I did as he commanded: we were presently in the road which we had left the night before. Along this we hurried at a great rate, the horse displaying his best speedy trot; whilst the mule, with its ears pricked up, galloped gallantly at his side. “What place is that on the hill yonder?” said I to Antonio, at the expiration of an hour, as we prepared to descend a deep valley.
“That is Jaraicejo,” said Antonio; “a bad place it is, and a bad place it has ever been for the Caló people.” [135]
“If it is such a bad place,” said I, “I hope we shall not have to pass through it.”
“We must pass through it,” said Antonio, “for more reasons than one: first, forasmuch as the road lies through Jaraicejo; and, second, forasmuch as it will be necessary to purchase provisions there, both for ourselves and horses. On the other side of Jaraicejo there is a wild desert, a despoblado, where we shall find nothing.”
We crossed the valley, and ascended the hill, and as we drew near to the town, the gypsy said, “Brother, we had best pass through that town singly. I will go in advance; follow slowly, and when there purchase bread and barley; you have nothing to fear. I will await you on the despoblado.”
Without waiting for my answer he hastened forward, and was speedily out of sight.
I followed slowly behind, and entered the gate of the town, an old dilapidated place, consisting of little more than one street. Along this street I was advancing, when a man with a dirty foraging cap on his head, and holding a gun in his hand, came running up to me. “Who are you?” said he, in rather rough accents; “from whence do you come?”
“From Badajoz and Trujillo,” I replied; “why do you ask?”
“I am one of the national guard,” said the man, “and am placed here to inspect strangers. I am told that a gypsy fellow just now rode through the town; it is well for him that I had stepped into my house. Do you come in his company?”
“Do I look a person,” said I, “likely to keep company with gypsies?”
The national measured me from top to toe, and then looked me full in the face with an expression which seemed to say, “likely enough.” In fact, my appearance was by no means calculated to prepossess people in my favour. Upon my head I wore an old Andalusian hat, which, from its condition, appeared to have been trodden underfoot; a rusty cloak, which had perhaps served half a dozen generations, enwrapped my body. My nether garments were by no means of the finest description, and, as far as could be seen, were covered with mud, with which my face was likewise plentifully bespattered, and upon my chin was a beard of a week’s growth.
“Have you a passport?” at length demanded the national.
I remembered having read that the best way to win a Spaniard’s heart is to treat him with ceremonious civility. I therefore dismounted, and taking off my hat, made a low bow to the constitutional soldier, saying, “Señor nacional, you must know that I am an English gentleman, travelling in this country for my pleasure. I bear a passport, which, on inspecting, you will find to be perfectly regular; it was given me by the great Lord Palmerston, minister of England, whom you of course have heard of here; at the bottom you will see his own handwriting. Look at it and rejoice; perhaps you will never have another opportunity. As I put unbounded confidence in the honour of every gentleman, I leave the passport in your hands whilst I repair to the posada to refresh myself. When you have inspected it, you will perhaps oblige me so far as to bring it to me. Cavalier, I kiss your hands.”
I then made him another low bow, which he returned with one still lower, and leaving him now staring at the passport and now looking at myself, I went into a posada, to which I was directed by a beggar whom I met.
I fed the horse, and procured some bread and barley, as the gypsy had directed me; I likewise purchased three fine partridges of a fowler, who was drinking wine in the posada. He was satisfied with the price I gave him, and offered to treat me with a copita, to which I made no objection. As we sat discoursing at the table, the national entered with the passport in his hand, and sat down by us.
National.—Caballero! I return you your passport; it is quite in form. I rejoice much to have made your acquaintance; I have no doubt that you can give me some information respecting the present war.
Myself.—I shall be very happy to afford so polite and honourable a gentleman any information in my power.
National.—What is England doing? Is she about to afford any assistance to this country? If she pleased she could put down the war in three months.
Myself.—Be under no apprehension, Señor nacional; the war will be put down, don’t doubt. You have heard of the English legion, [138a] which my Lord Palmerston has sent over? Leave the matter in their hands, and you will soon see the result.
National.—It appears to me that this Caballero Balmerson must be a very honest man.
Myself.—There can be no doubt of it.
National.—I have heard that he is a great general.
Myself.—There can be no doubt of it. In some things neither Napoleon nor the Sawyer [138b] would stand a chance with him for a moment. Es mucho hombre. [138c]
National.—I am glad to hear it. Does he intend to head the legion himself?
Myself.—I believe not; but he has sent over, to head the fighting men, a friend of his, who is thought to be nearly as much versed in military matters as himself.
National.—I am rejoiced to hear it. I see that the war will soon be over. Caballero, I thank you for your politeness, and for the information which you have afforded me. I hope you will have a pleasant journey. I confess that I am surprised to see a gentleman of your country travelling alone, and in this manner, through such regions as these. The roads are at present very bad; there have of late been many accidents, and more than two deaths in this neighbourhood. The despoblado out yonder has a particularly evil name; be on your guard, Caballero. I am sorry that gypsy was permitted to pass; should you meet him and not like his looks, shoot him at once, stab him, or ride him down. He is a well-known thief, contrabandista, and murderer, and has committed more assassinations than he has fingers on his hands. Caballero, if you please, we will allow you a guard to the other side of the pass. You do not wish it? Then, farewell. Stay, before I go I should wish to see once more the signature of the Caballero Balmerson.
I showed him the signature, which he looked upon with profound reverence, uncovering his head for a moment. We then embraced and parted.
I mounted the horse and rode from the town, at first proceeding very slowly. I had no sooner, however, reached the moor, than I put the animal to his speedy trot, and proceeded at a tremendous rate for some time, expecting every moment to overtake the gypsy. I, however, saw nothing of him, nor did I meet with a single human being. The road along which I sped was narrow and sandy, winding amidst thickets of broom and brushwood, with which the despoblado was overgrown, and which in some places were as high as a man’s head. Across the moor, in the direction in which I was proceeding, rose a lofty eminence, naked and bare. The moor extended for at least three leagues; I had nearly crossed it, and reached the foot of the ascent. I was becoming very uneasy, conceiving that I might have passed the gypsy amongst the thickets, when I suddenly heard his well-known Ola! and his black savage head and staring eyes suddenly appeared from amidst a clump of broom.
“You have tarried long, brother,” said he; “I almost thought you had played me false.”
He bade me dismount, and then proceeded to lead the horse behind the thicket, where I found the mule picqueted to the ground. I gave him the barley and provisions, and then proceeded to relate to him my adventure with the national.
