and my friends and myself, in affording the
people the means of spiritual instruction, have no wish to curtail their
scanty bread.”  He replied, “_Bendito sea Dios_!” {197} and could
scarcely believe his ears.  He instantly purchased a dozen, expending, as
he said, all the money he possessed, with the exception of a few
_cuartos_.  The introduction of the Word of God into the country schools
of Spain is therefore begun, and I humbly hope that it will prove one of
those events which the Bible Society, after the lapse of years, will have
most reason to remember with joy and gratitude to the Almighty.

An old peasant is reading in the portico.  Eighty-four years have passed
over his head, and he is almost entirely deaf; nevertheless he is reading
aloud the second of Matthew: three days since he bespoke a Testament, but
not being able to raise the money, he has not redeemed it until the
present moment.  He has just brought thirty farthings.  As I survey the
silvery hair which overshadows his sun-burnt countenance, the words of
the song occurred to me, “Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in
peace, according to thy word: for mine eyes have seen thy salvation.”

I experienced much grave kindness and simple hospitality from the good
people of Villa Seca during my sojourn amongst them.  I had at this time
so won their hearts by the “formality” of my behaviour and language, that
I firmly believe they would have resisted to the knife any attempt which
might have been made to arrest or otherwise maltreat me.  He who wishes
to become acquainted with the genuine Spaniard must seek him not in
seaports and large towns, but in lone and remote villages, like those of
the Sagra.  There he will find all that gravity of deportment and
chivalry of disposition which Cervantes is said to have sneered away;
{198} and there he will hear, in everyday conversation, those grandiose
expressions, which, when met with in the romances of chivalry, are
scoffed at as ridiculous exaggerations.

I had one enemy in the village—it was the curate.

“The fellow is a heretic and a scoundrel,” said he one day in the
conclave.  “He never enters the church, and is poisoning the minds of the
people with his Lutheran books.  Let him be bound and sent to Toledo, or
turned out of the village at least.”

“I will have nothing of the kind,” said the _alcalde_, who was said to be
a Carlist.  “If he has his opinions, I have mine too.  He has conducted
himself with politeness.  Why should I interfere with him?  He has been
courteous to my daughter, and has presented her with a volume.  _Que
viva_! and with respect to his being a Lutheran, I have heard say that
amongst the Lutherans there are sons of as good fathers as here.  He
appears to me a _caballero_.  He speaks well.”

“There is no denying it,” said the surgeon.

“Who speaks _so_ well?” shouted the _herrador_.  “And who has more
formality?  _Vaya_! did he not praise my horse, ‘The Flower of Spain’?
Did he not say that in the whole of _Inglaterra_ there was not a better?
Did he not assure me, moreover, that if he were to remain in Spain he
would purchase it, giving me my own price?  Turn him out, indeed!  Is he
not of my own blood, is he not fair-complexioned?  Who shall turn him out
when I, ‘the one-eyed,’ say no?”

In connexion with the circulation of the Scriptures I will now relate an
anecdote not altogether divested of singularity.  I have already spoken
of the water-mill by the bridge of Azeca.  I had formed acquaintance with
the tenant of this mill, who was known in the neighbourhood by the name
of Don Antero.  One day, taking me into a retired place, he asked me, to
my great astonishment, whether I would sell him a thousand Testaments at
the price at which I was disposing of them to the peasantry; saying, if I
would consent he would pay me immediately.  In fact, he put his hand into
his pocket, and pulled it out filled with gold ounces.  I asked him what
was his reason for wishing to make so considerable a purchase.  Whereupon
he informed me that he had a relation in Toledo whom he wished to
establish, and that he was of opinion that his best plan would be to hire
him a shop there and furnish it with Testaments.  I told him that he must
think of nothing of the kind, as probably the books would be seized on
the first attempt to introduce them into Toledo, as the priests and
canons were much averse to their distribution.

He was not disconcerted, however, and said his relation could travel, as
I myself was doing, and dispose of them to the peasants with profit to
himself.  I confess I was inclined at first to accept his offer, but at
length declined it, as I did not wish to expose a poor man to the risk of
losing money, goods, and perhaps liberty and life.  I was likewise averse
to the books being offered to the peasantry at an advanced price, being
aware that they could not afford it, and the books, by such an attempt,
would lose a considerable part of that influence which they then enjoyed;
for their cheapness struck the minds of the people, and they considered
it almost as much in the light of a miracle as the Jews the manna which
dropped from heaven at the time they were famishing, or the spring which
suddenly gushed from the flinty rock to assuage their thirst in the
wilderness.

At this time a peasant was continually passing and repassing between
Villa Seca and Madrid, bringing us cargoes of Testaments on a _borrico_.
We continued our labours until the greater part of the villages of the
Sagra were well supplied with books, more especially those of Vargas,
Coveja, Mocejon, Villaluenga, Villa Seca, and Yuncler. {201}  Hearing at
last that our proceedings were known at Toledo, and were causing
considerable alarm, we returned to Madrid.




CHAPTER XLIV.


Aranjuez—A Warning—A Night Adventure—A Fresh
Expedition—Segovia—Abades—Factious Curas—Lopez in Prison—Rescue of Lopez.

The success which had attended our efforts in the Sagra of Toledo
speedily urged me on to a new enterprise.  I now determined to direct my
course to La Mancha, and to distribute the Word amongst the villages of
that province.  Lopez, who had already performed such important services
in the Sagra, had accompanied us to Madrid, and was eager to take part in
this new expedition.  We determined in the first place to proceed to
Aranjuez, where we hoped to obtain some information which might prove of
utility in the further regulation of our movements; Aranjuez being but a
slight distance from the frontier of La Mancha, and the high-road into
that province passing directly through it.  We accordingly sallied forth
from Madrid, selling from twenty to forty Testaments in every village
which lay in our way, until we arrived at Aranjuez, to which place we had
forwarded a large supply of books.

A lovely spot is Aranjuez, {202} though in desolation: here the Tagus
flows through a delicious valley, perhaps the most fertile in Spain; and
here upsprang, in Spain’s better days, a little city, with a small but
beautiful palace, shaded by enormous trees, where royalty delighted to
forget its cares.  Here Ferdinand the Seventh spent his latter days,
surrounded by lovely _señoras_ and Andalusian bull-fighters; but, as the
German Schiller has it in one of his tragedies—

    “The happy days in fair Aranjuez
    Are past and gone.” {203}

When the sensual king went to his dread account, royalty deserted it, and
it soon fell into decay.  Intriguing courtiers no longer crowd its halls;
its spacious circus, where Manchegan bulls once roared in rage and agony,
is now closed, and the light tinkling of guitars is no longer heard
amidst its groves and gardens.

At Aranjuez I made a sojourn of three days, during which time Antonio,
Lopez, and myself visited every house in the town.  We found a vast deal
of poverty and ignorance amongst the inhabitants, and experienced some
opposition: nevertheless it pleased the Almighty to permit us to dispose
of about eighty Testaments, which were purchased entirely by the very
poor people; those in easier circumstances paying no attention to the
Word of God, but rather turning it to scoff and ridicule.

One circumstance was very gratifying and cheering to me, namely, the
ocular proof which I possessed that the books which I disposed of were
read, and with attention, by those to whom I sold them; and that many
others participated in their benefit.  In the streets of Aranjuez, and
beneath the mighty cedars and gigantic elms and plantains which compose
its noble woods, I have frequently seen groups assembled listening to
individuals who, with the New Testament in their hands, were reading
aloud the comfortable words of salvation.

It is probable that, had I remained a longer period at Aranjuez, I might
have sold many more of these Divine books, but I was eager to gain La
Mancha and its sandy plains, and to conceal myself for a season amongst
its solitary villages, for I was apprehensive that a storm was gathering
around me; but when once through Ocaña, the frontier town, I knew well
that I should have nothing to fear from the Spanish authorities, as their
power ceased there, the rest of La Mancha being almost entirely in the
hands of the Carlists, and overrun by small parties of banditti, from
whom, however, I trusted that the Lord would preserve me.  I therefore
departed for Ocaña, {204} distant three leagues from Aranjuez.

I started with Antonio at six in the evening, having early in the morning
sent forward Lopez with between two and three hundred Testaments.  We
left the highroad, and proceeded by a shorter way through wild hills and
over very broken and precipitous ground.  Being well mounted, we found
ourselves just after sunset opposite Ocaña, which stands on a steep hill.
A deep valley lay between us and the town: we descended, and came to a
small bridge, which traverses a rivulet at the bottom of the valley, at a
very small distance from a kind of suburb.  We crossed the bridge, and
were passing by a deserted house on our left hand, when a man appeared
from under the porch.

What I am about to state will seem incomprehensible, but a singular
history and a singular people are connected with it: the man placed
himself before my horse so as to bar the way, and said, “_Schophon_,”
which, in the Hebrew tongue, signifies a rabbit. {205}  I knew this word
to be one of the Jewish countersigns, and asked the man if he had
anything to communicate?  He said, “You must not enter the town, for a
net is prepared for you.  The _corregidor_ of Toledo, on whom may all
evil light, in order to give pleasure to the priests of Maria, in whose
face I spit, has ordered all the _alcaldes_ of these parts, and the
_escribanos_ and the _corchetes_ to lay hands on you wherever they may
find you, and to send you, and your books, and all that pertains to you
to Toledo.  Your servant was seized this morning in the town above, as he
was selling the writings in the streets, and they are now awaiting your
arrival in the _posada_; but I knew you from the accounts of my brethren,
and I have been waiting here four hours to give you warning in order that
your horse may turn his tail to your enemies, and neigh in derision of
them.  Fear nothing for your servant, for he is known to the _alcalde_,
and will be set at liberty; but do you flee, and may God attend you.”
Having said this, he hurried towards the town.

I hesitated not a moment to take his advice, knowing full well that, as
my books had been taken possession of, I could do no more in that
quarter.  We turned back in the direction of Aranjuez, the horses,
notwithstanding the nature of the ground, galloping at full speed; but
our adventures were not over.  Midway, and about half a league from the
village of Antigola, we saw close to us on our left hand three men on a
low bank.  As far as the darkness would permit us to distinguish, they
were naked, but each bore in his hand a long gun.  These were _rateros_,
or the common assassins and robbers of the roads.  We halted and cried
out, “Who goes there?”  They replied, “What’s that to you? pass by.”
Their drift was to fire at us from a position from which it would be
impossible to miss.  We shouted, “If you do not instantly pass to the
right side of the road we will tread you down beneath the horses’ hoofs.”
They hesitated and then obeyed, for all assassins are dastards, and the
least show of resolution daunts them.  As we galloped past, one cried,
with an obscene oath, “Shall we fire?”  But another said, “No, no!
there’s danger.”  We reached Aranjuez, where early next morning Lopez
rejoined us, and we returned to Madrid.

I am sorry to state that two hundred Testaments were seized at Ocaña,
from whence, after being sealed up, they were despatched to Toledo.
Lopez informed me, that in two hours he could have sold them all, the
demand was so great.  As it was, twenty-seven were disposed of in less
than ten minutes.

“Ride on, because of the word of righteousness.”  Notwithstanding the
check which we had experienced at Ocaña, we were far from being
discouraged, and forthwith prepared ourselves for another expedition.  As
we returned from Aranjuez to Madrid, my eyes had frequently glanced
towards the mighty wall of mountains dividing the two Castiles, and I
said to myself, “Would it not be well to cross those hills, and commence
operations on the other side, even in Old Castile?  There I am unknown,
and intelligence of my proceedings can scarcely have been transmitted
thither.  Peradventure the enemy is asleep, and before he has roused
himself, I may have sown much of the precious seed amongst the villages
of the Old Castilians.  To Castile, therefore, to _Castilla la Vieja_!”
Accordingly, on the day after my arrival, I despatched several cargoes of
books to various places which I proposed to visit, and sent forward Lopez
and his donkey, well laden, with directions to meet me on a particular
day beneath a particular arch of the aqueduct of Segovia.  I likewise
gave him orders to engage any persons willing to co-operate with us in
the circulation of the Scriptures, and who might be likely to prove of
utility in the enterprise.  A more useful assistant than Lopez in an
expedition of this kind it was impossible to have.  He was not only well
acquainted with the country, but had friends, and even connexions on the
other side of the hills, in whose houses he assured me that we should at
all times find a hearty welcome.  He departed in high spirits,
exclaiming, “Be of good cheer, _Don Jorge_; before we return we will have
disposed of every copy of your evangelic library.  Down with the friars!
Down with superstition!  _Viva Inglaterra_, _viva el Evangelio_!”

In a few days I followed with Antonio.  We ascended the mountains by the
pass called Peña Cerrada, which lies about three leagues to the eastward
of that of Guadarrama.  It is very unfrequented, the high road between
the two Castiles passing through Guadarrama.  It has, moreover, an evil
name, being, according to common report, infested with banditti.  The sun
was just setting when we reached the top of the hills, and entered a
thick and gloomy pine forest, which entirely covers the mountains on the
side of Old Castile.  The descent soon became so rapid and precipitous,
that we were fain to dismount from our horses and to drive them before
us.  Into the woods we plunged deeper and deeper still; night-birds soon
began to hoot and cry, and millions of crickets commenced their shrill
chirping above, below, and around us.  Occasionally, amidst the trees at
a distance, we could see blazes, as if from immense fires.  “They are
those of the charcoal-burners, _mon maître_,” said Antonio; “we will not
go near them, however, for they are savage people, and half bandits.
Many is the traveller whom they have robbed and murdered in these horrid
wildernesses.”

It was blackest night when we arrived at the foot of the mountains; we
were still, however, amidst woods and pine forests, which extended for
leagues in every direction.  “We shall scarcely reach Segovia to-night,
_mon maître_,” said Antonio.  And so indeed it proved, for we became
bewildered, and at last arrived where two roads branched off in different
directions: we took not the left-hand road, which would have conducted us
to Segovia, but turned to the right, in the direction of La Granja, where
we arrived at midnight.

We found the desolation of La Granja {208} far greater than that of
Aranjuez; both had suffered from the absence of royalty, but the former
to a degree which was truly appalling.  Nine-tenths of the inhabitants
had left this place, which, until the late military revolution, had been
the favourite residence of Christina.  So great is the solitude of La
Granja, that wild boars from the neighbouring forests, and especially
from the beautiful pine-covered mountain which rises like a cone directly
behind the palace, frequently find their way into the streets and
squares, and whet their tusks against the pillars of the porticos.

“Ride on, because of the word of righteousness.”  After a stay of
twenty-four hours at La Granja, we proceeded to Segovia.  The day had
arrived on which I had appointed to meet Lopez.  I repaired to the
aqueduct, and sat down beneath the hundred and seventh arch, where I
waited the greater part of the day, but he came not, whereupon I arose
and went into the city.

At Segovia I tarried two days in the house of a friend; still I could
hear nothing of Lopez.  At last, by the greatest chance in the world, I
heard from a peasant that there were men in the neighbourhood of Abades
selling books.

Abades is about three leagues distant from Segovia, and upon receiving
this intelligence, I instantly departed for the former place, with three
donkeys laden with Testaments.  I reached Abades at nightfall, and found
Lopez, with two peasants whom he had engaged, in the house of the surgeon
of the place, where I also took up my residence.  He had already disposed
of a considerable number of Testaments in the neighbourhood, and had that
day commenced selling at Abades itself.  He had, however, been
interrupted by two of the three _curas_ of the village, who, with horrid
curses, denounced the work, threatening eternal condemnation to Lopez for
selling it, and to any person who should purchase it; whereupon Lopez,
terrified, forbore until I should arrive.  The third _cura_, however,
exerted himself to the utmost to persuade the people to provide
themselves with Testaments, telling them that his brethren were
hypocrites and false guides, who, by keeping them in ignorance of the
word and will of Christ, were leading them to the abyss.  Upon receiving
this information, I instantly sallied forth to the market-place, and that
same night succeeded in disposing of upwards of thirty Testaments.  The
next morning the house was entered by the two factious _curas_; but upon
my rising to confront them, they retreated, and I heard no more of them,
except that they publicly cursed me in the church more than once, an
event which, as no ill resulted from it, gave me little concern.

I will not detail the events of the next week; suffice it to say that,
arranging my forces in the most advantageous way, I succeeded, by God’s
assistance, in disposing of from five to six hundred Testaments amongst
the villages from one to seven leagues’ distance from Abades.  At the
expiration of that period I received information that my proceedings were
known in Segovia, in which province Abades is situated, and that an order
was about to be sent to the _alcalde_ to seize all books in my
possession.  Whereupon, notwithstanding that it was late in the evening,
I decamped with all my people, and upwards of three hundred Testaments,
having a few hours previously received a fresh supply from Madrid.  That
night we passed in the fields, and next morning proceeded to Labajos, a
village on the high-road from Madrid to Valladolid.  In this place we
offered no books for sale, but contented ourselves with supplying the
neighbouring villages with the Word of God; we likewise sold it in the
highways.

                            [Picture: Segovia]

We had not been at Labajos a week, during which time we were remarkably
successful, when the Carlist chieftain, Balmaseda, {211a} at the head of
his cavalry, made his desperate inroad into the southern part of Old
Castile, dashing down like an avalanche from the pine-woods of Soria.  I
was present at all the horrors which ensued,—the sack of Arrevalo, and
the forcible entry into Martin Muñoz.  Amidst these terrible scenes we
continued our labours.  Suddenly I lost Lopez for three days, and
suffered dreadful anxiety on his account, imagining that he had been shot
by the Carlists; at last I heard that he was in prison at Villallos,
three leagues distant.  The steps which I took to rescue him will be
found detailed in a communication, which I deemed it my duty to transmit
to Lord William Hervey, who, in the absence of Sir George Villiers,
{211b} now become Earl of Clarendon, fulfilled the duties of minister at
Madrid:—

                                            “Labajos, Province of Segovia,
                                                       “August 23rd, 1838.

    “MY LORD,

    “I beg leave to call your attention to the following facts.  On the
    21st inst. I received information that a person in my employ, of the
    name of Juan Lopez, had been thrown into the prison of Villallos, in
    the province of Avila, by order of the _cura_ of that place.  The
    crime with which he was charged was selling the New Testament.  I was
    at that time at Labajos, in the province of Segovia, and the division
    of the factious chieftain Balmaseda was in the immediate
    neighbourhood.  On the 22nd, I mounted my horse and rode to
    Villallos, a distance of three leagues.  On my arrival there, I found
    that Lopez had been removed from the prison to a private house.  An
    order had arrived from the _corregidor_ of Avila, commanding that the
    person of Lopez should be set at liberty, and that the books which
    had been found in his possession should be alone detained.
    Nevertheless, in direct opposition to this order (a copy of which I
    herewith transmit), the _alcalde_ of Villallos, at the instigation of
    the _cura_, refused to permit the said Lopez to quit the place,
    either to proceed to Avila or in any other direction.  It had been
    hinted to Lopez that as the factious were expected, it was intended
    on their arrival to denounce him to them as a liberal, and to cause
    him to be sacrificed.  Taking these circumstances into consideration,
    I deemed it my duty, as a Christian and a gentleman, to rescue my
    unfortunate servant from such lawless hands, and in consequence,
    defying opposition, I bore him off, though entirely unarmed, through
    a crowd of at least one hundred peasants.  On leaving the place I
    shouted, ‘_Viva Isabel Segunda_.’

    “As it is my belief that the _cura_ of Villallos is a person capable
    of any infamy, I beg leave humbly to intreat your Lordship to cause a
    copy of the above narration to be forwarded to the Spanish
    Government.

    “I have the honour to remain,

                                                                 “My Lord,
                                           “Your Lordship’s most obedient,
                                                           “GEORGE BORROW.

    “To the Right Honourable
       “LORD WILLIAM HERVEY.”

After the rescue of Lopez we proceeded in the work of distribution.
Suddenly, however, the symptoms of an approaching illness came over me,
which compelled us to return in all haste to Madrid.  Arrived there, I
was attacked by a fever which confined me to my bed for several weeks;
occasional fits of delirium came over me, during one of which I imagined
myself in the market-place of Martin Muñoz, engaged in deadly struggle
with the chieftain Balmaseda.

The fever had scarcely departed, when a profound melancholy took
possession of me, which entirely disqualified me for active exertion.
Change of scene and air was recommended; I therefore returned to England.
{213}




CHAPTER XLV.


Return to Spain—Seville—A Hoary Persecutor—Manchegan Prophetess—Antonio’s
Dream.

On December 31, 1838, I again visited Spain for the third time.  After
staying a day or two at Cadiz, I repaired to Seville, from which place I
proposed starting for Madrid with the mail post.  Here I tarried about a
fortnight, enjoying the delicious climate of this terrestrial paradise,
and the balmy breezes of the Andalusian winter, even as I had done two
years previously.  Before leaving Seville I visited the bookseller, my
correspondent, who informed me that seventy-six copies of the hundred
Testaments entrusted to his care had been placed in embargo by the
government last summer, and that they were at the present time in
possession of the ecclesiastical governor; whereupon I determined to
visit this functionary also, with the view of making inquiries concerning
the property.

He lived in a large house in the _Pajaria_, or straw-market.  He was a
very old man, between seventy and eighty, and, like the generality of
those who wear the sacerdotal habit in this city, was a fierce
persecuting <DW7>.  I imagine that he scarcely believed his ears when
his two grand-nephews, beautiful black-haired boys who were playing in
the courtyard, ran to inform him that an Englishman was waiting to speak
with him, as it is probable that I was the first heretic who ever
ventured into his habitation.  I found him in a vaulted room, seated on a
lofty chair, with two sinister-looking secretaries, also in sacerdotal
habits, employed in writing at a table before him.  He brought powerfully
to my mind the grim old inquisitor who persuaded Philip the Second to
slay his own son {215} as an enemy to the Church.

He rose as I entered, and gazed upon me with a countenance dark with
suspicion and dissatisfaction.  He at last condescended to point me to a
sofa, and I proceeded to state to him my business.  He became much
agitated when I mentioned the Testaments to him; but I no sooner spoke of
the Bible Society and told him who I was, than he could contain himself
no longer: with a stammering tongue, and with eyes flashing fire like hot
coals, he proceeded to rail against the society and myself, saying that
the aims of the first were atrocious, and that, as to myself, he was
surprised that, being once lodged in the prison of Madrid, I had ever
been permitted to quit it; adding, that it was disgraceful in the
government to allow a person of my character to roam about an innocent
and peaceful country, corrupting the minds of the ignorant and
unsuspicious.  Far from allowing myself to be disconcerted by his rude
behaviour, I replied to him with all possible politeness, and assured him
that in this instance he had no reason to alarm himself, as my sole
motive in claiming the books in question was to avail myself of an
opportunity which at present presented itself, of sending them out of the
country, which, indeed, I had been commanded to do by an official notice.
But nothing would soothe him, and he informed me that he should not
deliver up the books on any condition, save by a positive order of the
government.  As the matter was by no means an affair of consequence, I
thought it wise not to persist, and also prudent to take my leave before
he requested me.  I was followed even down into the street by his niece
and grand-nephews, who, during the whole of the conversation, had
listened at the door of the apartment and heard every word.

In passing through La Mancha, we stayed for four hours at Manzanares, a
large village.  I was standing in the market-place conversing with a
curate, when a frightful ragged object presented itself; it was a girl
about eighteen or nineteen, perfectly blind, a white film being spread
over her huge staring eyes.  Her countenance was as yellow as that of a
Mulatto.  I thought at first that she was a gypsy, and addressing myself
to her, inquired in _Gitano_ if she were of that race.  She understood
me, but shaking her head, replied, that she was something better than a
_Gitana_, and could speak something better than that jargon of witches:
whereupon she commenced asking me several questions in exceedingly good
Latin.  I was of course very much surprised, but, summoning all my
Latinity, I called her Manchegan Prophetess, and, expressing my
admiration for her learning, begged to be informed by what means she
became possessed of it.  I must here observe that a crowd instantly
gathered around us, who, though they understood not one word of our
discourse, at every sentence of the girl shouted applause, proud in the
possession of a prophetess who could answer the Englishman.

She informed me that she was born blind, and that a Jesuit priest had
taken compassion on her when she was a child, and had taught her the holy
language, in order that the attention and hearts of Christians might be
more easily turned towards her.  I soon discovered that he had taught her
something more than Latin, for upon telling her that I was an Englishman,
she said that she had always loved Britain, which was once the nursery of
saints and sages; for example, Bede and Alcuin, Columbus and Thomas of
Canterbury; but, she added, those times had gone by since the
reappearance of Semiramis (Elizabeth).  Her Latin was truly excellent,
and when I, like a genuine Goth, spoke of Anglia and Terra Vandalica
(Andalusia), {217} she corrected me by saying, that in her language those
places were called Britannia and Terra Betica.  When we had finished our
discourse, a gathering was made for the prophetess, the very poorest
contributing something.

After travelling four days and nights, we arrived at Madrid without
having experienced the slightest accident, though it is but just to
observe, and always with gratitude to the Almighty, that the next mail
was stopped.  A singular incident befell me immediately after my arrival.
On entering the arch of the _posada_ called La Reyna, where I intended to
put up, I found myself encircled in a person’s arms, and on turning round
in amazement, beheld my Greek servant, Antonio.  He was haggard and
ill-dressed, and his eyes seemed starting from their sockets.

As soon as we were alone he informed me that since my departure he had
undergone great misery and destitution, having, during the whole period,
been unable to find a master in need of his services, so that he was
brought nearly to the verge of desperation; but that on the night
immediately preceding my arrival he had a dream, in which he saw me,
mounted on a black horse, ride up to the gate of the _posada_, and that
on that account he had been waiting there during the greater part of the
day.  I do not pretend to offer an opinion concerning this narrative,
which is beyond the reach of my philosophy, and shall content myself with
observing, that only two individuals in Madrid were aware of my arrival
in Spain.  I was very glad to receive him again into my service, as,
notwithstanding his faults, he had in many instances proved of no slight
assistance to me in my wanderings and Biblical labours.

I was soon settled in my former lodgings, when one of my first cares was
to pay a visit to Lord Clarendon. {218}  Amongst other things, he
informed me that he had received an official notice from the government,
stating the seizure of the New Testaments at Ocaña, the circumstances
relating to which I have described on a former occasion, and informing
him that unless steps were instantly taken to remove them from the
country, they would be destroyed at Toledo, to which place they had been
conveyed.  I replied that I should give myself no trouble about the
matter; and that if the authorities of Toledo, civil or ecclesiastic,
determined upon burning these books, my only hope was that they would
commit them to the flames with all possible publicity, as by so doing
they would but manifest their own hellish rancour and their hostility to
the Word of God.

Being eager to resume my labours, I had no sooner arrived at Madrid than
I wrote to Lopez at Villa Seca, for the purpose of learning whether he
was inclined to co-operate in the work, as on former occasions.  In reply
he informed me that he was busily employed in his agricultural pursuits:
to supply his place, however, he sent over an elderly villager,
Victoriano Lopez by name, a distant relation of his own.

What is a missionary in the heart of Spain without a horse?  Which
consideration induced me now to purchase an Arabian of high caste, which
had been brought from Algiers by an officer of the French legion.  The
name of this steed, the best, I believe, that ever issued from the
desert, was Sidi Habismilk. {219}




CHAPTER XLVI.


Work of Distribution resumed—Adventure at Cobeña—Power of the
Clergy—Rural Authorities—Fuente la Higuera—Victoriano’s Mishap—Village
Prison—The Rope—Antonio’s Errand—Antonio at Mass.

In my last chapter I stated that, immediately after my arrival at Madrid,
I proceeded to get everything in readiness for commencing operations in
the neighbourhood: and I soon entered upon my labours in reality.
Considerable success attended my feeble efforts in the good cause, for
which at present, after the lapse of some years, I still look back with
gratitude to the Almighty.

All the villages within the distance of four leagues to the east of
Madrid were visited in less than a fortnight, and Testaments to the
number of nearly two hundred disposed of.  These villages for the most
part are very small, some of them consisting of not more than a dozen
houses, or I should rather say miserable cabins.  I left Antonio, my
Greek, to superintend matters in Madrid, and proceeded with Victoriano,
the peasant, from Villa Seca, in the direction which I have already
mentioned.  We, however, soon parted company and pursued different
routes.

The first village at which I made an attempt was Cobeña, about three
leagues from Madrid.  I was dressed in the fashion of the peasants in the
neighbourhood of Segovia, in Old Castile, namely, I had on my head a
species of leather helmet or _montera_, with a jacket and trousers of the
same material.  I had the appearance of a person between sixty and
seventy years of age, and drove before me a _borrico_ with a sack of
Testaments lying across its back.  On nearing the village, I met a
genteel-looking young woman leading a little boy by the hand.  As I was
about to pass her, with the customary salutation of _vaya usted con
Dios_, she stopped, and, after looking at me for a moment, she said,
“Uncle, {221a} what is that you have got on your _borrico_?  Is it soap?”

“Yes,” I replied; “it is soap to wash souls clean.”

She demanded what I meant; whereupon I told her that I carried cheap and
godly books for sale.  On her requesting to see one, I produced a copy
from my pocket and handed it to her.  She instantly commenced reading
with a loud voice, and continued so for at least ten minutes,
occasionally exclaiming, “_Que lectura tan bonita_, _que lectura tan
linda_!” {221b}  At last, on my informing her that I was in a hurry, and
could not wait any longer, she said, “True, true,” and asked me the price
of the book; I told her “But three _reals_,” whereupon she said, that
though what I asked was very little, it was more than she could afford to
give, as there was little or no money in those parts.  I said I was sorry
for it, but that I could not dispose of the books for less than I had
demanded, and accordingly, resuming it, wished her farewell, and left
her.  I had not, however, proceeded thirty yards, when the boy came
running behind me, shouting, out of breath, “Stop, uncle, the book, the
book!”  Upon overtaking me, he delivered the three _reals_ in copper, and
seizing the Testament, ran back to her, who I suppose was his sister,
flourishing the book over his head with great glee.

On arriving at the village, I directed my steps to a house, around the
door of which I saw several people gathered, chiefly women.  On my
displaying my books, their curiosity was instantly aroused, and every
person had speedily one in his hand, many reading aloud; however, after
waiting nearly an hour, I had disposed of but one copy, all complaining
bitterly of the distress of the times, and the almost total want of
money, though, at the same time, they acknowledged that the books were
wonderfully cheap, and appeared to be very good and Christian-like.  I
was about to gather up my merchandise and depart, when on a sudden the
curate of the place made his appearance.  After having examined the books
for some time with considerable attention, he asked me the price of a
copy, and upon my informing him that it was three _reals_, he replied
that the binding was worth more, and that he was much afraid that I had
stolen the books, and that it was perhaps his duty to send me to prison
as a suspicious character; but added, that the books were good books,
however they might be obtained, and concluded by purchasing two copies.
The poor people no sooner heard their curate recommend the volumes, than
all were eager to secure one, and hurried here and there for the purpose
of procuring money, so that between twenty and thirty copies were sold
almost in an instant.  This adventure not only affords an instance of the
power still possessed by the Spanish clergy over the minds of the people,
but proves that such influence is not always exerted in a manner
favourable to the maintenance of ignorance and superstition.

In another village, on my showing a Testament to a woman, she said that
she had a child at school for whom she should like to purchase one, but
that she must first know whether the book was calculated to be of service
to him.  She then went away, and presently returned with the
schoolmaster, followed by all the children under his care; she then,
showing the schoolmaster a book, inquired if it would answer for her son.
The schoolmaster called her a simpleton for asking such a question, and
said that he knew the book well, and there was not its equal in the
world. {223}  He instantly purchased five copies for his pupils,
regretting that he had no more money, “for if I had,” said he, “I would
buy the whole cargo.”  Upon hearing this, the woman purchased four
copies, namely, one for her living son, another for her _deceased
husband_, a third for herself, and a fourth for her brother, whom she
said she was expecting home that night from Madrid.

In this manner we proceeded; not, however, with uniform success.  In some
villages the people were so poor and needy that they had literally no
money; even in these, however, we managed to dispose of a few copies in
exchange for barley or refreshments.  On entering one very small hamlet,
Victoriano was stopped by the curate, who, on learning what he carried,
told him, that unless he instantly departed, he would cause him to be
imprisoned, and would write to Madrid in order to give information of
what was going on.  The excursion lasted about eight days.  Immediately
after my return, I despatched Victoriano to Caramanchel, {224a} a village
at a short distance from Madrid, the only one towards the west which had
not been visited last year.  He stayed there about an hour, and disposed
of twelve copies, and then returned, as he was exceedingly timid, and was
afraid of being met by the thieves who swarm on that road in the evening.

Shortly after these events, a circumstance occurred which will, perhaps,
cause the English reader to smile, whilst, at the same time, it will not
fail to prove interesting, as affording an example of the feeling
prevalent in some of the lone villages of Spain with respect to
innovation and all that savours thereof, and the strange acts which are
sometimes committed by the rural authorities and the priests, without the
slightest fear of being called to account; for as they live quite apart
from the rest of the world, they know no people greater than themselves,
and scarcely dream of a higher power than their own. {224b}

I was about to make an excursion to Guadalajara, and the villages of
Alcarria, about seven leagues distant from Madrid; indeed, I merely
awaited the return of Victoriano to sally forth; I having despatched him
in that direction with a few Testaments, as a kind of explorer, in order
that, from his report as to the disposition manifested by the people for
purchasing, I might form a tolerably accurate opinion as to the number of
copies which it might be necessary to carry with me.  However, I heard
nothing of him for a fortnight, at the end of which period a letter was
brought to me by a peasant, dated from the prison of Fuente la Higuera, a
village eight leagues from Madrid, in the _campiña_ of Alcalá: {225} this
letter, written by Victoriano, gave me to understand that he had been
already eight days imprisoned, and that unless I could find some means to
extricate him, there was every probability of his remaining in durance
until he should perish with hunger, which he had no doubt would occur as
soon as his money was exhausted.  From what I afterwards learned, it
appeared that, after passing the town of Alcalá, he had commenced
distributing, and with considerable success.  His entire stock consisted
of sixty-one Testaments, twenty-five of which he sold without the
slightest difficulty or interruption in the single village of Arganza;
the poor labourers showering blessings on his head for providing them
with such good books at an easy price.

Not more than eighteen of his books remained, when he turned off the
high-road towards Fuente la Higuera.  This place was already tolerably
well known to him, he having visited it of old, when he travelled the
country in the capacity of a vender of _cacharras_, or earthen pans.  He
subsequently stated that he felt some misgiving whilst on the way, as the
village had invariably borne a bad reputation.  On his arrival, after
having put up his _caballejo_, or little pony, at a _posada_, he
proceeded to the _alcalde_ for the purpose of asking permission to sell
the books, which that dignitary immediately granted.  He now entered a
house and sold a copy, and likewise a second.  Emboldened by success, he
entered a third, which, it appeared, belonged to the barber-surgeon of
the village.  This personage, having just completed his dinner, was
seated in an armchair within his doorway, when Victoriano made his
appearance.  He was a man about thirty-five, of a savage truculent
countenance.  On Victoriano’s offering him a Testament, he took it in his
hand to examine it; but no sooner did his eyes glance over the title-page
than he burst out into a loud laugh, exclaiming, “_Ha_, _ha_, _Don Jorge
Borrow_, the English heretic, we have encountered you at last.  Glory to
the Virgin and the Saints!  We have long been expecting you here, and at
length you are arrived.”  He then inquired the price of the book, and on
being told three _reals_, he flung down two, and rushed out of the house
with the Testament in his hand.

Victoriano now became alarmed, and determined upon leaving the place as
soon as possible.  He therefore hurried back to the _posada_, and having
paid for the barley which his pony had consumed, went into the stable,
and placing the packsaddle on the animal’s back, was about to lead it
forth, when the _alcalde_ of the village, the surgeon, and twelve other
men, some of whom were armed with muskets, suddenly presented themselves.
They instantly made Victoriano prisoner; and, after seizing the books and
laying an embargo on the pony, proceeded, amidst much abuse, to drag the
captive to what they denominated their prison, a low damp apartment with
a little grated window, where they locked him up and left him.  At the
expiration of three-quarters of an hour they again appeared, and
conducted him to the house of the curate, where they sat down in
conclave; the curate, who was a man stone blind, presiding, whilst the
sacristan officiated as secretary.  The surgeon having stated his
accusation against the prisoner—namely, that he had detected him in the
act of selling a version of the Scriptures in the vulgar tongue—the
curate proceeded to examine Victoriano, asking him his name and place of
residence; to which he replied that his name was Victoriano Lopez, and
that he was a native of Villa Seca, in the Sagra of Toledo.  The curate
then demanded what religion he professed? and whether he was a Mahometan
or freemason? and received for answer that he was a Roman Catholic.  I
must here state that Victoriano, though sufficiently shrewd in his way,
was a poor old labourer of sixty-four; and until that moment had never
heard either of Mahometans or freemasons.  The curate becoming now
incensed, called him a _tunante_, or scoundrel, and added, “You have sold
your soul to a heretic; we have long been aware of your proceedings, and
those of your master.  You are the same Lopez whom he last year rescued
from the prison of Villallos, in the province of Avila; I sincerely hope
that he will attempt to do the same thing here.”  “Yes, yes,” shouted the
rest of the conclave, “let him but venture here, and we will shed his
heart’s blood on our stones.”  In this manner they went on for nearly
half an hour.  At last they broke up the meeting, and conducted
Victoriano once more to his prison.

During his confinement he lived tolerably well, being in possession of
money.  His meals were sent him twice a day from the _posada_, where his
pony remained in embargo.  Once or twice he asked permission of the
_alcalde_, who visited him every night and morning with his armed guard,
to purchase pen and paper, in order that he might write to Madrid; but
this favour was peremptorily refused him, and all the inhabitants of the
village were forbidden under terrible penalties to afford him the means
of writing, or to convey any message from him beyond the precincts of the
place, and two boys were stationed before the window of his cell for the
purpose of watching everything which might be conveyed to him.

It happened one day that Victoriano, being in need of a pillow, sent word
to the people of the _posada_ to send him his _alforjas_, or saddle-bags,
which they did.  In these bags there chanced to be a kind of rope, or, as
it is called in Spanish, _soga_, with which he was in the habit of
fastening his satchel to the pony’s back.  The urchins seeing an end of
this rope, hanging from the _alforjas_, instantly ran to the _alcalde_ to
give him information.  Late at evening, the _alcalde_ again visited the
prisoner at the head of his twelve men as usual.  “_Buenos noches_,”
{228a} said the _alcalde_.  “_Buenas noches tenga usted_,” {228b} replied
Victoriano.  “For what purpose did you send for the _soga_ this
afternoon?” demanded the functionary.  “I sent for no _soga_,” said the
prisoner; “I sent for my _alforjas_ to serve as a pillow, and it was sent
in them by chance.”  “You are a false, malicious knave,” retorted the
_alcalde_; “you intend to hang yourself, and by so doing ruin us all, as
your death would be laid at our door.  Give me the _soga_.”  No greater
insult can be offered to a Spaniard than to tax him with an intention of
committing suicide.  Poor Victoriano flew into a violent rage; and, after
calling the _alcalde_ several very uncivil names, he pulled the _soga_
from his bags, flung it at his head, and told him to take it home and use
it for his own neck.

At length the people of the _posada_ took pity on the prisoner,
perceiving that he was very harshly treated for no crime at all; they
therefore determined to afford him an opportunity of informing his
friends of his situation, and accordingly sent him a pen and inkhorn,
concealed in a loaf of bread, and a piece of writing-paper, pretending
that the latter was intended for cigars.  So Victoriano wrote the letter:
but now ensued the difficulty of sending it to its destination, as no
person in the village dare have carried it for any reward.  The good
people, however, persuaded a disbanded soldier from another village, who
chanced to be at Fuente la Higuera in quest of work, to charge himself
with it, assuring him that I would pay him well for his trouble.  The
man, watching his opportunity, received the letter from Victoriano at the
window: and it was he who, after travelling on foot all night, delivered
it to me in safety at Madrid.

I was now relieved from my anxiety, and had no fears for the result.  I
instantly went to a friend who is in possession of large estates about
Guadalajara, in which province Fuenta la Higuera is situated, who
furnished me with letters to the civil governor of Guadalajara and all
the principal authorities; these I delivered to Antonio, whom, at his own
request, I despatched on the errand of the prisoner’s liberation.  He
first directed his course to Fuente la Higuera, where, entering the
_alcalde’s_ house, he boldly told him what he had come about.  The
_alcalde_, expecting that I was at hand, with an army of Englishmen, for
the purpose of rescuing the prisoner, became greatly alarmed, and
instantly despatched his wife to summon his twelve men: however, on
Antonio’s assuring him that there was no intention of having recourse to
violence, he became more tranquil.  In a short time Antonio was summoned
before the conclave and its blind sacerdotal president.  They at first
attempted to frighten him by assuming a loud bullying tone, and talking
of the necessity of killing all strangers, and especially the detested
_Don Jorge_ and his dependents.  Antonio, however, who was not a person
apt to allow himself to be easily terrified, scoffed at their threats,
and, showing them his letters to the authorities of Guadalajara, said
that he should proceed there on the morrow and denounce their lawless
conduct; adding that he was a Turkish subject, and that should they dare
to offer him the slightest incivility, he would write to the Sublime
Porte, in comparison with whom the best kings in the world were but
worms, and who would not fail to avenge the wrongs of any of his
children, however distant, in a manner too terrible to be mentioned.  He
then returned to his _posada_.  The conclave now proceeded to deliberate
amongst themselves, and at last determined to send their prisoner on the
morrow to Guadalajara, and deliver him into the hands of the civil
governor.

Nevertheless, in order to keep up a semblance of authority, they that
night placed two men armed at the door of the _posada_ where Antonio was
lodged, as if he himself was a prisoner.  These men, as often as the
clock struck the hour, shouted, “_Ave Maria_!  Death to the heretics!”
Early in the morning the _alcalde_ presented himself at the _posada_; but
before entering he made an oration at the door to the people in the
street, saying, amongst other things, “Brethren, these are the fellows
who have come to rob us of our religion.”  He then went in to Antonio’s
apartment, and after saluting him with great politeness, said, that as a
royal or high Mass was about to be celebrated that morning, he had come
to invite him to go to church with him.  Whereupon Antonio, though by no
means a Mass-goer, rose and accompanied him, and remained two hours, as
he told me, on his knees on the cold stones, to his great discomfort; the
eyes of the whole congregation being fixed upon him during the time.

After Mass and breakfast, he departed for Guadalajara, Victoriano having
been already despatched under a guard.  On his arrival, he presented his
letters to the individuals for whom they were intended.  The civil
governor was convulsed with merriment on hearing Antonio’s account of the
adventure.  Victoriano was set at liberty, and the books were placed in
embargo at Guadalajara; the governor stating, however, that though it was
his duty to detain them at present, they should be sent to me whenever I
chose to claim them: he, moreover, said that he would do his best to
cause the authorities of Fuente la Higuera to be severely punished, as in
the whole affair they had acted in the most cruel, tyrannical manner, for
which they had no authority.  Thus terminated this affair: one of those
little accidents which chequer missionary life in Spain.




CHAPTER XLVII.


Termination of our Rural Labours—Alarm of the Clergy—A New
Experiment—Success at Madrid—Goblin-Alguazil—Staff of Office—The
Corregidor—An Explanation—The Pope in England—New Testament
expounded—Works of Luther.

We proceeded in our task of distributing the Scriptures with various
success, until the middle of March, when I determined upon starting for
Talavera, for the purpose of seeing what it was possible to accomplish in
that town and the neighbourhood.  I accordingly bent my course in that
direction, accompanied by Antonio and Victoriano.  On our way thither we
stopped at Naval Carnero, a large village five leagues to the west of
Madrid, where I remained three days, sending forth Victoriano to the
circumjacent hamlets with small cargoes of Testaments.  Providence,
however, which had hitherto so remarkably favoured us in these rural
excursions, now withdrew from us its support, and brought them to a
sudden termination: for in whatever place the sacred writings were
offered for sale, they were forthwith seized by persons who appeared to
be upon the watch; which events compelled me to alter my intention of
proceeding to Talavera, and to return forthwith to Madrid.

I subsequently learned that our proceedings on the other side of Madrid
having caused alarm amongst the heads of the clergy, they had made a
formal complaint to the government, who immediately sent orders to all
the _alcaldes_ of the villages, great and small, in New Castile, to seize
the New Testament wherever it might be exposed for sale; but, at the same
time, enjoining them to be particularly careful not to detain or maltreat
the person or persons who might be attempting to vend it.  An exact
description of myself accompanied these orders; and the authorities, both
civil and military, were exhorted to be on their guard against me and my
arts and machinations; for, as the document stated, I was to-day in one
place, and tomorrow at twenty leagues’ distance.

I was not much discouraged by this blow, which, indeed, did not come
entirely unexpected.  I, however, determined to change the sphere of
action, and not expose the sacred volume to seizure at every step which I
should take to circulate it.  In my late attempts I had directed my
attention exclusively to the villages and small towns, in which it was
quite easy for the government to frustrate my efforts by means of
circulars to the local authorities, who would, of course, be on the
alert, and whose vigilance it would be impossible to baffle, as every
novelty which occurs in a small place is forthwith bruited about.  But
the case would be widely different amongst the crowds of the capital,
where I could pursue my labours with comparative secrecy.  My present
plan was to abandon the rural districts, and to offer the sacred volume
at Madrid, from house to house, at the same low price as in the country.
This plan I forthwith put into execution.

Having an extensive acquaintance amongst the lower orders, I selected
eight intelligent individuals to co-operate with me, amongst whom were
five women.  All these I supplied with Testaments, and then sent them
forth to all the parishes in Madrid.  The result of their efforts more
than answered my expectations.  In less than fifteen days after my return
from Naval Carnero, nearly six hundred copies of the life and words of
Him of Nazareth had been sold in the streets and alleys of Madrid: a fact
which I hope I may be permitted to mention with gladness and with decent
triumph in the Lord.

One of the richest streets is the Calle Montera, where reside the
principal merchants and shopkeepers of Madrid.  It is, in fact, the
street of commerce, in which respect, and in being a favourite promenade,
it corresponds with the far-famed Nefsky {234} of Saint Petersburg.
Every house in this street was supplied with its Testament, and the same
might be said with respect to the Puerta del Sol.  Nay, in some
instances, every individual in the house, man and child, manservant and
maid-servant, was furnished with a copy.  My Greek, Antonio, made
wonderful exertions in this quarter; and it is but justice to say that,
but for his instrumentality, on many occasions, I might have been by no
means able to give so favourable an account of the spread of “the Bible
in Spain.”  There was a time when I was in the habit of saying “dark
Madrid,” an expression which, I thank God, I could now drop.  It were
scarcely just to call a city “dark,” in which thirteen hundred Testaments
at least were in circulation, and in daily use.

