The Bible in Spain, Vol. 2 [of 2] / Or, the Journeys, Adventures, and Imprisonments of an Englishman in an Attempt to Circulate the Scriptures in the Peninsula

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

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  He promised to do all he could to cause the prohibition to be withdrawn.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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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 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 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.

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 coloured 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? . . .

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.”

“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 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?

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.

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:—