“I would I had him here,” said the gypsy, on hearing the epithets which the former had lavished upon him—“I would I had him here, then should my chulí and his carlo become better acquainted.”
“And what are you doing here yourself,” I demanded, “in this wild place, amidst these thickets?”
“I am expecting a messenger down yon pass,” said the gypsy; “and till that messenger arrive I can neither go forward nor return. It is on business of Egypt, brother, that I am here.”
As he invariably used this last expression when he wished to evade my inquiries, I held my peace, and said no more. The animals were fed, and we proceeded to make a frugal repast on bread and wine.
“Why do you not cook the game which I brought?” I demanded; “in this place there is plenty of materials for a fire.”
“The smoke might discover us, brother,” said Antonio. “I am desirous of lying escondido in this place until the arrival of the messenger.”
It was now considerably past noon. The gypsy lay behind the thicket, raising himself up occasionally and looking anxiously towards the hill which lay over against us; at last, with an exclamation of disappointment and impatience, he flung himself on the ground, where he lay a considerable time, apparently ruminating; at last he lifted up his head and looked me in the face.
Antonio.—Brother, I cannot imagine what business brought you to this country.
Myself.—Perhaps the same which brings you to this moor—business of Egypt.
Antonio.—Not so, brother; you speak the language of Egypt, it is true, but your ways and words are neither those of the Calés nor of the Busné.
Myself.—Did you not hear me speak in the foros about God and Tebleque? It was to declare His glory to the Calés and Gentiles that I came to the land of Spain.
Antonio.—And who sent you on this errand?
Myself.—You would scarcely understand me were I to inform you. Know, however, that there are many in foreign lands who lament the darkness which envelops Spain, and the scenes of cruelty, robbery, and murder which deform it.
Antonio.—Are they Caloré or Busné?
Myself.—What matters it? Both Caloré and Busné are sons of the same God.
Antonio.—You lie, brother; they are not of one father nor of one Errate. You speak of robbery, cruelty, and murder. There are too many Busné, brother; if there were no Busné there would be neither robbery nor murder. The Caloré neither rob nor murder each other, the Busné do; nor are they cruel to their animals, their law forbids them. When I was a child I was beating a burra, but my father stopped my hand, and chided me. “Hurt not the animal,” said he; “for within it is the soul of your own sister!”
Myself.—And do you believe in this wild doctrine, O Antonio?
Antonio.—Sometimes I do, sometimes I do not. There are some who believe in nothing; not even that they live! Long since, I knew an old Caloró—he was old, very old, upwards of a hundred years—and I once heard him say, that all we thought we saw was a lie; that there was no world, no men nor women, no horses nor mules, no olive-trees. But whither are we straying? I asked what induced you to come to this country—you tell me, the glory of God and Tebleque. Disparate! tell that to the Busné. You have good reasons for coming, no doubt, else you would not be here. Some say you are a spy of the Londoné. Perhaps you are; I care not. Rise, brother, and tell me whether any one is coming down the pass.
“I see a distant object,” I replied; “like a speck on the side of the hill.”
The gypsy started up, and we both fixed our eyes on the object: the distance was so great that it was at first with difficulty that we could distinguish whether it moved or not. A quarter of an hour, however, dispelled all doubts, for within this time it had nearly reached the bottom of the hill, and we could descry a figure seated on an animal of some kind.
“It is a woman,” said I, at length, “mounted on a grey donkey.”
“Then it is my messenger,” said Antonio, “for it can be no other.”
The woman and the donkey were now upon the plain, and for some time were concealed from us by the copse and brushwood which intervened. They were not long, however, in making their appearance at the distance of about a hundred yards. The donkey was a beautiful creature of a silver grey, and came frisking along, swinging her tail, and moving her feet so quick that they scarcely seemed to touch the ground. The animal no sooner perceived us than she stopped short, turned round, and attempted to escape by the way she had come; her rider, however, detained her, whereupon the donkey kicked violently, and would probably have flung the former, had she not sprung nimbly to the ground. The form of the woman was entirely concealed by the large wrapping man’s cloak which she wore. I ran to assist her, when she turned her face full upon me, and I instantly recognized the sharp, clever features of Antonia, whom I had seen at Badajoz, the daughter of my guide. She said nothing to me, but advancing to her father, addressed something to him in a low voice, which I did not hear. He started back, and vociferated “All!” “Yes,” said she in a louder tone, probably repeating the words which I had not caught before, “All are captured.”
The gypsy remained for some time like one astounded, and, unwilling to listen to their discourse, which I imagined might relate to business of Egypt, I walked away amidst the thickets. I was absent for some time, but could occasionally hear passionate expressions and oaths. In about half an hour I returned; they had left the road, but I found them behind the broom clump, where the animals stood. Both were seated on the ground. The features of the gypsy were peculiarly dark and grim; he held his unsheathed knife in his hand, which he would occasionally plunge into the earth, exclaiming, “All! All!”
“Brother,” said he at last, “I can go no farther with you; the business which carried me to Castumba is settled. You must now travel by yourself and trust to your baji.”
“I trust in Undevel,” I replied, “who wrote my fortune long ago. But how am I to journey? I have no horse, for you doubtless want your own.”
The gypsy appeared to reflect. “I want the horse, it is true, brother,” he said, “and likewise the macho; but you shall not go en pindré; [143] you shall purchase the burra of Antonia, which I presented her when I sent her upon this expedition.”
“The burra,” I replied, “appears both savage and vicious.”
“She is both, brother, and on that account I bought her; a savage and vicious beast has generally four excellent legs. You are a Caló, brother, and can manage her; you shall therefore purchase the savage burra, giving my daughter Antonia a baria of gold. If you think fit, you can sell the beast at Talavera or Madrid, for Estremenian bestis are highly considered in Castumba.”
In less than an hour I was on the other side of the pass, mounted on the savage burra.
The Pass of Mirabete—Wolves and Shepherds—Female Subtlety—Death by Wolves—The Mystery solved—The Mountains—The Dark Hour—The Traveller of the Night—Abarbenel—Hoarded Treasure—Force of Gold—The Archbishop—Arrival at Madrid.
I proceeded down the pass of Mirabete, occasionally ruminating on the matter which had brought me to Spain, and occasionally admiring one of the finest prospects in the world. Before me outstretched lay immense plains, bounded in the distance by huge mountains, whilst at the foot of the hill which I was now descending rolled the Tagus, in a deep narrow stream, between lofty banks; the whole was gilded by the rays of the setting sun, for the day, though cold and wintry, was bright and clear. In about an hour I reached the river at a place where stood the remains of what had once been a magnificent bridge, which had, however, been blown up in the Peninsular war and never since repaired.