It was now that I turned to account a supply of Bibles which I had
received from Barcelona, in sheets, at the commencement of the preceding
year.  The demand for the entire Scriptures was great; indeed far greater
than I could answer, as the books were disposed of faster than they could
be bound by the man whom I employed for that purpose.  Eight-and-twenty
copies were bespoken and paid for before delivery.  Many of these Bibles
found their way into the best houses in Madrid.  The Marquis of --- had a
large family, but every individual of it, old and young, was in
possession of a Bible, and likewise a Testament, which, strange to say,
were recommended by the chaplain of the house.  One of my most zealous
agents in the propagation of the Bible was an ecclesiastic.  He never
walked out without carrying one beneath his gown, which he offered to the
first person he met whom he thought likely to purchase.  Another
excellent assistant was an elderly gentleman of Navarre, enormously rich,
who was continually purchasing copies on his own account, which he, as I
was told, sent into his native province, for distribution amongst his
friends and the poor.

On a certain night I had retired to rest rather more early than usual,
being slightly indisposed.  I soon fell asleep, and had continued so for
some hours, when I was suddenly aroused by the opening of the door of the
small apartment in which I lay.  I started up, and beheld Maria Diaz,
with a lamp in her hand, enter the room.  I observed that her features,
which were in general peculiarly calm and placid, wore a somewhat
startled expression.  “What is the hour, and what brings you here?” I
demanded.

“_Señor_,” said she, closing the door, and coming up to the bedside, “it
is close upon midnight; but a messenger belonging to the police has just
entered the house, and demanded to see you.  I told him that it was
impossible, for that your worship was in bed.  Whereupon he sneezed in my
face, and said that he would see you if you were in your coffin.  He has
all the look of a goblin, and has thrown me into a tremor.  I am far from
being a timid person, as you are aware, _Don Jorge_; but I confess that I
never cast my eyes on these wretches of the police, but my heart dies
away within me!  I know them but too well, and what they are capable of.”

“Pooh,” said I, “be under no apprehension; let him come in, I fear him
not, whether he be _alguazil_ or hobgoblin. {236}  Stand, however, at the
doorway, that you may be a witness of what takes place, as it is more
than probable that he comes at this unseasonable hour to create a
disturbance, that he may have an opportunity of making an unfavourable
report to his principals, like the fellow on the former occasion.”

The hostess left the apartment, and I heard her say a word or two to some
one in the passage, whereupon there was a loud sneeze, and in a moment
after a singular figure appeared at the doorway.  It was that of a very
old man, with long white hair, which escaped from beneath the eaves of an
exceedingly high-peaked hat.  He stooped considerably, and moved along
with a shambling gait.  I could not see much of his face, which, as the
landlady stood behind him with the lamp, was consequently in deep shadow.
I could observe, however, that his eyes sparkled like those of a ferret.
He advanced to the foot of the bed, in which I was still lying, wondering
what this strange visit could mean; and there he stood gazing at me for a
minute, at least, without uttering a syllable.  Suddenly, however, he
protruded a spare skinny hand from the cloak in which it had hitherto
been enveloped, and pointed with a short staff, tipped with metal, in the
direction of my face, as if he were commencing an exorcism.  He appeared
to be about to speak, but his words, if he intended any, were stifled in
their birth by a sudden sternutation which escaped him, and which was so
violent that the hostess started back, exclaiming, “_Ave Maria
purísima_!” and nearly dropped the lamp in her alarm.

“My good person,” said I, “what do you mean by this foolish hobgoblinry?
If you have anything to communicate do so at once, and go about your
business.  I am unwell, and you are depriving me of my repose.”

“By the virtue of this staff,” said the old man, “and the authority which
it gives me to do and say that which is convenient, I do command, order,
and summon you to appear to-morrow, at the eleventh hour, at the office
of my lord the _corregidor_ of this village of Madrid, {237} in order
that, standing before him humbly, and with befitting reverence, you may
listen to whatever he may have to say, or, if necessary, may yield
yourself up to receive the castigation of any crimes which you may have
committed, whether trivial or enormous.  _Tenez_, _compère_,” he added,
in most villanous French, “_voilà mon affaire_; _voilà ce que je viens
vous dire_.”

Thereupon he glared at me for a moment, nodded his head twice, and
replacing his staff beneath his cloak, shambled out of the room, and with
a valedictory sneeze in the passage left the house.

Precisely at eleven on the following day I attended at the office of the
_corregidor_.  He was not the individual whose anger I had incurred on a
former occasion, and who had thought proper to imprison me, but another
person, I believe a Catalan, whose name I have also forgotten.  Indeed,
these civil employments were at this period given to-day and taken away
tomorrow, so that the person who held one of them for a month might
consider himself a functionary of long standing.  I was not kept waiting
a moment, but as soon as I had announced myself, was forthwith ushered
into the presence of the _corregidor_—a good-looking, portly, and
well-dressed personage, seemingly about fifty.  He was writing at a desk
when I entered, but almost immediately arose and came towards me.  He
looked me full in the face, and I, nothing abashed, kept my eyes fixed
upon his.  He had, perhaps, expected a less independent bearing, and that
I should have quaked and crouched before him; but now, conceiving himself
bearded in his own den, his old Spanish leaven was forthwith stirred up.
He plucked his whiskers fiercely.  “_Escuchad_,” said he, casting upon me
a ferocious glance, “I wish to ask you a question.”

“Before I answer any question of your excellency,” said I, “I shall take
the liberty of putting one myself.  What law or reason is there that I, a
peaceable individual and a foreigner, should have my rest disturbed by
_duendes_ and hobgoblins sent at midnight to summon me to appear at
public offices like a criminal?”

“You do not speak the truth,” shouted the _corregidor_; “the person sent
to summon you was neither _duende_ nor hobgoblin, but one of the most
ancient and respectable officers of this _casa_, and so far from being
despatched at midnight, it wanted twenty-five minutes to that hour by my
own watch when he left this office, and as your lodging is not distant,
he must have arrived there at least ten minutes before midnight, so that
you are by no means accurate, and are found wanting in regard to truth.”

“A distinction without a difference,” I replied.  “For my own part, if I
am to be disturbed in my sleep, it is of little consequence whether at
midnight or ten minutes before that time; and with respect to your
messenger, although he might not be a hobgoblin, he had all the
appearance of one, and assuredly answered the purpose, by frightening the
woman of the house almost into fits by his hideous grimaces and sneezing
convulsions.”

_Corregidor_.—You are a—I know not what.  Do you know that I have the
power to imprison you?

_Myself_.—You have twenty _alguazils_ at your beck and call, and have of
course the power, and so had your predecessor, who nearly lost his
situation by imprisoning me; but you know full well that you have not the
right, as I am not under your jurisdiction, but that of the
captain-general.  If I have obeyed your summons, it was simply because I
had a curiosity to know what you wanted with me, and from no other motive
whatever.  As for imprisoning me, I beg leave to assure you, that you
have my full consent to do so; the most polite society in Madrid is to be
found in the prison, and as I am at present compiling a vocabulary of the
language of the Madrilenian thieves, I should have, in being imprisoned,
an excellent opportunity of completing it.  There is much to be learnt
even in the prison, for, as the gypsies say, “The dog that trots about
finds a bone.” {240}

_Corregidor_.—Your words are not those of a _caballero_.  Do you forget
where you are, and in whose presence?  Is this a fitting place to talk of
thieves and gypsies in?

_Myself_.—Really I know of no place more fitting, unless it be the
prison.  But we are wasting time, and I am anxious to know for what I
have been summoned; whether for crimes trivial or enormous, as the
messenger said.

It was a long time before I could obtain the required information from
the incensed _corregidor_; at last, however, it came.  It appeared that a
box of Testaments, which I had despatched to Naval Carnero, had been
seized by the local authorities, and having been detained there for some
time, was at last sent back to Madrid, intended, as it now appeared, for
the hands of the _corregidor_.  One day as it was lying at the
waggon-office, Antonio chanced to enter on some business of his own and
recognized the box, which he instantly claimed as my property, and having
paid the carriage, removed it to my warehouse.  He had considered the
matter as of so little importance, that he had not as yet mentioned it to
me.  The poor _corregidor_, however, had no doubt that it was a deep-laid
scheme to plunder and insult him.  And now, working himself up into
almost a frenzy of excitement, he stamped on the ground, exclaiming,
“_Que picardia_!  _Que infamia_!”

The old system, thought I, of prejudging people, and imputing to them
motives and actions of which they never dreamed.  I then told him frankly
that I was entirely ignorant of the circumstance by which he had felt
himself aggrieved; but that if, upon inquiry, I found that the chest had
actually been removed by my servant from the office to which it had been
forwarded, I would cause it forthwith to be restored, although it was my
own property.  “I have plenty more Testaments,” said I, “and can afford
to lose fifty or a hundred.  I am a man of peace, and wish not to have
any dispute with the authorities for the sake of an old chest and a cargo
of books, whose united value would scarcely amount to forty dollars.”

He looked at me for a moment, as if in doubt of my sincerity, then, again
plucking his whiskers, he forthwith proceeded to attack me in another
quarter: “_Pero que infamia_, _que picardia_! to come into Spain for the
purpose of overturning the religion of the country.  What would you say
if the Spaniards were to go to England and attempt to overturn the
Lutheranism established there?”

“They would be most heartily welcome,” I replied; “more especially if
they would attempt to do so by circulating the Bible, the book of
Christians, even as the English are doing in Spain.  But your excellency
is not perhaps aware that the Pope has a fair field and fair play in
England, and is permitted to make as many converts from Lutheranism every
day in the week as are disposed to go over to him.  He cannot boast,
however, of much success; the people are too fond of light to embrace
darkness, and would smile at the idea of exchanging their Gospel
privileges for the superstitious ceremonies and observances of the Church
of Rome.”

On my repeating my promise that the books and chest should be forthwith
restored, the _corregidor_ declared himself satisfied, and all of a
sudden became excessively polite and condescending: he even went so far
as to say that he left it entirely with myself, whether to return the
books or not; “and,” continued he, “before you go, I wish to tell you
that my private opinion is, that it is highly advisable in all countries
to allow full and perfect tolerance in religious matters, and to permit
every religious system to stand or fall according to its own merits.”

Such were the concluding words of the _corregidor_ of Madrid, which,
whether they expressed his private opinion or not, were certainly
grounded on sense and reason.  I saluted him respectfully and retired,
and forthwith performed my promise with regard to the books; and thus
terminated this affair.

It almost appeared to me at this time that a religious reform was
commencing in Spain; indeed, matters had of late come to my knowledge,
which, had they been prophesied only a year before, I should have
experienced much difficulty in believing.

The reader will be surprised when I state that, in two churches of
Madrid, the New Testament was regularly expounded every Sunday evening,
by the respective curates, to about twenty children who attended, and who
were all provided with copies of the society’s edition of Madrid, 1837.
{242a}  The churches which I allude to were those of San Gines and Santa
Cruz. {242b}  Now, I humbly conceive that this fact alone is more than
equivalent to all the expense which the society had incurred in the
efforts which it had been making to introduce the Gospel into Spain; but
be this as it may, I am certain that it amply recompensed me for all the
anxiety and unhappiness which I had undergone.  I now felt that whenever
I should be compelled to discontinue my labours in the Peninsula, I
should retire without the slightest murmur, my heart being filled with
gratitude to the Lord for having permitted me, useless vessel as I was,
to see at least some of the seed springing up, which during two years I
had been casting on the stony ground of the interior of Spain.

When I recollected the difficulties which had encompassed our path, I
could sometimes hardly credit all that the Almighty had permitted us to
accomplish within the last year.  A large edition of the New Testament
had been almost entirely disposed of in the very centre of Spain, in
spite of the opposition and the furious cry of the sanguinary priesthood
and the edicts of a deceitful government, and a spirit of religious
inquiry excited, which I had fervent hope would sooner or later lead to
blessed and most important results.  Till of late the name most abhorred
and dreaded in these parts of Spain was that of Martin Luther, who was in
general considered as a species of demon, a cousin-german to Belial and
Beelzebub, who, under the disguise of a man, wrote and preached blasphemy
against the Highest; yet now, strange to say, this once abominated
personage was spoken of with no slight degree of respect.  People with
Bibles in their hands not unfrequently visited me, inquiring with much
earnestness, and with no slight degree of simplicity, for the writings of
the great Doctor Martin, whom, indeed, some supposed to be still alive.

It will be as well here to observe, that of all the names connected with
the Reformation, that of Luther is the only one known in Spain; and let
me add, that no controversial writings but his are likely to be esteemed
as possessing the slightest weight or authority, however great their
intrinsic merit may be.  The common description of tracts, written with
the view of exposing the errors of Popery, are therefore not calculated
to prove of much benefit in Spain, though it is probable that much good
might be accomplished by well executed translations of judicious
selections from the works of Luther.




CHAPTER XLVIII.


Projected Journey—A Scene of Blood—The Friar—Seville—Beauties of
Seville—Orange Trees and Flowers—Murillo—The Guardian Angel—Dionysius—My
Coadjutors—Demand for the Bible.

By the middle of April I had sold as many Testaments as I thought Madrid
would bear: I therefore called in my people, for I was afraid to
overstock the market, and to bring the book into contempt by making it
too common.  I had, indeed, by this time, barely a thousand copies
remaining of the edition which I had printed two years previously; and
with respect to Bibles, every copy was by this time disposed of, though
there was still a great demand for them, which, of course, I was unable
to satisfy.

With the remaining copies of the Testament, I now determined to betake
myself to Seville, where little had hitherto been effected in the way of
circulation: my preparations were soon made.  The roads were at this time
in a highly dangerous state, on which account I thought to go along with
a convoy, which was about to start for Andalusia.  Two days, however,
before its departure, understanding that the number of people who
likewise proposed to avail themselves of it was likely to be very great,
and reflecting on the slowness of this way of travelling, and moreover
the insults to which civilians were frequently subjected from the
soldiers and petty officers, I determined to risk the journey with the
mail.  This resolution I carried into effect.  Antonio, whom I had
resolved to take with me, and my two horses, departed with the convoy,
whilst in a few days I followed with the mail courier.  We travelled all
the way without the slightest accident, my usual wonderful good fortune
accompanying us.  I might well call it wonderful, for I was running into
the den of a lion; the whole of La Mancha, with the exception of a few
fortified places, being once more in the hands of Palillos and his
banditti, who, whenever it pleased them, stopped the courier, burnt the
vehicle and letters, murdered the paltry escort, and carried away any
chance passenger to the mountains, where an enormous ransom was demanded,
the alternative being four shots through the head, as the Spaniards say.

The upper part of Andalusia was becoming rapidly nearly as bad as La
Mancha.  The last time the mail had passed, it was attacked at the defile
of La Rumblar {246} by six mounted robbers; it was guarded by an escort
of as many soldiers, but the former suddenly galloped from behind a
solitary _venta_, and dashed the soldiers to the ground, who were taken
quite by surprise, the hoofs of the robbers’ horses making no noise on
account of the sandy nature of the ground.  The soldiers were instantly
disarmed and bound to olive trees, with the exception of two, who escaped
amongst the rocks; they were then mocked and tormented by the robbers, or
rather fiends, for nearly half an hour, when they were shot; the head of
the corporal who commanded being blown to fragments with a blunderbuss.
The robbers then burned the coach, which they accomplished by igniting
the letters by means of the tow with which they light their cigars.  The
life of the courier was saved by one of them, who had formerly been his
postilion; he was, however, robbed and stripped.  As we passed by the
scene of the butchery, the poor fellow wept, and, though a Spaniard,
cursed Spain and the Spaniards, saying that he intended shortly to pass
over to the Moreria, to confess Mahomet, and to learn the law of the
Moors, for that any country and religion were better than his own.  He
pointed to the tree where the corporal had been tied; though much rain
had fallen since, the ground around was still saturated with blood, and a
dog was gnawing a piece of the unfortunate wretch’s skull.  A friar
travelled with us the whole way from Madrid to Seville; he was of the
missionaries, and was going to the Philippine Islands, to conquer (_para
conquistar_), for such was his word, by which I suppose he meant
preaching to the Indians.  During the whole journey he exhibited every
symptom of the most abject fear, which operated upon him so that he
became deadly sick, and we were obliged to stop twice in the road, and
lay him amongst the green corn.  He said that if he fell into the hands
of the factious, he was a lost priest, for that they would first make him
say Mass, and then blow him up with gunpowder.  He had been professor of
philosophy, as he told me, in one of the convents (I think it was San
Tomas) of Madrid before their suppression, but appeared to be grossly
ignorant of the Scriptures, which he confounded with the works of Virgil.

We stopped at Manzanares as usual; it was Sunday morning, and the
market-place was crowded with people.  I was recognized in a moment, and
twenty pair of legs instantly hurried away in quest of the prophetess,
who presently made her appearance in the house to which we had retired to
breakfast.  After many greetings on both sides, she proceeded, in her
Latin, to give me an account of all that had occurred in the village
since I had last been there, and of the atrocities of the factious in the
neighbourhood.  I asked her to breakfast, and introduced her to the
friar, whom she addressed in this manner: “_Anne Domine Reverendissime
facis adhuc sacrificium_?” {248}  But the friar did not understand her,
and, waxing angry, anathematized her for a witch, and bade her begone.
She was, however, not to be disconcerted, and commenced singing, in
extemporary Castilian verse, the praises of friars and religious houses
in general.  On departing I gave her a _peseta_, upon which she burst
into tears, and entreated that I would write to her if I reached Seville
in safety.

We did arrive at Seville in safety, and I took leave of the friar,
telling him that I hoped to meet him again at Philippi.  As it was my
intention to remain at Seville for some months, I determined to hire a
house, in which I conceived I could live with more privacy, and at the
same time more economically, than in a _posada_.  It was not long before
I found one in every respect suited to me.  It was situated in the
Plazuela de la Pila Seca, a retired part of the city in the neighbourhood
of the cathedral, and at a short distance from the gate of Xeres; and in
this house, on the arrival of Antonio and the horses, which occurred
within a few days, I took up my abode.

I was now once more in beautiful Seville, and had soon ample time and
leisure to enjoy its delights and those of the surrounding country.
Unfortunately, at the time of my arrival, and indeed for the next ensuing
fortnight, the heaven of Andalusia, in general so glorious, was overcast
with black clouds, which discharged tremendous showers of rain, such as
few of the Sevillians, according to their own account, had ever seen
before.  This extraordinary weather had wrought no little damage in the
neighbourhood, causing the Guadalquivir, which, during the rainy season,
is a rapid and furious stream, to overflow its banks, and to threaten an
inundation.  It is true that intervals were occurring when the sun made
his appearance from his cloudy tabernacle, and with his golden rays
caused everything around to smile, enticing the butterfly forth from the
bush, and the lizard from the hollow tree, and I invariably availed
myself of these intervals to take a hasty promenade.

Oh how pleasant it is, especially in springtide, to stray along the
shores of the Guadalquivir!  Not far from the city, down the river, lies
a grove called _Las Delicias_, or “The Delights.”  It consists of trees
of various kinds, but more especially of poplars and elms, and is
traversed by long shady walks.  This grove is the favourite promenade of
the Sevillians, and there one occasionally sees assembled whatever the
town produces of beauty or gallantry.  There wander the black-eyed
Andalusian dames and damsels, clad in their graceful silken _mantillas_;
and there gallops the Andalusian cavalier, on his long-tailed thick-maned
steed of Moorish ancestry.  As the sun is descending, it is enchanting to
glance back from this place in the direction of the city; the prospect is
inexpressibly beautiful.  Yonder in the distance, high and enormous,
stands the Golden Tower, now used as a toll-house, but the principal
bulwark of the city in the time of the Moors.  It stands on the shore of
the river, like a giant keeping watch, and is the first edifice which
attracts the eye of the voyager as he moves up the stream to Seville.  On
the other side, opposite the tower, stands the noble Augustine convent,
the ornament of the _faubourg_ of Triana, whilst between the two edifices
rolls the broad Guadalquivir, bearing on its bosom a flotilla of barks
from Catalonia and Valencia.  Further up is seen the bridge of boats,
which traverses the water.  The principal object of this prospect,
however, is the Golden Tower, where the beams of the setting sun seem to
be concentrated as in a focus, so that it appears built of pure gold, and
probably from that circumstance received the name which it now bears.
Cold, cold must the heart be which can remain insensible to the beauties
of this magic scene, to do justice to which the pencil of Claude himself
were barely equal.  Often have I shed tears of rapture whilst I beheld
it, and listened to the thrush and the nightingale piping forth their
melodious songs in the woods, and inhaled the breeze laden with the
perfume of the thousand orange gardens of Seville:

    “Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen blühen?” {251a}

The interior of Seville scarcely corresponds with the exterior; the
streets are narrow, badly paved, and full of misery and beggary.  The
houses are, for the most part, built in the Moorish fashion, with a
quadrangular _patio_, or court, in the centre, where stands a marble
fountain, constantly distilling limpid water.  These courts, during the
time of the summer heats, are covered over with a canvas awning, and
beneath this the family sit during the greater part of the day.  In many,
especially those belonging to the houses of the wealthy, are to be found
shrubs, orange trees, and all kinds of flowers, and perhaps a small
aviary, so that no situation can be conceived more delicious than to lie
here in the shade, hearkening to the song of the birds and the voice of
the fountain.

Nothing is more calculated to interest the stranger as he wanders through
Seville, than a view of these courts, obtained from the street through
the iron-grated door.  Oft have I stopped to observe them, and as often
sighed that my fate did not permit me to reside in such an Eden for the
remainder of my days.  On a former occasion I have spoken of the
cathedral of Seville, but only in a brief and cursory manner. {251b}  It
is, perhaps, the most magnificent cathedral in all Spain, and though not
so regular in its architecture as those of Toledo and Burgos, is far more
worthy of admiration when considered as a whole.  It is utterly
impossible to wander through the long aisles, and to raise one’s eyes to
the richly inlaid roof, supported by colossal pillars, without
experiencing sensations of sacred awe and deep astonishment.  It is true
that the interior, like those of the generality of the Spanish
cathedrals, is somewhat dark and gloomy; yet it loses nothing by this
gloom, which, on the contrary, rather increases the solemnity of the
effect.  Notre Dame of Paris is a noble building, yet to him who has seen
the Spanish cathedrals, and particularly this of Seville, it almost
appears trivial and mean, and more like a town-hall than a temple of the
Eternal.  The Parisian cathedral is entirely destitute of that solemn
darkness and gloomy pomp which so abound in the Sevillian, and is thus
destitute of the principal requisite to a cathedral.

In most of the chapels are to be found some of the very best pictures of
the Spanish school; and, in particular, many of the master-pieces of
Murillo, a native of Seville.  Of all the pictures of this extraordinary
man, one of the least celebrated is that which has always wrought on me
the most profound impression.  I allude to the Guardian Angel, _El Angel
de la Guardia_, a small picture which stands at the bottom of the church,
and looks up the principal aisle.  The angel, holding a flaming sword in
his right hand, is conducting the child: this child is, in my opinion,
the most wonderful of all the creations of Murillo; the form is that of
an infant about five years of age, and the expression of the countenance
is quite infantine, but the tread—it is the tread of a conqueror, of a
God, of the Creator of the universe; and the earthly globe appears to
tremble beneath its majesty.

The service of the cathedral is in general well attended, especially when
it is known that a sermon is to be preached.  All these sermons are
extemporaneous; some of them are edifying, and faithful to the
Scriptures.  I have often listened to them with pleasure, though I was
much surprised to remark, that when the preachers quoted from the Bible,
their quotations were almost invariably taken from the apocryphal
writings.  There is in general no lack of worshippers at the principal
shrines—women for the most part—many of whom appear to be animated with
the most fervent devotion.

I had flattered myself, previous to my departure from Madrid, that I
should experience but little difficulty in the circulation of the Gospel
in Andalusia, at least for a time, as the field was new, and myself and
the object of my mission less known and dreaded than in New Castile.  It
appeared, however, that the government at Madrid had fulfilled its
threat, transmitting orders throughout Spain for the seizure of my books
wherever found.  The Testaments that arrived from Madrid were seized at
the custom-house, to which place all goods on their arrival, even from
the interior, are carried, in order that a duty be imposed upon them.
Through the management of Antonio, however, I procured one of the two
chests, whilst the other was sent down to San Lucar, to be embarked for a
foreign land as soon as I could make arrangements for that purpose.

I did not permit myself to be discouraged by this slight _contretemps_,
although I heartily regretted the loss of the books which had been
seized, and which I could no longer hope to circulate in these parts,
where they were so much wanted; but I consoled myself with the
reflection, that I had still several hundred at my disposal, from the
distribution of which, if it pleased the Lord, a blessed harvest might
still proceed.

I did not commence operations for some time, for I was in a strange
place, and scarcely knew what course to pursue.  I had no one to assist
me but poor Antonio, who was as ignorant of the place as myself.
Providence, however, soon sent me a coadjutor in rather a singular
manner.  I was standing in the courtyard of the Reyna Posada, where I
occasionally dined, when a man, singularly dressed and gigantically tall,
entered.  My curiosity was excited, and I inquired of the master of the
house who he was.  He informed me that he was a foreigner, who had
resided a considerable time in Seville, and he believed a Greek.  Upon
hearing this, I instantly went up to the stranger, and accosted him in
the Greek language, in which, though I speak it very ill, I can make
myself understood.  He replied in the same idiom, and, flattered by the
interest which I, a foreigner, expressed for his nation, was not slow in
communicating to me his history.  He told me that his name was Dionysius,
that he was a native of Cephalonia, and had been educated for the Church,
which, not suiting his temper, he had abandoned, in order to follow the
profession of the sea, for which he had an early inclination.  That after
many adventures and changes of fortune, he found himself one morning on
the coast of Spain, a shipwrecked mariner, and that, ashamed to return to
his own country in poverty and distress, he had remained in the
Peninsula, residing chiefly in Seville, where he now carried on a small
trade in books.  He said that he was of the Greek religion, to which he
professed strong attachment, and, soon discovering that I was a
Protestant, spoke with unbounded abhorrence of the papal system; nay, of
its followers in general, whom he called Latins, and whom he charged with
the ruin of his own country, inasmuch as they sold it to the Turk.  It
instantly struck me, that this individual would be an excellent assistant
in the work which had brought me to Seville, namely, the propagation of
the eternal Gospel; and, accordingly, after some more conversation, in
which he exhibited considerable learning, I explained myself to him.  He
entered into my views with eagerness, and, in the sequel, I had no reason
to regret my confidence, he having disposed of a considerable number of
New Testaments, and even contrived to send a certain number of copies to
two small towns at some distance from Seville.

Another helper in the circulation of the Gospel I found in an aged
professor of music, who, with much stiffness and ceremoniousness, united
much that was excellent and admirable.  This venerable individual, only
three days after I had made his acquaintance, brought me the price of six
Testaments and a Gypsy Gospel, which he had sold under the heat of an
Andalusian sun.  What was his motive?  A Christian one truly.  He said
that his unfortunate countrymen, who were then robbing and murdering each
other, might probably be rendered better by the reading of the Gospel,
but could never be injured.  Adding, that many a man had been reformed by
the Scriptures, but that no one ever yet became a thief or assassin from
its perusal.

But my most extraordinary agent was one whom I occasionally employed in
circulating the Scriptures amongst the lower classes.  I might have
turned the services of this individual to far greater account had the
quantity of books at my disposal been greater; but they were now
diminishing rapidly, and as I had no hopes of a fresh supply, I was
almost tempted to be niggard of the few which remained.  This agent was a
Greek bricklayer, by name Johannes Chrysostom, who had been introduced to
me by Dionysius.  He was a native of the Morea, but had been upwards of
thirty-five years in Spain, so that he had almost entirely lost his
native language.  Nevertheless, his attachment to his own country was so
strong that he considered whatever was not Greek as utterly barbarous and
bad.  Though entirely destitute of education, he had, by his strength of
character and by a kind of rude eloquence which he possessed, obtained
such a mastery over the minds of the labouring classes of Seville, that
they assented to almost everything he said, notwithstanding the shocks
which their prejudices were continually receiving.  So that, although he
was a foreigner, he could at any time have become the Masaniello {256} of
Seville.  A more honest creature I never saw, and I soon found that if I
employed him, notwithstanding his eccentricities, I might entertain
perfect confidence that his actions would be no disparagement to the book
he vended.

We were continually pressed for Bibles, which of course we could not
supply.  Testaments were held in comparatively little esteem.  I had by
this time made the discovery of a fact which it would have been well had
I been aware of three years before: but we live and learn.  I mean the
inexpediency of printing Testaments, and Testaments _alone_, for Catholic
countries.  The reason is plain: the Catholic, unused to Scripture
reading, finds a thousand things which he cannot possibly understand in
the New Testament, the foundation of which is the Old.  “Search the
Scriptures, for they bear witness of me,” may well be applied to this
point.  It may be replied, that New Testaments separate are in great
demand and of infinite utility in England; but England, thanks be to the
Lord, is not a papal country; and though an English labourer may read a
Testament, and derive from it the most blessed fruit, it does not follow
that a Spanish or Italian peasant will enjoy similar success, as he will
find many dark things with which the other is well acquainted, and
competent to understand, being versed in the Bible history from his
childhood.  I confess, however, that in my summer campaign of the
preceding year, I could not have accomplished with Bibles what Providence
permitted me to effect with Testaments, the former being far too bulky
for rural journeys.




CHAPTER XLIX.


The Solitary House—The Dehesa—Johannes Chrysostom—Manuel—Bookselling at
Seville—Dionysius and the Priests—Athens and Rome—Proselytism—Seizure of
Testaments—Departure from Seville.

I have already stated that I had hired an empty house in Seville, wherein
I purposed to reside for some months.  It stood in a solitary situation,
occupying one side of a small square.  It was built quite in the
beautiful taste of Andalusia, with a court paved with small slabs of
white and blue marble.  In the middle of this court was a fountain well
supplied with the crystal lymph, the murmur of which, as it fell from its
slender pillar into an octangular basin, might be heard in every
apartment.  The house itself was large and spacious, consisting of two
stories, and containing room sufficient for at least ten times the number
of inmates which now occupied it.  I generally kept during the day in the
lower apartments, on account of the refreshing coolness which pervaded
them.  In one of these was an immense stone water-trough, ever
overflowing with water from the fountain, in which I immersed myself
every morning.  Such were the premises to which, after having provided
myself with a few indispensable articles of furniture, I now retreated
with Antonio and my two horses.

I was fortunate in the possession of these quadrupeds, inasmuch as it
afforded me an opportunity of enjoying to a greater extent the beauties
of the surrounding country.  I know of few things in this life more
delicious than a ride in the spring or summer season in the neighbourhood
of Seville.  My favourite one was in the direction of Xeres, over the
wide Dehesa, as it is called, which extends from Seville to the gates of
the former town, a distance of nearly fifty miles, with scarcely a town
or village intervening.  The ground is irregular and broken, and is for
the most part covered with that species of brushwood called _carrasco_,
amongst which winds a bridle-path, by no means well defined, chiefly
trodden by the _arrieros_, with their long trains of mules and
_borricos_.  It is here that the balmy air of beautiful Andalusia is to
be inhaled in full perfection.  Aromatic herbs and flowers are growing in
abundance, diffusing their perfume around.  Here dark and gloomy cares
are dispelled as if by magic from the bosom, as the eyes wander over the
prospect, lighted by unequalled sunshine, in which gaily painted
butterflies wanton, and green and golden _salamanquesas_ lie extended,
enjoying the luxurious warmth, and occasionally startling the traveller,
by springing up and making off with portentous speed to the nearest
coverts, whence they stare upon him with their sharp and lustrous eyes.
I repeat, that it is impossible to continue melancholy in regions like
these, and the ancient Greeks and Romans were right in making them the
site of their Elysian fields.  Most beautiful they are, even in their
present desolation, for the hand of man has not cultivated them since the
fatal era of the expulsion of the Moors, which drained Andalusia of at
least two-thirds of its population.

Every evening it was my custom to ride along the Dehesa, until the
topmost towers of Seville were no longer in sight.  I then turned about,
and pressing my knees against the sides of Sidi Habismilk, my Arabian,
the fleet creature, to whom spur or lash had never been applied, would
set off in the direction of the town with the speed of a whirlwind,
seeming in his headlong course to devour the ground of the waste, until
he had left it behind, then dashing through the elm-covered road of the
Delicias, his thundering hoofs were soon heard beneath the vaulted
archway of the Puerta de Xeres, and in another moment he would stand
stone-still before the door of my solitary house in the little silent
square of the Pila Seca.

It is eight o’clock at night, I am returned from the Dehesa, and am
standing on the _sotea_, or flat roof of my house, enjoying the cool
breeze.  Johannes Chrysostom has just arrived from his labour.  I have
not spoken to him, but I hear him below in the courtyard, detailing to
Antonio the progress he has made in the last two days.  He speaks
barbarous Greek, plentifully interlarded with Spanish words; but I gather
from his discourse, that he has already sold twelve Testaments among his
fellow-labourers.  I hear copper coin falling on the pavement, and
Antonio, who is not of a very Christian temper, reproving him for not
having brought the proceeds of the sale in silver.  He now asks for
fifteen more, as he says the demand is becoming great, and that he shall
have no difficulty in disposing of them in the course of the morrow,
whilst pursuing his occupations.  Antonio goes to fetch them, and he now
stands alone by the marble fountain, singing a wild song, which I believe
to be a hymn of his beloved Greek Church.  Behold one of the helpers
which the Lord has sent me in my Gospel labours on the shores of the
Guadalquivir.

I lived in the greatest retirement during the whole time that I passed at
Seville, spending the greater part of each day in study, or in that half
dreamy state of inactivity which is the natural effect of the influence
of a warm climate.  There was little in the character of the people
around to induce me to enter much into society.  The higher class of the
Andalusians are probably upon the whole the most vain and foolish of
human beings, with a taste for nothing but sensual amusements, foppery in
dress, and ribald discourse.  Their insolence is only equalled by their
meanness, and their prodigality by their avarice.  The lower classes are
a shade or two better than their superiors in station: little, it is
true, can be said for the tone of their morality; they are overreaching,
quarrelsome, and revengeful, but they are upon the whole more courteous,
and certainly not more ignorant.

The Andalusians are in general held in the lowest estimation by the rest
of the Spaniards, even those in opulent circumstances finding some
difficulty at Madrid in procuring admission into respectable society,
where, if they find their way, they are invariably the objects of
ridicule, from the absurd airs and grimaces in which they indulge,—their
tendency to boasting and exaggeration, their curious accent, and the
incorrect manner in which they speak and pronounce the Castilian
language. {261}

In a word, the Andalusians, in all estimable traits of character, are as
far below the other Spaniards as the country which they inhabit is
superior in beauty and fertility to the other provinces of Spain.

Yet let it not for a moment be supposed that I have any intention of
asserting, that excellent and estimable individuals are not to be found
amongst the Andalusians; it was amongst _them_ that I myself discovered
one, whom I have no hesitation in asserting to be the most extraordinary
character that has ever come within the sphere of my knowledge; but this
was no scion of a noble or knightly house, “no wearer of soft clothing,”
no sleek highly perfumed personage, none of the romanticos who walk in
languishing attitudes about the streets of Seville, with long black hair
hanging upon their shoulders in luxuriant curls: but one of those whom
the proud and unfeeling style the dregs of the populace, a haggard,
houseless, penniless man, in rags and tatters.  I allude to Manuel,
the—what shall I call him?—seller of lottery tickets, driver of death
carts, or poet laureate in gypsy songs?  I wonder whether thou art still
living, my friend Manuel; thou gentleman of nature’s forming—honest,
pure-minded, humble, yet dignified being!  Art thou still wandering
through the courts of beautiful Safacoro, or on the banks of the Len
Baro, {262} thine eyes fixed in vacancy, and thy mind striving to recall
some half-forgotten couplet of Luis Lobo; or art thou gone to thy long
rest, out beyond the Xeres gate within the wall of the Campo Santo, to
which, in times of pest and sickness, thou wast wont to carry so many,
gypsy and Gentile, in thy cart of the tinkling bell?  Oft in the
_réunions_ of the lettered and learned in this land of universal
literature, when weary of the display of pedantry and egotism, have I
recurred with yearning to our gypsy recitations at the old house in the
Pila Seca.  Oft, when sickened by the high-wrought professions of those
who bear the cross in gilded chariots, have I thought on thee, thy calm
faith, without pretence,—thy patience in poverty, and fortitude in
affliction; and as oft, when thinking of my speedily approaching end,
have I wished that I might meet thee once again, and that thy hands might
help to bear me to “the dead man’s acre” yonder on the sunny plain, O
Manuel! {263}

My principal visitor was Dionysius, who seldom failed to make his
appearance every forenoon: the poor fellow came for sympathy and
conversation.  It is difficult to imagine a situation more forlorn and
isolated than that of this man,—a Greek at Seville, with scarcely a
single acquaintance, and depending for subsistence on the miserable
pittance to be derived from selling a few books, for the most part hawked
about from door to door.  “What could have first induced you to commence
bookselling in Seville?” said I to him, as he arrived one sultry day,
heated and fatigued, with a small bundle of books secured together by a
leather strap.

_Dionysius_.—For want of a better employment, _Kyrie_, {264a} I have
adopted this most unprofitable and despised one.  Oft have I regretted
not having been bred up as a shoemaker, or having learnt in my youth some
other useful handicraft, for gladly would I follow it now.  Such, at
least, would procure me the respect of my fellow-creatures, inasmuch as
they needed me; but now all avoid me and look upon me with contempt; for
what have I to offer in this place that any one cares about?  Books in
Seville! where no one reads, or at least nothing but new romances,
translated from the French, and obscenity.  Books!  Would I were a gypsy
and could trim donkeys, for then I were at least independent and were
more respected than I am at present.

_Myself_.—Of what kind of books does your stock-in-trade consist?

_Dionysius_.—Of those not likely to suit the Seville market, _Kyrie_;
books of sterling and intrinsic value; many of them in ancient Greek,
which I picked up upon the dissolution of the convents, when the contents
of the libraries were hurled into the courtyards, and there sold by the
_arroba_.  I thought at first that I was about to make a fortune, and in
fact my books would be so in any other place; but here I have offered an
Elzevir {264b} for half a dollar in vain.  I should starve were it not
for the strangers who occasionally purchase of me.

_Myself_.—Seville is a large cathedral city, abounding with priests and
canons; surely some of these occasionally visit you to make purchases of
classic works and books connected with ecclesiastical literature.

_Dionysius_.—If you think so, _Kyrie_, you know little respecting the
ecclesiastics of Seville.  I am acquainted with many of them, and can
assure you that a tribe of beings can scarcely be found with a more
confirmed aversion to intellectual pursuits of every kind.  Their reading
is confined to newspapers, which they take up in the hope of seeing that
their friend Don Carlos is at length reinstated at Madrid; but they
prefer their chocolate and biscuits, and nap before dinner, to the wisdom
of Plato and the eloquence of Tully.  They occasionally visit me, but it
is only to pass away a heavy hour in chattering nonsense.  Once on a time
three of them came, in the hope of making me a convert to their Latin
superstition.  “_Signor Donatio_,” said they (for so they called me),
“how is it that an unprejudiced person like yourself, a man really with
some pretension to knowledge, can still cling to this absurd religion of
yours?  Surely, after having resided so many years in a civilized country
like this of Spain, it is high time to abandon your half-pagan form of
worship, and to enter the bosom of the Church; now pray be advised, and
you shall be none the worse for it.”  “Thank you, gentlemen,” I replied,
“for the interest you take in my welfare; I am always open to conviction;
let us proceed to discuss the subject.  What are the points of my
religion which do not meet your approbation?  You are of course well
acquainted with all our dogmas and ceremonies.”  “We know nothing about
your religion, _Signor Donatio_, save that it is a very absurd one, and
therefore it is incumbent upon you, as an unprejudiced and well-informed
man, to renounce it.”  “But, gentlemen, if you know nothing of my
religion, why call it absurd?  Surely it is not the part of unprejudiced
people to disparage that of which they are ignorant.”  “But, _Signor
Donatio_, it is not the Catholic Apostolic Roman religion, is it?”  “It
may be, gentlemen, for what you appear to know of it; for your
information, however, I will tell you that it is not; it is the Greek
Apostolic religion.  I do not call it catholic, for it is absurd to call
that catholic which is not universally acknowledged.”  “But, _Signor
Donatio_, does not the matter speak for itself?  What can a set of
ignorant Greek barbarians know about religion?  If they set aside the
authority of Rome, whence should they derive any rational ideas of
religion? whence should they get the Gospel?”  “The Gospel, gentlemen?
Allow me to show you a book.  Here it is; what is your opinion of it?”
“_Signor Donati_, what does this mean?  What characters of the devil are
these, are they Moorish?  Who is able to understand them?”  “I suppose
your worships, being Roman priests, know something of Latin; if you
inspect the title-page to the bottom, you will find, in the language of
your own Church, ‘the Gospel of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, in the
original Greek,’ of which your Vulgate is merely a translation, and not a
very correct one.  With respect to the barbarism of Greece, it appears
that you are not aware that Athens was a city, and a famed one, centuries
before the first mud cabin of Rome was thatched, and the gypsy vagabonds
who first peopled it had escaped from the hands of justice.”  “_Signor
Donatio_, you are an ignorant heretic, and insolent withal: _what
nonsense is this_! . . .”  But I will not weary your ears, _Kyrie_, with
all the absurdities which the poor Latin _Papas_ {266} poured into mine;
the burden of their song being invariably, _what nonsense is this_! which
was certainly applicable enough to what they themselves were saying.
Seeing, however, that I was more than their match in religious
controversy, they fell foul of my country.  “Spain is a better country
than Greece,” said one.  “You never tasted bread before you came to
Spain,” cried another.  “And little enough since,” thought I.  “You never
before saw such a city as Seville,” said the third.  But then ensued the
best part of the comedy: my visitors chanced to be natives of three
different places; one was of Seville, another of Utrera, and the third of
Miguel Turra, a miserable village in La Mancha.  At the mention of
Seville, the other two instantly began to sing the praises of their
respective places of birth; this brought on comparisons, and a violent
dispute was the consequence.  Much abuse passed between them, whilst I
stood by, shrugged my shoulders, and said _tipotas_. {267}  At last, as
they were leaving the house, I said, “Who would have thought, gentlemen,
that the polemics of the Greek and Latin Churches were so closely
connected with the comparative merits of Seville, Utrera, and Miguel
Turra?”

_Myself_.—Is the spirit of proselytism very prevalent here?  Of what
description of people do their converts generally consist?

_Dionysius_.—I will tell you, _Kyrie_; the generality of their converts
consist of German or English Protestant adventurers, who come here to
settle, and in course of time take to themselves wives from amongst the
Spanish, prior to which it is necessary to become members of the Latin
Church.  A few are vagabond Jews, from Gibraltar or Tangier, who have
fled for their crimes into Spain, and who renounce their faith to escape
from starvation.  These gentry, however, it is necessary to pay, on which
account the priests procure for them _padrinos_, or godfathers; these
generally consist of rich devotees over whom the priests have influence,
and who esteem it a glory and a meritorious act to assist in bringing
back lost souls to the Church.  The neophyte allows himself to be
convinced on the promise of a _peseta_ a day, which is generally paid by
the godfathers for the first year, but seldom for a longer period.  About
forty years ago, however, they made a somewhat notable convert.  A civil
war arose in Morocco, caused by the separate pretensions of two brothers
to the throne.  One of these being worsted, fled over to Spain, imploring
the protection of Charles IV.  He soon became an object of particular
attention to the priests, who were not slow in converting him, and
induced Charles to settle upon him a pension of a dollar per day.  He
died some few years since in Seville, a despised vagabond.  He left
behind him a son, who is at present a notary, and outwardly very devout,
but a greater hypocrite and _picaron_ does not exist.  I would you could
see his face, _Kyrie_, it is that of Judas Iscariot.  I think you would
say so, for you are a physiognomist.  He lives next door to me, and
notwithstanding his pretensions to religion, is permitted to remain in a
state of great poverty.

And now nothing further for the present about Dionysius.

About the middle of July our work was concluded at Seville, and for the
very efficient reason that I had no more Testaments to sell; somewhat
more than two hundred having been circulated since my arrival.

About ten days before the time of which I am speaking, I was visited by
various _alguazils_, accompanied by a kind of headborough, who made a
small seizure of Testaments and gypsy Gospels, which happened to be lying
about.  This visit was far from being disagreeable to me, as I considered
it to be a very satisfactory proof of the effect of our exertions in
Seville.  I cannot help here relating an anecdote:—A day or two
subsequent, having occasion to call at the house of the headborough
respecting my passport, I found him lying on his bed, for it was the hour
of _siesta_, reading intently one of the Testaments which he had taken
away, all of which, if he had obeyed his orders, would have been
deposited in the office of the civil governor.  So intently, indeed, was
he engaged in reading, that he did not at first observe my entrance; when
he did, however, he sprang up in great confusion, and locked the book up
in his cabinet, whereupon I smiled, and told him to be under no alarm, as
I was glad to see him so usefully employed.  Recovering himself, he said
that he had read the book nearly through, and that he had found no harm
in it, but, on the contrary, everything to praise.  Adding, he believed
that the clergy must be possessed with devils (_endemoniados_) to
persecute it in the manner they did.

It was Sunday when the seizure was made, and I happened to be reading the
Liturgy.  One of the _alguazils_, when going away, made an observation
respecting the very different manner in which the Protestants and
Catholics keep the Sabbath; the former being in their own houses reading
good books, and the latter abroad in the bull-ring, seeing the wild bulls
tear out the gory bowels of the poor horses.  The bull amphitheatre at
Seville is the finest in all Spain, and is invariably on a Sunday (the
only day on which it is open) filled with applauding multitudes.

I now made preparations for leaving Seville for a few months, my
destination being the coast of Barbary.  Antonio, who did not wish to
leave Spain, in which were his wife and children, returned to Madrid,
rejoicing in a handsome gratuity with which I presented him.  As it was
my intention to return to Seville, I left my house and horses in the
charge of a friend in whom I could confide, and departed.

The reasons which induced me to visit Barbary will be seen in the
following chapters.