I crossed the river in a ferry-boat; the passage was rather difficult, the current very rapid and swollen, owing to the latter rains.
“Am I in New Castile?” I demanded of the ferryman, on reaching the further bank. “The raya is many leagues from hence,” replied the ferryman; “you seem a stranger. Whence do you come?” “From England,” I replied, and without waiting for an answer, I sprang on the burra, and proceeded on my way. The burra plied her feet most nimbly, and shortly after nightfall, brought me to a village at about two leagues’ distance from the river’s bank.
I sat down in the venta where I put up; there was a huge fire, consisting of the greater part of the trunk of an olive-tree. The company was rather miscellaneous: a hunter with his escopeta; a brace of shepherds with immense dogs, of that species for which Estremadura [146] is celebrated; a broken soldier, just returned from the wars; and a beggar, who, after demanding charity for the seven wounds of Maria Santísima, took a seat amidst us, and made himself quite comfortable. The hostess was an active, bustling woman, and busied herself in cooking my supper, which consisted of the game which I had purchased at Jaraicejo, and which, on my taking leave of the gypsy, he had counselled me to take with me. In the mean time, I sat by the fire listening to the conversation of the company.
“I would I were a wolf,” said one of the shepherds; “or, indeed, anything rather than what I am. A pretty life is this of ours, out in the campo, among the carrascales, suffering heat and cold for a peseta a day. I would I were a wolf; he fares better, and is more respected than the wretch of a shepherd.”
“But he frequently fares scurvily,” said I; “the shepherd and dogs fall upon him, and then he pays for his temerity with the loss of his head.”
“That is not often the case, señor traveller,” said the shepherd; “he watches his opportunity, and seldom runs into harm’s way. And as to attacking him, it is no very pleasant task; he has both teeth and claws, and dog or man, who has once felt them, likes not to venture a second time within his reach. These dogs of mine will seize a bear singly with considerable alacrity, though he is a most powerful animal; but I have seen them run howling away from a wolf, even though there were two or three of us at hand to encourage them.”
“A dangerous person is the wolf,” said the other shepherd, “and cunning as dangerous. Who knows more than he? He knows the vulnerable point of every animal; see, for example, how he flies at the neck of a bullock, tearing open the veins with his grim teeth and claws. But does he attack a horse in this manner? I trow not.”
“Not he,” said the other shepherd, “he is too good a judge; but he fastens on the haunches, and hamstrings him in a moment. Oh, the fear of the horse when he comes near the dwelling of the wolf! My master was the other day riding in the despoblado, above the pass, on his fine Andalusian steed, which had cost him five hundred dollars. Suddenly the horse stopped, and sweated and trembled like a woman in the act of fainting. My master could not conceive the reason, but presently he heard a squealing and growling in the bushes, whereupon he fired off his gun and scared the wolves, who scampered away; but he tells me, that the horse has not yet recovered from his fright.”
“Yet the mares know, occasionally, how to balk him,” replied his companion. “There is great craft and malice in mares, as there is in all females. See them feeding in the campo with their young cria about them; presently the alarm is given that the wolf is drawing near; they start wildly and run about for a moment, but it is only for a moment—amain they gather together, forming themselves into a circle, in the centre of which they place the foals. Onward comes the wolf, hoping to make his dinner on horseflesh. He is mistaken, however; the mares have balked him, and are as cunning as himself. Not a tail is to be seen—not a hinder quarter—but there stand the whole troop, their fronts towards him ready to receive him, and as he runs round them barking and howling, they rise successively on their hind legs, ready to stamp him to the earth, should he attempt to hurt their cria or themselves.”
“Worse than the he-wolf,” said the soldier, “is the female; for, as the señor pastor has well observed, there is more malice in women than in males. To see one of these she-demons with a troop of the males at her heels is truly surprising: where she turns they turn, and what she does that do they; for they appear bewitched, and have no power but to imitate her actions. I was once travelling with a comrade over the hills of Galicia, when we heard a howl. ‘Those are wolves,’ said my companion; ‘let us get out of the way.’ So we stepped from the path and ascended the side of the hill a little way, to a terrace, where grew vines, after the manner of Galicia. Presently appeared a large grey she-wolf, deshonesta, snapping and growling at a troop of demons, who followed close behind, their tails uplifted, and their eyes like firebrands. What do you think the perverse brute did? Instead of keeping to the path, she turned in the very direction in which we were; there was now no remedy, so we stood still. I was the first upon the terrace, and by me she passed so close that I felt her hair brush against my legs; she, however, took no notice of me, but pushed on, neither looking to the right nor left, and all the other wolves trotted by me without offering the slightest injury, or even so much as looking at me. Would that I could say as much for my poor companion, who stood farther on, and was, I believe, less in the demon’s way than I was; she had nearly passed him, when suddenly she turned half round and snapped at him. I shall never forget what followed: in a moment a dozen wolves were upon him, tearing him limb from limb, with howlings like nothing in this world. In a few moments he was devoured; nothing remained but the skull and a few bones; and then they passed on in the same manner as they came. Good reason had I to be grateful that my lady wolf took less notice of me than my poor comrade.”
Listening to this and similar conversation, I fell into a doze before the fire, in which I continued for a considerable time, but was at length roused by a voice exclaiming in a loud tone, “All are captured!” These were the exact words which, when spoken by his daughter, confounded the gypsy upon the moor. I looked around me. The company consisted of the same individuals to whose conversation I had been listening before I sank into slumber; but the beggar was now the spokesman, and he was haranguing with considerable vehemence.
“I beg your pardon, Caballero” said I, “but I did not hear the commencement of your discourse. Who are those who have been captured?”
“A band of accursed Gitanos, Caballero,” replied the beggar, returning the title of courtesy which I had bestowed upon him. “During more than a fortnight they have infested the roads on the frontier of Castile, and many have been the gentlemen travellers like yourself whom they have robbed and murdered. It would seem that the gypsy canaille must needs take advantage of these troublous times, and form themselves into a faction. It is said that the fellows of whom I am speaking expected many more of their brethren to join them, which is likely enough, for all gypsies are thieves: but praised be God, they have been put down before they became too formidable. I saw them myself conveyed to the prison at ---. Thanks be to God. Todos estan presos.” [150a]
“The mystery is now solved,” said I to myself, and proceeded to despatch my supper, which was now ready.