CHAPTER L.


Night on the Guadalquivir—Gospel Light—Bonanza—Strand of San
Lucar—Andalusian Scenery—History of a Chest—Cosas de los Ingleses—The Two
Gypsies—The Driver—The Red Nightcap—The Steam-Boat—Christian Language.

On the night of the 31st of July I departed from Seville upon my
expedition, going on board one of the steamers which ply on the
Guadalquivir between Seville and Cadiz.

It was my intention to stop at San Lucar, for the purpose of recovering
the chest of Testaments which had been placed in embargo there, until
such time as they could be removed from the kingdom of Spain.  These
Testaments I intended for distribution amongst the Christians whom I
hoped to meet on the shores of Barbary.  San Lucar is about fifteen
leagues distant from Seville, at the entrance of the bay of Cadiz, where
the yellow waters of the Guadalquivir unite with the brine.  The steamer
shot from the little quay, or wharf, at about half-past nine, and then
arose a loud cry—it was the voices of those on board and on shore wishing
farewell to their friends.  Amongst the tumult I thought I could
distinguish the accents of some friends of my own who had accompanied me
to the bank, and I instantly raised my own voice louder than all.  The
night was very dark, so much so, indeed, that as we passed along we could
scarcely distinguish the trees which cover the eastern shore of the river
until it takes its first turn.  A _calmazo_ had reigned during the day at
Seville, by which is meant exceedingly sultry weather, unenlivened by the
slightest breeze.  The night likewise was calm and sultry.  As I had
frequently made the voyage of the Guadalquivir, ascending and descending
this celebrated river, I felt nothing of that restlessness and curiosity
which people experience in a strange place, whether in light or darkness,
and being acquainted with none of the other passengers, who were talking
on the deck, I thought my best plan would be to retire to the cabin and
enjoy some rest, if possible.  The cabin was solitary and tolerably cool,
all its windows on either side being open for the admission of air.
Flinging myself on one of the cushioned benches, I was soon asleep, in
which state I continued for about two hours, when I was aroused by the
furious biting of a thousand bugs, which compelled me to seek the deck,
where, wrapping myself in my cloak, I again fell asleep.  It was near
daybreak when I awoke; we were then about two leagues from San Lucar.  I
arose and looked towards the east, watching the gradual progress of dawn,
first the dull light, then the streak, then the tinge, then the bright
blush, till at last the golden disk of that orb which giveth day emerged
from the abyss of immensity, and in a moment the whole prospect was
covered with brightness and glory.  The land smiled, the waters sparkled,
the birds sang, and men arose from their resting-places and rejoiced: for
it was day, and the sun was gone forth on the errand of its Creator, the
diffusion of light and gladness, and the dispelling of darkness and
sorrow.

    “Behold the morning sun
       Begins his glorious way;
    His beams through all the nations run,
       And life and light convey.

    “But where the Gospel comes,
       It spreads diviner light;
    It calls dead sinners from their tombs,
       And gives the blind their sight.”

We now stopped before Bonanza: this is, properly speaking, the port of
San Lucar, although it is half a league distant from the latter place.
It is called Bonanza on account of its good anchorage, and its being
secured from the boisterous winds of the ocean; its literal meaning is
“fair weather.” {273}  It consists of several large white buildings,
principally government store-houses, and is inhabited by the coastguard,
dependents on the custom-house, and a few fishermen.  A boat came off to
receive those passengers whose destination was San Lucar, and to bring on
board about half a dozen who were bound for Cadiz: I entered with the
rest.  A young Spaniard of very diminutive stature addressed some
questions to me in French as to what I thought of the scenery and climate
of Andalusia.  I replied that I admired both, which evidently gave him
great pleasure.  The boatman now came demanding two _reals_ for conveying
me on shore.  I had no small money, and offered him a dollar to change.
He said that it was impossible.  I asked him what was to be done:
whereupon he replied, uncivilly, that he knew not, but could not lose
time, and expected to be paid instantly.  The young Spaniard, observing
my embarrassment, took out two _reals_ and paid the fellow.  I thanked
him heartily for this act of civility, for which I felt really grateful;
as there are few situations more unpleasant than to be in a crowd in want
of change, whilst you are importuned by people for payment.  A loose
character once told me that it was far preferable to be without money at
all, as you then knew what course to take.  I subsequently met the young
Spaniard at Cadiz, and repaid him, with thanks.

A few cabriolets were waiting near the wharf, in order to convey us to
San Lucar.  I ascended one, and we proceeded slowly along the _playa_ or
strand.  This place is famous in the ancient novels of Spain, of that
class called Picaresque, or those devoted to the adventures of notorious
scoundrels, the father of which, as also of others of the same kind, in
whatever language, is _Lazarillo de Tormes_.  Cervantes himself has
immortalized this strand in the most amusing of his smaller tales, _La
Ilustre Fregona_. {274}  In a word, the strand of San Lucar in ancient
times, if not in modern, was a rendezvous for ruffians,
_contrabandistas_, and vagabonds of every description, who nested there
in wooden sheds, which have now vanished.  San Lucar itself was always
noted for the thievish propensities of its inhabitants—the worst in all
Andalusia.  The roguish innkeeper in Don Quixote perfected his education
at San Lucar.  All these recollections crowded into my mind as we
proceeded along the strand, which was beautifully gilded by the
Andalusian sun.  We at last arrived nearly opposite to San Lucar, which
stands at some distance from the waterside.  Here a lively spectacle
presented itself to us: the shore was covered with a multitude of females
either dressing or undressing themselves, while (I speak within bounds)
hundreds were in the water, sporting and playing: some were close by the
beach, stretched at their full length on the sand and pebbles, allowing
the little billows to dash over their heads and bosoms; whilst others
were swimming boldly out into the firth.  There was a confused hubbub of
female cries, thin shrieks, and shrill laughter; couplets likewise were
being sung, on what subject it is easy to guess—for we were in sunny
Andalusia, and what can its black-eyed daughters think, speak, or sing of
but _amor_, _amor_, which now sounded from the land and the waters?
Further on along the beach we perceived likewise a crowd of men bathing;
we passed not by them, but turned to the left up an alley or avenue which
leads to San Lucar, and which may be a quarter of a mile long.  The view
from hence was truly magnificent: before us lay the town, occupying the
side and top of a tolerably high hill, extending from east to west.  It
appeared to be of considerable size; and I was subsequently informed that
it contained at least twenty thousand inhabitants.  Several immense
edifices and walls towered up in a style of grandeur which can be but
feebly described by words; but the principal object was an ancient castle
towards the left.  The houses were all white, and would have shone
brilliantly in the sun had it been higher; but at this early hour they
lay comparatively in shade.  The _tout ensemble_ was very Moorish and
Oriental; and, indeed, in ancient times San Lucar was a celebrated
stronghold of the Moors, and, next to Almeria, the most frequented of the
commercial places in Spain.  Everything, indeed, in these parts of
Andalusia is perfectly Oriental.  Behold the heavens, as cloudless and as
brightly azure as those of Ind; the fiery sun which tans the fairest
cheek in a moment, and which fills the air with flickering flame; and oh!
remark the scenery and the vegetable productions.  The alley up which we
were moving was planted on each side with that remarkable tree or plant,
for I know not which to call it, the giant aloe, which is called in
Spanish, _pita_, and in Moorish, _gurséan_.  It rises here to a height
almost as magnificent as on the African shore.  Need I say that the stem,
which springs up from the middle of the bush of green blades, which shoot
out from the root on all sides, is as high as a palm-tree; and need I say
that those blades, which are of an immense thickness at the root, are at
the tip sharper than the point of a spear, and would inflict a terrible
wound on any animal which might inadvertently rush against them?

One of the first houses at San Lucar was the _posada_ at which we
stopped.  It confronted, with some others, the avenue up which we had
come.  As it was still early, I betook myself to rest for a few hours, at
the end of which time I went out to visit Mr. Phillipi, the British
vice-consul, who was already acquainted with me by name, as I had been
recommended to him in a letter from a relation of his at Seville.  Mr.
Phillipi was at home in his counting-house, and received me with much
kindness and civility.  I told him the motive of my visit to San Lucar,
and requested his assistance towards obtaining the books from the
custom-house, in order to transport them out of the country, as I was
very well acquainted with the difficulties which every one has to
encounter in Spain who has any business to transact with the government
authorities.  He assured me that he should be most happy to assist me;
and, accordingly, despatched with me to the custom-house his head clerk,
a person well known and much respected at San Lucar.

It may be as well here at once to give the history of these books, which
might otherwise tend to embarrass the narrative.  They consisted of a
chest of Testaments in Spanish, and a small box of Saint Luke’s Gospel in
the _Gitano_ language of the Spanish gypsies.  I obtained them from the
custom-house at San Lucar, with a pass for that of Cadiz.  At Cadiz I was
occupied two days, and also a person whom I employed, in going through
all the formalities, and in procuring the necessary papers.  The expense
was great, as money was demanded at every step I had to take, though I
was simply complying, in this instance, with the orders of the Spanish
government in removing prohibited books from Spain.  The farce did not
end until my arrival at Gibraltar, where I paid the Spanish consul a
dollar for certifying on the back of the pass, which I had to return to
Cadiz, that the books were arrived at the former place.  It is true that
he never saw the books, nor inquired about them; but he received the
money, for which he alone seemed to be anxious.

Whilst at the custom-house of San Lucar I was asked one or two questions
respecting the books contained in the chests: this afforded me some
opportunity of speaking of the New Testament and the Bible Society.  What
I said excited attention; and presently all the officers and dependents
of the house, great and small, were gathered around me, from the governor
to the porter.  As it was necessary to open the boxes to inspect their
contents, we all proceeded to the courtyard, where, holding a Testament
in my hand, I recommenced my discourse.  I scarcely know what I said; for
I was much agitated, and hurried away by my feelings, when I bethought me
of the manner in which the Word of God was persecuted in this unhappy
kingdom.  My words evidently made impression, and to my astonishment
every person present pressed me for a copy.  I sold several within the
walls of the custom-house.  The object, however, of most attention was
the gypsy Gospel, which was minutely examined amidst smiles and
exclamations of surprise; an individual every now and then crying,
“_Cosas de los Ingleses_.”  A bystander asked me whether I could speak
the _Gitano_ language.  I replied that I could not only speak it, but
write it, and instantly made a speech of about five minutes in the gypsy
tongue, which I had no sooner concluded than all clapped their hands and
simultaneously shouted, “_Cosas de Inglaterra_,” “_Cosas de los
Ingleses_.”  I disposed of several copies of the gypsy Gospel likewise,
and having now settled the business which had brought me to the
custom-house, I saluted my new friends and departed with my books.

I now revisited Mr. Phillipi, who, upon learning that it was my intention
to proceed to Cadiz next morning by the steamer, which would touch at
Bonanza at four o’clock, despatched the chests and my little luggage to
the latter place, where he likewise advised me to sleep, in order that I
might be in readiness to embark at that early hour.  He then introduced
me to his family, his wife an English woman, and his daughter an amiable
and beautiful girl of about eighteen years of age, whom I had previously
seen at Seville; three or four other ladies from Seville were likewise
there on a visit, and for the purpose of sea-bathing.  After a few words
in English between the lady of the house and myself, we all commenced
chatting in Spanish, which seemed to be the only language understood or
cared for by the rest of the company; indeed, who would be so
unreasonable as to expect Spanish females to speak any language but their
own, which, flexible and harmonious as it is (far more so, I think, than
any other), seems at times quite inadequate to express the wild sallies
of their luxuriant imagination.  Two hours fled rapidly away in
discourse, interrupted occasionally by music and song, when I bade
farewell to this delightful society, and strolled out to view the town.

It was now past noon, and the heat was exceedingly fierce: I saw scarcely
a living being in the streets, the stones of which burnt my feet through
the soles of my boots.  I passed through the square of the Constitution,
which presents nothing particular to the eye of the stranger, and
ascended the hill to obtain a nearer view of the castle.  It is a strong
heavy edifice of stone, with round towers, and, though deserted, appears
to be still in a tolerable state of preservation.  I became tired of
gazing, and was retracing my steps, when I was accosted by two gypsies,
who by some means had heard of my arrival.  We exchanged some words in
_Gitano_, but they appeared to be very ignorant of the dialect, and
utterly unable to maintain a conversation in it.  They were clamorous for
a _gabicote_, or book in the gypsy tongue.  I refused it them, saying
that they could turn it to no profitable account; but finding that they
could read, I promised them each a Testament in Spanish.  This offer,
however, they refused with disdain, saying that they cared for nothing
written in the language of the _Busné_ or Gentiles.  They then persisted
in their demand, to which I at last yielded, being unable to resist their
importunity; whereupon they accompanied me to the inn, and received what
they so ardently desired.

In the evening I was visited by Mr. Phillipi, who informed me that he had
ordered a cabriolet to call for me at the inn at eleven at night, for the
purpose of conveying me to Bonanza, and that a person there, who kept a
small wine-house, and to whom the chests and other things had been
forwarded, would receive me for the night, though it was probable that I
should have to sleep on the floor.  We then walked to the beach, where
there were a great number of bathers, all men.  Amongst them were some
good swimmers; two, in particular, were out at a great distance in the
firth of the Guadalquivir, I should say at least a mile; their heads
could just be descried with the telescope.  I was told that they were
friars.  I wondered at what period of their lives they had acquired their
dexterity at natation.  I hoped it was not at a time when, according to
their vows, they should have lived for prayer, fasting, and mortification
alone.  Swimming is a noble exercise, but it certainly does not tend to
mortify either the flesh or the spirit.  As it was becoming dusk, we
returned to the town, when my friend bade me a kind farewell.  I then
retired to my apartment, and passed some hours in meditation.

It was night, ten o’clock;—eleven o’clock, and the cabriolet was at the
door.  I got in, and we proceeded down the avenue and along the shore,
which was quite deserted.  The waves sounded mournfully; everything
seemed to have changed since the morning.  I even thought that the
horse’s feet sounded differently as it trotted slowly over the moist firm
sand.  The driver, however, was by no means mournful, nor inclined to be
silent long: he soon commenced asking me an infinity of questions as to
whence I came and whither I was bound.  Having given him what answers I
thought most proper, I, in return, asked him whether he was not afraid to
drive along that beach, which had always borne so bad a character, at so
unseasonable an hour.  Whereupon he looked around him, and seeing no
person, he raised a shout of derision, and said that a fellow with his
whiskers feared not all the thieves that ever walked the _playa_, and
that no dozen men in San Lucar dare to waylay any traveller whom they
knew to be beneath his protection.  He was a good specimen of the
Andalusian braggart.  We soon saw a light or two shining dimly before us;
they proceeded from a few barks and small vessels stranded on the sand
close below Bonanza: amongst them I distinguished two or three dusky
figures.  We were now at our journey’s end, and stopped before the door
of the place where I was to lodge for the night.  The driver,
dismounting, knocked loud and long, until the door was opened by an
exceedingly stout man of about sixty years of age; he held a dim light in
his hand, and was dressed in a red nightcap and dirty striped shirt.  He
admitted us, without a word, into a very large long room with a clay
floor.  A species of counter stood on one side near the door; behind it
stood a barrel or two, and against the wall, on shelves, many bottles of
various sizes.  The smell of liquors and wine was very powerful.  I
settled with the driver and gave him a gratuity, whereupon he asked me
for something to drink to my safe journey.  I told him he could call for
whatever he pleased: whereupon he demanded a glass of _aguardiente_,
which the master of the house, who had stationed himself behind the
counter, handed him without saying a word.  The fellow drank it off at
once, but made a great many wry faces after having swallowed it, and,
coughing, said that he made no doubt it was good liquor, as it burnt his
throat terribly.  He then embraced me, went out, mounted his cabriolet,
and drove off.

The old man with the red nightcap now moved slowly to the door, which he
bolted and otherwise secured; he then drew forward two benches, which he
placed together, and pointed to them as if to intimate to me that there
was my bed: he then blew out the candle and retired deeper into the
apartment, where I heard him lay himself down sighing and snorting.
There was now no further light than what proceeded from a small earthen
pan on the floor, filled with water and oil, on which floated a small
piece of card with a lighted wick in the middle, which simple species of
lamp is called _mariposa_. {282}  I now laid my carpet-bag on the bench
as a pillow, and flung myself down.  I should have been asleep instantly,
but he of the red nightcap now commenced snoring awfully, which brought
to my mind that I had not yet commended myself to my Friend and Redeemer:
I therefore prayed, and then sank to repose.

I was awakened more than once during the night by cats, and I believe
rats, leaping upon my body.  At the last of these interruptions I arose,
and, approaching the _mariposa_, looked at my watch; it was half-past
three o’clock.  I opened the door and looked out; whereupon some
fishermen entered, clamouring for their morning draught: the old man was
soon on his feet serving them.  One of the men said to me, that if I was
going by the steamer, I had better order my things to the wharf without
delay, as he had heard the vessel coming down the river.  I despatched my
luggage, and then demanded of the red nightcap what I owed him.  He
replied, “_Un real_.”  These were the only two words which I heard
proceed from his mouth: he was certainly addicted to silence, and perhaps
to philosophy, neither of which are much practised in Andalusia.  I now
hurried to the wharf.  The steamer was not yet arrived, but I heard its
thunder up the river every moment becoming more distinct: there were mist
and darkness upon the face of the waters, and I felt awe as I listened to
the approach of the invisible monster booming through the stillness of
the night.  It came at last in sight, plashed its way forward, stopped,
and I was soon on board.  It was the _Peninsula_, the best boat on the
Guadalquivir.

What a wonderful production of art is a steamboat! and yet why should we
call it wonderful, if we consider its history?  More than five hundred
years have elapsed since the idea of making one first originated; but it
was not until the close of the last century that the first, worthy of the
name, made its appearance on a Scottish river.

During this long period of time, acute minds and skilful hands were
occasionally busied in attempting to remove those imperfections in the
machinery which alone prevented a vessel being made capable of propelling
itself against wind and tide.  All these attempts were successively
abandoned in despair, yet scarcely one was made which was perfectly
fruitless; each inventor leaving behind him some monument of his labour,
of which those who succeeded him took advantage, until at last a
fortunate thought or two, and a few more perfect arrangements, were all
that were wanting.  The time arrived, and now, at length, the very
Atlantic is crossed by haughty steamers.  Much has been said of the
utility of steam in spreading abroad civilization, and I think justly.
When the first steam-vessels were seen on the Guadalquivir, about ten
years ago, the Sevillians ran to the banks of the river, crying “sorcery,
sorcery,” which idea was not a little favoured by the speculation being
an English one, and the boats, which were English built, being provided
with English engineers, as, indeed, they still are; no Spaniard having
been found capable of understanding the machinery.  They soon, however,
became accustomed to them, and the boats are in general crowded with
passengers.  Fanatic and vain as the Sevillians still are, and bigoted as
they remain to their own customs, they know that good, in one instance at
least, can proceed from a foreign land, and that land a land of heretics;
inveterate prejudice has been shaken, and we will hope that this is the
dawn of their civilization.

Whilst passing over the bay of Cadiz, I was reclining on one of the
benches on the deck, when the captain walked by in company with another
man; they stopped a short distance from me, and I heard the captain ask
the other, in a low voice, how many languages he spoke; he replied, “Only
one.”  “That one,” said the captain, “is of course the Christian;” by
which name the Spaniards style their own language, in contradistinction
to all others.  “That fellow,” continued the captain, “who is lying on
the deck, can speak Christian too, when it serves his purpose, but he
speaks others, which are by no means Christian: he can talk English, and
I myself have heard him chatter in _Gitano_ with the gypsies of Triana;
he is now going amongst the Moors, and when he arrives in their country
you will hear him, should you be there, converse as fluently in their
gibberish as in _Cristiano_, nay, better, for he is no Christian himself.
He has been several times on board my vessel already, but I do not like
him, as I consider that he carries something about with him which is not
good.”

This worthy person, on my coming aboard the boat, had shaken me by the
hand and expressed his joy at seeing me again.




CHAPTER LI.


Cadiz—The Fortifications—The Consul-General—Characteristic
Anecdote—Catalan Steamer—Trafalgar—Alonzo Guzman—Gibil Muza—Orestes
Frigate—The Hostile Lion—Works of the Creator—Lizard of the Rock—The
Concourse—Queen of the Waters—Broken Prayer.

Cadiz stands, as is well known, upon a long narrow neck of land
stretching out into the ocean, from whose bosom the town appears to rise,
the salt waters laving its walls on all sides save the east, where a
sandy isthmus connects it with the coast of Spain.  The town, as it
exists at the present day, is of modern construction, and very unlike any
other town which is to be found in the Peninsula, being built with great
regularity and symmetry.  The streets are numerous, and intersect each
other, for the most part at right angles.  They are very narrow in
comparison to the height of the houses, so that they are almost
impervious to the rays of the sun, except when at its midday altitude.
The principal street, however, is an exception, it being of some width.
This street, in which stands the Bolsa, or exchange, and which contains
the houses of the chief merchants and nobility, is the grand resort of
loungers as well as men of business during the early part of the day, and
in that respect resembles the Puerta del Sol at Madrid.  It is connected
with the great square, which, though not of very considerable extent, has
many pretensions to magnificence, it being surrounded with large imposing
houses, and planted with fine trees, with marble seats below them for the
accommodation of the public.  There are few public edifices worthy of
much attention: the chief church, indeed, might be considered a fine
monument of labour in some other countries; but in Spain, the land of
noble and gigantic cathedrals, it can be styled nothing more than a
decent place of worship; it is still in an unfinished state.  There is a
public walk, or _alameda_, on the northern ramparts, which is generally
thronged in summer evenings: the green of its trees, when viewed from the
bay, affords an agreeable relief to the eye, dazzled with the glare of
the white buildings, for Cadiz is also a bright city.  It was once the
wealthiest place in all Spain, but its prosperity has of late years sadly
diminished, and its inhabitants are continually lamenting its ruined
trade; on which account many are daily abandoning it for Seville, where
living at least is cheaper.  There is still, however, much life and
bustle in the streets, which are adorned with many splendid shops,
several of which are in the style of Paris and London.  The present
population is said to amount to eighty thousand souls.

It is not without reason that Cadiz has been called a strong town: the
fortifications on the land side, which were partly the work of the French
during the sway of Napoleon, are perfectly admirable, and seem
impregnable: towards the sea it is defended as much by nature as by art,
water and sunken rocks being no contemptible bulwarks.  The defences of
the town, however, except the landward ones, afford melancholy proofs of
Spanish apathy and neglect, even when allowance is made for the present
peculiarly unhappy circumstances of the country.  Scarcely a gun, except
a few dismounted ones, is to be seen on the fortifications, which are
rapidly falling to decay, so that this insulated stronghold is at present
almost at the mercy of any foreign nation which, upon any pretence, or
none at all, should seek to tear it from the grasp of its present
legitimate possessors, and convert it into a foreign colony.

A few hours after my arrival, I waited upon Mr. B---, {288} the British
consul-general at Cadiz.  His house, which is the corner one at the
entrance of the _alameda_, commands a noble prospect of the bay, and is
very large and magnificent.  I had, of course, long been acquainted with
Mr. B--- by reputation; I knew that for several years he had filled, with
advantage to his native country, and with honour to himself, the
distinguished and highly responsible situation which he holds in Spain.
I knew, likewise, that he was a good and pious Christian, and, moreover,
the firm and enlightened friend of the Bible Society.  Of all this I was
aware, but I had never yet enjoyed the advantage of being personally
acquainted with him.  I saw him now for the first time, and was much
struck with his appearance.  He is a tall, athletic, finely built man,
seemingly about forty-five or fifty; there is much dignity in his
countenance, which is, however, softened by an expression of good humour
truly engaging.  His manner is frank and affable in the extreme.  I am
not going to enter into minute details of our interview, which was to me
a very interesting one.  He knew already the leading parts of my history
since my arrival in Spain, and made several comments upon it, which
displayed his intimate knowledge of the situation of the country as
regards ecclesiastical matters, and the state of opinion respecting
religious innovation.

I was pleased to find that his ideas in many points accorded with my own,
and we were both decidedly of opinion that, notwithstanding the great
persecution and outcry which had lately been raised against the Gospel,
the battle was by no means lost, and that the holy cause might yet
triumph in Spain, if zeal united with discretion and Christian humility
were displayed by those called upon to uphold it.

During the greater part of this and the following day, I was much
occupied at the custom-house, endeavouring to obtain the documents
necessary for the exportation of the Testaments.  On the afternoon of
Saturday I dined with Mr. B--- and his family—an interesting group—his
lady, his beautiful daughters, and his son, a fine intelligent young man.
Early the next morning a steamer, the _Balear_, was to quit Cadiz for
Marseilles, touching on the way at Algeziras, Gibraltar, and various
other ports of Spain.  I had engaged my passage on board her as far as
Gibraltar, having nothing further to detain me at Cadiz; my business with
the custom-house having been brought at last to a termination, though I
believe I should never have got through it but for the kind assistance of
Mr. B---.  I quitted this excellent man and my other charming friends at
a late hour with regret.  I believe that I carried with me their very
best wishes; and, in whatever part of the world I, a poor wanderer in the
Gospel’s cause, may chance to be, I shall not unfrequently offer up
sincere prayers for their happiness and well-being.

Before taking leave of Cadiz I shall relate an anecdote of the British
consul, characteristic of him and the happy manner in which he contrives
to execute the most disagreeable duties of his situation.  I was in
conversation with him in a parlour of his house, when we were interrupted
by the entrance of two very unexpected visitors: they were the captain of
a Liverpool merchant-vessel and one of the crew.  The latter was a rough
sailor, a Welshman, who could only express himself in very imperfect
English.  They looked unutterable dislike and defiance at each other.  It
appeared that the latter had refused to work, and insisted on leaving the
ship, and his master had in consequence brought him before the consul, in
order that, if he persisted, the consequences might be detailed to him,
which would be the forfeiture of his wages and clothes.  This was done;
but the fellow became more and more dogged, refusing ever to tread the
same deck again with his captain, who, he said, had called him “Greek,
lazy lubberly Greek,” which he would not bear. The word Greek rankled in
the sailor’s mind, and stung him to the very core.  Mr. B---, who seemed
to be perfectly acquainted with the character of Welshmen in general—who
are proverbially obstinate when opposition is offered to them—and who saw
at once that the dispute had arisen on foolish and trivial grounds, now
told the man, with a smile, that he would inform him of a way by which he
might gain the weather-gage of every one of them, consul, and captain,
and all, and secure his wages and clothes; which was by merely going on
board a brig-of-war of her Majesty, which was then lying in the bay.  The
fellow said he was aware of this, and intended to do so.  His grim
features, however, instantly relaxed in some degree, and he looked more
humanely upon his captain.  Mr. B--- then, addressing himself to the
latter, made some observations on the impropriety of using the word Greek
to a British sailor: not forgetting at the same time to speak of the
absolute necessity of obedience and discipline on board every ship.  His
words produced such an effect, that in a very little time the sailor held
out his hand towards his captain, and expressed his willingness to go on
board with him and perform his duty, adding, that the captain, upon the
whole, was the best man in the world.  So they departed mutually pleased;
the consul making both of them promise to attend divine service at his
house on the following day.

Sunday morning came, and I was on board the steamer by six o’clock.  As I
ascended the side, the harsh sound of the Catalan dialect assailed my
ears.  In fact, the vessel was Catalan built, and the captain and crew
were of that nation; the greater part of the passengers already on board,
or who subsequently arrived, appeared to be Catalans, and seemed to vie
with each other in producing disagreeable sounds.  A burly merchant,
however, with a red face, peaked chin, sharp eyes, and hooked nose,
clearly bore off the palm; he conversed with astonishing eagerness on
seemingly the most indifferent subjects, or rather on no subject at all;
his voice would have sounded exactly like a coffee-mill but for a vile
nasal twang: he poured forth his Catalan incessantly till we arrived at
Gibraltar.  Such people are never sea-sick, though they frequently
produce or aggravate the malady in others.  We did not get under way
until past eight o’clock, for we waited for the Governor of Algeziras,
and started instantly on his coming on board.  He was a tall, thin, rigid
figure of about seventy, with a long, grave, wrinkled countenance; in a
word, the very image of an old Spanish grandee.  We stood out of the bay,
rounding the lofty lighthouse, which stands on a ledge of rocks, and then
bent our course to the south, in the direction of the Straits.  It was a
glorious morning, a blue sunny sky and blue sunny ocean; or rather, as my
friend Oehlenschlæger {292a} has observed on a similar occasion, there
appeared two skies and two suns, one above and one below.

Our progress was rather slow, notwithstanding the fineness of the
weather, probably owing to the tide being against us.  In about two hours
we passed the Castle of Santa Petra, and at noon were in sight of
Trafalgar.  The wind now freshened, and was dead ahead; on which account
we hugged closely to the coast, in order to avoid as much as possible the
strong heavy sea which was pouring down from the Straits.  We passed
within a very short distance of the Cape, a bold bluff foreland, but not
of any considerable height.

It is impossible for an Englishman to pass by this place—the scene of the
most celebrated naval action on record—without emotion.  Here it was that
the united navies of France and Spain were annihilated by a far inferior
force; but that force was British, and was directed by one of the most
remarkable men of the age, and perhaps the greatest hero of any time.
{292b}  Huge fragments of wreck still frequently emerge from the watery
gulf whose billows chafe the rocky sides of Trafalgar: they are relics of
the enormous ships which were burnt and sunk on that terrible day, when
the heroic champion of Britain concluded his work and died.  I never
heard but one individual venture to say a word in disparagement of
Nelson’s glory: it was a pert American, {293a} who observed, that the
British admiral was much overrated.  “Can that individual be overrated,”
replied a stranger, “whose every thought was bent on his country’s
honour, who scarcely ever fought without leaving a piece of his body in
the fray, and who, not to speak of minor triumphs, was victorious, in two
such actions as Aboukir and Trafalgar?”

We were now soon in sight of the Moorish coast, Cape Spartel appearing
dimly through mist and vapour on our right.  A regular Levanter {293b}
had now come on, and the vessel pitched and tossed to a very considerable
degree.  Most of the passengers were seasick; the governor, however, and
myself held out manfully: we sat on a bench together, and entered into
conversation respecting the Moors and their country.  Torquemada himself
could not have spoken of both with more abhorrence.  He informed me that
he had been frequently in several of the principal Moorish towns of the
coast, which he described as heaps of ruins: the Moors themselves he
called _Caffres_ {293c} and wild beasts.  He observed that he had never
been even at Tangier, where the people were most civilized, without
experiencing some insult, so great was the abhorrence of the Moors to
anything in the shape of a Christian.  He added, however, that they
treated the English with comparative civility, and that they had a saying
among them to the effect that Englishman and Mahometan were one and the
same: he then looked particularly grave for a moment, and, crossing
himself, was silent.  I guessed what was passing in his mind:—

    “From heretic boors,
    And Turkish Moors,
    Star of the sea,
    Gentle Marie,
    Deliver me!”

At about three we were passing Tarifa, so frequently mentioned in the
history of Moors and Christians.  Who has not heard of Alonzo Guzman the
Faithful, {294} who allowed his only son to be crucified before the walls
of the town rather than submit to the ignominy of delivering up the keys
to the Moorish monarch, who, with a host which is said to have amounted
to nearly half a million of men, had landed on the shores of Andalusia,
and threatened to bring all Spain once more beneath the Moslem yoke?
Certainly if there be a land and a spot where the name of that good
patriot is not sometimes mentioned and sung, that land, that spot, is
modern Spain and modern Tarifa.  I have heard the ballad of Alonzo Guzman
chanted in Danish, by a hind in the wilds of Jutland; but once speaking
of “the Faithful” to some inhabitants of Tarifa, they replied that they
had never heard of Guzman the Faithful of Tarifa, but were acquainted
with Alonzo Guzman, _el tuerto_, and that he was one of the most
villanous _arrieros_ on the Cadiz road.

The voyage of these narrow seas can scarcely fail to be interesting to
the most apathetic individual, from the nature of the scenery which
presents itself to the eye on either side.  The coasts are exceedingly
high and bold, especially that of Spain, which seems to overcrow the
Moorish; but opposite to Tarifa, the African continent, rounding towards
the south-west, assumes an air of sublimity and grandeur.  A hoary
mountain is seen uplifting its summits above the clouds: it is Mount
Abyla, or, as it is called in the Moorish tongue, Gibil Muza, or the hill
of Muza, from the circumstance of its containing the sepulchre of a
prophet of that name. {295}   This is one of the two excrescences of
nature on which the Old World bestowed the title of the Pillars of
Hercules.  Its skirts and sides occupy the Moorish coast for many leagues
in more than one direction, but the broad aspect of its steep and
stupendous front is turned full towards that part of the European
continent where Gibraltar lies like a huge monster stretching far into
the brine.  Of the two hills, or pillars, the most remarkable, when
viewed from afar, is the African one, Gibil Muza.  It is the tallest and
bulkiest, and is visible at a greater distance; but scan them both from
near, and you feel that all your wonder is engrossed by the European
column.  Gibil Muza is an immense shapeless mass, a wilderness of rocks,
with here and there a few trees and shrubs nodding from the clefts of its
precipices; it is uninhabited, save by wolves, wild swine, and chattering
monkeys, on which last account it is called by the Spaniards, _Montaña de
las Monas_, {296a} whilst, on the contrary, Gibraltar, not to speak of
the strange city which covers part of it, a city inhabited by men of all
nations and tongues, its batteries and excavations, all of them miracles
of art, is the most singular-looking mountain in the world—a mountain
which can neither be described by pen nor pencil, and at which the eye is
never satiated with gazing.

It was near sunset, and we were crossing the bay of Gibraltar.  We had
stopped at Algeziras, on the Spanish side, for the purpose of landing the
old governor and his suite, and delivering and receiving letters.

Algeziras is an ancient Moorish town, as the name denotes, which is an
Arabic word, and signifies “the place of the islands.” {296b}  It is
situated at the water’s edge, with a lofty range of mountains in the
rear.  It seemed a sad deserted place, as far as I could judge at the
distance of half a mile.  In the harbour, however, lay a Spanish frigate
and French war brig.  As we passed the former, some of the Spaniards on
board our steamer became boastful at the expense of the English.  It
appeared that, a few weeks before, an English vessel, suspected to be a
contraband trader, was seen by this frigate hovering about a bay on the
Andalusian coast, in company with an English frigate, the _Orestes_.  The
Spaniard dogged them for some time, till one morning, observing that the
_Orestes_ had disappeared, he hoisted English colours, and made a signal
to the trader to bear down; the latter, deceived by the British ensign,
and supposing that the Spaniard was the friendly _Orestes_, instantly
drew near, was fired at and boarded, and, proving in effect to be a
contraband trader, she was carried into port and delivered over to the
Spanish authorities.  In a few days the captain of the _Orestes_ hearing
of this, and incensed at the unwarrantable use made of the British flag,
sent a boat on board the frigate, demanding that the vessel should be
instantly restored, as, if she was not, he would retake her by force;
adding, that he had forty cannons on board.  The captain of the Spanish
frigate returned for answer, that the trader was in the hands of the
officers of the customs, and was no longer at his disposal; that the
captain of the _Orestes_, however, could do what he pleased, and that if
he had forty guns, he himself had forty-four; whereupon the _Orestes_
thought proper to bear away.  Such at least was the Spanish account, as
related by the journals.  Observing the Spaniards to be in great glee at
the idea of one of their nation having frightened away the Englishman, I
exclaimed, “Gentlemen, all of you who suppose that an English sea-captain
has been deterred from attacking a Spaniard, from an apprehension of a
superior force of four guns, remember, if you please, the fate of the
_Santísima Trinidad_, and be pleased also not to forget that we are
almost within cannon’s sound of Trafalgar.”

It was near sunset, I repeat, and we were crossing the bay of Gibraltar.
I stood on the prow of the vessel, with my eyes intently fixed on the
mountain fortress, which, though I had seen it several times before,
filled my mind with admiration and interest.  Viewed from this situation,
it certainly, if it resembles any animate object in nature, has something
of the appearance of a terrible couchant lion, whose stupendous head
menaces Spain.  Had I been dreaming, I should almost have concluded it to
be the genius of Africa, in the shape of its most puissant monster, who
had bounded over the sea from the clime of sand and sun, bent on the
destruction of the rival continent, more especially as the hue of its
stony sides, its crest and chine, is tawny even as that of the hide of
the desert king.  A hostile lion has it almost invariably proved to
Spain, at least since it first began to play a part in history, which was
at the time when Tarik seized and fortified it. {298}  It has for the
most part been in the hands of foreigners: first the swarthy and turbaned
Moor possessed it, and it is now tenanted by a fair-haired race from a
distant isle.  Though a part of Spain, it seems to disavow the connexion,
and at the end of a long narrow sandy isthmus, almost level with the sea,
raising its blasted and perpendicular brow to denounce the crimes which
deformed the history of that fair and majestic land.

It was near sunset, I say it for the third time, and we were crossing the
bay of Gibraltar.  Bay! it seemed no bay, but an inland sea, surrounded
on all sides by enchanted barriers, so strange, so wonderful was the
aspect of its coasts.  Before us lay the impregnable hill; on our right
the African continent, with its grey Gibil Muza, and the crag of Ceuta,
to which last a solitary bark seemed steering its way; behind us the town
we had just quitted, with its mountain wall; on our left the coast of
Spain.  The surface of the water was unruffled by a wave, and as we
rapidly glided on, the strange object which we were approaching became
momentarily more distinct and visible.  There, at the base of the
mountain, and covering a small portion of its side, lay the city, with
its ramparts garnished with black guns, pointing significantly at its
moles and harbours; above, seemingly on every crag which could be made
available for the purpose of defence or destruction, peered batteries,
pale and sepulchral looking, as if ominous of the fate which awaited any
intrusive foe; whilst east and west towards Africa and Spain, on the
extreme points, rose castles, towers, or _atalayas_, which overcrowed the
whole, and all the circumjacent region, whether land or sea.  Mighty and
threatening appeared the fortifications, and doubtless, viewed in any
other situation, would have alone occupied the mind and engrossed its
wonder; but the hill, the wondrous hill was everywhere about them,
beneath them, or above them, overpowering their effect as a spectacle.
Who, when he beholds the enormous elephant, with his brandished trunk,
dashing impetuously to the war, sees the castle which he bears, or fears
the javelins of those whom he carries, however skilful and warlike they
may be?  Never does God appear so great and powerful as when the works of
his hands stand in contrast with the labours of man.  Survey the
Escurial; it is a proud work, but wonder if you can when you see the
mountain mocking it behind; survey that boast of Moorish kings, survey
Granada from its plain, and wonder if you can, for you see the Alpujarras
mocking it from behind.  Oh, what are the works of man compared with
those of the Lord?  Even as man is compared with his Creator.  Man builds
pyramids, and God builds pyramids; the pyramids of man are heaps of
shingles, tiny hillocks on a sandy plain; the pyramids of the Lord are
Andes and Indian hills.  Man builds walls, and so does his Master; but
the walls of God are the black precipices of Gibraltar and Horneel,
eternal, indestructible, and not to be scaled; whilst those of man can be
climbed, can be broken by the wave, or shattered by the lightning or the
powder blast.  Would man display his power and grandeur to advantage, let
him flee far from the hills; for the broad pennants of God, even his
clouds, float upon the tops of the hills, and the majesty of God is most
manifest among the hills.  Call Gibraltar the hill of Tarik or Hercules,
if you will; but gaze upon it for a moment, and you will call it the hill
of God.  Tarik and the old giant may have built upon it; but not all the
dark race of whom Tarik was one, nor all the giants of old renown of whom
the other was one, could have built up its crags or chiselled the
enormous mass to its present shape.

We dropped anchor not far from the Mole.  As we expected every moment to
hear the evening gun, after which no person is permitted to enter the
town, I was in trepidation lest I should be obliged to pass the night on
board the dirty Catalan steamer, which, as I had no occasion to proceed
further in her, I was in great haste to quit.  A boat now drew nigh, with
two individuals at the stern, one of whom, standing up, demanded, in an
authoritative voice, the name of the vessel, her destination, and cargo.
Upon being answered, they came on board.  After some conversation with
the captain, they were about to depart, when I inquired whether I could
accompany them on shore.  The person I addressed was a tall young man,
with a fustian frock-coat.  He had a long face, long nose, and wide
mouth, with large restless eyes.  There was a grin on his countenance
which seemed permanent, and, had it not been for his bronzed complexion,
I should have declared him to be a cockney, and nothing else.  He was,
however, no such thing, but what is called “a rock lizard,” {301} that
is, a person born at Gibraltar of English parents.  Upon hearing my
question, which was in Spanish, he grinned more than ever, and inquired,
in a strange accent, whether I was a son of Gibraltar.  I replied that I
had not that honour, but that I was a British subject.  Whereupon he said
that he should make no difficulty in taking me ashore.  We entered the
boat, which was rapidly rowed toward the land by four Genoese sailors.
My two companions chattered in their strange Spanish, he of the fustian
occasionally turning his countenance full upon me, the last grin
appearing even more hideous than the preceding ones.  We soon reached the
quay, where my name was noted down by a person who demanded my passport,
and I was then permitted to advance.

It was now dusk, and I lost no time in crossing the drawbridge and
entering the long low archway which, passing under the rampart,
communicates with the town.  Beneath this archway paced, with measured
tread, tall red-coated sentinels with shouldered guns.  There was no
stopping, no sauntering in these men.  There was no laughter, no exchange
of light conversation with the passers-by, but their bearing was that of
British soldiers, conscious of the duties of their station.  What a
difference between them and the listless loiterers who stand at guard at
the gate of a Spanish garrisoned town!

I now proceeded up the principal street, which runs with a gentle ascent
along the base of the hill.  Accustomed for some months past to the
melancholy silence of Seville, I was almost deafened by the noise and
bustle which reigned around.  It was Sunday night, and of course no
business was going on, but there were throngs of people passing up and
down.  Here was a military guard proceeding along; here walked a group of
officers, there a knot of soldiers stood talking and laughing.  The
greater part of the civilians appeared to be Spaniards, but there was a
large sprinkling of Jews in the dress of those of Barbary, and here and
there a turbaned Moor.  There were gangs of sailors likewise, Genoese,
judging from the patois which they were speaking, though I occasionally
distinguished the sound of _tou logou sas_, {302} by which I knew there
were Greeks at hand, and twice or thrice caught a glimpse of the red cap
and blue silken petticoats of the mariner from the Romaic isles.  On
still I hurried, till I arrived at a well-known hostelry, close by a kind
of square, in which stands the little exchange of Gibraltar.  Into this I
ran and demanded lodging, receiving a cheerful welcome from the genius of
the place, who stood behind the bar, and whom I shall perhaps have
occasion subsequently to describe.  All the lower rooms were filled with
men of the rock, burly men in general, with swarthy complexions and
English features, with white hats, white jean jerkins, and white jean
pantaloons.  They were smoking pipes and cigars, and drinking porter,
wine, and various other fluids, and conversing in the rock Spanish, or
rock English, as the fit took them.  Dense was the smoke of tobacco, and
great the din of voices, and I was glad to hasten upstairs to an
unoccupied apartment, where I was served with some refreshment, of which
I stood much in need.

I was soon disturbed by the sound of martial music close below my
windows.  I went down and stood at the door.  A military band was
marshalled upon the little square before the exchange.  It was preparing
to beat the retreat.  After the prelude, which was admirably executed,
the tall leader gave a flourish with his stick, and strode forward up the
street, followed by the whole company of noble-looking fellows and a
crowd of admiring listeners.  The cymbals clashed, the horns screamed,
and the kettle-drum emitted its deep awful note, till the old rock echoed
again, and the hanging terraces of the town rang with the stirring noise—

    “Dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub—thus go the drums,
    Tantara, tantara, the Englishman comes.”

O England! long, long may it be ere the sun of thy glory sink beneath the
wave of darkness!  Though gloomy and portentous clouds are now gathering
rapidly around thee, still, still may it please the Almighty to disperse
them, and to grant thee a futurity longer in duration, and still brighter
in renown, than thy past!  Or if thy doom be at hand, may that doom be a
noble one, and worthy of her who has been styled the Old Queen of the
waters!  May thou sink, if thou dost sink, amidst blood and flame, with a
mighty noise, causing more than one nation to participate in thy
downfall!  Of all fates, may it please the Lord to preserve thee from a
disgraceful and a slow decay; becoming, ere extinct, a scorn and a
mockery for those selfsame foes who now, though they envy and abhor thee,
still fear thee, nay, even against their will, honour and respect thee!

Arouse thee, whilst yet there is time, and prepare thee for the combat of
life and death!  Cast from thee the foul scurf which now encrusts thy
robust limbs, which deadens their force, and makes them heavy and
powerless!  Cast from thee thy false philosophers, who would fain decry
what, next to the love of God, has hitherto been deemed most sacred, the
love of the mother land!  Cast from thee thy false patriots, who, under
the pretext of redressing the wrongs of the poor and weak, seek to
promote internal discord, so that thou mayest become only terrible to
thyself!  And remove from thee the false prophets, who have seen vanity
and divined lies; who have daubed thy wall with untempered mortar, that
it may fall; who see visions of peace where there is no peace; who have
strengthened the hands of the wicked, and made the heart of the righteous
sad.  Oh, do this, and fear not the result; for either shall thy end be a
majestic and an enviable one, or God shall perpetuate thy reign upon the
waters, thou Old Queen!

The above was part of a broken prayer for my native land, which, after my
usual thanksgiving, I breathed to the Almighty ere retiring to rest that
Sunday night at Gibraltar.




CHAPTER LII.


The Jolly Hosteler—Aspirants for Glory—A Portrait—Hamáles—Solomons—An
Expedition—The Yeoman Soldier—The Excavations—The Pull by the Skirt—Judah
and his Father—Judah’s Pilgrimage—The Bushy Beard—The False Moors—Judah
and the King’s Son—Premature Old Age.