The next day’s journey brought me to a considerable town, the name of which I have forgotten. It is the first in New Castile, in this direction. [150b] I passed the night as usual in the manger of the stable, close beside the caballeria; for, as I travelled upon a donkey, I deemed it incumbent upon me to be satisfied with a couch in keeping with my manner of journeying, being averse, by any squeamish and over-delicate airs, to generate a suspicion amongst the people with whom I mingled that I was aught higher than what my equipage and outward appearance might lead them to believe. Rising before daylight, I again proceeded on my way, hoping ere night to be able to reach Talavera, which I was informed was ten leagues distant. The way lay entirely over an unbroken level, for the most part covered with olive-trees. On the left, however, at the distance of a few leagues, rose the mighty mountains which I have already mentioned. They run eastward in a seemingly interminable range, parallel with the route which I was pursuing; their tops and sides were covered with dazzling snow, and the blasts which came sweeping from them across the wide and melancholy plains were of bitter keenness.
“What mountains are those?” I inquired of a barber-surgeon who, mounted like myself on a grey burra, joined me about noon, and proceeded in my company for several leagues. “They have many names, Caballero,” replied the barber; “according to the names of the neighbouring places, so they are called. Yon portion of them is styled the Serrania of Plasencia; and opposite to Madrid they are termed the Mountains of Guadarrama, from a river of that name, which descends from them. They run a vast way, Caballero, and separate the two kingdoms, for on the other side is Old Castile. They are mighty mountains, and, though they generate much cold, I take pleasure in looking at them, which is not to be wondered at, seeing that I was born amongst them, though at present, for my sins, I live in a village of the plain. Caballero, there is not another such range in Spain; they have their secrets, too—their mysteries. Strange tales are told of those hills, and of what they contain in their deep recesses, for they are a broad chain, and you may wander days and days amongst them without coming to any termino. Many have lost themselves on those hills, and have never again been heard of. Strange things are told of them: it is said that in certain places there are deep pools and lakes, in which dwell monsters, huge serpents as long as a pine-tree, and horses of the flood, which sometimes come out and commit mighty damage. One thing is certain, that yonder, far away to the west, in the heart of those hills, there is a wonderful valley, so narrow that only at mid-day is the face of the sun to be descried from it. That valley lay undiscovered and unknown for thousands of years; no person dreamed of its existence. But at last, a long time ago, certain hunters entered it by chance, and then what do you think they found, Caballero? They found a small nation or tribe of unknown people, speaking an unknown language, who, perhaps, had lived there since the creation of the world, without intercourse with the rest of their fellow-creatures, and without knowing that other beings besides themselves existed! Caballero, did you never hear of the valley of the Batuecas? [152] Many books have been written about that valley and those people. Caballero, I am proud of yonder hills; and were I independent, and without wife or children, I would purchase a burra like that of your own—which I see is an excellent one, and far superior to mine—and travel amongst them till I knew all their mysteries, and had seen all the wondrous things which they contain.”
Throughout the day I pressed the burra forward, only stopping once in order to feed the animal; but, notwithstanding that she played her part very well, night came on, and I was still about two leagues from Talavera. As the sun went down, the cold became intense; I drew the old gypsy cloak, which I still wore, closer around me, but I found it quite inadequate to protect me from the inclemency of the atmosphere. The road, which lay over a plain, was not very distinctly traced, and became in the dusk rather difficult to find, more especially as cross-roads leading to different places were of frequent occurrence. I, however, proceeded in the best manner I could, and when I became dubious as to the course which I should take, I invariably allowed the animal on which I was mounted to decide. At length the moon shone out faintly, when suddenly by its beams I beheld a figure moving before me at a slight distance. I quickened the pace of the burra, and was soon close at its side. It went on, neither altering its pace nor looking round for a moment. It was the figure of a man, the tallest and bulkiest that I had hitherto seen in Spain, dressed in a manner strange and singular for the country. On his head was a hat with a low crown and broad brim, very much resembling that of an English waggoner; about his body was a long loose tunic or slop, seemingly of coarse ticken, [153] open in front, so as to allow the interior garments to be occasionally seen. These appeared to consist of a jerkin and short velveteen pantaloons. I have said that the brim of the hat was broad, but broad as it was, it was insufficient to cover an immense bush of coal-black hair, which, thick and curly, projected on either side. Over the left shoulder was flung a kind of satchel, and in the right hand was held a long staff or pole.
There was something peculiarly strange about the figure; but what struck me the most was the tranquillity with which it moved along, taking no heed of me, though of course aware of my proximity, but looking straight forward along the road, save when it occasionally raised a huge face and large eyes towards the moon, which was now shining forth in the eastern quarter.
“A cold night,” said I at last. “Is this the way to Talavera?”
“It is the way to Talavera, and the night is cold.”
“I am going to Talavera,” said I, “as I suppose you are yourself.”
“I am going thither, so are you, bueno.”
The tones of the voice which delivered these words were in their way quite as strange and singular as the figure to which the voice belonged. They were not exactly the tones of a Spanish voice, and yet there was something in them that could hardly be foreign; the pronunciation also was correct, and the language, though singular, faultless. But I was most struck with the manner in which the last word, bueno, was spoken. I had heard something like it before, but where or when I could by no means remember. [154] A pause now ensued, the figure stalking on as before with the most perfect indifference, and seemingly with no disposition either to seek or avoid conversation.
“Are you not afraid,” said I at last, “to travel these roads in the dark? It is said that there are robbers abroad.”
“Are you not rather afraid,” replied the figure, “to travel these roads in the dark?—you who are ignorant of the country, who are a foreigner, an Englishman?”
“How is it that you know me to be an Englishman?” demanded I, much surprised.
“That is no difficult matter,” replied the figure; “the sound of your voice was enough to tell me that.”
“You speak of voices,” said I; “suppose the tone of your own voice were to tell me who you are?”
“That it will not do,” replied my companion; “you know nothing about me—you can know nothing about me.
“Be not sure of that, my friend; I am acquainted with many things of which you have little idea.”
“Por exemplo,” said the figure.
“For example,” said I, “you speak two languages.”
The figure moved on, seemed to consider a moment and then said slowly, “Bueno.”
“You have two names,” I continued; “one for the house, and the other for the street; both are good, but the one by which you are called at home is the one which you like best.”
The man walked on about ten paces, in the same manner as he had previously done; all of a sudden he turned, and taking the bridle of the burra gently in his hand, stopped her. I had now a full view of his face and figure, and those huge features and Herculean form still occasionally revisit me in my dreams. I see him standing in the moonshine, staring me in the face with his deep calm eyes. At last he said—
“Are you then one of us?”
It was late at night when we arrived at Talavera. We went to a large gloomy house, which my companion informed me was the principle posada of the town. We entered the kitchen, at the extremity of which a large fire was blazing. “Pepita,” [156a] said my companion to a handsome girl who advanced smiling towards us, “a brasero and a private apartment. This cavalier is a friend of mine, and we shall sup together.” We were shown to an apartment, in which were two alcoves containing beds. After supper, which consisted of the very best, by the order of my companion, we sat over the brasero, and commenced talking.
Myself.—Of course you have conversed with Englishmen before, else you could not have recognized me by the tone of my voice.
Abarbenel. [156b]—I was a young lad when the war of the Independence broke out, and there came to the village in which our family lived an English officer, in order to teach discipline to the new levies. He was quartered in my father’s house, where he conceived a great affection for me. On his departure, with the consent of my father, I attended him through both the Castiles, partly as companion, partly as domestic. I was with him nearly a year, when he was suddenly summoned to return to his own country. He would fain have taken me with him, but to that my father would by no means consent. It is now five and twenty years since I last saw an Englishman; but you have seen how I recognized you, even in the dark night.
Myself.—And what kind of life do you pursue, and by what means do you obtain support?
Abarbenel.—I experience no difficulty. I live much in the same way as I believe my forefathers lived: certainly as my father did, for his course has been mine. At his death I took possession of the herencia, for I was his only child. It was not requisite that I should follow any business, for my wealth was great; yet, to avoid remark, I followed that of my father, who was a longanizero. I have occasionally dealt in wool, but lazily—lazily—as I had no stimulus for exertion. I was, however, successful; in many instances strangely so; much more than many others who toiled day and night, and whose whole soul was in the trade.
Myself.—Have you any children? Are you married?
Abarbenel.—I have no children, though I am married. I have a wife, and an amiga, or I should rather say two wives, for I am wedded to both. [157a] I however call one my amiga, for appearance sake, for I wish to live in quiet, and am unwilling to offend the prejudices of the surrounding people.
Myself.—You say you are wealthy. In what does your wealth consist?
Abarbenel.—In gold and silver, and stones of price; for I have inherited all the hoards of my forefathers. The greater part is buried underground; indeed, I have never examined the tenth part of it. I have coins of silver and gold older than the times of Ferdinand the Accursed and Jezebel; [157b] I have also large sums employed in usury. We keep ourselves close, however, and pretend to be poor, miserably so; but on certain occasions, at our festivals, when our gates are barred, and our savage dogs are let loose in the court, we eat our food off services such as the Queen of Spain cannot boast of, and wash our feet in ewers of silver, fashioned and wrought before the Americas were discovered, though our garments are at all times coarse, and our food for the most part of the plainest description.
Myself.—Are there more of you than yourself and your two wives?
Abarbenel.—There are my two servants, who are likewise of us—the one is a youth, and is about to leave, being betrothed to one at some distance; the other is old: he is now upon the road, following me with a mule and car.
Myself.—And whither are you bound at present?
Abarbenel.—To Toledo, where I ply my trade occasionally of longanizero. I love to wander about, though I seldom stray far from home. Since I left the Englishman my feet have never once stepped beyond the bounds of New Castile. I love to visit Toledo, and to think of the times which have long since departed. I should establish myself there, were there not so many accursed ones, who look upon me with an evil eye.
Myself.—Are you known for what you are? Do the authorities molest you?
Abarbenel.—People of course suspect me to be what I am; but as I conform outwardly in most respects to their ways, they do not interfere with me. True it is that sometimes, when I enter the church to hear the mass, they glare at me over the left shoulder, as much as to say—“What do you here?” And sometimes they cross themselves as I pass by; but as they go no further, I do not trouble myself on that account. With respect to the authorities, they are not bad friends of mine. Many of the higher class have borrowed money from me on usury, so that I have them to a certain extent in my power; and as for the low alguazils and corchetes, they would do anything to oblige me, in consideration of a few dollars which I occasionally give them; so that matters upon the whole go on remarkably well. Of old, indeed, it was far otherwise; yet, I know not how it was, though other families suffered much, ours always enjoyed a tolerable share of tranquillity. The truth is, that our family has always known how to guide itself wonderfully. I may say there is much of the wisdom of the snake amongst us. We have always possessed friends; and with respect to enemies, it is by no means safe to meddle with us, for it is a rule of our house never to forgive an injury, and to spare neither trouble nor expense in bringing ruin and destruction upon the heads of our evil-doers.
Myself.—Do the priests interfere with you?
Abarbenel.—They let me alone, especially in our own neighbourhood. Shortly after the death of my father one hot-headed individual endeavoured to do me an evil turn; but I soon requited him, causing him to be imprisoned on a charge of blasphemy, and in prison he remained a long time, till he went mad and died.
Myself.—Have you a head in Spain, in whom is vested the chief authority?
Abarbenel.—Not exactly. There are, however, certain holy families who enjoy much consideration; my own is one of these—the chiefest, I may say. My grandsire was a particularly holy man; and I have heard my father say, that one night an archbishop came to his house secretly, merely to have the satisfaction of kissing his head.
Myself.—How can that be? What reverence could an archbishop entertain for one like yourself or your grandsire?
Abarbenel.—More than you imagine. He was one of us, at least his father was, and he could never forget what he had learned with reverence in his infancy. He said he had tried to forget it, but he could not; that the ruah was continually upon him, and that even from his childhood he had borne its terrors with a troubled mind, till at last he could bear himself no longer; so he went to my grandsire, with whom he remained one whole night; he then returned to his diocese, where he shortly afterwards died, in much renown for sanctity.
Myself.—What you say surprises me. Have you reason to suppose that many of you are to be found amongst the priesthood?
Abarbenel.—Not to suppose, but to know it. There are many such as I amongst the priesthood, and not amongst the inferior priesthood either; some of the most learned and famed of them in Spain have been of us, or of our blood at least, and many of them at this day think as I do. There is one particular festival of the year at which four dignified ecclesiastics are sure to visit me; and then, when all is made close and secure, and the fitting ceremonies have been gone through, they sit down upon the floor and curse.
Myself.—Are you numerous in the large towns?