Perhaps it would have been impossible to have chosen a situation more
adapted for studying at my ease Gibraltar and its inhabitants, than that
which I found myself occupying about ten o’clock on the following
morning.  Seated on a small bench just opposite the bar, close by the
door, in the passage of the hostelry at which I had taken up my temporary
abode, I enjoyed a view of the square of the exchange and all that was
going on there, and, by merely raising my eyes, could gaze at my leisure
on the stupendous hill which towers above the town to an altitude of some
thousand feet.  I could likewise observe every person who entered or left
the house, which is one of great resort, being situated in the most
frequented place of the principal thoroughfare of the town.  My eyes were
busy, and so were my ears.  Close beside me stood my excellent friend
Griffiths, the jolly hosteler, of whom I take the present opportunity of
saying a few words, though I dare say he has been frequently described
before, and by far better pens.  Let those who know him not figure to
themselves a man of about fifty, at least six feet in height, and
weighing some eighteen stone, an exceedingly florid countenance and good
features, eyes full of quickness and shrewdness, but at the same time
beaming with good nature.  He wears white pantaloons, white frock, and
white hat, and is, indeed, all white, with the exception of his polished
Wellingtons and rubicund face.  He carries a whip beneath his arm, which
adds wonderfully to the knowingness of his appearance, which is rather
more that of a gentleman who keeps an inn on the Newmarket road, “purely
for the love of travellers, and the money which they carry about them,”
than of a native of the rock.  Nevertheless, he will tell you himself
that he is a rock lizard; and you will scarcely doubt it when, besides
his English, which is broad and vernacular, you hear him speak Spanish,
ay, and Genoese too, when necessary, and it is no child’s play to speak
the latter, which I myself could never master.  He is a good judge of
horseflesh, and occasionally sells a “bit of a blood,” or a Barbary
steed, to a young hand, though he has no objection to do business with an
old one; for there is not a thin, crouching, liver-faced, lynx-eyed Jew
of Fez capable of outwitting him in a bargain, or cheating him out of one
single pound of the fifty thousand sterling which he possesses; and yet
ever bear in mind that he is a good-natured fellow to those who are
disposed to behave honourably to him, and know likewise that he will lend
you money, if you are a gentleman, and are in need of it; but depend upon
it, if he refuse you, there is something not altogether right about you,
for Griffiths knows _his world_, and is not to be made a fool of.

There was a prodigious quantity of porter consumed in my presence during
the short hour that I sat on the bench of that hostelry of the rock.  The
passage before the bar was frequently filled with officers, who lounged
in for a refreshment which the sultry heat of the weather rendered
necessary, or at least inviting; whilst not a few came galloping up to
the door on small Barbary horses, which are to be found in great
abundance at Gibraltar.  All seemed to be on the best of terms with the
host, with whom they occasionally discussed the merits of particular
steeds, and whose jokes they invariably received with unbounded
approbation.  There was much in the demeanour and appearance of these
young men, for the greater part were quite young, which was highly
interesting and agreeable.  Indeed, I believe it may be said of English
officers in general, that in personal appearance, and in polished
manners, they bear the palm from those of the same class over the world.
True it is, that the officers of the royal guard of Russia, especially of
the three noble regiments styled the _Priberjensky_, _Simeonsky_, and
_Finlansky polks_, {307} might fearlessly enter into competition in
almost all points with the flower of the British army; but it must be
remembered, that those regiments are officered by the choicest specimens
of the Sclavonian nobility, young men selected expressly for the
splendour of their persons, and for the superiority of their mental
endowments; whilst, probably, amongst all the fair-haired Anglo-Saxon
youths whom I now saw gathered near me, there was not a single one of
noble ancestry, nor of proud and haughty name; and certainly, so far from
having been selected to flatter the pride and add to the pomp of a
despot, they had been taken indiscriminately from a mass of ardent
aspirants for military glory, and sent on their country’s service to a
remote and unhealthy colony.  Nevertheless, they were such as their
country might be proud of, for gallant boys they looked, with courage on
their brows, beauty and health on their cheeks, and intelligence in their
hazel eyes.

Who is he who now stops before the door without entering, and addresses a
question to my host, who advances with a respectful salute?  He is no
common man, or his appearance belies him strangely.  His dress is simple
enough; a Spanish hat, with a peaked crown and broad shadowy brim—the
veritable _sombrero_—jean pantaloons and blue hussar jacket;—but how well
that dress becomes one of the most noble-looking figures I ever beheld!
I gazed upon him with strange respect and admiration as he stood
benignantly smiling and joking in good Spanish with an impudent rock
rascal, who held in his hand a huge _bogamante_, or coarse carrion
lobster, which he would fain have persuaded him to purchase.  He was
almost gigantically tall, towering nearly three inches above the burly
host himself, yet athletically symmetrical, and straight as the pine-tree
of Dovrefeld.  He must have counted eleven lustres, which cast an air of
mature dignity over a countenance which seemed to have been chiselled by
some Grecian sculptor, and yet his hair was black as the plume of the
Norwegian raven, and so was the moustache which curled above his
well-formed lip.  In the garb of Greece, and in the camp before Troy, I
should have taken him for Agamemnon.  “Is that man a general?” said I to
a short queer-looking personage, who sat by my side, intently studying a
newspaper.  “That gentleman,” he whispered in a lisping accent, “is, sir,
the Lieutenant-Governor of Gibraltar.” {309}

On either side outside the door, squatting on the ground, or leaning
indolently against the walls, were some half-dozen men of very singular
appearance.  Their principal garment was a kind of blue gown, something
resembling the blouse worn by the peasants of the north of France, but
not so long; it was compressed around their waists by a leathern girdle,
and depended about halfway down their thighs.  Their legs were bare, so
that I had an opportunity of observing the calves, which appeared
unnaturally large.  Upon the head they wore small skull-caps of black
wool.  I asked the most athletic of these men, a dark-visaged fellow of
forty, who they were.  He answered, _humáles_.  This word I knew to be
Arabic, in which tongue it signifies a porter; and, indeed, the next
moment, I saw a similar fellow staggering across the square under an
immense burden, almost sufficient to have broken the back of a camel.  On
again addressing my swarthy friend, and inquiring whence he came, he
replied, that he was born at Mogadore, in Barbary, but had passed the
greatest part of his life at Gibraltar.  He added, that he was the
_capataz_, or head man, of the _hamáles_ near the door.  I now addressed
him in the Arabic of the East, though with scarcely the hope of being
understood, more especially as he had been so long from his own country.
He, however, answered very pertinently, his lips quivering with eagerness
and his eyes sparkling with joy, though it was easy to perceive that the
Arabic, or rather the Moorish, was not the language in which he was
accustomed either to think or speak.  His companions all gathered round
and listened with avidity, occasionally exclaiming, when anything was
said which they approved of: “_Wakhud rajil shereef hada_, _min beled del
scharki_.” {310}  At last I produced the shekel, which I invariably carry
about me as a pocket-piece, and asked the _capataz_ whether he had ever
seen that money before.  He surveyed the censer and olive-branch for a
considerable time, and evidently knew not what to make of it.  At length
he fell to inspecting the characters round about it on both sides, and
giving a cry, exclaimed to the other _hamáles_: “Brothers, brothers,
these are the letters of Solomon.  This silver is blessed.  We must kiss
this money.”  He then put it upon his head, pressed it to his eyes, and
finally kissed it with enthusiasm, as did successively all his brethren.
Then regaining it, he returned it to me, with a low reverence.  Griffiths
subsequently informed me that the fellow refused to work during all the
rest of the day, and did nothing but smile, laugh, and talk to himself.

“Allow me to offer you a glass of bitters, sir,” said the queer-looking
personage before mentioned; he was a corpulent man, very short, and his
legs particularly so.  His dress consisted of a greasy snuff-
coat, dirty white trousers, and dirtier stockings.  On his head he wore a
rusty silk hat, the eaves of which had a tendency to turn up before and
behind.  I had observed that, during my conversation with the _hamáles_,
he had several times uplifted his eyes from the newspaper, and on the
production of the shekel had grinned very significantly, and had
inspected it when in the hand of the _capataz_.  “Allow me to offer you a
glass of bitters,” said he; “I guessed you was one of our people before
you spoke to the _hamáles_.  Sir, it does my heart good to see a
gentleman of your appearance not above speaking to his poor brethren.  It
is what I do myself not unfrequently, and I hope God will blot out my
name, and that is Solomons, when I despise them.  I do not pretend to
much Arabic myself, yet I understood you tolerably well, and I liked your
discourse much.  You must have a great deal of _shillam eidri_,
nevertheless you startled me when you asked the _hamál_ if he ever read
the _Torah_; of course you meant with the _meforshim_; poor as he is, I
do not believe him _becoresh_ enough to read the _Torah_ without the
commentators.  So help me, sir, I believe you to be a Salamancan Jew; I
am told there are still some of the old families to be found there.  Ever
at Tudela, sir? not very far from Salamanca, I believe; one of my own
kindred once lived there: a great traveller, sir, like yourself; went
over all the world to look for the Jews—went to the top of Sinai.
Anything that I can do for you at Gibraltar, sir?  Any commission? will
execute it as reasonably, and more expeditiously than any one else.  My
name is Solomons.  I am tolerably well known at Gibraltar; yes, sir, and
in the Crooked Friars, and, for that matter, in the Neuen Stein Steg,
{311} at Hamburg; so help me, sir, I think I once saw your face at the
fair at Bremen.  Speak German, sir? though of course you do.  Allow me,
sir, to offer you a glass of bitters.  I wish, sir, they were _mayim
hayim_ {312a} for your sake, I do indeed, sir, I wish they were living
waters.  Now, sir, do give me your opinion as to this matter (lowering
his voice and striking the newspaper).  Do you not think it is very hard
that one _Yudken_ should betray the other?  When I put my little secret
_beyad peluni_ {312b}—you understand me, sir? when I entrust my poor
secret to the custody of an individual, and that individual a Jew, a
_Yudken_, sir, I do not wish to be blown, indeed, I do not expect it.  In
a word, what do you think of the _gold dust robbery_, and what will be
done to those unfortunate people, who I see are convicted?”

That same day I made inquiry respecting the means of transferring myself
to Tangier, having no wish to prolong my stay at Gibraltar, where, though
it is an exceedingly interesting place to an observant traveller, I had
no particular business to detain me.  In the evening I was visited by a
Jew, a native of Barbary, who informed me that he was secretary to the
master of a small Genoese bark which plied between Tangier and Gibraltar.
Upon his assuring me that the vessel would infallibly start for the
former place on the following evening, I agreed with him for my passage.
He said that as the wind was blowing from the Levant quarter, the voyage
would be a speedy one.  Being desirous now of disposing to the most
advantage of the short time which I expected to remain at Gibraltar, I
determined upon visiting the excavations, which I had as yet never seen,
on the following morning, and accordingly sent for, and easily obtained,
the necessary permission.

About six on Tuesday morning, I started on this expedition, attended by a
very intelligent good-looking lad of the Jewish persuasion, one of two
brothers who officiated at the inn in the capacity of _valets de place_.

The morning was dim and hazy, yet sultry to a degree.  We ascended a
precipitous street, and, proceeding in an easterly direction, soon
arrived in the vicinity of what is generally known by the name of the
Moorish Castle, a large tower, but so battered by the cannon balls
discharged against it in the famous siege, that it is at present little
better than a ruin.  Hundreds of round holes are to be seen in its sides,
in which, as it is said, the shot are still embedded.  Here, at a species
of hut, we were joined by an artillery sergeant, who was to be our guide.
After saluting us, he led the way to a huge rock, where he unlocked a
gate at the entrance of a dark vaulted passage which passed under it,
emerging from which passage we found ourselves in a steep path, or rather
staircase, with walls on either side.

We proceeded very leisurely, for hurry in such a situation would have
been of little avail, as we should have lost our breath in a minute’s
time.  The soldier, perfectly well acquainted with the locality, stalked
along with measured steps, his eyes turned to the ground.

I looked fully as much at that man as at the strange place where we now
were, and which was every moment becoming stranger.  He was a fine
specimen of the yeoman turned soldier; indeed, the corps to which he
belonged consists almost entirely of that class.  There he paces along,
tall, strong, ruddy, and chestnut-haired, an Englishman every inch;
behold him pacing along, sober, silent, and civil, a genuine English
soldier.  I prize the sturdy Scot, I love the daring and impetuous
Irishman; I admire all the various races which constitute the population
of the British isles; yet I must say that, upon the whole, none are so
well adapted to ply the soldier’s hardy trade as the rural sons of old
England, so strong, so cool, yet, at the same time, animated with so much
hidden fire.  Turn to the history of England and you will at once
perceive of what such men are capable: even at Hastings, in the grey old
time, under almost every disadvantage, weakened by a recent and terrible
conflict, without discipline, comparatively speaking, and uncouthly
armed, they all but vanquished the Norman chivalry.  Trace their deeds in
France, which they twice subdued; and even follow them to Spain, where
they twanged the yew and raised the battle-axe, and left behind them a
name of glory at Ingles Mendi, {314} a name that shall last till fire
consumes the Cantabrian hills.  And, oh, in modern times, trace the deeds
of these gallant men all over the world, and especially in France and
Spain, and admire them, even as I did that sober, silent, soldier-like
man who was showing me the wonders of a foreign mountain fortress,
wrested by his countrymen from a powerful and proud nation more than a
century before, and of which he was now a trusty and efficient guardian.

We arrived close to the stupendous precipice, which rises abruptly above
the isthmus called the neutral ground, staring gauntly and horridly at
Spain, and immediately entered the excavations.  They consist of
galleries scooped in the living rock at the distance of some twelve feet
from the outside, behind which they run the whole breadth of the hill in
this direction.  In these galleries, at short distances, are ragged
yawning apertures, all formed by the hand of man, where stand the cannon
upon neat slightly raised pavements of small flint stones, each with its
pyramid of bullets on one side, and on the other a box, in which is
stowed the gear which the gunner requires in the exercise of his craft.
Everything was in its place, everything in the nicest English order,
everything ready to scathe and overwhelm in a few moments the proudest
and most numerous host which might appear marching in hostile array
against this singular fortress on the land side.

There is not much variety in these places, one cavern and one gun
resembling the other.  As for the guns, they are not of large calibre,
indeed, such are not needed here, where a pebble discharged from so great
an altitude, would be fraught with death.  On descending a shaft,
however, I observed, in one cave of special importance, two enormous
carronades looking with peculiar wickedness and malignity down a shelving
rock, which perhaps, although not without tremendous difficulty, might be
scaled.  The mere wind of one of these huge guns would be sufficient to
topple over a thousand men.  What sensations of dread and horror must be
awakened in the breast of a foe when this hollow rock, in the day of
siege, emits its flame, smoke, and thundering wind from a thousand
yawning holes; horror not inferior to that felt by the peasant of the
neighbourhood when Mongibello {316} belches forth from all its orifices
its sulphureous fires.

Emerging from the excavations, we proceeded to view various batteries.  I
asked the sergeant whether his companions and himself were dexterous at
the use of the guns.  He replied that these cannons were to them what the
fowling-piece is to the fowler, that they handled them as easily, and, he
believed, pointed them with more precision, as they seldom or never
missed an object within range of the shot.  This man never spoke until he
was addressed, and then the answers which he gave were replete with good
sense, and in general well worded.  After our excursion, which lasted at
least two hours, I made him a small present, and took leave with a hearty
shake of the hand.

In the evening I prepared to go on board the vessel bound for Tangier,
trusting in what the Jewish secretary had told me as to its sailing.
Meeting him, however, accidentally in the street, he informed me that it
would not start until the following morning, advising me at the same time
to be on board at an early hour.  I now roamed about the streets until
night was beginning to set in, and becoming weary, I was just about to
direct my steps to the inn, when I felt myself gently pulled by the
skirt.  I was amidst a concourse of people who were gathered around some
Irish soldiers who were disputing, and I paid no attention; but I was
pulled again more forcibly than before, and I heard myself addressed in a
language which I had half forgotten, and which I scarcely expected ever
to hear again.  I looked round, and lo! a tall figure stood close to me
and gazed in my face with anxious inquiring eyes.  On its head was the
_kauk_ or furred cap of Jerusalem; depending from its shoulders, and
almost trailing on the ground, was a broad blue mantle, whilst _kandrisa_
or Turkish trousers enveloped its nether limbs.  I gazed on the figure as
wistfully as it gazed upon me.  At first the features appeared perfectly
strange, and I was about to exclaim, “I know you not,” when one or two
lineaments struck me, and I cried, though somewhat hesitatingly, “Surely
this is Judah Lib.”

I was in a steamer in the Baltic in the year ’34, if I mistake not.
There was a drizzling rain and a high sea, when I observed a young man of
about two and twenty leaning in a melancholy attitude against the side of
the vessel.  By his countenance I knew him to be one of the Hebrew race,
nevertheless there was something very singular in his appearance,
something which is rarely found amongst that people, a certain air of
nobleness which highly interested me.  I approached him, and in a few
minutes we were in earnest conversation.  He spoke Polish and Jewish
German indiscriminately.  The story which he related to me was highly
extraordinary, yet I yielded implicit credit to all his words, which came
from his mouth with an air of sincerity which precluded doubt; and,
moreover, he could have no motive for deceiving me.  One idea, one
object, engrossed him entirely: “My father,” said he, in language which
strongly marked his race, “was a native of Galatia, a Jew of high caste,
a learned man, for he knew Zohar, {318} and he was likewise skilled in
medicine.  When I was a child of some eight years, he left Galatia, and
taking his wife, who was my mother, and myself with him, he bent his way
unto the East, even to Jerusalem; there he established himself as a
merchant, for he was acquainted with trade and the arts of getting money.
He was much respected by the Rabbins of Jerusalem, for he was a Polish
man, and he knew more Zohar and more secrets than the wisest of them.  He
made frequent journeys, and was absent for weeks and for months, but he
never exceeded six moons.  My father loved me, and he taught me part of
what he knew in the moments of his leisure.  I assisted him in his trade,
but he took me not with him in his journeys.  We had a shop at Jerusalem,
even a shop of commerce, where we sold the goods of the Nazarene, and my
mother and myself, and even a little sister who was born shortly after
our arrival at Jerusalem, all assisted my father in his commerce.  At
length it came to pass, that on a particular time he told us that he was
going on a journey, and he embraced us and bade us farewell, and he
departed, whilst we continued at Jerusalem attending to the business.  We
awaited his return, but months passed, even six months, and he came not,
and we wondered; and months passed, even other six passed, but still he
came not, nor did we hear any tidings of him, and our hearts were filled
with heaviness and sorrow.  But when years, even two years, were expired,
I said to my mother, ‘I will go and seek my father;’ and she said, ‘Do
so,’ and she gave me her blessing, and I kissed my little sister, and I
went forth as far as Egypt, and there I heard tidings of my father, for
people told me he had been there, and they named the time, and they said
that he had passed from thence to the land of the Turk; so I myself
followed to the land of the Turk, even unto Constantinople.  And when I
arrived there I again heard of my father, for he was well known amongst
the Jews, and they told me the time of his being there, and they added
that he had speculated and prospered, and departed from Constantinople,
but whither he went they knew not.  So I reasoned within myself and said,
perhaps he may have gone to the land of his fathers, even unto Galatia,
to visit his kindred; so I determined to go there myself, and I went, and
I found our kindred, and I made myself known to them, and they rejoiced
to see me: but when I asked them for my father, they shook their heads
and could give me no intelligence; and they would fain have had me tarry
with them, but I would not, for the thought of my father was working
strong within me, and I could not rest.  So I departed and went to
another country, even unto Russia, and I went deep into that country,
even as far as Kazan, and of all I met, whether Jew, or Russ, or Tartar,
I inquired for my father: but no one knew him, nor had heard of him.  So
I turned back, and here thou seest me; and I now purpose going through
all Germany and France, nay, through all the world, until I have received
intelligence of my father, for I cannot rest until I know what is become
of my father, for the thought of him burneth in my brain like fire, even
like the fire of _Jehinnim_.”

Such was the individual whom I now saw again, after a lapse of five
years, in the street of Gibraltar, in the dusk of the evening.  “Yes,” he
replied, “I am Judah, surnamed the _Lib_.  Thou didst not recognize me,
but I knew thee at once.  I should have known thee amongst a million, and
not a day has passed since I last saw thee, but I have thought on thee.”
I was about to reply, but he pulled me out of the crowd and led me into a
shop where, squatted on the floor, sat six or seven Jews cutting leather;
he said something to them which I did not understand, whereupon they
bowed their heads and followed their occupation, without taking any
notice of us.  A singular figure had followed us to the door: it was a
man dressed in exceedingly shabby European garments, which exhibited
nevertheless the cut of a fashionable tailor.  He seemed about fifty; his
face, which was very broad, was of a deep bronze colour; the features
were rugged, but exceedingly manly, and, notwithstanding they were those
of a Jew, exhibited no marks of cunning, but, on the contrary, much
simplicity and good nature.  His form was above the middle height, and
tremendously athletic, the arms and back were literally those of a
Hercules squeezed into a modern surtout; the lower part of his face was
covered with a bushy beard, which depended halfway down his breast.  This
figure remained at the door, his eyes fixed upon myself and Judah.

The first inquiry which I now addressed was, “Have you heard of your
father?”

“I have,” he replied.  “When we parted, I proceeded through many lands,
and wherever I went I inquired of the people respecting my father, but
still they shook their heads, until I arrived at the land of Tunis; and
there I went to the head Rabbi, and he told me that he knew my father
well, and that he had been there, even at Tunis, and he named the time,
and he said that from thence he departed for the land of Fez; and he
spoke much of my father and of his learning, and he mentioned the Zohar,
even that dark book which my father loved so well; and he spoke yet more
of my father’s wealth and his speculations, in all of which it seems he
had thriven.  So I departed, and I mounted a ship, and I went into the
land of Barbary, even unto Fez, and when I arrived there I heard much
intelligence of my father, but it was intelligence which perhaps was
worse than ignorance.  For the Jews told me that my father had been
there, and had speculated and had thriven, and that from thence he
departed for Tafilaltz, which is the country of which the emperor, even
Muley Abderrahman, is a native; and there he was still prosperous, and
his wealth in gold and silver was very great; and he wished to go to a
not far distant town, and he engaged certain Moors, two in number, to
accompany him and defend him and his treasures: and the Moors were strong
men, even _makhasniah_, or soldiers; and they made a covenant with my
father, and they gave him their right hands, and they swore to spill
their blood rather than his should be shed.  And my father was
encouraged, and he waxed bold, and he departed with them, even with the
two false Moors.  And when they arrived in the uninhabited place, they
smote my father, and they prevailed against him, and they poured out his
blood in the way, and they robbed him of all he had, of his silks and his
merchandise, and of the gold and silver which he had made in his
speculations, and they went to their own village, and there they sat
themselves down and bought lands and houses, and they rejoiced and they
triumphed, and they made a merit of their deed, saying, ‘We have killed
an infidel, even an accursed Jew;’ and these things were notorious in
Fez.  And when I heard these tidings my heart was sad, and I became like
a child, and I wept; but the fire of _Jehinnim_ burned no longer in my
brain, for I now knew what was become of my father.  At last I took
comfort, and I reasoned with myself, saying, ‘Would it not be wise to go
unto the Moorish king and demand of him vengeance for my father’s death,
and that the spoilers be despoiled, and the treasure, even my father’s
treasure, be wrested from their hands and delivered up to me who am his
son?’  And the king of the Moors was not at that time in Fez, but was
absent in his wars; and I arose and followed him, even unto Arbat, {322}
which is a seaport, and when I arrived there, lo! I found him not, but
his son was there, and men said unto me, that to speak unto the son was
to speak unto the king, even Muley Abderrahman; so I went in unto the
king’s son, and I kneeled before him, and I lifted up my voice, and I
said unto him what I had to say, and he looked courteously upon me and
said, ‘Truly thy tale is a sorrowful one, and it maketh me sad; and what
thou askest, that will I grant, and thy father’s death shall be avenged,
and the spoilers shall be despoiled; and I will write thee a letter with
my own hand unto the Pasha, even the Pasha of Tafilaltz, and I will
enjoin him to make inquiry into thy matter, and that letter thou shalt
thyself carry and deliver unto him.’  And when I heard these words, my
heart died within my bosom for very fear, and I replied, ‘Not so, my
lord; it is good that thou write a letter unto the Pasha, even unto the
Pasha of Tafilaltz, but that letter will I not take, neither will I go to
Tafilaltz, for no sooner should I arrive there, and my errand be known,
than the Moors would arise and put me to death, either privily or
publicly, for are not the murderers of my father Moors; and am I aught
but a Jew, though I be a Polish man?’  And he looked benignantly, and he
said, ‘Truly, thou speakest wisely; I will write the letter, but thou
shalt not take it, for I will send it by other hands; therefore set thy
heart at rest, and doubt not that, if thy tale be true, thy father’s
death shall be avenged, and the treasure, or the value thereof, be
recovered and given up to thee; tell me, therefore, where wilt thou abide
till then?’  And I said unto him, ‘My lord, I will go into the land of
Suz and will tarry there.’  And he replied, ‘Do so, and thou shalt hear
speedily from me.’  So I arose and departed, and went into the land of
Suz, even unto Swirah, which the Nazarenes call Mogadore; and I waited
with a troubled heart for intelligence from the son of the Moorish king,
but no intelligence came, and never since that day have I heard from him,
and it is now three years since I was in his presence.  And I sat me down
at Mogadore, and I married a wife, a daughter of our nation, and I wrote
to my mother, even to Jerusalem, and she sent me money, and with that I
entered into commerce, even as my father had done, and I speculated, and
I was not successful in my speculations, and I speedily lost all I had.
And now I am come to Gibraltar to speculate on the account of another, a
merchant of Mogadore, but I like not my occupation; he has deceived me; I
am going back, when I shall again seek the presence of the Moorish king,
and demand that the treasure of my father be taken from the spoilers and
delivered up to me, even to me his son.”

I listened with mute attention to the singular tale of this singular man,
and when he had concluded I remained a considerable time without saying a
word.  At last he inquired what had brought me to Gibraltar.  I told him
that I was merely a passer through on my way to Tangier, for which place
I expected to sail the following morning.  Whereupon he observed, that in
the course of a week or two he expected to be there also, when he hoped
that we should meet, as he had much more to tell me.  “And peradventure,”
he added, “you can afford me counsel which will be profitable, for you
are a person of experience, versed in the ways of many nations; and when
I look in your countenance, heaven seems to open to me, for I think I see
the countenance of a friend, even of a brother.”  He then bade me
farewell, and departed; the strange bearded man, who during our
conversation had remained patiently waiting at the door, following him.
I remarked that there was less wildness in his look than on the former
occasion, but, at the same time, more melancholy, and his features were
wrinkled like those of an aged man, though he had not yet passed the
prime of youth.




CHAPTER LIII.


Genoese Mariners—Saint Michael’s Cave—Midnight Abysses—Young American—A
Slave Proprietor—The Fairy Man—Infidelity.

Throughout the whole of that night it blew very hard, but, as the wind
was in the Levant quarter, I had no apprehension of being detained longer
at Gibraltar on that account.  I went on board the vessel at an early
hour, when I found the crew engaged in hauling the anchor close, and
making other preparations for sailing.  They informed me that we should
probably start in an hour.  That time, however, passed, and we still
remained where we were, and the captain continued on shore.  We formed
one of a small flotilla of Genoese barks, the crews of which seemed in
their leisure moments to have no better means of amusing themselves than
the exchange of abusive language: a furious fusilade of this kind
presently commenced, in which the mate of our vessel particularly
distinguished himself; he was a grey-haired Genoese of sixty.  Though not
able to speak their patois, I understood much of what was said.  It was
truly shocking, and as they shouted it forth, judging from their violent
gestures and distorted features, you would have concluded them to be
bitter enemies.  They were, however, nothing of the kind, but excellent
friends all the time, and indeed very good-humoured fellows at bottom.
Oh, the infirmities of human nature!  When will man learn to become truly
Christian?

I am upon the whole very fond of the Genoese; they have, it is true, much
ribaldry and many vices, but they are a brave and chivalrous people, and
have ever been so, and from them I have never experienced aught but
kindness and hospitality.

After the lapse of another two hours, the Jew secretary arrived and said
something to the old mate, who grumbled much; then coming up to me, he
took off his hat and informed me that we were not to start that day,
saying at the same time that it was a shame to lose such a noble wind,
which would carry us to Tangier in three hours.  “Patience,” said I, and
went on shore.

I now strolled towards St. Michael’s cave, in company with the Jewish lad
whom I have before mentioned.

The way thither does not lie in the same direction as that which leads to
the excavations; these confront Spain, whilst the cave yawns in the face
of Africa.  It lies nearly at the top of the mountain, several hundred
yards above the sea.  We passed by the public walks, where there are
noble trees, and also by many small houses, situated delightfully in
gardens, and occupied by the officers of the garrison.  It is wrong to
suppose Gibraltar a mere naked barren rock; it is not without its
beautiful spots—spots such as these, looking cool and refreshing, with
bright green foliage.  The path soon became very steep, and we left
behind us the dwellings of man.  The gale of the preceding night had
entirely ceased, and not a breath of air was stirring; the midday sun
shone in all its fierce glory, and the crags up which we clambered were
not unfrequently watered with the perspiration drops which rained from
our temples: at length we arrived at the cavern.

The mouth is a yawning cleft in the side of the mountain, about twelve
feet high and as many wide; within there is a very rapid, precipitous
descent for some fifty yards, where the cavern terminates in an abyss
which leads to unknown depths.  The most remarkable object is a natural
column, which rises up something like the trunk of an enormous oak, as if
for the purpose of supporting the roof; it stands at a short distance
from the entrance, and gives a certain air of wildness and singularity to
that part of the cavern which is visible, which it would otherwise not
possess.  The floor is exceedingly slippery, consisting of soil which the
continual drippings from the roof have saturated, so that no slight
precaution is necessary for him who treads it.  It is very dangerous to
enter this place without a guide well acquainted with it, as, besides the
black pit at the extremity, holes which have never been fathomed present
themselves here and there, falling into which the adventurer would be
dashed to pieces.  Whatever men may please to say of this cave, one thing
it seems to tell to all who approach it, namely, that the hand of man has
never been busy about it.  There is many a cave of nature’s forming, old
as the earth on which we exist, which nevertheless exhibits indications
that man has turned it to some account, and that it has been subjected
more or less to his modifying power.  Not so this cave of Gibraltar, for,
judging from its appearance, there is not the slightest reason for
supposing that it ever served for aught else than a den for foul night
birds, reptiles, and beasts of prey.  It has been stated by some to have
been used in the days of paganism as a temple to the god Hercules, who,
according to the ancient tradition, raised the singular mass of crags now
called Gibraltar, and the mountain which confronts it on the African
shores, as columns which should say to all succeeding times that he had
been there, and had advanced no further.  Sufficient to observe, that
there is nothing within the cave which would authorize the adoption of
such an opinion, not even a platform on which an altar could have stood,
whilst a narrow path passes before it, leading to the summit of the
mountain.  As I have myself never penetrated into its depths, I can of
course not pretend to describe them.  Numerous have been the individuals
who, instigated by curiosity, have ventured down to immense depths,
hoping to discover an end, and indeed scarcely a week passes without
similar attempts being made either by the officers or soldiers of the
garrison, all of which have proved perfectly abortive.  No termination
has ever been reached, nor any discoveries made to repay the labour and
frightful danger incurred; precipice succeeds precipice, and abyss
succeeds abyss, in apparently endless succession, with ledges at
intervals, which afford the adventurers opportunities for resting
themselves and affixing their rope-ladders for the purpose of descending
yet further.  What is, however, most mortifying and perplexing, is to
observe that these abysses are not only before, but behind you, and on
every side; indeed, close within the entrance of the cave, on the right,
there is a gulf almost equally dark and full as threatening as that which
exists at the nether end, and perhaps contains within itself as many
gulfs and horrid caverns branching off in all directions.  Indeed, from
what I have heard, I have come to the opinion that the whole hill of
Gibraltar is honeycombed, and I have little doubt that, were it cleft
asunder, its interior would be found full of such abysses of Erebus as
those to which Saint Michael’s cave conducts.  Many valuable lives are
lost every year in these horrible places; and only a few weeks before my
visit, two sergeants, brothers, had perished in the gulf on the right
hand side of the cave, having, when at a great depth, slipped down a
precipice.  The body of one of these adventurous men is even now rotting
in the bowels of the mountain, preyed upon by its blind and noisome
worms; that of his brother was extricated.  Immediately after this
horrible accident, a gate was placed before the mouth of the cave, to
prevent individuals, and especially the reckless soldiers, from indulging
in their extravagant curiosity.  The lock, however, was speedily forced,
and at the period of my arrival the gate swung idly upon its hinges.

As I left the place, I thought that perhaps similar to this was the cave
of Horeb, where dwelt Elijah, when he heard the still small voice, after
the great and strong wind which rent the mountains and brake in pieces
the rocks before the Lord; the cave to the entrance of which he went out
and stood with his face wrapped in his mantle, when he heard the voice
say unto him, “What doest thou here, Elijah?” {330}

And what am I doing here, I inquired of myself, as, vexed at my
detention, I descended into the town.

That afternoon I dined in the company of a young American, a native of
South Carolina.  I had frequently seen him before, as he had been staying
for some time at the inn previous to my arrival at Gibraltar.  His
appearance was remarkable: he was low of stature, and exceedingly
slightly made; his features were pale, but very well formed; he had a
magnificent head of crispy black hair, and as superb a pair of whiskers
of the same colour as I ever beheld.  He wore a white hat, with broad
brim and particularly shallow crown, and was dressed in a light yellow
gingham frock, striped with black, and ample trousers of calico.  In a
word, his appearance was altogether queer and singular.  On my return
from my ramble to the cave, I found that he had himself just descended
from the mountain, having since a very early hour been absent exploring
its wonders.

A man of the rock asked him how he liked the excavations.  “Liked them?”
said he; “you might just as well ask a person who has just seen the
Niagara Falls how he liked them—like is not the word, mister.”  The heat
was suffocating, as it almost invariably is in the town of Gibraltar,
where rarely a breath of air is to be felt, as it is sheltered from all
winds.  This led another individual to inquire of him whether he did not
think it exceedingly hot?  “Hot, sir?” he replied, “not at all; fine
cotton-gathering weather as a man could wish for.  We couldn’t beat it in
South Carolina, sir.”  “You live in South Carolina, sir—I hope, sir, you
are not a slave proprietor,” said the short, fat Jewish personage in the
snuff- coat, who had offered me the bitters on a previous
occasion; “it is a terrible thing to make slaves of poor people, simply
because they happen to be black; don’t you think so, sir?”  “Think so,
sir?—no, sir, I don’t think so—I glory in being a slave proprietor; have
four hundred black <DW65>s on my estate—own estate, sir, near
Charleston—flog half a dozen of them before breakfast, merely for
exercise.  <DW65>s only made to be flogged, sir; try to escape sometimes;
set the bloodhounds in their trail, catch them in a twinkling; used to
hang themselves formerly—the <DW65>s thought that a sure way to return to
their own country and get clear of me; soon put a stop to that; told them
that if any more hanged themselves I’d hang myself too, follow close
behind them, and flog them in their own country ten times worse than in
mine.  What do you think of that, friend?”  It was easy to perceive that
there was more of fun than malice in this eccentric little fellow, for
his large grey eyes were sparkling with good humour whilst he poured out
these wild things.  He was exceedingly free of his money; and a dirty
Irish woman, a soldier’s wife, having entered with a basketful of small
boxes and trinkets, made of portions of the rock of Gibraltar, he
purchased the greater part of her ware, giving her for every article the
price (by no means inconsiderable) which she demanded.  He had glanced at
me several times, and at last I saw him stoop down and whisper something
to the Jew, who replied in an undertone, though with considerable
earnestness, “Oh dear no, sir; perfectly mistaken, sir; is no American,
sir; from Salamanca, sir—the gentleman is a Salamancan Spaniard.”  The
waiter at length informed us that he had laid the table, and that perhaps
it would be agreeable to us to dine together: we instantly assented.  I
found my new acquaintance in many respects a most agreeable companion: he
soon told me his history.  He was a planter, and, from what he hinted,
just come to his property.  He was part owner of a large vessel which
traded between Charleston and Gibraltar, and the yellow fever having just
broken out at the former place, he had determined to take a trip (his
first) to Europe in this ship; having, as he said, already visited every
state in the Union, and seen all that was to be seen there.  He described
to me, in a very naïve and original manner, his sensations on passing by
Tarifa, which was the first walled town he had ever seen.  I related to
him the history of that place, to which he listened with great attention.
He made divers attempts to learn from me who I was, all of which I
evaded, though he seemed fully convinced that I was an American; and,
amongst other things, asked me whether my father had not been American
consul at Seville.  What, however, most perplexed him was my
understanding Moorish and Gaelic, which he had heard me speak
respectively to the _hamáles_ and the Irish woman, the latter of whom, as
he said, had told him that I was a fairy man.  At last he introduced the
subject of religion, and spoke with much contempt of revelation, avowing
himself a deist: he was evidently very anxious to hear my opinion, but
here again I evaded him, and contented myself with asking him whether he
had ever read the Bible.  He said he had not, but that he was well
acquainted with the writings of Volney and Mirabeau.  I made no answer,
whereupon he added, that it was by no means his habit to introduce such
subjects, and that there were very few persons to whom he would speak so
unreservedly, but that I had very much interested him, though our
acquaintance had been short.  I replied, that he would scarcely have
spoken at Boston in the manner that I had just heard him, and that it was
easy to perceive that he was not a New Englander.  “I assure you,” said
he, “I should as little have thought of speaking so at Charleston, for if
I held such conversation there, I should soon have had to speak to
myself.”

Had I known less of deists than it has been my fortune to know, I should
perhaps have endeavoured to convince this young man of the erroneousness
of the ideas which he had adopted; but I was aware of all that he would
have urged in reply, and, as the believer has no carnal arguments to
address to carnal reason upon this subject, I thought it best to avoid
disputation, which I felt sure would lead to no profitable result.  Faith
is the free gift of God, and I do not believe that ever yet was an
infidel converted by means of after-dinner polemics.  This was the last
evening of my sojourn in Gibraltar.




CHAPTER LIV.


Again on Board—The Strange Visage—The Haji—Setting Sail—The Two
Jews—American Vessel—Tangier—Adun Oulem—The Struggle—The Forbidden Thing.

On Thursday, the 8th of August, I was again on board the Genoese bark, at
as early an hour as on the previous morning.  After waiting, however, two
or three hours without any preparation being made for departing, I was
about to return to the shore once more, but the old Genoese mate advised
me to stay, assuring me that he had no doubt of our sailing speedily, as
all the cargo was on board, and we had nothing further to detain us.  I
was reposing myself in the little cabin, when I heard a boat strike
against the side of the vessel, and some people come on board.  Presently
a face peered in at the opening, strange and wild.  I was half asleep,
and at first imagined I was dreaming, for the face seemed more like that
of a goat or an ogre than of a human being; its long beard almost
touching my face as I lay extended in a kind of berth.  Starting up,
however, I recognized the singular-looking Jew whom I had seen in the
company of Judah Lib.  He recognized me also, and nodding, bent his huge
features into a smile.  I arose and went upon deck, where I found him in
company with another Jew, a young man in the dress of Barbary.  They had
just arrived in the boat.  I asked my friend of the beard who he was,
from whence he came, and where he was going?  He answered, in broken
Portuguese, that he was returning from Lisbon, where he had been on
business, to Mogadore, of which place he was a native.  He then looked me
in the face and smiled, and taking out a book from his pocket, in Hebrew
characters, fell to reading it; whereupon a Spanish sailor on board
observed that with such a beard and book he must needs be a _sabio_, or
sage.  His companion was from Mequinez, and spoke only Arabic.

A large boat now drew nigh, the stern of which was filled with Moors;
there might be about twelve, and the greater part evidently consisted of
persons of distinction, as they were dressed in all the pomp and
gallantry of the East, with snow-white turbans, _jabadores_ of green silk
or scarlet cloth, and _bedeyas_ rich with gold galloon.  Some of them
were exceedingly fine men, and two amongst them, youths, were strikingly
handsome, and, so far from exhibiting the dark swarthy countenance of
Moors in general, their complexions were of a delicate red and white.
The principal personage, and to whom all the rest paid much deference,
was a tall athletic man of about forty.  He wore a vest of white quilted
cotton, and white _kandrisa_, whilst gracefully wound round his body, and
swathing the upper part of his head, was the _haik_, or white flannel
wrapping plaid, always held in so much estimation by the Moors from the
earliest period of their history.  His legs were bare, and his feet only
protected from the ground by yellow slippers.  He displayed no further
ornament than one large gold earring, from which depended a pearl,
evidently of great price.  A noble black beard, about a foot in length,
touched his muscular breast.  His features were good, with the exception
of the eyes, which were somewhat small; their expression, however, was
evil; their glances were sullen; and malignity and ill-nature were
painted in every lineament of his countenance, which seemed never to have
been brightened with a smile.  The Spanish sailor, of whom I have already
had occasion to speak, informed me in a whisper, that he was a
_santurron_, {337} or big saint, and was so far back on his way from
Mecca, adding, that he was a merchant of immense wealth.  It soon
appeared that the other Moors had merely attended him on board through
friendly politeness, as they all successively came to bid him adieu, with
the exception of two blacks, who were his attendants.  I observed that
these blacks, when the Moors presented them their hands at departing,
invariably made an effort to press them to their lips, which effort was
as uniformly foiled, the Moors in every instance, by a speedy and
graceful movement, drawing back their hand locked in that of the black,
which they pressed against their own heart; as much as to say, “though a
<DW64> and a slave you are a Moslem, and being so, you are our
brother—Allah knows no distinctions.”  The boatman now went up to the
_haji_, demanding payment, stating, at the same time, that he had been on
board three times on his account, conveying his luggage.  The sum which
he demanded appeared exorbitant to the _haji_, who, forgetting that he
was a saint, and fresh from Mecca, fumed outrageously, and in broken
Spanish called the boatman thief.  If there be any term of reproach which
stings a Spaniard (and such was the boatman) more than another, it is
that one; and the fellow no sooner heard it applied to himself, than,
with eyes sparkling with fury, he put his fist to the _haji’s_ nose, and
repaid the one opprobrious name by at least ten others equally bad or
worse.  He would perhaps have proceeded to acts of violence had he not
been pulled away by the other Moors, who led him aside, and I suppose
either said or gave him something which pacified him, as he soon got into
his boat, and returned with them on shore.  The captain now arrived with
his Jewish secretary, and orders were given for setting sail.

At a little past twelve we were steering out of the bay of Gibraltar.
The wind was in the right quarter, but for some time we did not make much
progress, lying almost becalmed beneath the lee of the hill; by degrees,
however, our progress became brisker, and in about an hour we found
ourselves careering smartly towards Tarifa.

The Jew secretary stood at the helm, and indeed appeared to be the person
who commanded the vessel, and who issued out all the necessary orders,
which were executed under the superintendence of the old Genoese mate.  I
now put some questions to the _haji_, but he looked at me askance with
his sullen eye, pouted with his lip, and remained silent; as much as to
say, “Speak not to me, I am holier than thou.”  I found his <DW64>s,
however, far more conversable.  One of them was old and ugly, the other
about twenty, and as well-looking as it is possible for a <DW64> to be.
His colour was perfect ebony, his features exceedingly well-formed and
delicate, with the exception of the lips, which were too full.  The shape
of his eyes was peculiar; they were rather oblong than round, like those
of an Egyptian figure.  Their expression was thoughtful and meditative.
In every respect he differed from his companion, even in colour (though
both were <DW64>s), and was evidently a scion of some little-known and
superior race.  As he sat beneath the mast gazing at the sea, I thought
he was misplaced, and that he would have appeared to more advantage
amidst boundless sands, and beneath a date-tree, and then he might have
well represented a _Jin_.  I asked him from whence he came; he replied
that he was a native of Fez, but that he had never known his parents.  He
had been brought up, he added, in the family of his present master, whom
he had followed in the greater part of his travels, and with whom he had
thrice visited Mecca.  I asked him if he liked being a slave?  Whereupon
he replied, that he was a slave no longer, having been made free for some
time past, on account of his faithful services, as had likewise his
companion.  He would have told me much more, but the _haji_ called him
away, and otherwise employed him, probably to prevent his being
contaminated by me.

Thus, avoided by the Moslems, I betook myself to the Jews, whom I found
nowise backward in cultivating an intimacy.  The sage of the beard told
me his history, which in some respects reminded me of that of Judah Lib,
as it seemed that, a year or two previous, he had quitted Mogadore in
pursuit of his son, who had betaken himself to Portugal.  On the arrival,
however, of the father at Lisbon, he discovered that the fugitive had, a
few days before, shipped himself for the Brazils.  Unlike Judah in quest
of his father, he now became weary, and discontinued the pursuit.  The
younger Jew from Mequinez was exceedingly gay and lively as soon as he
perceived that I was capable of understanding him, and made me smile by
his humorous account of Christian life, as he had observed it at
Gibraltar, where he had made a stay of about a month.  He then spoke of
Mequinez, which, he said, was a _Jennut_, or Paradise, compared with
which Gibraltar was a sty of hogs.  So great, so universal is the love of
country.  I soon saw that both these people believed me to be of their
own nation: indeed, the young one, who was much the most familiar, taxed
me with being so, and spoke of the infamy of denying my own blood.
Shortly before our arrival off Tarifa, universal hunger seemed to prevail
amongst us.  The _haji_ and his <DW64>s produced their store, and feasted
on roast fowls, the Jews ate grapes and bread, myself bread and cheese,
whilst the crew prepared a mess of anchovies.  Two of them speedily came
with a large portion, which they presented to me with the kindness of
brothers: I made no hesitation in accepting their present, and found the
anchovies delicious.  As I sat between the Jews, I offered them some, but
they turned away their heads with disgust, and cried, _Haloof_.  They at
the same time, however, shook me by the hand, and, uninvited, took a
small portion of my bread.  I had a bottle of Cognac, which I had brought
with me as a preventive to sea-sickness, and I presented it to them; but
this they also refused, exclaiming, _Harám_.  I said nothing.

We were now close to the lighthouse of Tarifa, and turning the head of
the bark towards the west, we made directly for the coast of Africa.  The
wind was now blowing very fresh, and as we had it almost in our poop, we
sprang along at a tremendous rate, the huge latine sails threatening
every moment to drive us beneath the billows, which an adverse tide
raised up against us.  Whilst scudding along in this manner, we passed
close under the stern of a large vessel bearing American colours; she was
tacking up the straits, and slowly winning her way against the impetuous
Levanter.  As we passed under her, I observed the poop crowded with
people gazing at us; indeed, we must have offered a singular spectacle to
those on board, who, like my young American friend at Gibraltar, were
visiting the Old World for the first time.  At the helm stood the Jew;
his whole figure enveloped in a gabardine, the cowl of which, raised
above his head, gave him almost the appearance of a spectre in its
shroud; whilst upon the deck, mixed with Europeans in various kinds of
dresses, all of them picturesque with the exception of my own, trod the
turbaned Moors, the _haik_ of the _haji_ flapping loosely in the wind.
The view they obtained of us, however, could have been but momentary, as
we bounded past them literally with the speed of a racehorse, so that in
about an hour’s time we were not more than a mile’s distance from the
foreland on which stands the fortress Alminàr, and which constitutes the
boundary point of the bay of Tangier towards the east.  There the wind
dropped and our progress was again slow.