Abarbenel.—By no means; our places of abode are seldom the large towns; we prefer the villages, and rarely enter the large towns but on business. Indeed, we are not a numerous people, and there are few provinces of Spain which contain more than twenty families. None of us are poor, and those among us who serve, do so more from choice than necessity, for by serving each other we acquire different trades. Not unfrequently the time of service is that of courtship also, and the servants eventually marry the daughters of the house.
We continued in discourse the greater part of the night; the next morning I prepared to depart. My companion, however, advised me to remain where I was for that day. “And if you respect my counsel,” said he, “you will not proceed farther in this manner. To-night the diligence will arrive from Estremadura, on its way to Madrid. Deposit yourself therein; it is the safest and most speedy mode of travelling. As for your animal, I will myself purchase her. My servant is here, and has informed me that she will be of service to us. Let us, therefore, pass the day together in communion, like brothers, and then proceed on our separate journeys.” We did pass the day together; and when the diligence arrived I deposited myself within, and on the morning of the second day arrived at Madrid.
Lodging at Madrid—My Hostess—British Ambassador—Mendizabal—Baltasar—Duties of a National—Young Blood—The Execution—Population of Madrid—The Higher Orders—The Lower Classes—The Bull-fighter—The Crabbed Gitano.
It was the commencement of February, 1837, when I reached Madrid. After staying a few days at a posada, I removed to a lodging which I engaged at No. 3, in the Calle de la Zarza, [162] a dark dirty street, which, however, was close to the Puerta del Sol, the most central point of Madrid, into which four or five of the principal streets debouche, and which is, at all times of the year, the great place of assemblage for the idlers of the capital, poor or rich.
It was rather a singular house in which I had taken up my abode. I occupied the front part of the first floor; my apartments consisted of an immense parlour, and a small chamber on one side in which I slept. The parlour, notwithstanding its size, contained very little furniture: a few chairs, a table, and a species of sofa, constituted the whole. It was very cold and airy, owing to the draughts which poured in from three large windows, and from sundry doors. The mistress of the house, attended by her two daughters, ushered me in. “Did you ever see a more magnificent apartment?” demanded the former; “is it not fit for a king’s son? Last winter it was occupied by the great General Espartero.” [163]
The hostess was an exceedingly fat woman, a native of Valladolid, in Old Castile. “Have you any other family,” I demanded, “besides these daughters?” “Two sons,” she replied; “one of them an officer in the army, father of this urchin,” pointing to a wicked but clever-looking boy of about twelve, who at that moment bounded into the room; “the other is the most celebrated national in Madrid. He is a tailor by trade, and his name is Baltasar. He has much influence with the other nationals, on account of the liberality of his opinions, and a word from him is sufficient to bring them all out armed and furious to the Puerta del Sol. He is, however, at present confined to his bed, for he is very dissipated, and fond of the company of bullfighters and people still worse.”
As my principal motive for visiting the Spanish capital was the hope of obtaining permission from the government to print the New Testament in the Castilian language, for circulation in Spain, I lost no time, upon my arrival, in taking what I considered to be the necessary steps.
I was an entire stranger at Madrid, and bore no letters of introduction to any persons of influence who might have assisted me in this undertaking, so that, notwithstanding I entertained a hope of success, relying on the assistance of the Almighty, this hope was not at all times very vivid, but was frequently overcast with the clouds of despondency.
Mendizabal [164a] was at this time prime minister of Spain, and was considered as a man of almost unbounded power, in whose hands were placed the destinies of the country. I therefore considered that if I could by any means induce him to favour my views, I should have no reason to fear interruption from other quarters, and I determined upon applying to him.
Before taking this step, however, I deemed it advisable to wait upon Mr. Villiers, [164b] the British ambassador at Madrid, and, with the freedom permitted to a British subject, to ask his advice in this affair. I was received with great kindness, and enjoyed a conversation with him on various subjects before I introduced the matter which I had most at heart. He said that if I wished for an interview with Mendizabal he would endeavour to procure me one, but, at the same time, told me frankly that he could not hope that any good would arise from it, as he knew him to be violently prejudiced against the British and Foreign Bible Society, and was far more likely to discountenance than encourage any efforts which they might be disposed to make for introducing the Gospel into Spain. I, however, remained resolute in my desire to make the trial, and before I left him obtained a letter of introduction to Mendizabal.
Early one morning I repaired to the palace, in a wing of which was the office of the prime minister. It was bitterly cold, and the Guadarrama, of which there is a noble view from the palace plain, was covered with snow. For at least three hours I remained shivering with cold in an anteroom, with several other aspirants for an interview with the man of power. At last his private secretary made his appearance, and after putting various questions to the others, addressed himself to me, asking who I was and what I wanted. I told him that I was an Englishman, and the bearer of a letter from the British Minister. “If you have no objection, I will myself deliver it to his Excellency,” said he; whereupon I handed it to him, and he withdrew. Several individuals were admitted before me; at last, however, my own turn came, and I was ushered into the presence of Mendizabal.
He stood behind a table covered with papers, on which his eyes were intently fixed. He took not the slightest notice when I entered, and I had leisure enough to survey him. He was a huge athletic man, somewhat taller than myself, who measure six feet two without my shoes. His complexion was florid, his features fine and regular, his nose quite aquiline, and his teeth splendidly white; though scarcely fifty years of age, his hair was remarkably grey. He was dressed in a rich morning gown, with a gold chain round his neck, and morocco slippers on his feet.
His secretary, a fine intellectual-looking man, who, as I was subsequently informed, had acquired a name both in English and Spanish literature, [166a] stood at one end of the table with papers in his hands.
After I had been standing about a quarter of an hour, Mendizabal suddenly lifted up a pair of sharp eyes, and fixed them upon me with a peculiarly scrutinizing glance.
“I have seen a glance very similar to that amongst the Beni Israel,” [166b] thought I to myself. . . .
My interview with him lasted nearly an hour. Some singular discourse passed between us. I found him, as I had been informed, a bitter enemy to the Bible Society, of which he spoke in terms of hatred and contempt; and by no means a friend to the Christian religion, which I could easily account for. I was not discouraged, however, and pressed upon him the matter which brought me thither, and was eventually so far successful as to obtain a promise, that at the expiration of a few months, when he hoped the country would be in a more tranquil state, I should be allowed to print the Scriptures.