For a considerable time Tangier had appeared in sight.  Shortly after
standing away from Tarifa, we had descried it in the far distance, when
it showed like a white dove brooding on its nest.  The sun was setting
behind the town when we dropped anchor in its harbour, amidst half a
dozen barks and felouks about the size of our own, the only vessels which
we saw.  There stood Tangier before us, and a picturesque town it was,
occupying the sides and top of two hills, one of which, bold and bluff,
projects into the sea where the coast takes a sudden and abrupt turn.
Frowning and battlemented were its walls, either perched on the top of
precipitous rocks, whose base was washed by the salt billows, or rising
from the narrow strand which separates the hill from the ocean.

Yonder are two or three tiers of batteries, displaying heavy guns, which
command the harbour; above them you see the terraces of the town rising
in succession like steps for giants.  But all is white, perfectly white,
so that the whole seems cut out of an immense chalk rock, though true it
is that you behold here and there tall green trees springing up from
amidst the whiteness: perhaps they belong to Moorish gardens, and beneath
them even now peradventure is reclining many a dark-eyed Leila, akin to
the _houris_.  Right before you is a high tower, or minaret, not white
but curiously painted, which belongs to the principal mosque of Tangier;
a black banner waves upon it, for it is the feast of Ashor.  A noble
beach of white sand fringes the bay from the town to the foreland of
Alminàr.  To the east rise prodigious hills and mountains: they are Gibil
Muza and his chain; and yon tall fellow is the peak of Tetuan; the grey
mists of evening are enveloping their sides.  Such was Tangier, such its
vicinity, as it appeared to me whilst gazing from the Genoese bark.

A boat was now lowered from the vessel, in which the captain, who was
charged with the mail from Gibraltar, the Jew secretary, and the _haji_
and his attendant <DW64>s departed for the shore.  I would have gone with
them, but I was told that I could not land that night, as ere my passport
and bill of health could be examined, the gates would be closed; so I
remained on board with the crew and the two Jews.  The former prepared
their supper, which consisted simply of pickled _tomates_, {343a} the
other provisions having been consumed.  The old Genoese brought me a
portion, apologizing at the same time for the plainness of the fare.  I
accepted it with thanks, and told him that a million better men than
myself had a worse supper.  I never ate with more appetite.  As the night
advanced, the Jews sang Hebrew hymns, and when they had concluded,
demanded of me why I was silent, so I lifted up my voice and chanted
_Adun Oulem_. {343b}

Darkness had now fallen over land and sea: not a sound was heard save
occasionally the distant barking of a dog from the shore, or some
plaintive Genoese ditty, which arose from a neighbouring bark.  The town
seemed buried in silence and gloom, no light, not even that of a taper,
could be descried.  Turning our eyes in the direction of Spain, however,
we perceived a magnificent conflagration, seemingly enveloping the side
and head of one of the lofty mountains northward of Tarifa.  The blaze
was redly reflected in the waters of the strait; either the brushwood was
burning or the _carboneros_ were plying their dusky toil.  The Jews now
complained of weariness, and the younger, uncording a small mattress,
spread it on the deck and sought repose.  The sage descended into the
cabin, but he had scarcely time to lie down ere the old mate, darting
forward, dived in after him, and pulled him out by the heels, for it was
very shallow, and the descent was effected by not more than two or three
steps.  After accomplishing this, he called him many opprobrious names,
and threatened him with his foot, as he lay sprawling on the deck.
“Think you,” said he, “who are a dog and a Jew, and pay as a dog and a
Jew; think you to sleep in the cabin?  Undeceive yourself, beast: that
cabin shall be slept in by none to-night but this Christian _caballero_.”
The sage made no reply, but arose from the deck and stroked his beard,
whilst the old Genoese proceeded in his Philippic.  Had the Jew been
disposed, he could have strangled the insulter in a moment, or crushed
him to death in his brawny arms, as I never remember to have seen a
figure so powerful and muscular; but he was evidently slow to anger, and
long-suffering.  Not a resentful word escaped him, and his features
retained their usual expression of benignant placidity.

I now assured the mate that I had not the slightest objection to the
Jew’s sharing the cabin with me, but rather wished it, as there was room
for us both and for more.  “Excuse me, Sir Cavalier,” replied the
Genoese, “but I swear to permit no such thing; you are young, and do not
know this _canaille_ as I do, who have been backward and forward to this
coast for twenty years.  If the beast is cold, let him sleep below the
hatches as I and the rest shall, but that cabin he shall not enter.”
Observing that he was obstinate, I retired, and in a few minutes was in a
sound sleep, which lasted till daybreak.  Twice or thrice, indeed, I
thought that a struggle was taking place near me; but I was so
overpowered with weariness, or “sleep drunken,” as the Germans call it,
that I was unable to arouse myself sufficiently to discover what was
going on.  The truth is, that three times during the night, the sage,
feeling himself uncomfortable in the open air by the side of his
companion, penetrated into the cabin, and was as many times dragged out
by his relentless old enemy, who, suspecting his intentions, kept his eye
upon him throughout the night.

About five I arose: the sun was shining brightly and gloriously upon
town, bay, and mountain; the crew were already employed upon deck
repairing a sail which had been shivered in the wind of the preceding
day.  The Jews sat disconsolate on the poop; they complained much of the
cold they had suffered in their exposed situation.  Over the left eye of
the sage I observed a bloody cut, which he informed me he had received
from the old Genoese after he had dragged him out of the cabin for the
last time.  I now produced my bottle of Cognac, begging that the crew
would partake of it as a slight return for their hospitality.  They
thanked me, and the bottle went its round; it was last in the hands of
the old mate, who, after looking for a moment at the sage, raised it to
his mouth, where he kept it a considerable time longer than any of his
companions, after which he returned it to me with a low bow.  The sage
now inquired what the bottle contained.  I told him Cognac, or
_aguardiente_, whereupon with some eagerness he begged that I would allow
him to take a draught.  “How is this?” said I; “yesterday you told me
that it was a forbidden thing, an abomination.”  “Yesterday,” said he, “I
was not aware that it was brandy; I thought it was wine, which assuredly
is an abomination, and a forbidden thing.”  “Is it forbidden in the
_Torah_?” I inquired.  “Is it forbidden in the law of God?”  “I know
not,” said he; “but one thing I know, that the sages have forbidden it.”
“Sages like yourself,” cried I with warmth; “sages like yourself, with
long beards and short understandings; the use of both drinks is
permitted, but more danger lurks in this bottle than in a tun of wine.
Well said my Lord the Nazarene, ‘ye strain at a gnat, and swallow a
camel;’ but as you are cold and shivering, take the bottle and revive
yourself with a small portion of its contents.”  He put it to his lips
and found not a single drop.  The old Genoese grinned.

“_Bestia_,” said he, “I saw by your looks that you wished to drink of
that bottle, and I said within me, even though I suffocate, yet will I
not leave one drop of the _aguardiente_ of the Christian Cavalier to be
wasted on that Jew, on whose head may evil lightnings fall.”

“Now, Sir Cavalier,” he continued, “you can go ashore: these two sailors
shall row you to the Mole, and convey your baggage where you think
proper; may the Virgin bless you wherever you go.”




CHAPTER LV.


The Mole—The Two Moors—Djmah of Tangier—House of God—British
Consul—Curious Spectacle—The Moorish House—Joanna Correa—Ave Maria.

So we rowed to the Mole, and landed.  This Mole consists at present of
nothing more than an immense number of large loose stones, which run
about five hundred yards into the bay; they are part of the ruins of a
magnificent pier which the English, who were the last foreign nation
which held Tangier, destroyed when they evacuated the place. {348}  The
Moors have never attempted to repair it: the surf at high water breaks
over it with great fury.  I found it a difficult task to pick my way over
the slippery stones, and should once or twice have fallen but for the
kindness of the Genoese mariners.  At last we reached the beach, and were
proceeding towards the gate of the town, when two persons, Moors, came up
to us.  I almost started at sight of the first: he was a huge old
barbarian with a white uncombed beard, dirty turban, _haik_, and
trousers, naked legs, and immense splay feet, the heels of which stood
out a couple of inches at least behind his rusty black slippers.

“That is the captain of the port,” said one of the Genoese; “pay him
respect.”  I accordingly doffed my hat and cried, “_Sba alkheir a sidi_.”
{349}  “Are you Englishmans?” shouted the old grisly giant.
“Englishmans, my lord,” I replied, and, advancing, presented him my hand,
which he nearly wrung off with his tremendous gripe.  The other Moor now
addressed me in a jargon composed of English, Spanish, and Arabic.  A
queer-looking personage was he also, but very different in most respects
from his companion, being shorter by a head at least, and less complete
by one eye, for the left orb of vision was closed, leaving him, as the
Spaniards style it, _tuerto_; he, however, far outshone the other in
cleanliness of turban, _haik_, and trousers.  From what he jabbered to
me, I collected that he was the English consul’s _mahasni_, or soldier;
that the consul, being aware of my arrival, had despatched him to conduct
me to his house.  He then motioned me to follow him, which I did, the old
port-captain attending us to the gate, when he turned aside into a
building, which I judged to be a kind of custom-house from the bales and
boxes of every description piled up before it.  We passed the gate and
proceeded up a steep and winding ascent.  On our left was a battery full
of guns, pointing to the sea, and on our right a massive wall, seemingly
in part cut out of the hill: a little higher up we arrived at an opening
where stood the mosque which I have already mentioned.  As I gazed upon
the tower I said to myself, “Surely we have here a younger sister of the
Giralda of Seville.”

I know not whether the resemblance between the two edifices has been
observed by any other individual; and perhaps there are those who would
assert that no resemblance exists, especially if, in forming an opinion,
they were much swayed by size and colour: the hue of the Giralda is red,
or rather vermilion, whilst that which predominates in the Djmah of
Tangier is green, the bricks of which it is built being of that colour;
though between them, at certain intervals, are placed others of a light
red tinge, so that the tower is beautifully variegated.  With respect to
size, standing beside the giant witch of Seville, the Tangerine Djmah
would show like a ten-year sapling in the vicinity of the cedar of
Lebanon, whose trunk the tempests of five hundred years have worn.  And
yet I will assert that the towers in other respects are one and the same,
and that the same mind and the same design are manifested in both; the
same shape do they exhibit, and the same marks have they on their walls,
even those mysterious arches graven on the superfice of the bricks,
emblematic of I know not what.  The two structures may, without any
violence, be said to stand in the same relation to each other as the
ancient and modern Moors.  The Giralda is the world’s wonder, and the old
Moor was all but the world’s conqueror.  The modern Moor is scarcely
known, and who ever heard of the tower of Tangier?  Yet examine it
attentively, and you will find in that tower much, very much, to admire,
and certainly, if opportunity enable you to consider the modern Moor
minutely, you will discover in him, and in his actions, amongst much that
is wild, uncouth, and barbarous, not a little capable of amply rewarding
laborious investigation.

As we passed the mosque I stopped for a moment before the door, and
looked in upon the interior: I saw nothing but a quadrangular court paved
with painted tiles and exposed to the sky; on all sides were arched
_piazzas_, and in the middle was a fountain, at which several Moors were
performing their ablutions.  I looked around for the abominable thing and
found it not; the besetting sin of the pseudo-Christian Church did not
stare me in the face in every corner.  “Come here,” said I, “<DW7>, and
take a lesson; here is a house of God, in externals at least, such as a
house of God should be: four walls, a fountain, and the eternal firmament
above, which mirrors His glory.  Dost thou build such houses to the God
who has said, ‘Thou shalt make to thyself no graven image’?  Fool, thy
walls are stuck with idols; thou callest a stone thy Father, and a piece
of rotting wood the Queen of Heaven.  Fool, thou knowest not even the
Ancient of Days, and the very Moor can instruct thee.  He at least knows
the Ancient of Days who has said, ‘Thou shalt have no other gods but
me.’”

And as I said these words I heard a cry like the roaring of a lion, and
an awful voice in the distance exclaim, “_Kapul Udbagh_.” {351}

We now turned to the left through a passage which passed under the tower,
and had scarcely proceeded a few steps, when I heard a prodigious hubbub
of infantine voices: I listened for a moment, and distinguished verses of
the Koran; it was a school.  Another lesson for thee, <DW7>.  Thou
callest thyself a Christian, yet the book of Christ thou persecutest;
thou huntest it even to the seashore, compelling it to seek refuge upon
the billows of the sea.  Fool, learn a lesson from the Moor, who teaches
his child to repeat with its first accents the most important portions of
the book of his law, and considers himself wise or foolish, according as
he is versed in or ignorant of that book; whilst thou, blind slave,
knowest not what the book of thy own law contains, nor wishest to know:
yet art thou not to be judged by thy own law?  Idol-monger, learn
consistency from the Moor: he says that he shall be judged after his own
law, and therefore he prizes and gets by heart the entire book of his
law.

We were now at the consul’s house, a large roomy habitation, built in the
English style.  The soldier led me through a court into a large hall hung
with the skins of all kinds of ferocious animals, from the kingly lion to
the snarling jackal.  Here I was received by a Jew domestic, who
conducted me at once to the consul, who was in his library.  He received
me with the utmost frankness and genuine kindness, and informed me that,
having received a letter from his excellent friend Mr. B---, in which I
was strongly recommended, he had already engaged me a lodging in the
house of a Spanish woman, who was, however, a British subject, and with
whom he believed that I should find myself as comfortable as it was
possible to be in such a place as Tangier.  He then inquired if I had any
particular motive for visiting the place, and I informed him without
hesitation that I came with the intention of distributing a certain
number of copies of the New Testament in the Spanish language amongst the
Christian residents of the place.  He smiled, and advised me to proceed
with considerable caution, which I promised to do.  We then discoursed on
other subjects, and it was not long before I perceived that I was in the
company of a most accomplished scholar, especially in the Greek and Latin
classics; he appeared likewise to be thoroughly acquainted with the
Barbary empire and with the Moorish character.

After half an hour’s conversation, exceedingly agreeable and instructive
to myself, I expressed a wish to proceed to my lodging; whereupon he rang
the bell, and, the same Jewish domestic entering who had introduced me,
he said to him in the English language, “Take this gentleman to the house
of Joanna Correa, the Mahonese widow, and enjoin her, in my name, to take
care of him and attend to his comforts; by doing which she will confirm
me in the good opinion which I at present entertain of her, and will
increase my disposition to befriend her.”

So, attended by the Jew, I now bent my steps to the lodging prepared for
me.  Having ascended the street in which the house of the consul was
situated, we entered a small square which stands about half way up the
hill.  This, my companion informed me, was the _soc_, or market-place.  A
curious spectacle here presented itself.  All round the square were small
wooden booths, which very much resembled large boxes turned on their
sides, the lid being supported above by a string.  Before each of these
boxes was a species of counter, or rather one long counter ran in front
of the whole line, upon which were raisins, dates, and small barrels of
sugar, soap, and butter, and various other articles.  Within each box, in
front of the counter, and about three feet from the ground, sat a human
being, with a blanket on its shoulders, a dirty turban on its head, and
ragged trousers, which descended as far as the knee, though in some
instances, I believe, these were entirely dispensed with.  In its hand it
held a stick, to the end of which was affixed a bunch of palm leaves,
which it waved incessantly as a fan, for the purpose of scaring from its
goods the million flies which, engendered by the Barbary sun, endeavoured
to settle upon them.  Behind it, and on either side, were piles of the
same kind of goods.  _Shrit hinai_, _shrit hinai_, {354} was continually
proceeding from its mouth.  Such are the grocers of Tangier, such their
shops.

In the middle of the _soc_, upon the stones, were pyramids of melons and
_sandias_, and also baskets filled with other kinds of fruit, exposed for
sale, whilst round cakes of bread were lying here and there upon the
stones, beside which sat on their hams the wildest-looking beings that
the most extravagant imagination ever conceived, the head covered with an
enormous straw hat, at least two yards in circumference, the eaves of
which, flapping down, completely concealed the face, whilst the form was
swathed in a blanket, from which occasionally were thrust skinny arms and
fingers.  These were Moorish women, who were, I believe, in all
instances, old and ugly, judging from the countenances of which I caught
a glimpse as they lifted the eaves of their hats to gaze on me as I
passed, or to curse me for stamping on their bread.  The whole _soc_ was
full of people, and there was abundance of bustle, screaming, and
vociferation, and as the sun, though the hour was still early, was
shining with the greatest brilliancy, I thought that I had scarcely ever
witnessed a livelier scene.

Crossing the _soc_, we entered a narrow street with the same kind of
box-shops on each side, some of which, however, were either unoccupied or
not yet opened, the lid being closed.  We almost immediately turned to
the left, up a street somewhat similar, and my guide presently entered
the door of a low house which stood at the corner of a little alley, and
which he informed me was the abode of Joanna Correa.  We soon stood in
the midst of this habitation.  I say the midst, as all the Moorish houses
are built with a small court in the middle.  This one was not more than
ten feet square.  It was open at the top, and around it on three sides
were apartments: on the fourth a small staircase, which communicated with
the upper story, half of which consisted of a terrace looking down into
the court, over the low walls of which you enjoyed a prospect of the sea
and a considerable part of the town.  The rest of the story was taken up
by a long room, destined for myself, and which opened upon the terrace by
a pair of folding-doors.  At either end of this apartment stood a bed,
extending transversely from wall to wall, the canopy touching the
ceiling.  A table and two or three chairs completed the furniture.

I was so occupied in inspecting the house of Joanna Correa, that at first
I paid little attention to that lady herself.  She now, however, came up
upon the terrace where my guide and myself were standing.  She was a
woman about five and forty, with regular features, which had once been
handsome, but had received considerable injury from time, and perhaps
more from trouble.  Two of her front teeth had disappeared, but she still
had fine black hair.  As I looked upon her countenance, I said within
myself, if there be truth in physiognomy, thou art good and gentle, O
Joanna; and, indeed, the kindness I experienced from her during the six
weeks which I spent beneath her roof would have made me a convert to that
science had I doubted in it before.  I believe no warmer and more
affectionate heart ever beat in human bosom than in that of Joanna
Correa, the Mahonese widow, and it was indexed by features beaming with
benevolence and good nature, though somewhat clouded with melancholy.

She informed me that she had been married to a Genoese, the master of a
felouk which passed between Gibraltar and Tangier, who had been dead
about four years, leaving her with a family of four children, the eldest
of which was a lad of thirteen; that she had experienced great difficulty
in providing for her family and herself since the death of her husband,
but that Providence had raised her up a few excellent friends, especially
the British consul; that besides letting lodgings to such travellers as
myself, she made bread which was in high esteem with the Moors, and that
she was likewise in partnership in the sale of liquors with an old
Genoese.  She added that this last person lived below in one of the
apartments; that he was a man of great ability and much learning, but
that she believed he was occasionally somewhat touched here, pointing
with her finger to her forehead, and she therefore hoped that I would not
be offended at anything extraordinary in his language or behaviour.  She
then left me, as she said, to give orders for my breakfast; whereupon the
Jewish domestic, who had accompanied me from the consul, finding that I
was established in the house, departed.

I speedily sat down to breakfast in an apartment on the left side of the
little _wustuddur_; the fare was excellent: tea, fried fish, eggs, and
grapes, not forgetting the celebrated bread of Joanna Correa.  I was
waited upon by a tall Jewish youth of about twenty years, who informed me
that his name was Hayim Ben Attar, {357a} that he was a native of Fez,
from whence his parents brought him at a very early age to Tangier, where
he had passed the greater part of his life principally in the service of
Joanna Correa, waiting upon those who, like myself, lodged in the house.
I had completed my meal, and was seated in the little court, when I heard
in the apartment opposite to that in which I had breakfasted several
sighs, which were succeeded by as many groans, and then came _Ave Maria_,
_gratiâ plena_, _ora pro me_, {357b} and finally a croaking voice
chanted—

    “Gentem auferte perfidam
    Credentium de finibus,
    Ut Christo laudes debitas
    Persolvamus alacriter.” {357c}

“That is the old Genoese,” whispered Hayim Ben Attar, “praying to his
God, which he always does with particular devotion when he happens to
have gone to bed the preceding evening rather in liquor.  He has in his
room a picture of _Maria Buckra_, before which he generally burns a
taper, and on her account he will never permit me to enter his apartment.
He once caught me looking at her, and I thought he would have killed me;
and since then he always keeps his chamber locked, and carries the key in
his pocket when he goes out.  He hates both Jew and Moor, and says that
he is now living amongst them for his sins.”

“They do not place tapers before pictures,” said I, and strolled forth to
see the wonders of the land.




CHAPTER LVI.


The Mahasni—Sin Samani—The Bazaar—Moorish Saints—See the Ayana!—The
Prickly Fig—Jewish Graves—The Place of Carcases—The Stable Boy—Horses of
the Moslem—Dar-dwag.

I was standing in the market-place, a spectator of much the same scene as
I have already described, when a Moor came up to me and attempted to
utter a few words in Spanish.  He was a tall elderly man, with sharp but
rather whimsical features, and might have been called good looking, had
he not been one-eyed, a very common deformity in this country. {359}  His
body was swathed in an immense _haik_.  Finding that I could understand
Moorish, he instantly began talking with immense volubility, and I soon
learnt that he was a _mahasni_.  He expatiated diffusely on the beauties
of Tangier, of which he said he was a native, and at last exclaimed,
“Come, my sultan, come, my lord, and I will show you many things which
will gladden your eyes, and fill your heart with sunshine; it were a
shame in me, who have the advantage of being a son of Tangier, to permit
a stranger, who comes from an island in the great sea, as you tell me you
do, for the purpose of seeing this blessed land, to stand here in the
_soc_ with no one to guide him.  By Allah, it shall not be so.  Make room
for my sultan, make room for my lord,” he continued, pushing his way
through a crowd of men and children who had gathered round us; “it is his
highness’ pleasure to go with me.  This way, my lord, this way;” and he
led the way up the hill, walking at a tremendous rate, and talking still
faster.  “This street,” said he, “is the Siarrin, and its like is not to
be found in Tangier; observe how broad it is, even half the breadth of
the _soc_ itself; here are the shops of the most considerable merchants,
where are sold precious articles of all kinds.  Observe those two men,
they are Algerines and good Moslems; they fled from Zair {360} when the
Nazarenes conquered it, not by force of fighting, not by valour, as you
may well suppose, but by gold; the Nazarenes only conquer by gold.  The
Moor is good, the Moor is strong, who so good and strong? but he fights
not with gold, and therefore he lost Zair.

“Observe you those men seated on the benches by those portals; they are
_mokhasniah_, they are my brethren.  See their _haiks_ how white, see
their turbans how white.  Oh that you could see their swords in the day
of war, for bright, bright are their swords!  Now they bear no swords.
Wherefore should they? is there not peace in the land?  See you him in
the shop opposite?  That is the Pasha of Tangier, that is the Hamed Sin
Samani, the under Pasha of Tangier; the elder Pasha, my lord, is away on
a journey; may Allah send him a safe return.  Yes, that is Hamed; he sits
in his _hanutz_ as were he nought more than a merchant, yet life and
death are in his hands.  There he dispenses justice, even as he dispenses
the essence of the rose and cochineal, and powder of cannon and sulphur;
and these two last he sells on the account of Abderrahman, my lord and
sultan, for none can sell powder and the sulphur dust in his land but the
sultan.  Should you wish to purchase _attar del nuar_, {361} should you
wish to purchase the essence of the rose, you must go to the _hanutz_ of
Sin Samani, for there only you will get it pure: you must receive it from
no common Moor, but only from Hamed.  May Allah bless Hamed.  The
_makhasniah_, my brethren, wait to do his orders, for wherever sits the
Pasha, there is a hall of judgment.  See, now we are opposite the bazaar;
beneath yon gate is the court of the bazaar; what will you not find in
that bazaar?  Silks from Fez you will find there: and if you wish for
_sibat_, if you wish for slippers for your feet, you must seek them
there, and there also are sold curious things from the towns of the
Nazarenes.  Those large houses on our left are habitations of Nazarene
consuls; you have seen many such in your own land, therefore why should
you stay to look at them?  Do you not admire this street of the Siarrin?
Whatever enters or goes out of Tangier by the land passes through this
street.  Oh, the riches that pass through this street!  Behold those
camels, what a long train; twenty, thirty, a whole _cafila_ descending
the street.  _Wullah_!  I know those camels, I know the driver.  Good
day, O Sidi Hassim, in how many days from Fez?  And now we are arrived at
the wall, and we must pass under this gate.  This gate is called Bab del
Faz; we are now in the Soc de Barra.”

The Soc de Barra is an open place beyond the upper wall of Tangier, on
the side of the hill.  The ground is irregular and steep; there are,
however, some tolerably level spots.  In this place, every Thursday {362}
and Sunday morning, a species of mart is held, on which account it is
called Soc de Barra, or the outward market-place.  Here and there, near
the town ditch, are subterranean pits, with small orifices, about the
circumference of a chimney, which are generally covered with a large
stone, or stuffed with straw.  These pits are granaries, in which wheat,
barley, and other species of grain intended for sale are stored.  On one
side are two or three rude huts, or rather sheds, beneath which keep
watch the guardians of the corn.  It is very dangerous to pass over this
hill at night, after the town gates are closed, as at that time numerous
large and ferocious dogs are let loose, who would to a certainty pull
down, and perhaps destroy, any stranger who should draw nigh.  Halfway up
the hill are seen four white walls, inclosing a spot about ten feet
square, where rest the bones of Sidi Mokhfidh, a saint of celebrity, who
died some fifteen years ago.  Here terminates the _soc_; the remainder of
the hill is called El Kawar, or the place of graves, being the common
burying-ground of Tangier; the resting-places of the dead are severally
distinguished by a few stones arranged so as to form an oblong circle.
Near Mokhfidh sleeps Sidi Gali; but the principal saint of Tangier lies
interred on the top of the hill, in the centre of a small plain.  A
beautiful chapel or mosque, with vaulted roof, is erected there in his
honour, which is in general adorned with banners of various dyes.  The
name of this saint is Mohammed _el Haji_, and his memory is held in the
utmost veneration in Tangier and its vicinity.  His death occurred at the
commencement of the present century.

These details I either gathered at the time or on subsequent occasions.
On the north side of the _soc_, close by the town, is a wall with a gate.
“Come,” said the old _mahasni_, giving a flourish with his hand; “come,
and I will show you the garden of a Nazarene consul.”  I followed him
through the gate, and found myself in a spacious garden laid out in the
European taste, and planted with lemon and pear trees, and various kinds
of aromatic shrubs.  It was, however, evident that the owner chiefly
prided himself on his flowers, of which there were numerous beds.  There
was a handsome summer-house, and art seemed to have exhausted itself in
making the place complete.

One thing was wanting, and its absence was strangely remarkable in a
garden at this time of the year; scarcely a leaf was to be seen.  The
direst of all the plagues which devastated Egypt was now busy in this
part of Africa—the locust was at work, and in no place more fiercely than
in the particular spot where I was now standing.  All around looked
blasted.  The trees were brown and bald as in winter.  Nothing green save
the fruits, especially the grapes, huge clusters of which were depending
from the _parras_; for the locust touches not the fruit whilst a single
leaf remains to be devoured.  As we passed along the walks, these
horrible insects flew against us in every direction, and perished by
hundreds beneath our feet.  “See the _ayanas_,” said the old _mahasni_,
“and hear them eating.  Powerful is the _ayana_, more powerful than the
sultan or the consul.  Should the sultan send all his _makhasniah_
against the _ayana_, should he send me with them, the _ayana_ would say,
‘Ha! ha!’  Powerful is the _ayana_!  He fears not the consul.  A few
weeks ago the consul said, ‘I am stronger than the _ayana_, and I will
extirpate him from the land.’  So he shouted through the city, ‘O
Tangerines! speed forth to fight the _ayana_,—destroy him in the egg; for
know that whosoever shall bring me one pound weight of the eggs of the
_ayana_, unto him will I give five _reals_ of Spain; there shall be no
_ayanas_ this year.’  So all Tangier rushed forth to fight the _ayana_,
and to collect the eggs which the _ayana_ had laid to hatch beneath the
sand on the sides of the hills, and in the roads, and in the plains.  And
my own child, who is seven years old, went forth to fight the _ayana_,
and he alone collected eggs to the weight of five pounds, eggs which the
_ayana_ had placed beneath the sand, and he carried them to the consul,
and the consul paid the price.  And hundreds carried eggs to the consul,
more or less, and the consul paid them the price, and in less than three
days the treasure chest of the consul was exhausted.  And then he cried,
‘Desist, O Tangerines! perhaps we have destroyed the _ayana_, perhaps we
have destroyed them all!’  Ha! ha!  Look around you, and beneath you, and
above you, and tell me whether the consul has destroyed the _ayana_.  Oh,
powerful is the _ayana_!  More powerful than the consul, more powerful
than the sultan and all his armies.” {364}

It will be as well to observe here, that within a week from this time all
the locusts had disappeared, no one knew how—only a few stragglers
remained.  But for this providential deliverance, the fields and gardens
in the vicinity of Tangier would have been totally devastated.  These
insects were of an immense size, and of a loathly appearance.

We now passed over the _soc_ to the opposite side, where stand the huts
of the guardians.  Here a species of lane presents itself, which descends
to the seashore; it is deep and precipitous, and resembles a gully or
ravine.  The banks on either side are covered with the tree which bears
the prickly fig, called in Moorish, _Kermous del Inde_. {365}  There is
something wild and grotesque in the appearance of this tree or plant, for
I know not which to call it.  Its stem, though frequently of the
thickness of a man’s body, has no head, but divides itself, at a short
distance from the ground, into many crooked branches, which shoot in all
directions, and bear green and uncouth leaves, about half an inch in
thickness, and which, if they resemble anything, present the appearance
of the fore fins of a seal, and consist of multitudinous fibres.  The
fruit, which somewhat resembles a pear, has a rough tegument covered with
minute prickles, which instantly enter the hand which touches them,
however slightly, and are very difficult to extract.  I never remember to
have seen vegetation in ranker luxuriance than that which these fig-trees
exhibited, nor upon the whole a more singular spot.  “Follow me,” said
the _mahasni_, “and I will show you something which you will like to
see.”  So he turned to the left, leading the way by a narrow path up the
steep bank, till we reached the summit of a hillock, separated by a deep
ditch from the wall of Tangier.  The ground was thickly covered with the
trees already described, which spread their strange arms along the
surface, and whose thick leaves crushed beneath our feet as we walked
along.  Amongst them I observed a large number of stone slabs lying
horizontally; they were rudely scrawled over with odd characters, which
stooped down to inspect.  “Are you _talib_ enough read those signs?”
exclaimed the old Moor.  “They are letters of the accursed Jews; this is
their _mearrah_, as they call it, and here they inter their dead.  Fools,
they trust in Muza, when they might believe in Mohammed, and therefore
their dead shall burn everlastingly in _Jehinnim_.  See, my sultan, how
fat is the soil of this _mearrah_ of the Jews; see what _kermous_ grow
here.  When I was a boy I often came to the _mearrah_ of the Jews to eat
_kermous_ in the season of their ripeness.  The Moslem boys of Tangier
love the _kermous_ of the _mearrah_ of the Jews; but the Jews will not
gather them.  They say that the waters of the springs which nourish the
roots of these trees pass among the bodies of their dead, and for that
reason it is an abomination to taste of these fruits.  Be this true, or
be it not, one thing is certain, in whatever manner nourished, good are
the _kermous_ which grow in the _mearrah_ of the Jews.”

We returned to the lane by the same path by which we had come: as we were
descending it he said, “Know, my sultan, that the name of the place where
we now are, and which you say you like much, is Dar-sinah. {367a}  You
will ask me why it bears that name, as you see neither house nor man,
neither Moslem, Nazarene, nor Jew, only our two selves; I will tell you,
my sultan, for who can tell you better than myself?  Learn, I pray you,
that Tangier was not always what it is now, nor did it occupy always the
place which it does now.  It stood yonder (pointing to the east) on those
hills above the shore, and ruins of houses are still to be seen there,
and the spot is called Old Tangier.  So in the old time, as I have heard
say, this Dar-sinah was a street, whether without or within the wall
matters not, and there resided men of all trades; smiths of gold, and
silver, and iron, and tin, and artificers of all kinds.  You had only to
go to the Dar-sinah if you wished for any thing wrought, and there
instantly you would find a master of the particular craft.  My sultan
tells me he likes the look of Dar-sinah at the present day; truly I know
not why, especially as the _kermous_ are not yet in their ripeness, nor
fit to eat.  If he likes Dar-sinah now, how would my sultan have liked it
in the old time, when it was filled with gold and silver, and iron and
tin, and was noisy with the hammers, and the masters and the cunning men?
We are now arrived at the _Chali del Bahar_. {367b}  Take care, my
sultan, we tread upon bones.”

We had emerged from the Dar-sinah, and the seashore was before us; on a
sudden we found ourselves amongst a multitude of bones of all kinds of
animals, and seemingly of all dates; some being blanched with time and
exposure to sun and wind, whilst to others the flesh still partly clung;
whole carcases were here, horses, asses, and even the uncouth remains of
a camel.  Gaunt dogs were busy here, growling, tearing, and gnawing;
amongst whom, unintimidated, stalked the carrion vulture, fiercely
battening and even disputing with the brutes the garbage; whilst the crow
hovered overhead, and croaked wistfully, or occasionally perched upon
some upturned rib bone.  “See,” said the _mahasni_, “the _kawar_ of the
animals.  My sultan has seen the _kawar_ of the Moslems and the _mearrah_
of the Jews; and he sees here the _kawar_ of the animals.  All the
animals which die in Tangier by the hand of God—horse, dog, or camel—are
brought to this spot, and here they putrefy or are devoured by the birds
of the heaven or the wild creatures that prowl on the _chali_.  Come, my
sultan, it is not good to remain long in this place.”

We were preparing to leave the spot, when we heard a galloping down the
Dar-sinah, and presently a horse and rider darted at full speed from the
mouth of the lane and appeared upon the strand: the horseman, when he saw
us, pulled up his steed with much difficulty, and joined us.  The horse
was small but beautiful, a sorrel with long mane and tail; had he been
hoodwinked he might perhaps have been mistaken for a Cordovese _jaca_; he
was broad-chested, and rotund in his hind quarters, and possessed much of
the plumpness and sleekness which distinguish that breed, but looking in
his eyes you would have been undeceived in a moment; a wild savage fire
darted from the restless orbs, and so far from exhibiting the docility of
the other noble and loyal animal, he occasionally plunged desperately,
and could scarcely be restrained by a strong curb and powerful arm from
resuming his former head-long course.  The rider was a youth, apparently
about eighteen, dressed as a European, with a _montero_ cap on his head:
he was athletically built, but with lengthy limbs, his feet, for he rode
without stirrups or saddle, reaching almost to the ground; his complexion
was almost as dark as that of a Mulatto; his features very handsome, the
eyes particularly so, but filled with an expression which was bold and
bad; and there was a disgusting look of sensuality about the mouth.  He
addressed a few words to the _mahasni_, with whom he seemed to be well
acquainted, inquiring who I was.  The old man answered, “O Jew, my sultan
understands our speech, thou hadst better address thyself to him.”  The
lad then spoke to me in Arabic, but almost instantly dropping that
language, proceeded to discourse in tolerable French.  “I suppose you are
French,” said he with much familiarity; “shall you stay long in Tangier?”
Having received an answer, he proceeded, “as you are an Englishman, you
are doubtless fond of horses; know, therefore, whenever you are disposed
for a ride, I will accompany you, and procure you horses.  My name is
Ephraim Fragey: I am stable-boy to the Neapolitan consul, who prizes
himself upon possessing the best horses in Tangier; you shall mount any
you please.  Would you like to try this little _aoud_?”  I thanked him,
but declined his offer for the present, asking him at the same time how
he had acquired the French language, and why he, a Jew, did not appear in
the dress of his brethren?  “I am in the service of a consul,” said he,
“and my master obtained permission that I might dress myself in this
manner; and as to speaking French, I have been to Marseilles and Naples,
to which last place I conveyed horses, presents from the sultan.  Besides
French, I can speak Italian.”  He then dismounted, and holding the horse
firmly by the bridle with one hand, proceeded to undress himself, which
having accomplished, he mounted the animal and rode into the water.  The
skin of his body was much akin in colour to that of a frog or toad, but
the frame was that of a young Titan.  The horse took to the water with
great unwillingness, and at a small distance from the shore commenced
struggling with his rider, whom he twice dashed from his back; the lad,
however, clung to the bridle, and detained the animal.  All his efforts,
however, being unavailing to ride him deeper in, he fell to washing him
strenuously with his hands, then leading him out, he dressed himself and
returned by the way he came.

“Good are the horses of the Moslems,” said my old friend; “where will you
find such?  They will descend rocky mountains at full speed and neither
trip nor fall; but you must be cautious with the horses of the Moslems,
and treat them with kindness, for the horses of the Moslems are proud,
and they like not being slaves.  When they are young and first mounted,
jerk not their mouths with your bit, for be sure if you do they will kill
you; sooner or later, you will perish beneath their feet.  Good are our
horses, and good our riders, yea, very good are the Moslems at mounting
the horse; who are like them?  I once saw a Frank rider compete with a
Moslem on this beach, and at first the Frank rider had it all his own
way, and he passed the Moslem, but the course was long, very long, and
the horse of the Frank rider, which was a Frank also, panted; but the
horse of the Moslem panted not, for he was a Moslem also, and the Moslem
rider at last gave a cry and the horse sprang forward and he overtook the
Frank horse, and then the Moslem rider stood up in his saddle.  How did
he stand?  Truly he stood on his head, and these eyes saw him; he stood
on his head in the saddle as he passed the Frank rider; and he cried ha!
ha! as he passed the Frank rider; and the Moslem horse cried ha! ha! as
he passed the Frank breed, and the Frank lost by a far distance.  Good
are the Franks; good their horses; but better are the Moslems, and better
are the horses of the Moslems.”

We now directed our steps towards the town, but not by the path we came:
turning to the left under the hill of the _mearrah_, and along the
strand, we soon came to a rudely-paved way with a steep ascent, which
wound beneath the wall of the town to a gate, before which, on one side,
were various little pits like graves, filled with water or lime.  “This
is Dar-dwag,” said the _mahasni_; “this is the house of the bark, and to
this house are brought the hides; all those which are prepared for use in
Tangier are brought to this house, and here they are cured with lime, and
bran, and bark, and herbs.  And in this Dar-dwag there are one hundred
and forty pits; I have counted them myself; and there were more which
have now ceased to be, for the place is very ancient.  And these pits are
hired not by one, nor by two, but by many people, and whosoever list can
rent one of these pits and cure the hides which he may need; but the
owner of all is one man, and his name is Cado Ableque.  And now my sultan
has seen the house of the bark, and I will show him nothing more this
day; for to-day is _Youm al Jumal_, {372} and the gates will be presently
shut whilst the Moslems perform their devotions.  So I will accompany my
sultan to the guest house, and there I will leave him for the present.”

We accordingly passed through a gate, and ascending a street found
ourselves before the mosque where I had stood in the morning; in another
minute or two we were at the door of Joanna Correa.  I now offered my
kind guide a piece of silver as a remuneration for his trouble, whereupon
he drew himself up and said—

“The silver of my sultan I will not take, for I consider that I have done
nothing to deserve it.  We have not yet visited all the wonderful things
of this blessed town.  On a future day I will conduct my sultan to the
castle of the governor, and to other places which my sultan will be glad
to see; and when we have seen all we can, and my sultan is content with
me, if at any time he see me in the _soc_ of a morning, with my basket in
my hand, and he see nothing in that basket, then is my sultan at liberty
as a friend to put grapes in my basket, or bread in my basket, or fish or
meat in my basket.  That will I not refuse of my sultan, when I shall
have done more for him than I have now.  But the silver of my sultan will
I not take now nor at any time.”  He then waved his hand gently, and
departed.




CHAPTER LVII.


Strange Trio—The Mulatto—The Peace-offering—Moors of Granada—Vive la
Guadeloupe—The Moors—Pascual Fava—Blind Algerine—The Retreat.

Three men were seated in the _wustuddur_ of Joanna Correa, when I
entered; singular-looking men they all were, though perhaps three were
never gathered together more unlike to each other in all points.  The
first on whom I cast my eye was a man about sixty, dressed in a grey
kerseymere coat with short lappets, yellow waistcoat, and wide coarse
canvas trousers; upon his head was a very broad dirty straw hat, and in
his hand he held a thick cane with ivory handle; his eyes were bleared
and squinting, his face rubicund, and his nose much carbuncled.  Beside
him sat a good-looking black, who perhaps appeared more <DW64> than he
really was, from the circumstance of his being dressed in spotless white
jean—jerkin, waistcoat, and pantaloons being all of that material: his
head gear consisted of a blue _montero_ cap.  His eyes sparkled like
diamonds, and there was an indescribable expression of good humour and
fun upon his countenance.  The third man was a Mulatto, and by far the
most remarkable personage of the group: he might be between thirty and
forty; his body was very long, and, though uncouthly put together,
exhibited every mark of strength and vigour; it was cased in a _ferioul_
of red wool, a kind of garment which descends below the hips.  His long,
muscular, and hairy arms were naked from the elbow, where the sleeves of
the _ferioul_ terminate; his under limbs were short in comparison with
his body and arms; his legs were bare, but he wore blue _kandrisa_ as far
as the knee; every feature of his face was ugly, exceedingly and bitterly
ugly, and one of his eyes was sightless, being covered with a white film.
By his side on the ground was a large barrel, seemingly a water-cask,
which he occasionally seized with a finger and thumb, and waved over his
head as if it had been a quart pot.  Such was the trio who now occupied
the _wustuddur_ of Joanna Correa: and I had scarcely time to remark what
I have just recorded, when that good lady entered from a back court with
her handmaid Johár, or the pearl, an ugly fat Jewish girl with an immense
mole on her cheek.

“_Que Dios remate tu nombre_,” exclaimed the Mulatto; “may Allah blot out
your name, Joanna, and may he likewise blot out that of your maid Johár.
It is more than fifteen minutes that I have been seated here, after
having poured out into the _tinaja_ the water which I brought from the
fountain, and during all that time I have waited in vain for one single
word of civility from yourself or from Johár.  _Usted no tiene modo_, you
have no manner with you, nor more has Johár.  This is the only house in
Tangier where I am not received with fitting love and respect, and yet I
have done more for you than for any other person.  Have I not filled your
_tinaja_ with water when other people have gone without a drop?  When
even the consul and the interpreter of the consul had no water to slake
their thirst, have you not had enough to wash your _wustuddur_?  And what
is my return?  When I arrive in the heat of the day, I have not one kind
word spoken to me, nor so much as a glass of _makhiah_ offered to me;
must I tell you all that I do for you, Joanna?  Truly I must, for you
have no manner with you.  Do I not come every morning just at the third
hour; and do I not knock at your door; and do you not arise and let me
in, and then do I not knead your bread in your presence, whilst you lie
in bed, and because I knead it is not yours the best bread in Tangier?
For am I not the strongest man in Tangier, and the most noble also?”
Here he brandished his barrel over his head, and his face looked almost
demoniacal.  “Hear me, Joanna,” he continued, “you know that I am the
strongest man in Tangier, and I tell you again for the thousandth time,
that I am the most noble.  Who are the consuls?  Who is the Pasha?  They
are Pashas and consuls now, but who were their fathers?  I know not, nor
do they.  But do I not know who _my_ fathers; were?  Were they not Moors
of Garnata (_Granada_), {375} and is it not on that account that I am the
strongest man in Tangier?  Yes, I am of the old Moors of Garnata, and my
family has lived here, as is well known, since Garnata was lost to the
Nazarenes, and now I am the only one of my family of the blood of the old
Moors in all this land, and on that account I am of nobler blood than the
sultan, for the sultan is not of the blood of the Moors of Garnata.  Do
you laugh, Joanna?  Does your maid Johár laugh?  Am I not Hammin Widdir,
_el hombre mas valido de Tanger_? {376a}  And is it not true that I am of
the blood of the Moors of Garnata?  Deny it, and I will kill you both,
you and your maid Johár.”

“You have been eating _hsheesh_ and _majoon_, Hammin,” said Joanna
Correa, “and the _Shaitán_ has entered into you, as he but too frequently
does.  I have been busy, and so has Johár, or we should have spoken to
you before; however, _ma ydoorshee_, {376b} I know how to pacify you now
and at all times; will you take some gin-bitters, or a glass of common
_makhiah_?”

“May you burst, O Joanna,” said the Mulatto, “and may Johár also burst; I
mean, may you both live many years, and know neither pain nor sorrow.  I
will take the gin-bitters, O Joanna, because they are stronger than the
_makhiah_, which always appears to me like water; and I like not water,
though I carry it.  Many thanks to you, Joanna; here is health to you,
Joanna, and to this good company.”

She had handed him a large tumbler filled to the brim; he put it to his
nostrils, snuffed in the flavour, and then, applying it to his mouth,
removed it not whilst one drop of the fluid remained.  His features
gradually relaxed from their former angry expression, and looking
particularly amiable at Joanna, he at last said—

“I hope that within a little time, O Joanna, you will be persuaded that I
am the strongest man in Tangier, and that I am sprung from the blood of
the Moors of Garnata, as then you will no longer refuse to take me for a
husband, you and your maid Johár, and to become Moors.  What a glory to
you, after having been married to a _Genoui_, and given birth to
_Genouillos_, to receive for husband a Moor like me, and to bear him
children of the blood of Garnata!  What a glory, too, for Johár!—how much
better than to marry a vile Jew, even like Hayim Ben Attar, or your cook
Sabia, both of whom I could strangle with two fingers, for am I not
Hammin Widdir, _Moro de Garnata_, _el hombre mas valido de Tanger_?”  He
then shouldered his barrel and departed.

“Is that Mulatto really what he pretends to be?” said I to Joanna; “is he
a descendant of the Moors of Granada?”