As I was going away he said, “Yours is not the first application I have had: ever since I have held the reins of government I have been pestered in this manner by English, calling themselves Evangelical Christians, who have of late come flocking over into Spain. Only last week a hunchbacked fellow found his way into my cabinet whilst I was engaged in important business, and told me that Christ was coming. . . . And now you have made your appearance, and almost persuaded me to embroil myself yet more with the priesthood, as if they did not abhor me enough already. What a strange infatuation is this which drives you over lands and waters with Bibles in your hands! My good sir, it is not Bibles we want, but rather guns and gunpowder to put the rebels down with, and, above all, money, that we may pay the troops. Whenever you come with these three things you shall have a hearty welcome; if not, we really can dispense with your visits, however great the honour.”
Myself.—There will be no end to the troubles of this afflicted country until the Gospel have free circulation.
Mendizabal.—I expected that answer, for I have not lived thirteen years in England without forming some acquaintance with the phraseology of you good folks. Now, now, pray go; you see how engaged I am. Come again whenever you please, but let it not be within the next three months.
“Don Jorge,” said my hostess, coming into my apartment one morning, whilst I sat at breakfast, with my feet upon the brasero, “here is my son Baltasarito, the national. He has risen from his bed, and hearing that there is an Englishman in the house, he has begged me to introduce him, for he loves Englishmen on account of the liberality of their opinions. There he is; what do you think of him?”
I did not state to his mother what I thought; it appeared to me, however, that she was quite right in calling him Baltasarito, which is the diminutive of Baltasar, forasmuch as that ancient and sonorous name had certainly never been bestowed on a more diminutive personage. He might measure about five feet one inch, though he was rather corpulent for his height; his face looked yellow and sickly; he had, however, a kind of fanfaronading air, and his eyes, which were of dark brown, were both sharp and brilliant. His dress, or rather his undress, was somewhat shabby: he had a foraging cap on his head, and in lieu of a morning gown he wore a sentinel’s old great-coat.
“I am glad to make your acquaintance, señor nacional,” said I to him, after his mother had departed and Baltasar had taken his seat, and of course lighted a paper cigar [168] at the brasero. “I am glad to have made your acquaintance, more especially as your lady-mother has informed me that you have great influence with the nationals. I am a stranger in Spain, and may want a friend; fortune has been kind to me in procuring me one who is a member of so powerful a body.”
Baltasar.—Yes, I have a great deal to say with the other nationals; there is none in Madrid better known than Baltasar, or more dreaded by the Carlists. You say you may stand in need of a friend; there is no fear of my failing you in any emergency. Both myself and any of the other nationals will be proud to go out with you as padrinos, should you have any affair of honour on your hands. But why do you not become one of us? We would gladly receive you into our body.
Myself.—Is the duty of a national particularly hard?
Baltasar.—By no means. We have to do duty about once every fifteen days, and then there is occasionally a review, which does not last long. No! the duties of a national are by no means onerous, and the privileges are great. I have seen three of my brother nationals walk up and down the Prado of a Sunday, with sticks in their hands, cudgelling all the suspicious characters; and it is our common practice to scour the streets at night, and then if we meet any person who is obnoxious to us, we fall upon him, and with a knife or a bayonet generally leave him wallowing in his blood on the pavement. No one but a national would be permitted to do that.
Myself.—Of course none but persons of liberal opinions are to be found amongst the nationals?
Baltasar.—Would it were so! There are some amongst us, Don Jorge, who are no better than they should be; they are few, however, and for the most part well known. Theirs is no pleasant life, for when they mount guard with the rest they are scouted, and not unfrequently cudgelled. The law compels all of a certain age either to serve in the army or to become national soldiers, on which account some of these Godos are to be found amongst us.
Myself.—Are there many in Madrid of the Carlist opinion?
Baltasar.—Not among the young people; the greater part of the Madrilenian Carlists capable of bearing arms departed long ago to join the ranks of the factious in the Basque provinces. Those who remain are for the most part greybeards and priests, good for nothing but to assemble in private coffee-houses, and to prate treason together. Let them prate, Don Jorge; let them prate; the destinies of Spain do not depend on the wishes of ojalateros and pasteleros, [169] but on the hands of stout, gallant nationals, like myself and friends, Don Jorge.
Myself.—I am sorry to learn from your lady-mother that you are strangely dissipated.
Baltasar.—Ho, ho, Don Jorge, she has told you that, has she? What would you have, Don Jorge? I am young, and young blood will have its course. I am called Baltasar the gay by all the other nationals, and it is on account of my gaiety and the liberality of my opinions that I am so popular among them. When I mount guard I invariably carry my guitar with me, and then there is sure to be a funcion at the guard-house. We send for wine, Don Jorge, and the nationals become wild, Don Jorge, dancing and drinking through the night, whilst Baltasarito strums the guitar and sings them songs of Germanía:— [170a]
“Una romí sin pachí
Le penó á su chindomar,” [170b] etc., etc.
That is Gitano, Don Jorge; I learnt it from the toreros of Andalusia, who all speak Gitano, and are mostly of gypsy blood. I learnt it from them; they are all friends of mine, Montes, Sevilla, and Poquito Pan. [170c] I never miss a funcion of bulls, Don Jorge. Baltasar is sure to be there with his amiga. Don Jorge, there are no bull-funcions in the winter, or I would carry you to one, but happily to-morrow there is an execution, a funcion de la horca; [171] and there we will go, Don Jorge.
We did go to see this execution, which I shall long remember. The criminals were two young men, brothers; they suffered for a most atrocious murder, having in the dead of night broken open the house of an aged man, whom they put to death, and whose property they stole. Criminals in Spain are not hanged as they are in England, or guillotined as in France, but strangled upon a wooden stage. They sit down on a kind of chair with a post behind, to which is affixed an iron collar with a screw; this iron collar is made to clasp the neck of the prisoner, and on a certain signal it is drawn tighter and tighter by means of the screw, until life becomes extinct. After we had waited amongst the assembled multitude a considerable time, the first of the culprits appeared; he was mounted on an ass without saddle or stirrups, his legs being allowed to dangle nearly to the ground. He was dressed in yellow, sulphur-coloured robes, with a high-peaked conical red hat on his head, which was shaven. Between his hands he held a parchment, on which was written something—I believe the confession of faith. Two priests led the animal by the bridle; two others walked on either side, chanting litanies, amongst which I distinguished the words of heavenly peace and tranquillity, for the culprit had been reconciled to the church, had confessed and received absolution, and had been promised admission to heaven. He did not exhibit the least symptom of fear, but dismounted from the animal and was led, not supported, up the scaffold, where he was placed on the chair, and the fatal collar put round his neck. One of the priests then in a loud voice commenced saying the Belief, and the culprit repeated the words after him. On a sudden, the executioner, who stood behind, commenced turning the screw, which was of prodigious force, and the wretched man was almost instantly a corpse; but, as the screw went round, the priest began to shout, “pax et misericordia et tranquillitas,” [172] and still as he shouted, his voice became louder and louder, till the lofty walls of Madrid rang with it. Then stooping down, he placed his mouth close to the culprit’s ear, still shouting, just as if he would pursue the spirit through its course to eternity, cheering it on its way. The effect was tremendous. I myself was so excited that I involuntarily shouted, “Misericordia,” and so did many others. God was not thought of; Christ was not thought of; only the priest was thought of, for he seemed at that moment to be the first being in existence, and to have the power of opening and shutting the gates of heaven or of hell, just as he should think proper—a striking instance of the successful working of the Popish system, whose grand aim has ever been to keep people’s minds as far as possible from God, and to centre their hopes and fears in the priesthood. The execution of the second culprit was precisely similar; he ascended the scaffold a few minutes after his brother had breathed his last.