“He always talks about the Moors of Granada, when he is mad with _majoon_
or _aguardiente_,” interrupted, in bad French, the old man whom I have
before described, and in the same croaking voice which I had heard
chanting in the morning.  “Nevertheless it may be true, and if he had not
heard something of the kind from his parents, he would never have
imagined such a thing, for he is too stupid.  As I said before, it is by
no means impossible: many of the families of Granada settled down here
when their town was taken by the Christians, but the greater part went to
Tunis.  When I was there, I lodged in the house of a Moor who called
himself Zegri, {378} and was always talking of Granada and the things
which his forefathers had done there.  He would moreover sit for hours
singing romances of which I understood not one word, praised be the
Mother of God, but which he said all related to his family: there were
hundreds of that name in Tunis, therefore why should not this Hammin,
this drunken water-carrier, be a Moor of Granada also?  He is ugly enough
to be emperor of all the Moors.  Oh, the accursed _canaille_!  I have
lived amongst them for my sins these eight years, at Oran and here.
_Monsieur_, do you not consider it to be a hard case for an old man like
myself, who am a Christian, to live amongst a race who know not God, nor
Christ, nor anything holy?”

“What do you mean?” said I, “by asserting that the Moors know not God?
There is no people in the world who entertain sublimer notions of the
uncreated eternal God than the Moors, and no people have ever shown
themselves more zealous for His honour and glory: their very zeal for the
glory of God has been and is the chief obstacle to their becoming
Christians.  They are afraid of compromising His dignity by supposing
that He ever condescended to become man.  And with respect to Christ,
their ideas even of Him are much more just than those of the <DW7>s;
they say He is a mighty prophet, whilst, according to the others, He is
either a piece of bread, or a helpless infant.  In many points of
religion the Moors are wrong, dreadfully wrong; but are the <DW7>s less
so?  And one of their practices sets them immeasurably below the Moors in
the eyes of any unprejudiced person: they bow down to idols, Christian
idols if you like, but idols still, things graven of wood, and stone, and
brass; and from these things, which can neither hear, nor speak, nor
feel, they ask and expect to obtain favours.”

“_Vive la France_, _Vive la Guadeloupe_!” said the black, with a good
French accent.  “In France and in Guadeloupe there is no superstition,
and they pay as much regard to the Bible as to the Koran; I am now
learning to read, in order that I may understand the writings of
Voltaire, who, as I am told, has proved that both the one and the other
were written with the sole intention of deceiving mankind.  _O_, _vive la
France_! where will you find such an enlightened country as France; and
where will you find such a plentiful country as France?  Only one in the
world, and that is Guadeloupe.  Is it not so, Monsieur Pascual?  Were you
ever at Marseilles?  _Ah quel bon pays est celui-là pour les vivres_,
_pour les petits poulets_, _pour les poulardes_, _pour les perdrix_,
_pour les perdreaux_, _pour les alouettes_, _pour les bécasses_, _pour
les bécassines_, _enfin_, _pour tout_.”

“Pray, sir, are you a cook?” demanded I.

“_Monsieur_, _je le suis pour vous rendre service_, _mon nom c’est
Gérard_, _et j’ai l’honneur d’être chef de cuisine chez monsieur le
consul Hollandois_.  _A present je prie permission de vous saluer_; _il
faut que j’aille à la maison pour faire le diner de mon maître_.”

At four I went to dine with the British consul.  Two other English
gentlemen were present, who had arrived at Tangier from Gibraltar about
ten days previously for a short excursion, and were now detained longer
than they wished by the Levant wind.  They had already visited the
principal towns in Spain, and proposed spending the winter either at
Cadiz or Seville.  One of them, Mr. ---, struck me as being one of the
most remarkable men I had ever conversed with: he travelled not for
diversion nor instigated by curiosity, but merely with the hope of doing
spiritual good, chiefly by conversation.  The consul soon asked me what I
thought of the Moors and their country.  I told him that what I had
hitherto seen of both highly pleased me.  He said that were I to live
amongst them ten years, as he had done, he believed I should entertain a
very different opinion; that no people in the world were more false and
cruel; that their government was one of the vilest description, with
which it was next to an impossibility for any foreign power to hold
amicable relations, as it invariably acted with bad faith, and set at
nought the most solemn treaties.  That British property and interests
were every day subjected to ruin and spoliation, and British subjects
exposed to unheard-of vexations, without the slightest hope of redress
being offered, save recourse was had to force, the only argument to which
the Moors were accessible.  He added, that towards the end of the
preceding year an atrocious murder had been perpetrated in Tangier: a
Genoese family of three individuals had perished, all of whom were
British subjects, and entitled to the protection of the British flag.
The murderers were known, and the principal one was even now in prison
for the fact; yet all attempts to bring him to condign punishment had
hitherto proved abortive, as he was a Moor, and his victims Christians.
Finally, he cautioned me not to take walks beyond the wall unaccompanied
by a soldier, whom he offered to provide for me should I desire it, as
otherwise I incurred great risk of being ill-treated by the Moors of the
interior, whom I might meet, or perhaps murdered; and he instanced the
case of a British officer who not long since had been murdered on the
beach for no other reason than being a Nazarene, and appearing in a
Nazarene dress.  He at length introduced the subject of the Gospel, and I
was pleased to learn that, during his residence in Tangier, he had
distributed a considerable quantity of Bibles amongst the natives in the
Arabic language, and that many of the learned men, or _talibs_, had read
the holy volume with great interest, and that by this distribution,
which, it is true, was effected with much caution, no angry or unpleasant
feeling had been excited.  He finally asked whether I had come with the
intention of circulating the Scripture amongst the Moors.

I replied that I had no opportunity of doing so, as I had not one single
copy either in the Arabic language or character.  That the few Testaments
which were in my possession were in the Spanish language, and were
intended for circulation amongst the Christians of Tangier, to whom they
might be serviceable, as they all understood the language.

It was night, and I was seated in the _wustuddur_ of Joanna Correa, in
company with Pascual Fava, the Genoese.  The old man’s favourite subject
of discourse appeared to be religion, and he professed unbounded love for
the Saviour, and the deepest sense of gratitude for his miraculous
atonement for the sins of mankind.  I should have listened to him with
pleasure had he not smelt very strongly of liquor, and by certain
incoherences of language and wildness of manner given indications of
being in some degree the worse for it.  Suddenly two figures appeared
beneath the doorway; one was that of a bareheaded and bare-legged Moorish
boy of about ten years of age, dressed in a _gelaba_.  He guided by the
hand an old man, whom I at once recognized as one of the Algerines, the
good Moslems of whom the old _mahasni_ had spoken in terms of praise in
the morning whilst we ascended the street of the Siarrin.  He was very
short of stature and dirty in his dress; the lower part of his face was
covered with a stubbly white beard; before his eyes he wore a large pair
of spectacles, from which he evidently received but little benefit, as he
required the assistance of the guide at every step.  The two advanced a
little way into the _wustuddur_, and there stopped.  Pascual Fava no
sooner beheld them, than assuming a jovial air he started nimbly up, and
leaning on his stick, for he had a bent leg, limped to a cupboard, out of
which he took a bottle and poured out a glass of wine, singing in the
broken kind of Spanish used by the Moors of the coast—

    “Argelino,
    Moro fino,
    No beber vino,
    Ni comer tocino.” {382}

He then handed the wine to the old Moor, who drank it off, and then, led
by the boy, made for the door without saying a word.

“_Hade mushe halal_,” {383a} said I to him with a loud voice.

“_Cul shee halal_,” {383b} said the old Moor, turning his sightless and
spectacled eyes in the direction from which my voice reached him.  “Of
everything which God has given, it is lawful for the children of God to
partake.”

“Who is that old man?” said I to Pascual Fava, after the blind and the
leader of the blind had departed.  “Who is he!” said Pascual; “who is he!
He is a merchant now, and keeps a shop in the Siarrin, but there was a
time when no bloodier pirate sailed out of Algier.  That old blind wretch
has cut more throats than he has hairs in his beard.  Before the French
took the place he was the _rais_ or captain of a frigate, and many was
the poor Sardinian vessel which fell into his hands.  After that affair
he fled to Tangier, and it is said that he brought with him a great part
of the booty which he had amassed in former times.  Many other Algerines
came hither also, or to Tetuan, but he is the strangest guest of them
all.  He keeps occasionally very extraordinary company for a Moor, and is
rather over-intimate with the Jews.  Well, that’s no business of mine;
only let him look to himself.  If the Moors should once suspect him, it
were all over with him.  Moors and Jews, Jews and Moors!  Oh my poor
sins, my poor sins, that brought me to live amongst them!—

     “‘Ave maris stella,
    Dei Mater alma,
    Atque semper virgo,
    Felix cœli porta!’” {383c}

He was proceeding in this manner when I was startled by the sound of a
musket.

“That is the retreat,” said Pascual Fava.  “It is fired every night in
the _soc_ at half-past eight, and it is the signal for suspending all
business, and shutting up.  I am now going to close the doors, and
whosoever knocks, I shall not admit them till I know their voice.  Since
the murder of the poor Genoese last year, we have all been particularly
cautious.”

Thus had passed Friday, the sacred day of the Moslems, and the first
which I had spent in Tangier.  I observed that the Moors followed their
occupations as if the day had nothing particular in it.  Between twelve
and one, the hour of prayer in the mosque, the gates of the town were
closed, and no one permitted either to enter or go out.  There is a
tradition current amongst them, that on this day, and at this hour, their
eternal enemies, the Nazarenes, will arrive to take possession of their
country; on which account they hold themselves prepared against a
surprisal.




GLOSSARY.


In the following pages a translation only has been given, as a rule, of
the Romany words, but references have been added which will enable _los
del aficion_ to acquire fuller knowledge elsewhere.  It is only right to
state that for any philological theories advanced in this part of the
Glossary the late Mr. Burke is not responsible.—H. W. G.

                          LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS.

A.         Ascoli, Zigeunerisches. 1865.
F.         Francisque-Michel, Le Pays Basque. 1857.
G.         Journal of the Gypsy Lore Society. 1888–1892.
Gr.        Groome, In Gipsy Tents. 1880.
H.         Hidalgo, Romances de Germanía. 1779.
J.         Jimenez, Vocabulario del Dialecto Jitano. 1853.
Lel.       Leland, The Gypsies.
LL.        Borrow, Romano Lavo-Lil. 1888.
M.         Miklosich, Ueber die Mundarten und die Wanderungen der
           Zigeuner Europa’s. 1872–1880.
McR.       MacRitchie, The Gypsies of India. 1886.
P.         Pott, Die Zigeuner in Europa und Asien. 1844–5.
Pp.        Paspati, Etudes sur les Tchinghianés ou Bohémiens de
           l’Empire Ottoman. 1870.
R.         De Rochas, Les Parias de France et d’Espagne. 1876.
S.         Smith, Tent Life with English Gypsies in Norway. 1873.
SC.        Smart and Crofton, The Dialect of the English Gypsies.
W.         Wlislocki, Die Sprache der transsilvanischen Zigeuner.
           1884.
Z.         Borrow, The Zincali, 3rd edit. 1843.

A.  _Arab._  O!  _A sidi_, “_O my lord_!”

Á.  _Span._ and _Port._  To.

ABAJAR.  _Span_.  To descend.

ACÁNA.  _Rom._  Now.  P. ii. 124; A. 21; W. 70.

ADUANA.  _Span._  The custom-house.  Fr. _la douane_, from Arab. _diwán_;
either as a council or as an account-book.

ADUN.  _Hebr._  Lord; _Adon_.

AFICION.  _Span._  Affection.  _Los del aficion_, “those of the
predilection,” persons addicted to the gypsies and their language.  Z.
ii. 58.

AFRANCESADO.  _Span._  Frenchified.

AGOA.  _Port._  Water.  Span. _agua_.

AGUADOR.  _Span._  A water-carrier.

AGUARDIENTE.  _Span._  _Agua ardiente_, fire-water; coarse native spirit;
Spanish brandy.

ALAMEDA.  _Span._  A public promenade in or near a town, planted with
trees.  Lit. a place of poplars, from Span. _álamo_, a poplar.

ALCAHUETE.  _Span._  A spy; a pimp.  Arab. _al ḳawwād_.

ALCALÁ.  _Span._  The fort.  Arab, _al-ḳal‘ah_.

ALCALDE.  _Span._  The mayor or chief magistrate of a town or village.
Arab. _al ḳádi_, the judge.

ALCALDE MAYOR.  The chief magistrate of a district.

ALCAYDE.  _Span._  A governor of a castle or fortress.  Arab. _al ḳáid_,
the general.  In more modern parlance, the governor of a prison, a
jailer.

ALCAZAR.  _Span._  A castle; palace; a fortress.  Arab. _al ḳaṣr_.

ALCORNOQUE.  _Span._  The cork tree, _Quercus suber_.

ALDEA.  _Span_. and _Port._  A village.

ALECRIM.  _Port._  Rosemary.  A word said to be of Arabic origin, perhaps
_al karím_, a precious thing.  The Spanish _romero_, or pilgrim flower
(see note, i. 47).  The English word is said to be derived from _ros
marinus_, dew of the sea.

ALEM.  _Port._  Beyond.  _Alemtejo_, the district beyond the Tagus.

ALFANDEGA.  _Port._  Custom-house.  The Arab. _funduḳ_, a large house.

ALFORJAS, LAS.  _Span._  Saddle-bags.  Arab. _al khurj_.

ALGIBE.  _Span._  A vaulted subterranean cistern for storing water.
Arab. _jubb_, a reservoir.

ALGUACIL or ALGUAZIL.  _Span._  A constable, or peace-officer.  Arab. _al
wazir_, the vizier, governor, deputy, or minister.

ALHAJA.  _Span._  Any precious article, a jewel.  Probably from the Arab,
_al-hadja_.

ALHAMA.  Stated by Borrow (i. 394) to be a Moorish word, meaning “warm
baths.”  Apparently the Arab, _al ḥammām_.

ALKHEIR.  _Arab._  Of good.

ALMA.  _Span._ and _Port._  Soul.

ALMOCREVES.  _Port._  Muleteers or carriers.  A word of Arabic origin,
_al mukāri_, like the Spanish _arriero._

ALQUILADOR.  _Span. and Port._  A letter on hire of anything, especially
of horses.  _Alquilar_, in Spanish, signifies to give or lend on hire.
_Alquiler_, to take or borrow for reward.  The converse, _inquiler_.

ALTO.  _Span._ and _Port._  High.

AMIGA.  _Span._ and _Port._  A mistress, or concubine.  Lit. a female
friend.

AMIGO.  _Span._ and _Port._  A friend.

ANCIÑA ANCIÑACO.  _Basque_.  The ancient of the ancient.

ANDALOU.  _Rom._  An Andalusian.

ANDRÉ.  _Rom._  In.  P. ii. 56.

ANISE-BRANDY.  _Eng._  A cordial, something like the French _anisette_.
The anise (_Pimpinella anisum_) is largely cultivated in Spain, where it
is known as _anis_.  The seed is dried and exported, the aniseed of the
English cake-makers.

AOUD.  _Arab._  According to Borrow, a stallion.  It is the Moorish
‘_aud_ = horse.

AQUEL.  _Span._  That.

ARCO.  _Span._ and _Port._  A bow, an arch.

ARDOA.  Guipuzcoan and Biscayan for _arno_,_ arnoa_, wine, the final _a_
being the definite article.

ARGELINO.  _Span._  A native of Algiers.

ARMADA.  _Span._ and _Port._  A fleet, or navy.

AROMÁLI.  _Rom._  Truly.  _Arromales_ = _caramba_.  J.

ARRIERO.  _Span._  Muleteer; one who cries _arrhé_ or _harré_, Arabic
“Gee up!”  The older form of _Harriero_, given in the Dictionary of the
Spanish Academy, more clearly preserves this etymology.

ARROBA.  _Span._ and _Port._  A weight equal to about 25 lbs.  English.
Arab, _ar ruba_‘, a quarter.

ARROYO.  _Span._  A brook, stream.

ARTESANO.  _Span._  Artisan, workman.

ASHOR.  _Hebr._  Jewish feast of the tenth (day), ‘_āsor_.  It is really
the Arabic ‘_ashūrā_.

ATAJO.  _Span._  A short cut, material or moral; an expedient of any
kind.  Lit. a tying; _atar_, to tie.

ATALAYA.  _Span._  A watch-tower.  Port. _atalaia_.  A word of Arabic
origin; _aṭ-ṭalí‘ah_, a view.

ATTAR.  _Arab._  Essence.  More correctly, ‘_aṭar_.  Frequently in
combination.  The Eng. _otto_.

AUSLANDRA.  _Milan._  The meaning of this word is given by Borrow himself
as “to roam about in a dissipated manner.”  It is obviously the Germ.
_Ausland_, “a foreign country,” made into an Italian verb.  On the
authority of the native of Como, whom Borrow met at Cerrig y Drudion, it
was considered a vulgar word, even in the _gergo_ of the Milanese, and
that it is so may be proved by a reference to Cherubini, _Vocabolario
Milanese-Italiano_, s.v. _Slándra_, _Slandrà_.

AUTO DA FÉ.  _Port._  Span. _auto de fé_.  Execution of persons condemned
by the Inquisition.

AVELLANA.  _Span._  A filbert.

AYANA.  _Arab._  According to Borrow, a locust.  It is not an ordinary
Arabic word, possibly of some North African dialect.

AZABACHE.  _Span._  Jet.  The Arab, _as-sabaj_.

AZABACHERIA.  _Span._  Jet-market.

AZINHEIRA.  _Port._  The holm-oak.

AZUMBRE.  _Span._  A measure for liquids, the eighth of an _arroba_,
equal to about half a gallon.  From the Arab. _ath-thumn_ = the eighth.

                                * * * * *

BAB.  _Arab._  Gate.  _Bab del Faz_, gate of Fez.

BACALHÃO.  _Port._  (In _Span._ BACALLAO or ABADEJO).  Salt cod, commonly
imported from the Newfoundland coast.

BAHAR.  _Arab._  Sea.

BAHI or BAJI.  _Rom._  Fortune.  _Penar baji_, _decir la buena ventura_,
to tell fortunes.  According to Borrow, the Sanscrit and Persian _baḥkt_.

BAKH, BOK.  _Rom._  Luck.  _Kosko bakh_, “Good luck to you!”  P. ii. 398;
A. 47; M. vii. 14.

BALAD.  _Arab._  Land.  Also _beled_.

BALICHÓ.  _Rom._  A hog.  P. ii. 420; A. 54; M. vii. 15.

BAR.  _Aram._  Son.

BAR.  _Rom._  A stone.  P. ii. 409; M. vii. 16.

BAR LACHÍ.  _Rom._  The loadstone; a gypsy charm or talisman.  Lit. “the
good stone.”  See LACHÓ.

BARIA.  _Rom._  Used by Borrow in ch. x., and given in Z. ii. 147, as
_Germanía_, or thieves’ slang, for a gold _onza_ (q.v.).  Cf. _varia_ =
weight.  A. 12.  It is also the plural of _bar_, used by English gypsies
for a sovereign.  The correct Gitano for _onza_ is _jara_.

BARIBÚ, BARIBUTRE, BARIBUSTRE.  _Rom._  Plenty, much.  P. ii. 400; M.
vii. 17.

BARO.  _Rom._  Great.  _Len Baro_ = the great river, the Guadalquivir.
_Hokkano Baro_ = the great trick.  See HOK.  P. ii. 411; A. 59; M. vii.
17.

BARRA.  _Arab._  Outside; out of the town.  See SOC.

BARRAGANERIA.  _Span._  Concubinage.  See note, i. 157.

BARRANCO, BARRANCA.  _Span._  A fissure in a hill, a deep cleft, made by
the action of water; a precipice.

BARRETE.  _Span._  A helmet, cap.

BARRIO.  _Span._  One of the quarters or districts into which a large
town is divided.  Fr. _quartier_.

BATU, BATO.  _Rom._  Father.  Perhaps from the Russ. _batuschca_, q.v.
In thieves’ slang, a prison governor or jailer.  P. ii. 430; F. 145; G.
i. 61; J.

BATUSCHCA, BATUSHKA.  _Russ._  Little father.  A term of endearment or
familiar address, something like the Span. _tio_, uncle.

BEBER.  _Span._ and _Port._  To drink.

BECORESH.  _Hebr._  I.e. _Epikores_ = Epicurus, selected by Jewish
writers as a type of insolent atheism.

BEDEYA.  _Arab._  An open waistcoat.  More correctly, _bad‘iyya_.

BELAD.  _Hebr._  In the power of.

BELED.  _Arab._  Country.  Also _balad_.

BELLOTA.  _Span._  An acorn.  The Portuguese _bolota_; Arab, _balūt_.

BEN, plur. BENI.  _Hebr._ and _Arab._  Son.

BENDITO.  _Span._ and _Port._  Blessed, praised.

BENG, BENGUE, BENGUI.  _Rom._  The devil; also any demon, or evil spirit.
P. ii. 407; M. vii. 19.  As to the meaning, frog or toad, see G. i. 118.

BERAKA.  _Hebr._  A blessing.

BESTI, BESTIS.  _Rom._  A seat, chair, or saddle.  P. ii. 428; M. vii.
20.  Borrow, however, seems to use it as a slang form of the following.

BESTIA.  _Span._  An animal.  “You brute!”

BIRDOCHE.  _Rom._  Used by Borrow in ch. ix. for a stage-coach or
_galera_, q.v.  It is probably connected with _bedo_, _berdo_, a cart.
Z. ii. * 17.  Eng. Rom. _vardo_.  See P. ii. 80; A. 68; M. viii. 96.

BOCA.  _Span._ and _Port._  Mouth.

BODA, BODAS.  _Span._ and _Port._  Marriage, a wedding.

BOGAMANTE, BOGAVANTE.  _Span._  The slang name for a large lobster; orig.
the stroke-oar of a galley; _bogar_ = to row, _avante_ = in front.

BOHÉMIEN.  _Fr._  A gypsy.

BOLOTA.  _Port._  (_Span._ BELLOTA.)  An acorn.

BOLSA.  _Span._ and _Port._  (1) A purse.  (2) The Exchange.

BOMBARDÓ.  _Rom._  A lion.  Used also of the gulf usually called the Gulf
of Lyons, but in French La Golfe du Lion, or “Gulf of the Lion,” from its
stormy water.  Lyons on the Rhone may have given the English, but
certainly not the French, name to the bay.  P. ii. 432.

BONANZA.  _Span._  Fair weather.  See note, ii. 273.

BONITO.  _Span._ and _Port._  Pretty.

BORRACHO.  _Span._ and _Port._  A drunkard.  _Borracha_ is a wine-skin,
or leathern bottle.  Hence Shakespeare’s _Borachio_.

BORRICO.  _Span._  Dimin. of _Burro_, an ass.

BOTA.  _Span._  A leather wine-bottle or bag; usually made of the skin of
a pig for storing purposes, of goatskin for travelling.  A glass bottle
is called _frasco_ or _botella_.

BRASERO.  _Span._  Brazier; brass or copper pan to hold live coals.

BRETIMA, BRETEMA, BRETOMA.  _Gal._  A low-lying mist or fog.  When thick
and damp it is called—also in Galician—_mexona_.

BRIBON, BRIBONAZO.  _Span._  A vagrant, vagabond, or impostor.  The
termination in _bribonazo_ does not express action, as in such words as
_calmazo_, q.v., but augmentation.

BRIBONERIA.  _Span._  Knavery, rascality.

BROA.  _Port._ and _Gal._  BARONA.  _Span._ and _Gal._  BRONA.  _Gal._  A
bread made of a mixture of maize (2 parts), rye (4), millet (1), and
panic-grass (1).

BROTOBORO.  _Rom._  First.  Grk. πρῶτος.  _Brotorbo_, J.

BRUJO or BRUXO.  _Span._, _Port._, and _Gal._  A sorcerer, or wizard.

BUCKRA.  _Arab._  _Bikr_, a virgin; used (ii. 357) for the Blessed Virgin
Mary.

BUENO.  _Span._  Good.  _Buenas noches_, “good night.”

BUFA.  _Rom._  A manger, crib.  P. ii. 433.

BUL, BULLÁTI.  _Rom._  The _anus_.  P. ii. 422.

BURRA.  _Span._ and _Port._  Jackass; she-ass.

BUSNÓ.  _Rom._  A man who is not a gypsy, a Gentile.  P. ii. 434; Pp.
172; M. vii. 26.

                                * * * * *

CA.  _Span._  An abbreviated form of CARAJO, _q.v._

CABALGADURA.  _Span._  A sumpter horse or mule; beast of burden.

CABALLEJO, or CABALLUELO.  _Span._  Pony.

CABALLERIA.  _Span._  Is used either of a single horse, mule, or ass used
for riding, as the Fr. _monture_, or for a number of such beasts
together.  The word in the plural also signifies chivalry or knighthood.

CABALLERO.  _Span._  Lit. a cavalier, but constantly used either as a
mode of polite address, “Sir,” or in speaking of a gentleman, whether
mounted or on foot.

CABAÑA.  _Span._  (1) A shepherd’s hut or cabin.  (2) A flock, or
assemblage of flocks, of sheep, under the charge of a _mayoral_, driven
to and from the wild pasture lands of Estremadura.  See note, i. 146.

CACHARRO.  _Span._  A coarse earthen pan or pot.

CACHAS.  _Rom._  Shears, scissors.  Z. i. 244; P. ii. 99; _cachais_, R.
295.

CACHIMANI.  _Rom._  A wine-shop, or tavern.  _Cachiman_, J.  See P. ii.
117; M. i. 19.

CAES.  _Port._  A wharf.

CAFILA, rather ḲĀFILAH.  _Arab._  A caravan.

CALABOZO.  _Span._  Dungeon or underground cell.  _Calabozero_, the
keeper thereof; turnkey.

CALASH.  _Eng._  A two-wheeled carriage with a hood; a buggy.  Span.
_calesa_; Port. _caleça_; Fr. _calèche_.

CALDAS.  _Span._ and _Port._  Warm Baths.  Used most frequently in
combination as a place name; e.g. Caldas de Reyes, called by Borrow (i.
394) Caldas de los Reyes, in Galicia.

CALÉS.  _Rom._  Plur. of CALÓ, CALORÓ.  A gypsy; lit. a black and dark
man.  See CALÓ.

CALESERO.  _Span._  (1) The driver of a _calesa_.  (2) The driver of any
carriage or cart.

CALLAR.  _Span._  To be silent.  _Calla boca_, “Hold your tongue!”

CALLARDÓ, GALLARDÓ.  _Rom._  A black man, mulatto.  See CALÓ.

CALLE.  _Span._  A street.

CALLEE, CALLÍ.  _Rom._  Fem. of CALÓ, _q.v._

CALLICASTE.  _Rom._  (1) Yesterday.  (2) Tomorrow.  So in English Rom.
_cóllico_, _káliko_.  P. ii. 107; LL. 7.

CALMAZO.  _Span._  A calm at sea.  Lit. an “attack” or “stroke” of calm,
such being the force of the termination _azo_; as _puñal_, a poignard;
_puñalazo_, the blow of a poignard.

CALÓ, CALORÓ.  _Rom._  One of the _kalo rat_, or black blood; a gypsy.
P. ii. 106; A. 44; M. vii. 71; G. i. 178.

CAMARERA.  _Span._  A lady’s maid, chambermaid.

CAMPIÑA.  _Span._  The open country, the fields.  Dimin. of CAMPO.

CAMPO.  _Span._ and _Port._  The country.  In the mouths of
English-speaking Argentines it has become “the camp,” conveying no idea
whatever of the Anglo-Indian “camp,” or “marching” with tents, or
“camping out.”

CAMPO SANTO.  _Span._, _Port._, and _Ital._  A churchyard, cemetery.

CANALLIS.  See JARA CANALLIS.

CANDORY, plur.  CANDORÉ.  _Rom._  Christian.  P. ii. 125; McR. 46.

CANÓNIGO.  _Span._  A canon or prebendary of a cathedral.

CAPATAZ.  _Span._ and _Port._  Not _capitaz_.  A head man; overseer;
ganger; steward on a farm.  From Lat. _caput_.

CAPILLA.  _Span._  A chapel.

CAPITULAR.  _Span._  Belonging to the chapter.  _Sala capitular_,
chapter-house.

CARAJO.  _Span._  “The great oath of Spain, which ought never to be
written or pronounced in full, practically forms the foundation of the
language of the lower orders; it is a most ancient remnant of the phallic
abjuration of the evil eye, the dreaded fascination which still perplexes
the minds of Orientals, and is not banished from Spanish and Neapolitan
superstitions.  The word terminates in _ajo_, on which stress is laid;
the _j_ is pronounced with a most Arabic guttural aspiration.  The word
_ajo_ means also garlic, which is quite as often in Spanish mouths, and
is exactly what Hotspur liked—a ‘mouth-filling oath,’ energetic and
Michael Angelesque.”—Ford’s _Spain_, Introd. p. 35.  For “the evil eye,”
see; Z. i. 138.

CARALS.  Catalan for CARAJO, _q.v._

CARAMBA.  _Span._  A polite modification of the grosser CARAJO, _q.v._

CARBONERO.  _Span._  A charcoal-burner; also a collier.

CARCEL.  _Span._  A prison.

CARCELERO, CARCELERA.  _Span._  A male or female jailer; or the latter
may be merely the wife of a jailer.

CARLINO, CARLISTA.  _Span._  A partisan of Don Carlos.

CARLO.  _Rom._  Heart.  P. ii. 125.  It also means “throat,” the only
meaning in English Rom.  P. ii. 96; A. 66; Pp. 299; SC. 91.

CARRACHO.  _Gal._  A tick, or small parasite found on dogs and cattle.
_Carracha_ is a somewhat similar pest of the human body.  The word, which
is not Spanish, is used by Borrow as an expletive, instead of the coarser
CARAJO, _q.v._

CARRASCAL.  _Span._ and _Port._  A plantation or grove of the following.

CARRASCO.  _Span._ and _Port._  The _ilex_, or evergreen oak.

CARRETA.  _Span._ and _Port._  A long and narrow cart.

CARRETERA.  _Span._  A high-road.  Fr. _voie carrossable_.

CARRONADE.  _O. Eng._  A short cannon of large bore, usually carried on
board ship.  The word has nothing to do with cannon, but is derived from
the Scotch town of Carron, in Stirlingshire, where these pieces were
first made in 1779.  They were not used after 1852, and the name is
obsolete.

CARTA.  _Span._ and _Port._  A letter.

CASA.  _Span._ and _Port._  House.

CASPITA.  _Span._  “Wonderful!”  Milder than CARAMBA, _q.v._

CASTELLANO.  _Span._  A Castilian.  _Hablar Castellano_, to talk Spanish.

CASTUMBA.  _Rom._  Castile.

CAVALGADURA.  _Gal._  See CABALGADURA.

CAVALHEIRO.  _Port._  See CABALLERO.

CÉAD.  _Irish_.  A hundred.

CERRADA.  _Span._ and _Port._  Closed, concealed, dark.

CERRO.  _Span._ and _Port._  A hill, hillock.

CHABÍ.  _Rom._  A girl.  See CHABÓ.

CHABÓ, CHABÉ, CHABORÓ.  _Rom._  A boy, youth, fellow.  P. ii. 181; A. 51;
Pp. 528; M. vii. 30; McR. 100.  Possibly the origin of the English slang,
“chap.”

CHACHIPÉ.  _Rom._  The truth.  P. i. 138; ii. 178; A. 29; Pp. 523; M.
vii. 27.

CHAI.  _Rom._  Irreg. plur. of CHABÓ, _q.v._  Chaps; used commonly for
gypsies.

CHAL.  _Rom._  A lad, boy, fellow; possibly the same as chiel, childe.
_Rómano-chal_, a gypsy.  McR. 98.

CHALI DEL BAHAR.  _Arab._  _Bahar_ is “the sea” in Arabic; _shát_ is “the
shore.”  _Chali_ is possibly a misprint for this.

CHALAN.  _Span._  A jockey or horse-dealer.

CHARDÍ, CHÁTI.  _Rom._  A fair.  I cannot find this word except in Borrow
(Z. ii. * 36), though J. gives _chandí_.  Borrow derives it from Hind,
_chhetr_ = field.  If so it is perhaps connected with _char_, _chor_ =
grass.  P. ii. 198; Pp. 529; M. vii. 29.  Can it be the Persian
_chatrí_—canopy, tent?

CHARIPÉ, CHERIPEN.  _Rom._  Bed, or bedstead.  Hind. _charpoy_ = that
which has four feet or legs.  Borrow (Z. ii.* 37) wrongly suggests the
Grk. κρεββάτι, though giving, as elsewhere (LL. 100), the right
derivation.  P. ii. 203; M. vii. 32.

CHEGAR.  _Port._  To arrive, land.

CHENOURAIN.  Synagogues.  From _shanūra_, an Algerian or low Arabic word.

CHI, CHICHÍ.  _Rom._  Nothing.  P. ii. 176; M. vii. 31.

CHIBADO.  _Rom._  Put into.  From _chibar_, a word used in many senses.
P. ii. 184.

CHICA.  _Span._  Little girl.  Properly the fem. of the adj. _chico_,
which is also used commonly for a boy, especially as a mode of address,
or to call attention, _hé_, _chico_!

CHICOTITO.  _Span._  Dimin. of _chico_.  A little fellow, dwarf.

CHIM.  _Rom._  Kingdom, country.  P. ii. 295; M. viii. 82; Z. ii. * 38;
and J.

CHINDOMAR.  _Rom._  A butcher.  From _chinar_ = to cut.  P. ii. 208; Pp.
538; M. vii. 33.

CHINEL.  _Rom._  A man of official position or rank.  Especially an
_alguacil_.  Russ. _chin_, rank.  P. ii. 204.

CHINOBARÓ.  _Rom._  A head official.  Compounded of CHIN and BARO, _q.v._

CHIPE.  _Rom._  Tongue, speech.  P. ii. 216; M. vii. 31; SC. 64.

CHIRIA.  Borrow gives this as Sanscrit for “bird,” but I cannot find his
authority.  The Rom. word is _cziriklo_, _chiriclo_.  See P. ii. 199.

CHOR.  _Rom._  _Subs._ a thief; _verb_, to steal.  P. ii. 200; A. 46; Pp.
545–6; M. vii. 36.

CHOZA.  _Span._  A hut or small cottage.  According to Dozy and Engelmann
it is the Arab. _khas_.

CHULÍ, plur. CHULÉ.  _Rom._  A dollar.  Span. _peso fuerte_.  Borrow uses
the word in his gypsy St. Luke, xv. 8, etc.  P. ii. 205, has “_Chuli_ =
_Groschen_,” and suggests a connexion with _tchulo_ = thick.  It is
tempting to compare the English slang “a thick ’un” = a sovereign.

CHULÍ, CHURÍ.  _Rom._  A knife.  Hind. _churi_.  P. ii. 210; Pp. 550; M.
vii. 39.  The form with L is only found in Spanish.  Pott suggests that
it is a corruption of _cuchillo_.  In Z. ii. 148 it is given as
_Germanía_, or thieves’ slang, and is probably their alteration of the
correct _churí_.

CHUQUEL.  _Rom._  A dog.  P. ii. 213; A. 64; Pp. 553; M. vii. 51; Z. ii.
* 132.

CIERRA!  _Span._  “Close!”  The war-cry of the Castilian chivalry; more
fully, _Santiago_! _y cierra España_!

CIERTO.  _Span._  Sure, certain.

CIERVO.  _Span._  A stag.

COCAL.  _Rom._  A bone.  P. ii. 92; A. 52; Pp. 289; M. vii. 85.

COISA, COUSA.  _Port._  A thing.

COLEGIO.  _Span._  A college.

COMER.  _Span._ and _Port._  To eat.

COMITIVA.  _Span._ and _Port._  Suite, following, company.

COMMERCIO.  _Port._  Commerce.  _Span. comercio_.

COMPANHEIRO.  _Port._  Companion, comrade.

COMPRAR.  _Span._ and _Port._  To buy.

COMUNERO.  _Span._  A member or partisan of the Communities of Castile.
See Burke’s _Hist. of Spain_, ii. 316.

CON.  _Span._  With.

CONCIUDADANO.  _Span._  A fellow-citizen.

CONDE.  _Span._ and _Port._  A count, or earl.  Lat. _comes_.  A title at
one time greater than that of duke in Spain.  See Burke’s _Hist. of
Spain_, i. 148.

CONDENADO.  _Span._  Condemned, damned.

CONQUISTAR.  _Span._ and _Port._  To conquer.

CONSTITUCION.  _Span._  Constitution; the constitution of 1812.

CONTRABANDISTA.  _Span_ and _Port._  A smuggler.

CONVERSACION.  _Span._  Conversation.  As an interjection, “Folly!
rubbish!”

COPITA.  _Span._  A wine-glass, or small drinking-cup; dimin. of _copa_.

COPLA.  _Span._ and _Port._  A couplet, or a few lines of poetry.  The
original Spanish of the lines quoted ii. 62 is as follows—

    “Un manco escribió una carta;
    Un siego {395} la está mirando;
    Un mudo la está leyendo;
    Y un sordo la está escuchando.”

      (Rodriguez Marin, _Cantos Populares Españoles_, tom. iv. p. 364, No.
                                                                    7434.)

CORAHAI or CORAJAI.  _Rom._  The Moors of Northern Africa.  P. ii. 127;
A. 27; Pp. 320; M. vii. 64.

CORAHANÓ, fem. CORAHANÍ.  _Rom._  A Moor.  See CORAHAI.

CORCHETE.  _Span._ and _Port._  A catchpoll.  Lit. a clasp; _corchetes_
are “hooks and eyes.”

CORÇO.  _Gal._  A stag, or deer.

CORDOVES.  _Span._   Of or belonging to Cordova.

CORREGIDOR.  _Span._  A municipal magistrate.  Orig. a _co-regidor_, or
joint administrator of the law; not, as Midshipman Easy and the Boatswain
decided, a _corrector_, though the word also has that signification in
Spanish.  As regards the magistrate, the second _r_ is superfluous and
etymologically deceptive.

CORRIDA.  _Span._ and _Port._  A racecourse; bull-fight.

CORTAMANGA.  The word is not given in any dictionary that I have
consulted.  Borrow evidently alludes to a vulgar and obscene gesture,
usually called _un corte de mangas_.  It is made by bringing down the
right hand on the left forearm, and raising the left forearm, with the
middle finger of the left hand raised and the other fingers bent.  It is
not under _corte_ or _manga_ either in Covarrubia or the 1730 edit. of
the _Dic. Acad. Esp._, or more recent ones, probably on account of its
indecent signification.  I have never seen it written.  The finger part
of the business is of course as old as the Romans, and survives still in
Italy.

CORTE.  _Span._ and _Port._  The king’s court; more particularly the city
where the court resides—thus the capital.  Applied colloquially and in
commercial correspondence to Madrid, Lisbon, Rio Janeiro, etc.

CORTEJO.  _Span._ and _Port._  A lover.  Orig. courtesy or homage.
_Cortejar_ = to do homage to.

CORTES.  _Span._ and _Port._  The estates of the realm, parliament.

CORTIJO.  _Span._  Farmhouse.

COSAS.  _Span._  Things.  “_Cosas de España_,” “_Cosas de Inglaterra_,”
“_Cosas de los Ingleses_.”  Colloquially equivalent to our, “How
Spanish!” “Quite English!”

CRALLIS.  _Rom._  King.  The Slavonian _kral_.  P. ii. 123; Pp. 296; M.
vii. 87.

CREER.  _Span._  To believe.  _Yo lo creo_, “I believe you, my boy!”
“You bet!”

CRIA.  _Span._ and _Port._  A brood.

CRISCOTE.  _Rom._  A book.  See GABICOTE.

CRISTIANO.  _Span._  Christian.  Used in Spain for the Spanish language.

CRISTINO.  _Span._  A partisan of Queen Christina.

CRUZ.  _Span._ and _Port._  A cross; also the withers of a horse or mule.

CRUZADO.  _Span._ and _Port._  A coin worth about six shillings.  See
Burke’s _Hist. of Spain_, ii. 286.

CUADRILLA.  _Span._  A band.

CUARTO.  _Span._  A copper coin of the value of four maravedis, or about
one English farthing.  Lit. the fourth part of anything.

CUENTA.  _Span._  Bill, reckoning.

CUESTA.  _Span._  A hill, or mount.

CUIDADO.  _Span._ and _Port._  Care, anxiety.  The Andalusians and
Gitanos say _cuidao_.

CUL.  _Arab._  Every, all.

CURA.  _Span._ and _Port._  Parish priest.  Fr. _curé_; _not_ a “curate.”
The writer usually known as _El Cura de Fruime_ (i. 401) was D. Diego
Antonio Zernadas de Castro, born at Santiago in 1698.  He wrote various
works in verse and prose, a complete edition of which, in seven volumes,
was published by Ibarra (Madrid, 1778–81), and was followed by another,
in three volumes, in 1783–9–90.  A biography of the author, by D.
Fernando Fulgosio, appeared in the _Revista de España_, _tomos_ 27, 28
(1872).  There was another _Cura de Fruime_, D. Antonio Francisco de
Castro, who was also a poet, and who died in 1836.

CURELAR.  _Rom._  To do business.  P. ii. 111; Pp. 281; M. vii. 88.

CURELÓ.  _Rom._  Trouble, pain.  P. ii. 115.  See CURELAR.

CURIOSO.  _Span._ and _Port._  Inquiring, curious.

                                * * * * *

DADAS.  _Span._ and _Port._  Given.  From _dar_.

DAI.  _Rom._  Mother.  P. ii. 309; Pp. 194; M. vii. 40.

DAOUD.  _Arab._  Light.  Arab. _ḍau_.  _Daoud Scharr_ = _ḍau ash-sharr_,
light of mischief.

DAR.  _Arab._  A house; often found in composition as _Dar-sinah_, _Dar
ṣinā_‘_ah_ (ii. 367), the house of the arts, or handicrafts; _Dar-dwag_,
_Dar dabbagh_ (ii. 371), the house of the bark, or tannery.

DEHESA.  _Span._  Pasture; applied more particularly to large open tracts
of country where the cattle can roam at large.

DEMONIO.  _Span._ and _Port._  Demon, devil.

DENHO.  _Gal._  The devil; used familiarly, “the deuce.”

DESEMBARCAR.  _Span._ and _Port._  To disembark.

DESESPERADO.  _Span._ and _Port._  Desperate; a desperado.

DESHONESTO.  _Span._ and _Port._  Not “dishonest,” but “immodest,
lascivious.”

DESPACHO.  _Span._  An office; a _depôt_.  Used also of certain shops,
such as the bakers, tobacco-sellers, and others.

DESPOBLADO.  _Span._  Desert, or waste lands.  Lit. depopulated; the true
history is seen in the etymology.  The word is applied to uncultivated
desert, or uninhabited parts of the country, grazed for the most part by
half wild sheep or cattle.

DESPUES.  _Span._  Afterwards.  _Hasta despues_, “Au revoir.”

DETRAS.  _Span._  Behind.  See TIRAR.

DIESTRO.  _Span._  Skilful, dexterous; as a substantive, a performer at a
bull-feast, also a fencer.

DIOS.  _Span._  God.

DISPARATE.  _Span._ and _Port._  A blunder, or extravagance.  As an
interjection, “Stuff and nonsense!”

DJMAH.  The name of a tower in Tangier.  Apparently the Arab. _Jami_’ =
mosque.

DOIRO.  _Port._  Of gold, _de oiro_ or _ouro_.

DON, DOÑA.  _Span._  DOM, DONA.  _Port._  Lord; lady.

DONOSTIAN.  _Basque_.  San Sebastian.

DORSO.  _Span._ and _Port._  The back.

DOSTA.  _Rom._  Enough!  Span. _basta_!  P. ii. 308; M. vii. 45.

DOUBLOON.  _Eng._  A gold coin.  _Span. doblon_.  See Burke’s _Hist. of
Spain_, ii. 284.

DRAO.  _Rom._  Poison.  P. ii. 316; Pp. 215; M. vii. 45.

DROMÁLIS.  _Rom._  Carriers, muleteers, men of the road.  P. ii. 319.
See DRUN.

DRUN, DROM.  _Rom._  A road.  Grk. δρόμος.  P. ii. 318; Pp. 215; M. vii.
46.

DRUNGRUJE, better DRONGRUGI or DRUNJI.  _Rom._  The king’s highway; also
a bridle-path.  See DRUN.

DUENDE.  _Span._ and _Port._  A ghost, or hobgoblin.  In _Germanía_, or
thieves’ slang = the watch, patrol.

DUFFEL.  _O. Eng._  A coarse woollen cloth, said to have been first made
at Duffel, near Amsterdam.

DUROTUNÓ.  A shepherd.  Probably connected with _dur_ = far, P. ii. 317;
M. vii. 48.  It is worth noticing that we find _Gorotuné_ = a native of
Estremadura, which looks like a pun, P. i. 54, so too J., who has also
_oroturné_ = a mountaineer, which suits the idea.

DWAG.  See DAR.

                                * * * * *

E, Es.  _Rom._  Genitive, sing. and plur., of the article _O_.

E.  _Port._  And.

EIDRI.  See SHILLAM.

ELLEGREN.  Stated by Borrow to be a Scand. word, meaning “elfin plant,”
but the dictionaries do not give it.  _Elle_, however, in composition =
fairy, in Danish; and _gren_ = bough, in Danish, Norse, and Swedish.

EMBÉO.  _Rom._  A book.  P. ii. 62.

EMBUSTERO.  _Span._  Impostor, cheat, schemer; from _embuste_, a deceit,
false or fraudulent scheme, snare.

ENCINA.  _Span._  An oak.

ENDEMONIADO.  _Span._  Possessed by the devil.

ENGANCHAR.  _Span._  To enlist as a soldier.  Prim. to hook; _gancho_, a
hook.

ENSAYO.  _Span._  An essay, attempt.

ENTENDER.  _Span._  To understand.

ENTERO.  _Span._  An _entire_ horse, or stallion.  As an adjective,
entire, perfect, complete.

ERRATE.  _Rom._  A respectful appellation of the gypsy race, used by them
of their own race.  From Rom. _rat_, blood; the people of the same blood;
our blood relations.  P. ii. 272; Pp. 457; M. viii. 56.

ERRAY.  _Rom._  Gentleman.  More commonly, _rai_; in Eng. Rom., _rye_.
P. ii. 264; Pp. 453; M. viii. 54.

ERREGUIÑA.  _Basque._  Queen.  Borrow is mistaken in connecting this word
with Sanscrit.  It is simply the Lat. _regina_.

ERUDITO.  _Span._ and _Port._  Learned.

ESCAPADO.  _Span._ and _Port._  Escaped, a runaway.

ESCLIVITUD.  _Span._  Slavery.

ESCOCÉS.  _Span._  Scotch.

ESCONDIDO.  _Span._ and _Port._  _Adj._ hidden.

ESCOPETA.  _Span._ and _Port._  A gun.

ESCRIBANO.  _Span._  A notary, or his clerk.  Lit. a writer.

ESCUCHAR.  _Span._  To listen.  _Escuchad_!  “Listen!”

ESCUELA.  _Span._  A school.

ESO.  _Span._  That.  _Que es eso_?  “What’s that?”

ESPAÑA.  _Span._  Spain.  See i. 341.

ESPAÑOL.  Spanish.

ESPINAL, ESPINAR.  _Span._  A thorny thicket; place of thorns.

ESPINGARDA.  _Span._ and _Port._  A musket.

ESPINHEIRO.  _Port._  A thorn-tree.

ESTADEA.  _Port._  ESTADAIÑA.  _Gal._  Dimin. ESTADINHA.  (1) A skeleton,
or death’s-head; a nocturnal procession of the spirits of the dead.  (2)
A witches’ “sabbath;” for which last the Galician _compaña_ is also used.

ESTALAGEM.  _Port._  An inn.

ESTAR.  _Span._ and _Port._  To be.

ESTARIPEL.  _Rom._  A prison.  P. ii. 246; Pp. 146.  SC. 141.

ESTRANGERO.  _Span._  Strange, foreign.

ESTREMOU.  _Rom._  ESTREMEÑO.  _Span._  An inhabitant of the province of
Estremadura.

EUSCARRA.  Basque.  Used by Borrow (ch. xxxvii.) for the Basque name of
their own tongue; more commonly, _Escualdun_, _Escualdunac_; a word in
any case of very uncertain origin.  See Burke’s _Hist. of Spain_, vol. i.
App. I., THE BASQUES.

EXEMPLO.  _Span._ and _Port._  Example, pattern.  _Por exemplo_, for
instance.

EXTENDERSE.  _Span._  To extend, stretch.

                                * * * * *

FABRICA.  _Span._ and _Port._  Manufactory.

FACCIOSO.  _Span._  As an adjective, factious; more often used by Borrow
as a substantive, with the special signification, in the years 1830–1840,
of a disaffected or factious person; a rebel; a Carlist.

FÁILTE.  _Irish_.  Welcomes.

FAJA, FAXA.  _Span._ and _Port._  A thick waist-band, usually of silk,
often red, and a characteristic portion of the dress of a great majority
of Spaniards.  The Indian _kamarband_.  From the Lat. _fascia_, a girth,
or band.

FANGO.  _Span._  Mire, mud.

FAROL.  _Span._ and _Port._  Strictly speaking, a lantern; used by Borrow
for FARO, a lighthouse.  They are, of course, equally the ancient Grk.
φάρος.

FATO.  _Port._  A herd; a multitude.  Span. _hato_.

FELOUK, FELOQUE.  _Eng._  A boat, felucca.  Arab. _faluka_, _falak_ =
ship.

FERIOUL.  _Arab._  A sort of shawl thrown over the shoulders.  Arab.
_farwāl_.

FIDALGO.  _Port._  A gentleman.  The Spanish hidalgo = _filius alicujus_,
the son of some one.

FILIMICHA.  _Rom._  The gallows.  Found in Borrow, and J.; Pott, ii. 394,
simply quotes it from the former.

FINO.  _Span._ and _Port._  Fine, excellent, sharp.

FONDA.  _Span._  Hotel.  According to Diez, from Latin _funda_, a sling,
or a purse, which has also given the French _bourse_ and Spanish _bolsa_,
an assembly of paying persons.  See POSADA.

FORA.  _Port._ and _Gal._  Outside, without.

FORO, FOROS.  _Rom._  City, or town.  P. ii. 393; Pp. 234; M. vii. 53.

FORTE.  _Port._  Strong.

FREGONA.  _Span._  A scullery maid.

FRIOLERA.  _Span._  A trifle.  Lat. _futilitas_.

FUENTE.  _Span._  A fount, spring.

FUERON.  _Span._  They were.  From _ser_.

FUEROS.  _Span._  Local privileges.

FUNCION.  _Span._  A solemnity; festival; public assemblage of people to
do or see some important act.  In military language, an action; then
colloquially, “a row.”  The barbarous English adaptation, _function_, is
convenient, and is rapidly gaining ground.

                                * * * * *

GABARDINE.  _O. Eng._  A long coat, or cloak, usually applied to the
distinctive dress worn by the Jews under compulsion.  Said to be from the
Spanish and Old French _gaban_, a great coarse cloak with a hood, a word
itself supposed to be connected with _capa_.

GABICOTE.  _Rom._  Book.  Borrow seems the only authority for this word.
J. has _gascote_.  P. ii. 145.

GABINÉ.  _Rom._  A Frenchman.  P. i. 54, ii. 145.

GACHAPLA.  _Rom._  A couplet, in poetry.  Span. _copla_.  P. ii. 41.

GACHÓ.  _Rom._  Any one who is not a gypsy; the same as Rom. _busnó_.  P.
ii. 129; Pp. 235; M. vii. 53; McR. 93.

GALERA.  _Span._  A long cart without springs; the sides are lined with
matting, while beneath hangs a loose open net, as under the _calesinas_
of Naples, in which lies and barks a horrid dog, who keeps a cerberus
watch over iron pots and sieves, and suchlike gypsy utensils, and who is
never to be conciliated.—Ford’s _Spain_, Introd. p. 37.

GALLEGO.  _Span._ and _Port._  Galician; usually Anglicized by Borrow as
Gallegan.  The Roman _Gallaeci_ or _Callaeci_.

GALLINERIA.  _Span._  A hen-coop; a place for keeping _gallinas_, or
chickens.

GALOOT (_Galūth_).  _Hebr._  Bondage, captivity.  “The galoot of sin.”
In the slang of the United States the word means “a simpleton.”

GARBANZOS.  _Span._  Chick-pease (_Cicer arietinum_).  The invariable
vegetable in every _olla_ and _puchero_.

GARLOCHIN.  _Rom._  Heart.  See CARLO.

GARNATA.  _Arab._  Granada.  See MELEGRANA.

GARROTE.  _Span._ and _Port._  The death penalty by strangulation, in
which an iron collar fixed to a post is tightened by a screw and receives
the neck of the culprit, which is broken by a sharp turn given by the
executioner.  _Garrote_ also means a cudgel, or heavy walking-stick; and
the tourniquet used by surgeons.  It is a word of strange and uncertain
etymology, and is said to be connected with Span. _garra_, a claw, Fr.
_jarret_, a thigh, and other apparently incongruous words.

GAZPACHO.  A dish in the nature of a vegetable salad very popular in
Spain, made of bread, onions, potatoes, tomatoes, garlic, _garbanzos_ or
chick-peas, with oil and seasoning of various kinds.  The etymology is
uncertain.

GEFATURA.  _Span._  Office of the following.

GEFE.  _Span._  Chief.  _Gefe politico_ = _corregidor_, _q.v._

GELABA.  _Arab._  A long cloak.  Arab. _jilbāb_.

GENIO.  _Span._ and _Port._  Genius; spirit.

GENOUI, dimin. GENOUILLOS.  Moor.  A Genoese, Genoese children.

GENTE, JENTE.  _Span._ and _Port._  People.

GERMANÍA.  _Span._  According to the dictionaries, the dialect or mode of
speech used by gypsies, thieves, and ruffians, to prevent their being
understood, in which they give special meanings to ordinary words (e.g.
_aguila_, eagle = a clever thief), or invent words of their own (e.g.
_almifor_ = horse).  No doubt _Germanía_ contains gypsy words, but it is
no more identical with Romany than are the Fr. _Argot_ or the Eng.
_Cant_.  See Z. ii. 129.

GIBIL.  _Arab._  A hill.

GINETE.  _Span._  A good horseman.  _À la gineta_, in the Moorish style
(of riding).  Diez, strangely enough, would derive this Arab or Moorish
word from the Grk. μυμνήτης, a naked or light-armed foot soldier.  It is
really derived from the proper name Zeneta, a Berber tribe who furnished
the finest horsemen to the Spanish Moors (Cron. Alfonso X., fo. 6 d, an.
1263).  In Catalan the word has become _janetz_.  Our English word
“jennet” may be derived from the same source.

GIRAR.  _Span._ and _Port._  To turn round.

GITANA.  _Thieves’ slang_.  Twelve ounces of bread.  See i. 177.

GITANO.  _Span._  A gypsy.  A corrupted form of _Egiptiano_, an Egyptian.
R. 269; McR. 109.  See ZINCALO.

GODO.  _Span._ and _Port._  A Goth; Gothic.

GOH.  _Pers._  Mountain.  More correctly, _koh_.

GONFALONIERA.  _Ital._  Standard-bearer.

GRĀ, GRAS, GRASTE, GRY.  _Rom._  A horse.  P. ii. 145; A. 33; Pp. 249; M.
vii. 58.

GRACIA.  _Span._  GRATIA.  _Lat._  Grace.

GRANJA.  _Span._  A grange, farm.  _La Granja_, the royal palace at San
Ildefonso.

GRECO.  _Ital._  GRIEGO.  _Span._  Greek.

GUAPO, GUAPITO.  _Span._ and _Port._  Gay, neat, clever, elegant,
gallant.

GUARDACOSTAS.  _Span._  A revenue cutter.

GUARDIA.  _Span._  A guard, watch.

GUERILLA.  _Span._  Lit. little war.  Irregular warfare to which the
Spaniards have ever been so much addicted.  The _guerrillero_ is the
irregular soldier, or armed _paisano_, who wages this little war.

GUERRA.  _Span._  War.

GUISSAN.  _Basque_.  According to.  It is an adaptation of the Fr.
_guise_, Span. _guisa_.  The regular Basque words are _arabera_,
_araura_.  Aizquibel, Basque-Spanish Dict., gives the form _gisara_.

GURSÉAN.  _Moor._  The giant aloe.  Span. _pita_.  _Apud_ Borrow, ii.
276.

GUSTO.  _Span._  (1) Taste, lit. or fig.  (2) Fancy, caprice, wish.

                                * * * * *

HABER.  _Span._  To have.  _Hay_, there are.  _No hay mas_?  Are there no
more?

HABLA.  _Span._  Speech.

HABLAR.  _Span._  To speak.  Lat. _fabulare_.

HACER.  _Span._  To do, make.  _El hará el gusto por V_, He will do what
you want.

HADA, HADE.  _Arab._  This.

HAIK.  _Arab._  A white cloth worn over the head by the Moors.

HAIMAS.  _Arab._  Tents.  More correctly, _ḥaimat_, plur. _ḥiyām_.

HAJI.  _Arab._, _Turk._, and _Grk._  One who having made the _haj_, or
pilgrimage, to Mecca, is entitled to wear a green turban and assume the
title of _haji_.  But the same title, strange to say, is assumed by
orthodox Christians who have made a pilgrimage to Jerusalem; and _Haji
Yanco_ is quite as common a title or mode of address in the Levant as
_Haji Ibrahím_.

HALAL.  _Arab._  Lawful.

HALOOF.  _Berber_.  Hog’s flesh.  More correctly, _ḥalluf_.

HAMAL.  _Arab._  Porter, carrier.  More correctly, _ḥammāl_.

HANUTZ.  _Arab._  Shop.  More correctly, _ḥanūt_.

HARĀM.  _Arab._ and _Hebr._  Forbidden.  Akin to this is _harem_.

HASTA.  _Span._  Until.  See DESPUES.

HATO.  _Span._  A herd, a multitude.  Port. _fato_.

HAX WEIB, HAX.  _Germ._  A witch.  A wrong form of _Hexe Weib_ or _Hexe_,
a witch, or female wizard.

HAYIM.  _Hebr._  Living.  More correctly, _hayyim_.

HELLER.  _Germ._  A copper coin in use in Germany previous to 1848; in
value about one farthing.

HERENCIA.  _Span._  Heritage, inheritance.

HERRADOR.  _Span._  A blacksmith.

HIDALGO.  _Span._  See FIDALGO.

HIGUERA.  _Span._  A fig-tree.

HIJO.  _Span._  A son.  Lat. _filius_.

HINAI.  _Arab._  Here.

HOK.  _Rom._  Deceit, falsehood, fraud.  _Hokka_, to lie; _hokkawar_, to
cheat.  _Hokkano_, in Eng. Rom., a lie.  P. ii. 160; A. 37; Pp. 317; M.
vii. 63.  _Hokkano baro_, the great trick.  See Z. i. 310; LL. 244; Lel.
352; Gr. 357.

HOMBRE.  _Span._  HOMME.  _Fr._  A man

HORCA.  _Span._  The gallows.

HORNO.  _Span._  Oven.

HOURIS.  _Arab._  The women of the Moslem Paradise.  Plural of the Arab,
_ḥawrá_ = black-eyed.

HSHEESH.  _Arab._  I.e. _ḥashish_, a preparation of hemp.

HUÁJE.  _Arab._  Things.  _Huáje del Mselmeen_, more correctly, _ḥawāij
el Muslimīn_, things of the Moslems.

HUESO.  _Span._  A bone.

HUNDUNAR, JUNDUNAR.  _Rom._  A soldier.  P. ii. 172; R. 294.  J. gives
_jundo_, _jundonal_.

                                * * * * *

ICHASOA.  _Basque_.  The sea.  The verse quoted by Borrow (ii. 118) more
accurately runs thus—

    “Ichasoa urac handi.
       (The iea—the water—large)
    Eztu ondoric aguerri—
       (There is not—any bottom—manifest)
    Pasaco ninsaqueni andic
       (To pass—I could be able—thence)
    Maitea icustea gatic.”
       (The beloved—the seeing, _i.e._ to see—for).

INFAMIA.  _Span._ and _Port._  Infamy.

INFANTE.  _Span._ and _Port._  Prince.

INGLATERRA.  _Span._  England.

INGLES.  _Span._  English.  _Inglesito_!  “My little Englishman!”

INQUISICION.  _Span._  The Inquisition.

INSHALLAH.  _Arab._  Please God!

INSTANCIA.  _Span._ and _Port._  Instance, prosecution.  See note, ii.
141.

                                * * * * *

JABADOR.  Apparently a Hispanized form of the African Arabic _jabdali_ =
a gold-embroidered waistcoat.

JACA, or HACA.  _Span._  A pony, or small riding horse.

JARA CANALLIS.  _Rom._  The only authority I have succeeded in finding
for this word is Z. ii. * 61.  “_Jaracañales_, guards, officers of the
revenue.”  It may possibly be derived from the Bohemian gypsy _xáro_,
Hungarian _háro_ = sabre, and the Span._ canalla_, but I have no reason
to suppose that the word _xáro_ or _háro_ was known to the gypsies of
Spain.

JARGON.  _Eng._  Originally a Fr. word, meaning any unintelligible sound,
as that of birds, then applied to the strange speech of the _Gueux_; and
so to any unknown tongue.  Borrow himself says of the gypsies, “when
wishing to praise the proficiency of any individual in their tongue, they
are in the habit of saying, ‘He understands the seven jargons’” (Z. ii.
125).  Frampton Boswell is recorded (G. i. 374) to have stated that
Romany was not one of “the seven languages,” “but,” adds Mr. Hinde
Groome, “what he meant thereby, goodness alone knows.”  The historian
Mazaris (A.D. 1416) states that at that time the Peloponnesus was
inhabited by seven principal nations, one of which was that of the
Egyptians.  These “Egyptians” are held by M. Bataillard to have been
gypsies (_ib._ iii. 154), and I would suggest that we have here the
origin of “the seven jargons.”  The number seven seems to be in a special
way connected with the children of Roma.  For other instances see Leland,
_English Gypsies_, p. 218; Gr. 171.

JAUN, JAUNA.  _Basque_.  Lord, the lord.

JAUNGVICOA.  _Basque_.  The Lord God.  _Jaun_ = man, sir, lord; _Gincoa_
or _Jincoa_ = God.

JEHINNIM.  _Arab._ and _Hebr._  Hell.

JENNUT.  _Arab._  Paradise.  Usually written, _jannat_.

JENTE.  _Span._  See GENTE.

JIN.  _Arab._  In classic English, _genie_ (Arabic and Persian _jinn_), a
class of spirits lower than the angels.

JOHÁR.  _Arab._  A pearl.

JOJABAR, JONJABAR.  _Rom._  To deceive.  From _jojána_, deceit.  See HOK.

JORGE, dimin. JORGITO.  _Span._  George.

JOROBADO.  _Span._  A hunchback.  The verb _jorobar_ means “to worry.”

JUEZ.  _Span._  A judge.

JUMAL.  _Arab._  Friday.  More correctly, _jum_‘_a_.

JUNTA.  _Span._ and _Port._  An assembly, meeting, council, governing
body.

JUNTUNÓ.  _Rom._  A listener, spy, sneak.  From _junar_, _junelar_, to
listen.  P. ii. 221; Pp. 497; M. viii. 75.

JUSTICIA.  _Span._  A legal tribunal, or the magistrate or magistrates
who constitute it.  _Absol_, justice.

                                * * * * *

<DW5>.  _Arab._  Not a Moslem.

KANDRISA.  According to Borrow, Turkish trousers.  Possibly the same as
the African Arabic _ḳan dūra_ = long shirt, _toga talaris_.

KAPUL UDBAGH.  According to Borrow = “There is no God but one.”

KAUK.  _Hebr._  The furred cap of Jerusalem, according to Borrow.  We may
perhaps compare _ḳūḳa_, stated by Redhouse in his _Turkish Diet_, to be a
peculiar plumed head-dress worn by field-officers of the Janissaries.

KAWAR.  _Arab._  An uncommon word, meaning, no doubt, a cemetery, being a
corrupt form of _ḳabr_, a tomb.

KEBIR.  _Arab._  Great.

KER, QUER.  _Rom._  A house.  P. ii. 153; Pp. 279; M. vii. 79; G. i. 178.

KERMOUS DEL INDE.  _Arab._  A fruit; the prickly pear.

KISTUR, KESTER.  _Rom._  To ride.  P. ii. 122; SC. refer to _uklistó_,
Pp. 560; A. 14; M. viii. 89.  Borrow derives it from the Wallachian
_keleri_.  Perhaps from the Grk. κέλης.

KJÆMPE.  _Scand._  A champion.  Cf. “Kempion the kingis son” in the
ballad that bears his name.

KNAW.  _Rom._  Now.  P. ii. 124; Pp. 130; M. vii. 5.

KOSKO, KOOSHTO.  _Rom._  Good.  P. ii. 157.  This is an Eng. Rom. word.
Continental gypsies use _latchó_, _mishtó_.

KYRIE.  Grk. Κύριε, sir, my lord.

                                * * * * *

LABRADOR.  _Span._  Cultivator, rustic, peasant.  _Labrar_, to till the
ground.

LÁCHA.  _Rom._  Maidenhead, virginity.  Z. ii. 7; P. ii. 331; Pp. 325; M.
viii. 4.

LACHIPÉ.  _Rom._  Silk.  I cannot explain this word, unless it is
connected with the following.

LACHÓ, fem. LACHÍ.  _Rom._  Good.  P. ii. 329; A. 49; Pp. 328; M. viii.
4.

LADRÕES.  _Port._  Plur. of _ladrão_, a thief.  Lat. _latro_.

LALORÉ.  _Rom._  The Portuguese.  LALORÓ, the red land.  Eng. Rom.
_Lotto_ (cf. _Jackanapes_, p. 28).  P. i. 54, ii. 338; Pp. 328, 339; M.
viii. 8.

LAPURRAC.  _Basque_.  The thieves.

LARGO.  _Port._  A square, or public place in a town.

LECTURA.  _Span._  Reading.

LEN.  _Rom._  A river.  _Len baro_, the great river; _Wady al Kebir_, the
Guadalquivir.  P. ii. 336; Pp. 333; M. viii. 6.

LEVANTARSE.  _Span._ and _Port._  To raise one’s self, rise.

LE.  _Span._  To him.

LI, LIL.  _Rom._  Paper; a letter, passport, book.  P. ii. 329, 339; A.
48; Pp. 334; M. viii. 7.

LIB.  _Hebr._  Heart.  More correctly, _leb_.

LICEO.  _Span._  School, college.

LILIPENDI.  _Rom._  A simpleton.  Akin to LILÓ, _q.v._

LILÓ, fem. LILÍ.  _Rom._  Foolish, mad.  P. ii. 340.

LIMOSNA, dimin. LIMOSNITA.  _Span._  Alms, charity.

LINDO.  _Span._ and _Port._  Beautiful, pretty.

LIRI.  _Rom._  Law.  P. ii. 340.

LLAVERO.  _Span._  Turnkey.

LOCO.  _Span._  Mad.

LOMBO.  _Port._  Loin.

LONDONÉ.  _Rom._  An Englishman; lit. a Londoner.  So B., but it is
probably plural.  P. i. 54.

LONGANIZERO.  _Span._  Sausage-maker.

LONTRA.  _Port._  Otter.  Span. _nutria_.  “L” for “N” is characteristic.

LOOR.  _Old Span._  Praise.

LUME.  _Port._  Light.

LUMIA.  _Rom._  A harlot.  P. ii. 334; Pp. 342; M. viii. 9; G. i. 178.

                                * * * * *

MA.  _Arab._  Not.

MACHO, MACHA.  _Span._  A mule, male or female.  Considering that, even
in Spanish, _macho_ did, and does, signify a male animal of any
kind—being an abbreviation of the Latin _masculus_—_macha_, a she-mule,
is rather a strange word!

MADRILATI.  _Rom._  Madrid.  Also _Adalí_, J.  In thieves’ slang also
_Gao_ (= _gav_, a town), Z. ii. * 54.  But H. gives _gao_ = _piojo_ (a
louse).

MAHA.  _Sanscr._  Great.  Persian _mih_.

MAHASNI, plur. MAKHASNIAH.  _Arab._  Soldiers.  More correctly, men of
the garrison; defenders.

MAI.  _Port._  Mother.

MAILLA.  _Rom._  A she-ass.  P. ii. 454.  Apparently only found in Eng.
Romany.

MAJARÓ.  _Rom._  Holy.  P. ii. 462.

MAJO, MAJA.  Dandy; fancy man or girl.  _Majo_, scarcely to be rendered
in any foreign language, is a word of more general signification than
_manolo_, q.v.  The one is a dandy, or smart fellow, all over Spain; the
other is used only of a certain class in Madrid.

MAJOON.  I cannot find this word, but it is apparently the name of some
intoxicating substance, and is probably connected with the Arabic
_majnūn_ = possessed by a _jinn_, mad.

MAKHIAH.  _Arab._  Brandy made of figs.  More correctly, _ma’iyya_.

MALO.  _Span._  Bad, wicked.

MALVADO.  _Span._ and _Port._  Malicious, evil disposed.

MAN.  _Rom._  Me.  P. i. 229; Pp. 66; M. xi. 22.

MANOLO.  _Span._  _Manolo_ is a somewhat difficult word to translate.  It
is applied to the flash or fancy man and his _manola_ in Madrid only; a
class fond of pleasure, of fine clothes, of bull-fights, and of sunshine,
with a code of honour of their own; men and women rather picturesque than
exemplary, and eminently racy of the soil.

MANRÓ.  _Rom._  Bread or corn.  Estremadura is thus called _Chim del
Manró_, “The Land of Corn.”  P. ii. 440; Pp. 350; M. viii. 12.  Given as
_marron_, G. i. 177.

MANTA.  _Span._ and _Port._  A woollen blanket.  _Á manta de Dios_ =
copiously.  The word has nothing to do with the national _cloak_ of
Spain, which is _la capa_.

MANTILLA.  _Span._  The characteristic headdress of Spanish ladies, of
black silk or lace, drawn over the back of the head and shoulders.
Dimin. of _manta_.

MAR.  _Span._ and _Port._  Sea.

MARAVEDÍ.  _Span._  A coin of various weights and values.  See Burke’s
_History of Spain_, ii. 282.

MAREQUITA.  _Span._  Dimin. of Maria.

MARIPOSA.  _Span._  A butterfly; a night light.

MAS.  _Span._  More.

MATADOR.  _Span._ and _Port._  (1) A slayer, murderer.  (2) The man who
kills the bull.  See note, i. 170.

MATO.  _Port._  A forest; or more exactly, a wild country, full of bushes
and thickets.

MAUGHRABIE.  _Arab._  A Borrovian adaptation of the Arabic _Al Maghrib_,
the west, signifying Mauretania, or North-Western Africa.

MAYIM.  _Hebr._  Waters.

MAYOR.  _Span._ and _Port._  Greater.

MAYORDOMO.  _Span._ and _Port._  House steward, or major-domo.

MEARRAH.  _Hebr._ and _Arab._  Cemetery.  Lit. a cave.  Hebr. _m_‘_arah_,
Arab. _maghārah._

MECLIS, MEKLIS.  _Eng. Rom._  Leave off! have done!  “‘_Meklis_,’ said
Mrs. Chikno, ‘pray drop all that, sister’”  (_The Romany Rye_, ch. v.).
P. ii. 112, 434; Pp. 369; M. viii. 19.

MEDICO.  _Span._ and _Port._  A physician.

MEFORSHIM.  _Hebr._  The commentators.  More correctly, _m_’_fár_’_shim_.

MEIGA.  _Port._ and _Gal._  A female sharper, fortune-teller, or
sorceress.  The adjective _meigo_, in Spanish _mego_, has the
signification of gentle, kind, mild.

MELEGRANA.  _Rom._  Granada.  From the Ital. _melagrana_, a pomegranate;
Span. _granada_.  See note, 375.

MENDI.  _Basque_.  A mountain.  See note to Ingles Mendi, ii. 314.

MERCADO.  _Span._ and _Port._  A market, or market-place.

MERCED.  _Span._  (1) Favour, grace, mercy.  (2) A day labourer’s pay, or
wages.  (3) In combination, _vuestra merced_, your worship, your honour,
etc.; written V. or Vd. and pronounced _usted_.

MESUNA.  _Rom._  A wayside inn, or _posada_, q.v.  P. ii. 43, 463.

MEZQUITA.  _Span._  A mosque.

MÍLA.  _Irish_.  A thousand.

MILAGRO.  _Span._  A miracle.

MIN.  _Rom._  My, mine.  P. i. 237; Pp. 69; M. xi. 30.

MIN.  _Arab._  From.

MIRAR.  _Span._  To look.

MISERIA.  _Span._ and _Port._  Misery, wretchedness; also niggardliness,
stinginess.

MODERADO.  _Span._ and _Port._  Moderate.  The name assumed by the more
royalist members of the _Cristino_ party.  See i. 180.

MODO.  _Span._ and _Port._  (1) Measure; (2) courtesy, urbanity.  _V. no
tiene modo_, “You’ve got no manners.”

MOIDORE.  _O. Eng._  Portuguese _moeda d’ouro_ = golden money, was a gold
piece of the value of about twenty-six shillings.

MONA.  _Span._ and _Port._  A she-monkey.

MONRÓ.  _Rom._  A friend; in thieves’ slang, an adult.  Z. ii. 149; P.
ii. 453; M. viii. 18.

MONTANA.  _Span._  A hill, mountain.

MONTE.  _Span._ and _Port._  A hill, mountain.

MONTERA.  _Span._  A hunting-cap, a Montero cap.

MONTERO.  _Span._  A hunter; originally, a mountaineer.

MORO.  _Span._  Moorish.

MOSTRADOR.  _Span._  The counter, of a shop.

MOZO.  _Span._  A youth, or lad; _moza_, a girl.

MSELMEEN.  _Arab._  Moslems.  See HUÁJE.

MUCHACHO, MUCHACHA.  _Spn._  Boy; girl.

MUCHO.  _Span._  Much.

MUGER, MUJER.  _Span._  Woman; wife.

MUJIK, MUZHIK.  _Russ._  A peasant.  It may be added that their popular
song, “Come, let us cut the cabbage” (i. 175), is not, as might be
supposed, an exhortation to horticultural pursuits.  “To cut the cabbage”
is a slang expression among the Slavs for killing a Turk, in allusion to
the green turbans worn by the descendants of the prophet.

MUK.  _Rom._  Let, allow.  See MECLIS.

MUNDO.  _Span._ and _Port._  World.

MUSHEE.  _Arab._  I.e. _ma_ = not, _shee_ = thing.

MUY.  _Span._  Very, much.

                                * * * * *

NACIONAL.  _Span._ and _Port._  A Nationalist; a member of the National
Guard.

NADA.  _Span._ and _Port._  Nothing.

NAHI.  _Rom._  Translated by Borrow, lost.  If so, perhaps connected with
_najabar_, to lose.  P. ii. 324; Pp. 381; M. viii. 23.  Possibly,
however, it is only a negative = is not.  P. i. 319; A. 70.

NAO.  _Port._  Ship.

NARANGERO.  _Span._  An orange-seller.

NAVA.  _Span._  A plain.

NDUI.  _Hebr._  A kind of hell, or purgatory, according to Borrow, who
puts the word into the mouth of his Lisbon Jews.  It is, apparently, the
Hebr. _niddui_ = ban, excommunication.

NEFSKY.  _Russ._  Of the Neva.

<DW64>.  _Span._ and _Port._  (1) Black; (2) a <DW64>, or African; (3) the
nickname given by the Basque Carlists to the _Cristinos_, or
Constitutionalists, 1833–1839.

NICABAR.  _Rom._  To take away, steal, destroy.  P. ii. 326; Pp. 390; M.
viii. 25.

NIRI.  _Basque_.  My, mine.

NOCHE.  _Span._  Night.

NOMBRE.  _Span._  Name.

NOVILLO.  _Span._  A young bull.  See note, i. 361.

NOVIO.  _Span._  Bridegroom, betrothed.

NUAR.  _Arab._  Flowers.  More correctly, _nawār_.

NUESTRO.  _Span._  Our.

NUVEIRO.  This word is neither Castilian, Galician, nor Portuguese; but
is a made-up or fancy word, from the Portuguese _nuvem_, a cloud; a cloud
man, or supernatural being.

                                * * * * *

O.  _Rom._  The.

Ó.  _Span._  Or.

OBISPO.  _Span._  Bishop.

OJALATEROS.  _Span._  “Waiters upon Providence.”  A burlesque word.  See
note, i. 169.

ONZA.  _Span._  A coin of the value of about £3 6_s._ 8_d._; lit. an
_ounce_ of gold.  Also known as the _doblon de à_ 8; Anglicized as “piece
of eight.”

ORAÇAM, ORAÇÃO.  _Port._  A prayer.

OTRO.  _Span._  Other.  _No hay otro en el mundo_, “There’s none like it
in the world.”

OULEM.  _Hebr._  Of the world.  Arab. ‘_olam_.

                                * * * * *

PACHÍ.  _Rom._  Modesty, honour, virginity.  P. ii. 347.

PACIENCIA.  _Span._ and _Port._  Patience.

PAÇO.  _Port._  The Court.

PADRE.  _Span._ and _Port._  Father.

PADRINO.  _Span._  (1) Sponsor, godfather; (2) second—in a duel.

PADRON.  _Span._  Patron, landlord.

PAHAN.  _Phœn._  A rabbit.

PAISANO.  _Span._ and _Port._  A countryman; _not_ a peasant, but a man
of the same country as another; a compatriot.  As the conventional answer
to the challenge, “_Quien vive_?” by a Spanish sentry, it means
“Civilian.”

PAJANDI.  _Rom._  A guitar.  According to Borrow, lit. “the thing that is
touched or played upon.”  P. ii. 369, 426.

PAJARIA.  _Span._  Straw-market.  The place where straw is _kept_ is
PAJAR.

PAL.  Rom.  See PLAN.

PALABRA.  _Span._  A word.

PALOMAR.  _Span._  A dovecote.

PAN.  _Span._  Bread.

PANHAGIA.  _Grk._  Lit. All-holy.  The Virgin Mary.

PANÍ.  See PAWNEE.

PAÑUELO.  _Span._  A handkerchief.  Lit. a little cloth.

PAPAS.  _Grk._  A priest (παπᾶς).

PARA.  _Span._ and _Port._  For.

PARNÓ.  _Rom._  White.  P. ii. 359; Pp. 410; M. viii. 32.

PARNÉ.  White, or silver money; thence, as in the case of Fr. _argent_,
money in general.  See PARNÓ.

PARRA.  _Span._  Festoons of vines; the trellis or stakes upon which
these festoons are trained.

PARUGAR.  _Rom._  To barter, swop, chaffer.  P. ii. 354; Pp. 412; M.
viii. 33.

PASTELEROS.  _Span._  Pastrycooks.

PASTESAS.  _Rom._  The hands.  _Ustilar á pastesas_ is to steal “with the
hands,” or by any sleight of hand.  Z. i. 315.  The usual Span. gypsy
word is _ba_, J.; _bas_, Z. i. 522.  Both are doubtless variations of the
more common _vast_.  P. ii. 86; Pp. 573; M. viii. 94; SC. 151.

PASTOR.  _Span._ and _Port._  Shepherd.

PATIO.  _Span._ and _Port._  The court of a house; either the open space
round which Spanish houses are so commonly built, or an open court in
front of it.

PATRON.  See PADRON.

PAWNEE, PANÍ.  _Rom._ Water.  Hind. _paní_.  The one special word known
to all gypsies wherever found, even in Brazil.  P. ii. 343; Pp. 405; M.
viii. 31; G. i. 61.

PELUNI.  _Arab._  Of another.  See ii. 313.

PENAR, PENELAR.  _Rom._  To speak, say.  P. ii. 386; Pp. 421; M. viii.
41.

PEÑA.  _Span._  A rock.

PEPTNDORIO.  _Rom._  Antonio; proper name.

PERICO.  _Span._  A small parrot.

PERO.  _Span._  But

PERRO.  _Span._  A dog.

PESAR.  _Span._ and _Port._  To afflict, distress.  Lit. to weigh.  _Me
peso_, “I’m very sorry.”

PESETA.  _Span._  A Spanish coin, representing, down to 1870, two silver
reals or four reals _vellon_, but since 1870 the standard or unit of
value in Spanish finance, is nearly equal to the French _franc_, and,
like it, divided for purposes of account, into 100 _centimos_.

PETULENGRO, PETALENGRO.  _Eng. Rom._  A shoeing smith.  See note on i.
204; P. ii. 348; Pp. 427; M. viii. 37; SC. 13, 121; and, generally,
Lavengro and The Romany Rye.

PFAFFEN.  _Germ._  Monks; a contemptuous term for clerics generally,
whether regular or secular.

PIAZZA.  _Ital._  An open square in a town, surrounded by colonnades.  In
modern American parlance the word is often used for a veranda, in which
sense Borrow apparently uses it, i. 276.

PICADOR.  _Span._ and _Port._  A riding-master, bull-fighter.  See note,
i. 170, and TORERO.

PICARDIA.  _Span._ and _Port._  Knavishness; from _picaro_, a rogue,
knave, or loafer.  The English adjective _picaresque_ is conventionally
applied to a certain class of Spanish story of low life and sharp
practice relieved by humour.

PÍCARO.  _Span._ and _Port._  Rogue, knave.

PICARON.  _Span._  Augmentative (_on_) of _pícaro_, a great scamp.

PICA.  _Span._ and _Port._  Peak, summit.

PILA.  _Span._  A water-trough.

PINAR, PINAL.  _Span._  Grove or wood of pine trees.

PINRÓ, PINDRÓ, plur. PINDRÉ.  _Rom._  Foot; _en pindré_, on foot P. ii.
351; Pp. 433; M. viii. 47; A. 33.

PIO.  _Span._ and _Port._  Pious.

PIRAR, PIRELAR.  _Rom._  To go, walk.  P. ii. 382; Pp. 436; M. viii. 42.

PITA.  _Span._  The aloe (_Agave americana_).

PLULÍ.  _Rom._  A widow.  P. ii. 377; Pp. 439; M. viii. 43.

PLAKO or PLACO.  _Rom._  Tobacco.  Russ. _prâk_ = powder.  P. ii. 361;
Pp. 445; M. viii. 52.  A gypsy model at Granada gave it as _prajo_ in
1876, “L” and “R” being often interchanged by the peasants thereabouts.
G. i. 177 and J. has _polvo_ = _praco_.

PLAN, PLANORÓ, PLAL.  _Rom._  Brother, comrade.  Eng. Rom. _pal_.  P. ii.
383; A. 79; Pp. 445; M. viii. 43.

PLAYA.  _Span._  The strand.

PLAZA.  _Span._  A square or open space in a town.  Ital. _piazza_, q.v.

PLAZUELA.  _Span._  Dimin. of PLAZA.

POBLACION.  _Span._  (1) Population; (2) act of populating; (3) a town.

POBRECITA.  _Span._  “Poor thing!”  Dimin. of _pobre_, poor.

POLITICO.  _Span._ and _Port._  Political, civil.  See note, ii. 127.

POLK.  _Russ._  A regiment.

POQUITO.  _Span._  Dimin. of _poco_.  Small, little.

POR.  _Span._ and _Port._  For.

PORQUE.  _Span._ and _Port._  Because.

POSADA.  _Span._  “A lodging; from _posar_, to sit down or lodge, hence
lodging-house, tavern, or small hotel.  The genuine Spanish town inn is
called the _posada_, as being meant to mean a house of repose after the
pains of travel.  Strictly speaking, the keeper is only bound to provide
lodging, salt, and the power of cooking whatever the traveller brings
with him or can procure out-of-doors, and in this it differs from the
_fonda_, in which meats and drinks are furnished.”—Ford, _Gatherings from
Spain_, ch. xv.

POSADERO.  _Span._  Innkeeper.

POSTA.  _Span._ and _Port._  Post, post-house.  _Casa de las Postas_,
General Post-office.

PRAÇA.  _Port._  Square, place.

PRADO.  _Span._ and _Port._  A lawn or meadow.  The great promenade at
Madrid.

PRAIA.  _Gal._  Seashore, strand.

PRESIDIO.  _Span._ and _Port._  Place of imprisonment, penitentiary;
prim. a fortress, or the garrison thereof.

PRESTAR.  _Port._  To be of use.

PRIMERO.  _Span._  First.

PRINCIPE.  _Span._ and _Port._  PRINCEPS.  _Lat._  Prince.

PROPINA.  _Span._  Lat. _propinare_.  Drink-money; _pour boire_, a tip.

PUCHERA or PUCHERO.  _Span._  A stew; prim. the pot in which the stew is
made, which, as in the case of the _olla_, has come to signify the
contents.  The _puchero_ is more used in the north, the _olla_ in the
south of the Peninsula.  The combination _olla podrida_ is now at least
never heard in Spain.

PUEBLO.  _Span._  A small town, or village.  _El pueblo_, the common
people.

PUENTE.  _Span._  A bridge.

PUERTA.  _Span._  Door, gate.  _Puerta del Sol_, Gate of the Sun.  The
central point of Madrid.

PUERTO.  _Span._  A bay, or port; also a pass in the mountains.

PULIDO.  _Span._  Neat, delicate, charming.

                                * * * * *

QUATRO.  _Span._ and _Port._  Four.

QUE.  _Span._ and _Port._  What, that.

QUER.  _Rom._  A house.  See KER.

QUIEN.  _Span._  Who.

QUIERO.  _Span._  I wish.

QUINTA.  _Span._ and _Port._  A country house.

                                * * * * *

RABBI.  _Hebr._  Master.

RAINHA.  _Port._  Queen.

RAIS.  _Arab._  Chief; captain of a ship.

RAJIL.  _Arab._  Man.

RANDADO._  Rom._  Written.  From _randar_, P. ii. 276.

RATERO.  _Span._  Mean, scoundrelly.

RAYA.  _Span._  Border, boundary, or frontier.

REAL.  _Span._ and _Port._  Royal.

REAL.  _Span._ and _Port._  A coin or unit of value.  The Spanish plural
is _reales_; the Portuguese, _reis_ or _rees_.  The Spanish real is worth
about 2½_d._ English; the Portuguese only 1/20_d._, one thousand reis
making the Portuguese dollar, or piece of mil reis, hence called a
_milrei_ or _milreis_.

REGATA.  _Span._  A small channel, or, conduit.

REJA.  _Span._  The iron grating before a window looking on to the street
of a town.  The recognized trysting-place of a lover and his mistress.

RELACION.  _Span._  Relation, story.

REMATAR.  _Span._ and _Port._  To end, finish.  _Que Dios remate tu
nombre_!  “May God blot out your name!”

RENDER.  _Span._ and _Port._  To yield, surrender.

REPAÑI.  _Rom._  Brandy.  This word, given in 1876 (_v._ PLAKO), is
derived by Pott from _repañi_ (_repañó_, J.), a radish, the connexion
being the sharp taste of both (ii. 274).  Remembering the “fire-water” of
the Indians, the _aguardiente_ of Spain and Portugal, and the _tattopani_
of the Eng. gypsies, I am tempted to suggest another explanation.  J.
gives _ardiente_ = _carí_, and _aguardiente_ = _pañicarí_.  Now _car_ (P.
ii. 125) or _jar_ (_ib._ 171) = heat.  Change the order of the words and
_caripañi_ might shorten into _repañí_.

REPOSTERO.  _Span._  The butler, or majordomo, in a great house.  The
_reposteria_ is the plate-room, storeroom, or pantry.

REPUTACION.  _Span._  Reputation.  _Gente de reputacion_, “swells,”
“swagger people.”

REQUISO.  _Span._  Requisitioning (from _requerir_).  A technical word;
the authority that requisitions private property, horses, etc., for the
use of the national army in time of war.

REYNA.  _Span._  Queen.

RIA.  _Span._ and _Port._  An estuary, as the mouth of a river.  More
particularly applied to the numerous bays on the Galician and Asturian
coasts of Northwest Spain.

RO, ROM.  _Rom._  A husband; a married gypsy.  _Roma_, the husbands, is
the generic name of the gypsy nation, or Romany.  P. ii. 275; A. 56; Pp.
462; M. viii. 58; McR. 91.

ROMERO.  _Span._  Rosemary.

ROMI.  _Rom._  A married gypsywoman; fem. of _rom_, a husband; a married
gypsy.

ROQUE.  _Span._ and _Port._  The “rook,” or “castle,” at chess.  Pers.
_rukh_.  The same word is used for the fabulous bird of immense size so
often mentioned in Oriental tales.

ROUBLE.  _Russ._  A kind of Russian money, either silver or paper.  Its
present value is about two shillings.

RUAH.  Arab, and _Hebr._  Spirit.  Used throughout the Old Test, to
denote the Spirit of God, the Holy Spirit.

RUFIANESCO.  _Span._  Ruffian, criminal.

RUNE.  _Eng._  (1) A letter of the ancient Scandinavian alphabet, usually
carved on stone.  (2) A short mystic sentence of Scandinavian origin.
Norse and Danish _rune_, Swed. _runa_.

                                * * * * *

SABIO.  _Span._ and _Port._  Learned.  King Alfonso X. was surnamed _El
Sabio_, which is sometimes erroneously rendered “The Wise.”  _Sabio_ is,
rather, “erudite;” and the king was undoubtedly the most learned man of
his time, though his government was not always by any means wise.

SACRO.  _Span._ and _Port._  Sacred.

SAFACORO.  _Rom._  The city of Seville.  P. ii. 248.  J. gives
_Sevillano_ = _Safacorano_.

SAGADUA, SAGARDUA.  _Basque_.  Cider; _i.e._ the strong or Spanish cider,
called in French Basque _charnoa_ or _sharnoa_, as distinguished from the
weak cider which is made from apples rotted in water.  A probable
etymology is _sagar_ = apple; _arno_ = wine.

SAGRA.  _Span._  The name of certain districts in Spain, especially of
one lying north of Toledo.  The word is probably derived from the Arab
_ṣaḥra_ = a plain.  See note, i. 257.

SALAMANQUESA.  _Span._  A salamander, or, star-lizard; otherwise called
_salamandra_.

SANDIA.  _Span._  A water-melon.

SANTIGUO.  _Span._  The action of crossing one’s self.  _Santiguar_ is
“to make the sign of the cross.”

SANTO.  _Span._ and _Port._  Sainted, holy.  _La Santa Casa_, the
Inquisition.

SANTON.  _Span._  A great saint; more especially applied to Moslem
recluses.  Also, a hypocrite.

SANTURRON.  _Span._  A great saint; usually, a great hypocrite.

SARDINHA.  _Port._ and _Gal._  A sardine.  Borrow’s friends, _la gente
rufianesca_, have a quaint name for a galley-slave, _apaleador de
sardinas_, a sardine-beater.  H. 155.

SBA.  _Arab._  Morning.  More correctly, _ṣabāḥ_.

SCHARKI.  _Arab._  The East.

SCHARR.  See DAOUD.

SCHOPHON.  _Heb._  _Shâphân_ (שׁפן) A quadruped which chews the cud like
a hare (Lev. xi. 5; Deut. xiv. 7); which lives gregariously on rocks, and
is remarkable for its cunning (Ps. civ. 18; Prov. xxx. 26).  The Rabbins
render _coney_, or _rabbit_; more correctly the LXX. in three places
χοιρογρύλλιος, _i.e._ an animal resembling the _marmot_.

SÉ.  _Span._  I know; from _saber_.

SEA.  _Span._  May he be; from _ser_.

SECO.  _Span._ and _Port._  Dry.  See ii. 82.

SECRETARIO.  _Span._ and _Port._  Secretary.

SEGUN.  _Span._  According to.

SEGUNDO.  _Span._ and _Port._  Second.

SENHOR, SENHORA.  _Port._  SEÑOR, SEÑORA.  _Span._  Gentleman, lady.

SEÑORITO, SEÑORITA.  _Span._  Dimin. of the above.

SEO.  _Span._  A cathedral church.

SEREKA.  _Arab._  A theft.  More correctly, _sarika_.

SERRA.  _Port._  A high range of mountains; the Spanish sierra.

SERRADOR.  _Span._ and _Port._  A sawyer.  Although according to some
authorities this was the real name of the person mentioned in i. 138,
233, it seems that he was really a sawyer, by name José Miralles, born in
Valencia, on the borders of Aragon.  He served under _El Fraile_ (The
Friar), a Guerilla chief in the Napoleonic wars, and was rather the rival
than the lieutenant of Cabrera, who imprisoned him, on which occasion he
broke both his legs in a vain attempt to escape.  He subsequently took
part in the rising at Maeztrazgo, in 1844, and died in the campaign of
that year, while serving under General Villalonga.