I have visited most of the principal capitals of the world, but upon the whole none has ever so interested me as this city of Madrid, in which I now found myself. I will not dwell upon its streets, its edifices, its public squares, its fountains, though some of these are remarkable enough; but Petersburg has finer streets, Paris and Edinburgh more stately edifices, London far nobler squares, whilst Shiraz can boast of more costly fountains, though not cooler waters. But the population! Within a mud wall scarcely one league and a half in circuit, are contained two hundred thousand human beings, certainly forming the most extraordinary vital mass to be found in the entire world; and be it always remembered that this mass is strictly Spanish. The population of Constantinople is extraordinary enough, but to form it twenty nations have contributed—Greeks, Armenians, Persians, Poles, Jews, the latter, by-the-by, of Spanish origin, and speaking amongst themselves the old Spanish language; but the huge population of Madrid, with the exception of a sprinkling of foreigners, chiefly French tailors, glove-makers, and perruquiers, is strictly Spanish, though a considerable portion are not natives of the place. Here are no colonies of Germans, as at Saint Petersburg; no English factories, as at Lisbon; no multitudes of insolent Yankees lounging through the streets, as at the Havannah, with an air which seems to say, “The land is our own whenever we choose to take it;” but a population which, however strange and wild, and composed of various elements, is Spanish, and will remain so as long as the city itself shall exist. Hail, ye aguadores of Asturia! who, in your dress of coarse duffel and leathern skull-caps, are seen seated in hundreds by the fountain sides, upon your empty water-casks, or staggering with them filled to the topmost stories of lofty houses. Hail, ye caleseros of Valencia! who, lolling lazily against your vehicles, rasp tobacco for your paper cigars whilst waiting for a fare. Hail to you, beggars of La Mancha! men and women, who, wrapped in coarse blankets, demand charity indifferently at the gate of the palace or the prison. Hail to you, valets from the mountains, mayordomos and secretaries from Biscay and Guipuzcoa, toreros from Andalusia, reposteros from Galicia, shopkeepers from Catalonia! Hail to ye, Castilians, Estremenians, and Aragonese, of whatever calling! And lastly, genuine sons of the capital, rabble of Madrid, ye twenty thousand manolos, [174a] whose terrible knives, on the second morning of May, [174b] worked such grim havoc amongst the legions of Murat!
And the higher orders—the ladies and gentlemen, the cavaliers and señoras—shall I pass them by in silence? The truth is I have little to say about them; I mingled but little in their society, and what I saw of them by no means tended to exalt them in my imagination. I am not one of those who, wherever they go, make it a constant practice to disparage the higher orders, and to exalt the populace at their expense. There are many capitals in which the high aristocracy, the lords and ladies, the sons and daughters of nobility, constitute the most remarkable and the most interesting part of the population. This is the case at Vienna, and more especially at London. Who can rival the English aristocrat in lofty stature, in dignified bearing, in strength of hand, and valour of heart? Who rides a nobler horse? Who has a firmer seat? And who more lovely than his wife, or sister, or daughter? But with respect to the Spanish aristocracy, the ladies and gentlemen, the cavaliers and señoras, I believe the less that is said of them on the points to which I have just alluded the better. I confess, however, that I know little about them; they have, perhaps, their admirers, and to the pens of such I leave their panegyric. Le Sage has described them as they were nearly two centuries ago. His description is anything but captivating, and I do not think that they have improved since the period of the sketches of the immortal Frenchman. I would sooner talk of the lower class, not only of Madrid, but of all Spain. The Spaniard of the lower class has much more interest for me, whether manolo, labourer, or muleteer. He is not a common being; he is an extraordinary man. He has not, it is true, the amiability and generosity of the Russian mujik, who will give his only rouble rather than the stranger shall want; nor his placid courage, which renders him insensible to fear, and, at the command of his Tsar, sends him singing to certain death. [175] There is more hardness and less self-devotion in the disposition of the Spaniard; he possesses, however, a spirit of proud independence, which it is impossible but to admire. He is ignorant, of course; but it is singular, that I have invariably found amongst the low and slightly educated classes far more liberality of sentiment than amongst the upper. It has long been the fashion to talk of the bigotry of the Spaniards, and their mean jealousy of foreigners. This is true to a certain extent; but it chiefly holds good with respect to the upper classes. If foreign valour or talent has never received its proper meed in Spain, the great body of the Spaniards are certainly not in fault. I have heard Wellington calumniated in this proud scene of his triumphs, but never by the old soldiers of Aragon and the Asturias, who assisted to vanquish the French at Salamanca and the Pyrenees. I have heard the manner of riding of an English jockey criticized, but it was by the idiotic heir of Medina Celi, and not by a picador of the Madrilenian bull-ring.
Apropos of bull-fighters:—Shortly after my arrival, I one day entered a low tavern in a neighbourhood notorious for robbery and murder, and in which for the last two hours I had been wandering on a voyage of discovery. I was fatigued, and required refreshment. I found the place thronged with people, who had all the appearance of ruffians. I saluted them, upon which they made way for me to the bar, taking off their sombreros with great ceremony. I emptied a glass of val de peñas, and was about to pay for it and depart, when a horrible-looking fellow, dressed in a buff jerkin, leather breeches, and jackboots, which came halfway up his thighs, and having on his head a white hat, the rims of which were at least a yard and a half in circumference, pushed through the crowd, and confronting me, roared:—