SERRANIA.  _Span._ and _Port._  District or country of _sierras_, or
mountain ridges.

SERVIL.  _Span._ and _Port._  Servile.  Applied, as a substantive, as a
party nickname to the Royalists on the outbreak of the first civil war in
1820.

SESÓ (fem. SESÍ, plur. SESÉ, also = Spain).  _Rom._  A Spaniard.  In
Spanish the word signifies “brain,” P. ii. 249.

SHAITÁN.  _Arab._  Satan, the devil.

SHEE.  _Arab._  Thing.

SHEKEL.  _Hebr._  A Hebrew coin of uncertain value.  The word itself
means merely “a weight.”

SHEM.  _Hebr._  Name.

SHEM HAMPHORASH.  _Hebr._  The separated, reserved, or special Name, i.e.
_Yahweh_.  Always transliterated _Adonai_.  Lord (a word which itself,
perhaps, contains the Span. _Don_), whence Κύριος, _Dominus_, and the
LORD, have found their way into translations of the Old Testament.  Our
English “Jehovah” contains the forbidden consonants of _Yahweh_ and the
vowel points of _Adonai_.

SHEREEF.  _Arab._  Noble.

SHILLAM EIDRI.  Apparently meant for _lashon ivri_ = the Hebrew tongue.

SHOOB.  Borrovian for the Russian _shuba_, a fur cloak or pelisse.  The
word has made its way into Eng. Rom. as _shooba_, a gown.

SHRIT.  Apparently for the Arabic _ishtari_ = buy.

SIBAT.  _Arab._  Slippers.  More correctly, _sabbāt_.

SIDI.  _Arab._  My lord.  More usually written _Said_ or _Sayyid_, the
same as the more familiar Cid.  The fem.  _Sitti_ = my lady, is familiar
to every lady who has visited North Africa.

SIERRAS.  _Span._  Lit. saws; applied to mountain ranges, from their
serrated outline.

SIESTA.  _Span._  Lat. _sexta_ (_hora_), noon.  Noontide or afternoon
sleep.  _Sext_ is one of the canonical hours of the Catholic Church.

SIETE.  _Span._  Seven.

SIGLO.  _Span._  Century, age.

SIGNOR, SIGNORE.  _Ital._  Sir.

SIN.  _Span._  Without.

SINAH.  See DAR.

SINAR.  _Rom._  To be.  _Sin_, he is; _sinava_, I was.  P. ii. 250; Pp.
255; M. vii. 66.

SŌC.  _Arab._  A market.  More correctly, _sūḳ_.  _Soc de barra_ = outer
market.

SOCIEDAD.  _Span._  Society.

SOGA.  _Span._  A rope; a well-rope; a halter for beasts; the halter for
hanging a man.

SOLABARRI.  _Rom._  Bridle.  P. ii. 239; Pp. 487; M. viii. 69.

SOMBRERO.  _Span._  A hat; that which gives _sombra_, or shade.

SON.  _Span._  They are; from _ser_.

SONACAI.  _Rom._  Gold.  P. ii. 227; Pp. 481; M. viii. 68.

SOPA.  _Span._  (1) Soup.  (2) The entire dinner.

SOTEA.  _Port._  Flat roof; balcony; platform.

SOU.  _Port._  SOY.  _Span._  I am; from _ser_.

SOWANEE.  _Rom._  A sorceress.  Used by Borrow, i. 122, for the more
correct _chuajañi_, Eng. Rom. _chovihoni_.  P. ii. 190; Pp. 549; M. vii.
37.

SU.  _Span._  SUUS.  _Lat._  His.

SVEND.  _Dan._  Swain.

                                * * * * *

TABLA.  _Span._  A board, or plank.

TAL.  _Span._ and _Port._  Such.  _Que tal_?  “How goes it?”

TALIB.  _Arab._  Learned, Lit.  “a seeker,” used in some countries for “a
devotee.”  More correctly, _ṭālib_.

TAMBIEN.  _Span._  Also, likewise, as well.

TAN.  _Span._  So.

TARDE.  _Span._ and _Port._  Afternoon, evening.

TEATRO.  _Span._  Theatre.

TEBLEQUE.  _Rom._  God the Saviour, Jesus.  P. ii. 312; J.

TENER.  _Span._  To take, hold, have.  See MODO.  _Tuvose_, it was held,
or, thought.

TERELAR._  Rom._  To have, hold.  P. ii, 294; A. 41; Pp. 512; M. viii.
79.

TERREIRO.  _Port._  A parade, promenade.

TERTULIA.  _Span._  An assembly, conversazione.

TINAJA.  _Span._  A large earthen jar.

TINTO.  _Span._ and _Port._  .  _Vino tinto_, red wine.

TIO, TIA.  _Span._  Uncle; aunt.  Applied in common life as a term of
familiar address to any one, not related to the speaker.  Something like
the Old English _gaffer_ and _gammer_.

TIPOTAS.  _Grk._  Nothing (πίποτε).

TIRAR.  _Span._ and _Port._  To throw, remove, shoot.  _Tirar por
detras_, to kick out behind.

TOCINO.  _Span._  Bacon, pork.

TODO.  _Span._ and _Port._  All.

TOMA.  _Span._  Lit. take; as an interjection, “Come!” “Look here!”

TOMATE.  _Span._  The tomato (_Lycopersicum esculentum_).

TONSURA.  _Span._ and _Port._  (1) A cutting, of hair or wool.  (2) The
first of the ecclesiastical orders.

TORAH, or THORAH.  _Hebr._  The books of the Law; the Pentateuch.

TOREADOR.  See TORERO.

TORERO.  _Span._  A professional bull-fighter.  These are of three
classes—the _picadores_, or horsemen; the _bandarilleros_, or placers of
_banderillos_; and the _matador_, or _espada_.  Each company, or
_cuadrilla_, of fighters consists of a _matador_, chief of the band,
three _bandarilleros_, and two _picadores_.  There is also usually a
_sobresaliente_ (or understudy) _de espada_, in case of accidents; and a
certain number of _chulos_, or men with cloaks, complete the personnel of
the ring.

TRADUCIDO.  _Span._  Translated.  From _traducir_.

TRAER.  _Span._  To bear, carry.

TRAGUILLO.  _Span._  Dim. of _trago_.  A draught, drink.

TRAMPA.  _Span._ and _Port._  A trap, snare.

TRINIDAD.  _Span._  Trinity.

TSADIK.  _Hebr._  Righteous.  Hence Tsadok, the leader of the Sadducees,
derived his name.

TUCUE.  _Rom._  Thee, with thee.  See TUTE.

TUERTO.  _Span._  One-eyed.

TUNANTE.  _Span._ and _Port._  Truant; lazy scoundrel.

TUTE.  _Rom._  Thou, thee.  P. i. 229; Pp. 66; M. viii. 87.

TUVOSE.  See TENER.

                                * * * * *

UNDEVEL, UNDEBEL.  _Rom._  God.  According to Borrow, the first syllable
of the word is the _Om_ of the Brahmins and Indian Buddhists, one of the
names of the Deity.  Pott, however, denies this, ii. 75, 311; A. 285 Pp.
205; M. vii. 42; G. i. 177.

URIA.  _Basque_.  City.  So translated by Borrow, but I cannot find the
word.  The correct Basque is _iri_ or _hiri_.

USTED.  _Span._  Contracted form of _vuestra merced_, your worship; used
for “you;” now written simply Vd or V.

USTILAR.  _Rom._  To take, take up, steal.  Z. ii. * 118; J.  Cf.
_ostilar_, to steal.  P. ii. 72, 246.  See PASTESAS.

VALDEPEÑAS.  _Span._  The red wine made in the neighbourhood of that
town, in die heart of La Mancha.  It is about the best in Spain.

VALER.  _Span._  To be worth, prevail, protect.  _Valgame Dios_!  “May
God protect me!”  “S’help me!”

VALIDO.  _Span._ and _Port._  Powerful, respected.  See note, ii. 376.

VALIENTE._  Span._  (1) As an adjective, strong or valiant.  (2) As a
substantive, in a less honourable sense, as “cock of the walk,” or bully.

VAMOS, or VAMONOS.  _Span._  “Let us go!”  “Come along!”

VÁSTACO.  _Span._  Stem, bud, shoot.

VAYA.  _Span._  A very common interjection or expression, “Come!” “Get
along!” “Let it go!” Imper. of _ir_, to go.

VECINO.  _Span._  An inhabitant; as an adjective, neighbouring.

VEGA.  _Span._  A meadow or plain; an open tract of level and fruitful
ground, more particularly applied to the country around Granada;
generally an alluvial tract formed by the bend of a river or expansion of
a valley.

VELHO.  _Port._  Old.

VENTA.  _Span._  VENDA.  _Port._  Strictly speaking, an isolated country
inn, or house of reception on the road; and if it be not of physical
entertainment, it is at least one of moral, and accordingly figures in
prominent characters in all the personal narratives and travels in Spain.
The _venta_ is inferior in rank to the _posada_, q.v.  The original
meaning of the word is “sale.”

VERDADERO.  _Span._  True.

VERDUGO, VERDUGA.  _Span._ and _Port._  Said of an exceedingly cruel
person.  Prim. a switch, then a flogger, or executioner.

VIAJE.  _Span._  A voyage.

VID.  _Span._  Vine.

VIEJO.  _Span._  Old; an old man.

VILLA.  _Span._  A town; greater than an _aldea_ or village, less than a
_ciudad_ or city.

VILLANO, VILLANA.  _Span._  Countryman, peasant; country girl or woman.

VINO.  _Span._  Wine.

VIRGEN.  _Span._  VIRGO.  _Lat._  Virgin.

VISE.  _Nor. Dan._  A ballad.

VISÉ.  _Fr._  Endorsed, or furnished with the official visa.  As commonly
applied to passports, neither the verb nor the substantive has any exact
equivalent in English.

VIVER.  _Span._ and _Port._  To live.  _Que viva_!  “Long life to him!”

VOSSÉ, or VOSSEM.  _Port._  _Vossa mercé_, your worship; you.  Gal.
_vusté_; Span. _usted_.  See note, i. 89.

VOY.  _Span._  I am going; from _ir_.

                                * * * * *

WADY.  _Arab._  River.  _Wady al kebir_ = the great river, the
Guadalquivir.

WAKHUD.  _Arab._  A, the article.  More correctly, _waḥid_.

WULLAH.  _Arab._  “By God!”

WUSTUDDUR.  _Arab._  Home; abode.  Lit. the middle of the houses.  See
DAR.

                                * * * * *

Y.  _Span._  And.

YAW.  Borrovian for the Germ.  _ja_ = yes.

YDOORSHEE.  _Arab._  It signifies; lit. it hurts.

YERBA.  _Span._  (1) Grass.  (2) Poison.

YESCA.  _Span._  Under.

YO.  _Span._  I.

YOUM.  _Arab._  A day.

YUDKEN.  _Germ._  A little Jew; more correctly, _Jüdchen_.

                                * * * * *

ZAMARRA.  _Span._  A sheepskin coat, the woolly side turned inwards; from
the Basque _echamarra_ (having the same signification), usually worn by
shepherds.  The French _chamarrer_, to deck out, or bedizen, is said to
be a word of kindred origin.

ZARZA.  _Span._  A bramble.

ZINCALO.  plur.  ZINCALI.  _Span. Rom._  Gypsy.  P. ii. 259; M. viii. 65.

ZOHAR.  _Hebr._  Brilliancy.  See note, ii. 318.




INDEX.


Abades, ii. 209

Abyla, Mount (Gibil Muza), ii. 295

Aguilar, Antonio Garcia de, i. 282–286

Alcalá de Guadaira, i. 223

Aldea Gallega, i. 19, 58, 71

Alemtejo, i. 16, 72

Algeziras, ii. 296

Andalusia, Desert of, i. 224

Andalusians, The, ii. 261

Andujar, i. 253

Antigola, ii. 206

Antonio, the gypsy, i. 106

Antonio Buchini, i. 265; ii. 161, 171, 217

Aranjuez, 1. 254; ii. 202

Arroyolos, i. 84

Astorga, i. 318

Asturias, The, ii. 59

Azeca, Bridge of, 11. 192

Azido, Jozé Dias, i. 74

                                * * * * *

Badajoz, i. 96, 105

Bailen, i. 253

Balmaseda, ii. 211

Balseiro, i. 177; ii. 154

Baltasar, the National, i. 167, 206

Baralla Pass, ii. 60

Basques, The, and their language, ii. 112 _et seq._

Beckford, William, i. 9

Bembibre, i. 333

Benedict Mol, i. 190, 382, 385; ii. 73, 165, 181

Bermudez, Cean, i. 266

Betanzos, i. 364

Bilbao, ii. 93

Bonanza, i. 214; ii. 273

Borrego, Don Andrés, i. 259

Brackenbury, John (Consul at Cadiz), ii. 288

Buchini, Antonio, i. 265; ii. 161, 171, 217

Burgos, ii. 98

                                * * * * *

Cabrera, General, i. 233

Cacabelos, i. 338

Cadiz, i. 212; ii. 286

Caldas de Reyes, i. 394

Calzado, Pepe, ii. 101

Caneiro, ii. 62

Cantwell, Patrick, i. 280

Carmona, i. 224

Carolina, i. 253

Castro, John de, i. 9

Castro Pol, ii. 59

Christina, Queen Regent, i. 197

Chrysostom, Johannes, ii. 256

Cintra, i. 7

Clarendon, Lord, i. 164, 271; ii. 121, 124, 218

Cobeña, ii. 221

Coisa Doiro, ii. 46

Colhares, i. 10

Colunga, ii. 83

Compostella, i. 192, 377; ii. 183

Contrabandistas, Spanish, ii. 35, 45

Corcuvion, ii. 35

Cordova, i. 229, 238

Cordova, General, i, 180, 267

Correa, Joanna, ii. 355

Corunna, i. 367; ii. 41

Cuesta del Espinal, i. 228

                                * * * * *

D’Almeida, J. Ferreira, i. 98

D’Azveto, Don Geronimo, i. 25, 38

Dehesa, The, ii. 259

Despeñaperros Pass, i. 254

Diaz, Maria, i. 256; ii. 130, 159

Dionysius, ii. 263

Doddridge, Dr. P., i. 6

Dueñas, i. 303

Duero (Douro), i. 293

Duyo, ii. 23

                                * * * * *

Elvas, i. 94

Estremadura, i. 146

Estremoz, i. 87

Evora, i. 16, 33

Execution of criminals, i. 171

                                * * * * *

Fava, Pascual, ii. 381

Ferrol, ii. 42

Feyjoo, Benito, ii. 79

Fielding, Henry, i. 6

Finisterre, Cape, i. 209; ii. 21, 24

Flinter, G. D. (the Irishman), ii. 92

Fragey, Ephraim, ii. 369

Fuencebadon Pass, i. 344

                                * * * * *

Galiano, Alcala, i. 179, 181, 195

Galicia, i, 1, 347; ii. 59

Gallegan language, i. 351

Garcia, Sergeant, i. 197, 273

Gartland, Dr., i. 276

Gibraltar, ii. 300

Gijon, ii. 70

Gomez, i. 194, 212, 218, 233

Guadalquivir, i. 214; ii. 249, 272

Guadarrama Mountains, i. 151

Guadiana River, i. 102

Gypsies, Spanish, i. 105

                                * * * * *

Hervey, Lord William, ii. 211

Hirias, Archbishop (Toledo), ii. 174

                                * * * * *

Isturitz, Don Francis Xavier de, i. 179, 181, 196

                                * * * * *

Jaraicejo, i. 135

Judaism, i. 67, 247

                                * * * * *

Labajos, i. 210

La Granja, i. 197; ii. 208

La Mancha, i. 254

Lariategui, i. 262, 295

Las Batuecas, i. 152

Leganez, ii. 185

Leon, i. 315

Leyden, Dr. John, i. 76

Lib, Judah, ii. 317

Lisbon, i. 3, 15, 58, 66, 212

Llanes, ii. 88

Los Angeles, ii. 7

Luarca, ii. 61

Lugo, i. 354, 358

Luigi Piozzi, ii. 370

                                * * * * *

Madrid, i. 162, 173, 256, 270; ii. 99, 121, 217, 334

Mafra, i. 12

Manzanal, i. 327

Manzanares, ii. 216, 248

Maragatos, The, i. 321

Medina del Campo, i. 291

Mendizabal, Juan Alvarez y, i. 164

Merida, i. 114, 125

Miguelets, The, i. 363

Mirabete Pass, i. 145

Mol, Benedict, i. 190, 382, 385; ii. 73, 165, 181

Moncloa, i. 225

Montaneda, ii. 96

Monte Almo, i. 29

Monte Moro, i. 28, 53, 75

Monte Moro Novo, i. 87

Montes, Francisco, i. 170

Moore, Sir John, i. 374

Moors, The, i. 116, 239

Munoz, i. 198

Muros, ii. 65

                                * * * * *

Naval Carnero, ii. 232

Navias, ii. 59

New Castile, i. 150

Nogales, i. 350

Novales, ii. 45

Noyo, ii. 13

                                * * * * *

Ocaña, ii. 204

Ofalia, Count, ii. 121, 124, 141

Old Castile, i. 274; Plains of, i. 290

Oliban, the secretary, i. 183, 195

Oñas, ii. 98

Oropesa, i. 150

Oviedo, ii. 70

                                * * * * *

Padron, i. 392; ii. 1

Palencia, i. 309

Pascual Fava, ii. 381

Pedroso, i. 286

Pegões, 1. 24, 74

Peña Cerrada Pass, ii. 207

Peñaranda, i. 275

Petulengres, i. 204

Philippi, Mr., ii. 276, 278

Pico Sacro, i. 377

Piozzi, Luigi, i. 370

Pitiegua, i. 281

Pontevedra, i. 395

Portuguese Jews, i. 409

Puerto de Lumbreras, ii. 246

                                * * * * *

Quesada, i. 181, 199, 202

                                * * * * *

Rey Romero, i. 380

Ribida de Sella, ii. 88

Rivadeo, ii. 53

Rivas, Duke of, i. 183

                                * * * * *

Sabocha, the robber, i. 21

Sagra of Toledo, The, i. 257, ii. 194

Saint James of Compostella, i. 192, 377

Salamanca, i. 275

Sanchez, Antonio, i. 170

San Lucar, i. 214; ii. 274

San Martin de Duyo, ii. 23

Santa Colombo, ii. 89

Santa Marta, ii. 45

Santander, ii. 90

Santi Ponce, i. 217

Santillana, ii. 90

San Vicente, ii. 89

Scio, Padre Filipe, i. 259

Segovia, ii. 209

Serra Dorso, i. 33, 87

Sevilla Francesco, i. 170, 176

Seville, i. 215; ii. 214, 248

Sierra de Buron, ii. 60

Sierra de Ronda, i. 215

Sierra Morena, i. 241

Soto Luino, ii. 64

Southern, Mr., i. 271; ii. 133, 135, 139

                                * * * * *

Tagus, The, i. 3, 18, 145

Talavera, i. 155

Tangier, ii. 342

Tarifa, ii. 294, 341

Taylor, Baron, i. 220

Toledo, ii. 102–107

Tormes River, i. 276

Toro, i. 300

Trafalgar Bay, ii. 292

Triana, i. 216

Trujillo, i. 130

                                * * * * *

Valladolid, i. 294

Vargas, ii. 187, 195

Vendas Novas, i. 27, 55, 74

Vendas Velhas, i. 21

Villa del Padron, i. 392; ii. 1

Villafranca, i. 341

Villa Seca, ii. 185

Villa Viciosa, ii. 83

Vigo, i. 403

Villiers, Sir George.  _See_ Clarendon, Lord

Viveiro, ii. 50

                                * * * * *

Zariategui, i. 262, 295

                                * * * * *

                                 THE END.

                                * * * * *

           LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
                    STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.




Footnotes


{2}  See note, vol. i. p. 120.

{12}  A fanciful word of Portuguese etymology from _nuvem_, cloud = the
cloud-man.

{14}  _Inha_, when affixed to words, serves as a diminutive.  It is much
in use amongst the Gallegans.  It is pronounced _ínia_, the Portuguese
and Galician _nh_ being equivalent to the Spanish _ñ_.

{22}  “Flock of drunkards.”  _Fato_, in Gal. as in Port. = a herd or
flock.  Span. _hato_.

{23}  San Martin de Duyo, a village, according to Madoz, of sixty houses.
There are no remains of the ancient Duyo.

{26}  Galician; lit. the shore of the outer sea.

{28}  “By God!  I am going too.”

{29}  Who served as a subordinate general in the Carlist armies.

{37}  “The good lad.”

{43a}  In Spanish, _guardacostas_.

{43b}  More correctly, _el Ferrol_ or _farol_, the lighthouse.  Nothing
can more strikingly give the lie to the conventional taunt that Spain has
made no progress in recent years than the condition of the modern town of
el Ferrol compared with the description in the text.  It is now a
flourishing and remarkably clean town of over 23,000 inhabitants, with an
arsenal not only magnificent in its construction, but filled with every
modern appliance, employing daily some 4000 skilled workmen, whose club
(_el liceo de los artesanos_) might serve as a model for similar
institutions in more “advanced” countries.  It comprises a library,
recreation-room, casino, sick fund, benefit society, and school; and
lectures and evening parties, dramatic entertainments, and classes for
scientific students, are all to be found within its walls.

{45}  A little town charmingly situated on a little bay at the mouth of
the river Eo, which divides Galicia from Asturias, famous for oysters and
salmon.

{46}  Signifying in Portugese or Galician, “A thing of gold.”

{47}  Tertian ague, or intermittent three-day fever.

{49}  “Come along, my little Parrot!”

{58a}  A town on the sea-coast about half-way between Rivadeo and Aviles.

{58b}  Query.  See note, p. 45.

{59}  On the right bank of the Eo, over against Rivadeo.

{62a}  The port of Oviedo.

{62b}  See the Glossary, _s.v._ COPLA.

{66}  “God bless me!”

{67}  I.e. _Bascuence_, or _Vascuence_, the Basque language.

{70}  Query, Aviles?

{71}  Job xxxix. 25: “. . . the thunder of the captains, and the
shouting.”

{75}  “Good heavens!”

{76}  I.e. _jacas_.

{79a}  The cathedral at Oviedo is one of the oldest and most interesting
foundations in Spain.  The first stone was laid by Alfonso II. in 802;
the greater part of the existing edifice is of the fourteenth century.

But the great glory of Oviedo, entitling it to rank as second among the
holy cities of Christian Spain, is the Camara Santa, and the relics
therein contained (see Burke’s _History of Spain_ vol. i. pp. 122–124,
140, 141, 147–150, 165, 275; vol. ii. pp. 8–11; and Murray’s _Handbook_,
sub. _Oviedo_).

{79b}  Benito Feyjoo was born in 1676, and having assumed the Benedictine
habit early in life, settled at length in a convent of his order at
Oviedo, where he lived for hard on fifty years.  He died in 1764.

A strange mixture of a devout Catholic and a scientific innovator, he was
an earnest student of Bacon, Newton, Pascal, Leibnitz, and others, whose
opinions he embodied in his own works.  Learned, judicious, and diligent
rather than a man of genius, he was original at least as regards his
conceptions of the nature and limits of scientific research in Spain.  He
kept on good terms with the Inquisition, while he continued to publish in
his _Teatro Critico_ and his _Cartas Eruditas y Curiosas_ all that the
Inquisitors would desire to remain unread; attacked the dialectics and
metaphysics then taught everywhere in Spain; maintained Bacon’s system of
induction in the physical sciences; ridiculed the general opinion as
regards eclipses, comets, magic, and divination; and laid down canons of
historical criticism which would exclude many of the most cherished
traditions of his country and his Church.  The best edition of his works
is that by Campomanes, the minister of the enlightened Charles III., with
a Life of the author.  16 vols.  Madrid, 1778.

{80}  Charles III. of Spain (1759–1788), the most enlightened of the
Bourbon kings.

{82}  Literally, _dry_.

{92}  George Dawson Flinter began life in an English West India regiment,
served in the Spanish American forces, and afterwards obtained a
commission in the Spanish army.  In 1833, on the outbreak of the civil
war, he declared for Isabella, and served with considerable distinction
in the constitutional army.  A prisoner in 1836, he was entrusted with a
high command at Toledo in 1837, but having failed to satisfy the Cortes
in an engagement in September, 1838, he cut his throat (see _Gentl.
Mag._, 1838, vol. ii. p. 553, and Duncan, _The English in Spain_, pp. 13,
189).

{98}  There is still a fairly frequented high-road from Santander to
Burgos, inasmuch as the railway from Santander to Madrid takes a more
westerly route through Palencia, the actual junction with the main line
from Irun being at Venta de Baños, a new creation of the railway not even
mentioned in the guidebooks a few years ago, and now one of the most
important stations in Spain.

Yet in railway matters Spain has still some progress to make.  From
Santander to Burgos _viâ_ Venta de Baños is just 120 English miles; but
the time occupied in the journey by train in this year 1895 is just
seventeen hours, the traveller having to leave Santander at 1 p.m. in
order to reach Burgos at 6 o’clock the following morning!

{100}  See Introduction.

{101}  “_Office of the Biblical and Foreign Society_,” rather an odd
rendering of the original title!

{103a}  The briefest of all abbreviations and modifications of the
objectionable _Carajo_.

{103b}  Rather south-south-west.

{104}  Domenico Theotocoupoulis, a Greek or Byzantine who settled at
Toledo in 1577.  He is said to have been a pupil of Titian.  The picture
so highly praised in the text is said by Professor Justi to be in “his
worst manner,” and is indeed a very stiff performance.  There are many of
_El Greco’s_ pictures in Italy, where his work is often assigned to
Bassano, Paul Veronese, and Titian.  His acknowledged masterpiece is the
Christ on Mount Calvary in the cathedral of Toledo.  _El Greco_ died in
1625, after an uninterrupted residence of nearly forty years in Spain.

{107}  See _The Zincali_, part. ii. chap. vi.

{111a}  Borrow’s translation of St. Luke into Spanish gypsy was published
with the following title: _Embéo e Majaró Lucas_.  _Brotoboro randado
andré la chipe griega_, _acána chibado andré o Romanó ó chipe es Zincales
de Sesé_.  (No place) 1837.  A new edition was published five and thirty
years later by the British and Foreign Bible Society, as _Criscote e
Majaró Lucas chibado andré o Romano ó chipe es Zincales de Sesé_.
Lundra, 1872.  Both these works are now out of print, but I have had the
advantage of seeing a copy of each in the library of the Society in Queen
Victoria Street.

{111b}  _The Zincali_, part ii. ch. viii.

{114}  Modern linguistic science is so entirely at variance with these
theories that it is difficult to add a note at once modest, instructive,
or of reasonable length.  On the whole it is perhaps better to leave the
chapter entirely alone.

{116a}  See the Glossary.

{116b}  _Evangelioa San Lucasen Guissan_.  _El Evangelio Segun S. Lucas_.
_Traducido al vascuence_.  _Madrid_: _Imprenta de la Compañia
Tipografica_. 1838.

{117}  See _Proverbes Basques suivis des Poésies Basques_, by Arnauld
Oihenart, 1847.

{118a}  See F. Michel, _Le Pays Basque_, p. 213, and the Glossary, _s.v._
ICHASOA.

{118b}  No one who has ever read the work of this _Abbé_ would ever think
of citing it as a serious authority.  It is entitled, _L’histoire des
Cantabres par l’Abbé d’Iharce de Bidassouet_.  Paris, 1825.  Basque,
according to the author, was the primæval language; _Noah_ being still
the Basque for _wine_ is an etymological record of the patriarch’s
unhappy inebriety!

{118c}  This work is entitled, _Euscaldun anciña anciñaco_, _etc._
_Donostian_, 1826, by Juan Ignacio de Iztueta, with an Introduction in
Spanish, and many Basque songs with musical notation, but without
accompaniment.

{120}  See further as to the Basques, Burke’s _History of Spain_, vol. i.
App. I.

{121a}  1838.

{121b}  See _ante_, p. 100, and Introduction.

{121c}  Ofalia was prime minister from November 30, 1837, to August,
1838, when he was succeeded by the Duke of Frias.

{127}  The mayor or chief magistrate.  _Politico_ is here used in the old
sense of civic, πολιτικὸς, of the πόλις; _gefe_, now spelt _jefe_ =
chief.

{129a}  In _The Zincali_, part ii. ch. iv., Borrow places his
imprisonment in March.

{129b}  Rather _civic_; see note on p. 127.

{131}  “The city prison.”  _La Corte_ is the _capital_, as well as the
_court_.

{133}  “My master! the constables, and the catchpolls, and all the other
thieves . . . ”

{134a}  See the Glossary, _s.v._ JARGON.

{134b}  “He is very skilful.”

{136}  “Are there no more?”

{141}  More like the French _Juge d’Instruction_.

{143a}  “Come along, Sir George; to your house, to your lodgings!”

{143b}  Acts xvi. 37.

{146}  People of renown.

{147a}  “Mashes” and mistresses.  _Majo_ is a word of more general
signification than _manolo_.  The one is a dandy, or smart fellow, all
over Spain; the other is used only of a certain class in Madrid.

{147b}  More correctly, _Carabanchel_ or _Carabancheles_, two villages a
few miles south of Madrid.

{148}  This in prison!

{149}  _E.g._ in the citadel of Pampeluna.  See _Journal of the Gypsy
Lore Society_, i. 152.

{152}  Perhaps Waterloo.—[Note by Borrow.]

{154}  “It distresses me.”

{155}  Robbing the natives.

{156}  See chap. xiii.

{164}  The sun was setting, and Demos commands.  “Bring water, my
children, that ye may eat bread this evening.”  Borrow has translated
this song in the _Targum _(_v._ p. 343).

{165}  The treasure-digger.

{170}  See _The Zincali_, part ii. chap. iv.

{171}  The duke became prime minister in August, 1838.

{175}  In Gams’ _Series Episcoporum_, the standard authority on the
subject, the archiepiscopal see of Toledo is noted as _vacant_ from 1836
to 1847.  Nor is any hint given of how the duties of the office were
performed.  Don Antonio Perez Hirias figures only as Bishop of Mallorca,
or Majorca, from December, 1825, to December, 1847.

{178a}  Kicks from behind.

{178b}  “I do not know.”

{179a}  See note, p. 103.

{179b}  “To the gallows!  To the gallows!”

{180a}  “To the country!  To the country!”

{180b}  “Ride on, because of the word of truth, of meekness, and
righteousness” (Ps. xlv. 5, P.B.V.).

{188}  A nickname, unhappily too commonly justified in Southern Spain,
where ophthalmia and oculists are equally dangerous.

It is remarkable how many of the great men in Spanish history, however,
have been distinguished by this blemish: Hannibal, Viriatus, Táric, Abdur
Rahman I., and Don Juan el Tuerto in the reign of Alfonso XI.

{190}  Byron, _Don Juan_, xiii. 11.  Borrow probably knew well enough
where the lines came from.  _Don Juan_ had not been published more than
fifteen years at the time, and was in the zenith of its popularity.  But
Byron and his ways were alike odious to the rough manliness of Borrow
(see _Lavengro_, ch. xxxix.), and, in good truth, however much the poet
“deserves to be remembered,” it is certainly not for this line, which
contains as many _suggestiones falsi_ as may be packed into one line.
Yet the “sneer” is not in the original, but in Borrow’s misquotation;
Byron wrote “smiled.”  The idea of the poet having spent a handful of
gold ounces in a Genoese posada at Seville and at a bull-fight at Madrid,
that he might be competent to tell the world that Cervantes sneered
Spain’s chivalry away, is superlatively Borrovian—and delicious.  The
entire passage runs thus—

    “Cervantes smiled Spain’s chivalry away;
       A single laugh demolish’d the right arm
    Of his own country;—seldom since that day
       Has Spain had heroes.”

{192}  About thirty pounds, at the exchange of the day.

{195a}  “I wish to enlist with you.”

{195b}  “_Gee up_, donkey!”  From this _arrhé_, of Arabic origin, is
derived the word _arriero_, a muleteer.

{197}  “Blessed be God!”

{198}  See note, _ante_, p. 190.

{201}  See vol. i. p. 257.

{202}  Aranjuez, the Roman _Ara Jovis_, was, until the absorption of the
great military order by the Crown under Isabella and Ferdinand, a
favourite residence of the Grand Masters of Santiago.

{203}  “Die schönen Tage in Aranjuez
Sind nun zu Ende.”

                                        The opening lines of _Don Carlos_.

{204}  An exceedingly ancient town, celebrated in the days before the
Roman dominion.

{205}  See Glossary, _sub. verb_. SCHOPHON.  As to rabbits in Spain, see
note, vol. i. p. 25.

{208}  The modern La Granja or San Ildefonso is, in the season, anything
but desolate: the beautiful, if somewhat over-elaborate gardens, are
admirably kept up, and the general atmosphere of the plain is bright and
cheerful, though the Court of to-day prefers the sea-breezes of Biscay to
the air of the Guadarrama, when Madrid becomes, as it does, well-nigh
uninhabitable in summer.

{211a}  A particular scoundrel.  His massacre of prisoners, November 9,
1838, was remarkable for its atrocity, when massacre was of daily
occurrence.  See Duncan, _The English in Spain_, pp. 247, 248.

{211b}  See note, vol. i. p. 164.

{213}  August 31, 1838.

{215}  Don Carlos, who probably died a natural death in 1568.

{217}  The etymology of Andalusia is somewhat of a _crux_; the various
authorities are collected and reviewed in an appendix to Burke’s _History
of Spain_, vol. i. p. 379.  The true etymology may be Vandalusia, the
abiding-place of the Vandals, though they abode in Southern Spain but a
very short time; but the word certainly came into the Spanish through the
Arabic, and not through the Latin, long years after Latin was a spoken
language.  The young lady was quite right in speaking of it as _Betica_
or _Bœtica_; though the _Terra_ would be superfluous, if not incorrect.

{218}  He had succeeded to that title on the death of his uncle, December
22, 1838.

{219}  _I.e._ “My Lord the Sustainer of the Kingdom.”  See preface to
_The Zincali_, second edition.

{221a}  _Tio_.  A common method of address, conveying no reference to
real relationship.  So the Boers in South Africa speak of “Oom (uncle)
Paul.”

{221b}  “What beautiful, what charming reading!”

{223}  _No hay otro en el mundo_.

{224a}  See note on p. 147.

{224b}  Κατὰ τὸν τόπον καὶ ὁ τρόπος, as Antonio said.—[Note by Borrow].
_I.e._ “As is the place, such is the character (of the people).”

{225}  Alcalá de Henares.  See note, vol. i. p. 223.

{228a}  “Good night!”

{228b}  “Good night to you!”

{234}  Or _Nevski_ = of the Neva; as we have a Thames Street.

{236}  Spanish, _duende_.  See p. 238.  Oddly enough in _Germanía_, or
thieves’ slang, _duende_ = _ronda_, a night patrol.

{237}  Madrid is not a city or _ciudad_, but only the chief of _villas_.

{240}  In Romany, _Chuquel sos pirela cocal terela_.

{242a}  _El Nuevo Testamento Traducido al Español de la Vulgata Latino
por el Rmo. P. Phelipe Scio de S. Miguel de las Escuelas Pias Obispo
Electo de Segovia_.  _Madrid_.  _Imprenta á cargo de D. Joaquin de la
Barrera_.  1837.

{242b}  The church of San Gines is in the Calle del Arenal; the chapel of
Santa Cruz in the Concepcion Jerónima.

{246}  This is a curious slip; the spelling is found in the first and all
subsequent editions.  The true name of the defile—it is between Velez el
Rubio and Lorca—is, as might be supposed, _La Rambla_, but the narrowest
part of the pass is known as the _Puerto de Lumbreras_ (the Pass of
Illumination), and from _Rambla_ and _Lumbrera_ Borrow or the printer of
1843 evolved the strange compound _Rumblar_!

{248}  This would naturally mean, “Most reverend sir, art thou still
saying, or, dost thou still say Mass?” which seems somewhat irrelevant.
Possibly what “the prophetess” meant to ask was, “Most reverend sir, hast
thou yet said Mass?”

{251a}  “Knowest thou the land where the lemon-trees bloom?”  The song of
Mignon in Goethe’s _Wilhelm Meister_, introduced in the opera of _Faust_.

{251b}  See note, vol. i. p. 216.

{256}  Born at Amalfi, 1623, a simple fisherman.  He headed the rebellion
of the Neapolitans against the Spanish viceroy, in 1647.  His success as
a leader led to a revulsion of popular feeling, and he was executed or
murdered within a few days of his greatest triumph.

{261}  Chiefly in their pronunciation of the characteristic G and Z of
the Castilian as S instead of TH.  The South-American Spaniards, so
largely recruited from Andalusia, maintain the same sibilation, which is
about as offensive to a true Castilian as the dropping of an H is to an
educated Englishman.

{262}  Safacoro is the Romany name for Seville; and Len Baro for the
great river, _arabicé_ Wady al Kebir, the Guadalquivir.  See Glossary.

{263}  For further information about Manuel and Luis Lobo, who compiled a
manuscript collection of the pseudo-gypsy writings of _los del aficion_,
or those addicted to the _Gitanos_ and their language, see _The Zincali_,
part iii. chap. ii.

{264a}  Κύριε, voc. of κύριος, the usual mode of address, “sir.”

{264b}  The name of a famous family of Dutch printers (1594–1680).

{266}  Priests.  Greek, παπᾶς; not Spanish, in which language _Papa_
means the Pope (of Rome).

{267}  Τίποτε = nothing at all.

{273}  The secondary signification of “prosperity” or “good fortune” is
more familiar to English ears; the word having come to us by way of the
Spanish, American, and Californian mining camps.

{274}  “The Illustrious Scullion.”

{282}  Lit. a butterfly.

{288}  This was Mr. John Brackenbury.

{292a}  The great Danish poet, born in 1779, died 1850; see _ante_, note,
vol. i. p. 29.

{292b}  October 21, 1805.

{293a}  It is an American in our own day, Captain Mahan, U.S.N., who has
called attention, in his masterly _influence of Sea Power upon History_,
to the transcendent importance of the battle of Trafalgar, hardly
realized by the most patriotic Englishman, who had well-nigh forgotten
Trafalgar in celebrating the more attractive glories of Waterloo.

{293b}  Storm of east wind; wind from the Levant.

{293c}  I.e. _Kafirs_, the Arabic term of reproach, signifying an
unbeliever; one who is _not a Moslem_!

{294}  The title formally granted to this Alonzo Perez de Guzman, under
the sign-manual of King Sancho the Bravo, was that of “The Good.”  His
son was not crucified, but stabbed to death by the Infante Don John, with
the knife that had been flung over the battlements of the city by the
poor lad’s father, A.D. 1294 (see _Documentos Ineditos para la Historia
de España_, tom. xxxix. pp. 1–397).

{295}  Rather of Muza, the commander-in-chief of the army that conquered
Gothic Spain in 711.  Tarifa similarly perpetuates the memory of one of
his lieutenants, Tárif; and Gibraltar is Gibil Tarik, after Tarik, his
second in command (see Burke’s _History of Spain_, vol. i. pp. 110–120).

{296a}  The hill of the baboons.

{296b}  Rather, “The Island;” _Al Jezirah_.

{298}  According to Don Pascual de Gayangos, Thursday, April 30, 711.

{301}  In more modern slang, “a rock scorpion.”

{302}  Του λόγου σας, a polite locution in modern Greek, signifying
“you,” “your good self, _or_, selves.”

{307}  More correctly, the _Preobazhenski_, _Semeonovski_, and
_Findlandski polks_.  The first is a very crack regiment, and was formed
by Peter the Great in 1682.  In 1692 it took part in the capture of Azov
(Toll, “Nastolny Slovar,” _Encyclop._ tom. iii.).

{309}  This would have been General Sir A. Woodford, K.C.B., G.C.M.G.

{310}  “A holy man this, from the kingdoms of the East.”

{311}  A street in West Hamburg, near the port and the notorious
_Heiligegeist_, frequented by a low class of Jews and seafaring men.

{312a}  The living waters.

{312b}  Into the hands of some one else—_manû alicujus_.  _Peluni_ is the
Fulaneh of the Arabs, the Don Fulano of the Spaniards; Mr. So-and-So;
Monsieur Chose.

{314}  _I.e._ “The Hill of the English,” near Vitoria.  Here, in the year
1367, Don Tello, with a force of six thousand knights, cut to pieces a
body of four hundred men-at-arms and archers, under the command of Sir
Thomas Felton, Seneschal of Guienne, and his brother Sir William.  See
Froissart, i. chap. 239; Ayala, _Cronicas de los Reyes de Castilla_, i.
p. 446; Mérimée, _Histoire de Don Pèdre Ier_, p. 486.

{316}  The popular name for _Etna_—an etymology most suggestive, _Mons_
(Latin) and _gibil_ (Arabic) each signifying “a mountain.”

{318}  The book Zohar (Hebrew, “Brilliancy”) is, next to the canonical
Scripture, one of the ablest books in Hebrew literature, having been
written by the Rabbi Simeon bar Jochaï, “The Great Light” and “Spark of
Moses,” early in the second century of our era.  The mysteries contained
in the Zohar are said to have been communicated to Jochaï during his
twelve years’ seclusion in a cave; and they are specially revered by a
sect of modern Jews known as Zoharites, or Sabbathians, from their
founder Sabbataï Zevi, who was born at Smyrna in 1625, and claimed to be
the true Messiah, but who, to save himself from death as an impostor,
embraced the faith of Islám at Adrianople, and died a Moslem in 1676.
Yet a hundred years later another Zoharite pretender, Jankiev Lejbovicz,
who acquired the name of Jacob Frank, of Offenbach, near Frankfort, and
died only in 1792, made himself famous in Germany.  The Zoharites were
Cabalistic, as opposed to Talmudic, in their theology or theosophy, and
in later times have claimed to have much in common with Christianity.—See
M. J. Mayers (of Yarmouth), _A Brief Account of the Zoharite Jews_
(Cambridge, 1826); and Graetz, _History of the Jews_, vol. v. pp. 125,
289.

{322}  Rabat.

{330}  1 Kings xix. 11–13.

{337}  _On_ as a termination is usually indicative of size without
admiration, bigness rather than greatness, as in the Italian _one_.

{343a}  The tomato was hardly known in England in 1839, and was not
common for forty years after, so Borrow may be excused for giving the
word in its Spanish form.  The plant was introduced into Spain from Peru
in the sixteenth century.

{343b}  “Lord of the World.”  _Adun_ or _Adon_ is the well-known Hebrew
word for Lord, and is said to be the origin of the Spanish title _Don_.
_Oulem_ is the Arab ‘_Olam_.  The following lines are the first poem in
the _Targum_, a collection of translations by Borrow from thirty
languages, printed at St. Petersburg in 1835:—

    “Reigned the universe’s Master, ere were earthly things begun:
    When his mandate all created Ruler was the name he won;
    And alone he’ll rule tremendous when all things are past and gone,
    He no equal has, nor consort, he, the singular and lone,
    Has no end and no beginning; his the sceptre, might and throne.
    He’s my God and living Saviour, rock to whom in need I run;
    He’s my banner and my refuge, fount of weal when called upon;
    In his hand I place my spirit at nightfall and rise of sun,
    And therewith my body also; God’s my God—I fear no one.”

{348}  In 1684, on the familiar official plea of “economy.”

{349}  “Good morning, O my lord.”

{351}  “There is no God but one.”

{354}  “Buy here, buy here.”

{357a}  This youth followed Borrow to England, where he was introduced to
Mr. Petulengro as a _pal_, but rejected by him as “no Roman.”  See _The
Zincali_, Preface to Second Edition.

{357b}  “Hail, Mary, full of grace, pray for me.”

{357c}  “Remove the faithless race from the borders of the believers,
that we may gladly pay due praises to Christ.”

{359}  This has been already alluded to as regards Southern Spain.

{360}  Algiers.

{361}  Essence of white flowers.  The Arabic _attar_ = essence is well
known in combination as _otto_ or _attar_ of roses.  _Nuar_ is a form of
_Nawār_ = flowers.

{362}  This was still market-day in 1892.

{364}  Nowhere has the destruction of locusts been undertaken in a more
systematic manner, or carried to greater perfection than in the island of
Cyprus, where a special tax is levied by the British Government to defray
the expenses of what is called “the war.”  The system is the invention of
a Cypriote gentleman, Mr. Mattei.

{365}  More commonly known as the prickly pear (_Opuntia vulgaris_).

{367a}  The house of the trades [Borrow], or rather “of the handicrafts.”

{367b}  Seashore.  See the Glossary.

{372}  Friday.

{375}  The etymology of Granada is doubtful.  Before the invasion of
Spain by the Arabs, a small town of Phœnician origin, known as Karnattah,
existed near Illiberis (Elvira), and probably on the site of the more
modern city of Granada.  The syllable _Kar_ would, in Phœnician, signify
“a town.”  The meaning of _nattah_ is unknown (Gayangos, i. 347; Casiri,
_Bib. Ar. Hisp. Esc._, ii. 251; Conde, _Hist. Dom._, i. pp. 37–51).  The
supposition that the city owes its name to its resemblance to a ripe
pomegranate (_granada_) is clearly inadmissible.  As in the case of Leon,
the device was adopted in consequence of its appropriateness to an
existing name—although the modern city of Granada is probably not older
than 1020.  The Arabic word, moreover, for a pomegranate is _romàn_; and
Soto de Roma, the name of the Duke of Wellington’s estate in Andalusia,
means “the wood of the pomegranates;” and an _ensalada romana_ is not a
Roman, but a pomegranate salad (see Pedaza, _Hist. Eccl. de Granada_
[1618], fol. 21, 22; Romey, _Hist._, i. 474, 475).—Burke’s _Hist. of
Spain_, vol. i. p. 116.

{376a}  The most powerful, or the most respected, man in Tangier.  Power
and respect are usually enjoyed by the same individual in the East.

{376b}  “It does not signify.”

{378}  See note, vol. i. p. 240.

{382}  “Algerine,
Moor so keen,
No drink wine,
No taste swine.”

{383a}  “That is not lawful.”

{383b}  “Everything is lawful.”

{383c}  “Hail, star of the sea, benign Mother of God, and for ever
virgin, blessed gate of heaven.”

{395}  Andalusian for _ciego_.




***