“Otra copita! vamos Inglesito: Otra copita!” [176]

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

“Not know me!” replied the being.  “I am Sevilla, the torero.  I know you well; you are the friend of Baltasarito, the national, who is a friend of mine, and a very good subject.”

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

“Cavaliers, and strong men, this cavalier is the friend of a friend of mine.  Es mucho hombre. [177a]  There is none like him in Spain.  He speaks the crabbed Gitano, though he is an Inglesito.”

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

“It is not possible, say you?  I tell you it is.  Come forward, Balseiro, you who have been in prison all your life, and are always boasting that you can speak the crabbed Gitano, though I say you know nothing of it—come forward and speak to his worship in the crabbed Gitano.”

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

He spoke a few words in the broken gypsy slang of the prison, inquiring of me whether I had ever been in the condemned cell, and whether I knew what a Gitana [177c] was.

“Vamos Inglesito,” shouted Sevilla, in a voice of thunder; “answer the monró in the crabbed Gitano.”

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

“Did I not say to you,” cried the bull-fighter, “that you knew nothing of the crabbed Gitano?  But this Inglesito does.  I understood all he said.  Vaya, there is none like him for the crabbed Gitano.  He is a good ginete, too; next to myself, there is none like him, only he rides with stirrup leathers too short. [178]  Inglesito, if you have need of money, I will lend you my purse.  All I have is at your service, and that is not a little; I have just gained four thousand chulés by the lottery.  Courage, Englishman!  Another cup.  I will pay all—I, Sevilla!”

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

CHAPTER XIII.

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

They therefore formed an opposition to Mendizabal in the Cortes; the members of this opposition assumed the name of moderados, in contradistinction to Mendizabal and his followers, who were ultra-liberals.  The moderados were encouraged by the Queen Regent Christina, who aimed at a little more power than the liberals were disposed to allow her, and who had a personal dislike to the minister.  They were likewise encouraged by Cordova, [180a] who at that time commanded the army, and was displeased with Mendizabal, inasmuch as the latter did not supply the pecuniary demands of the general with sufficient alacrity, though it is said that the greater part of what was sent for the payment of the troops was not devoted to that purpose, but was invested in the French funds in the name and for the use and behoof of the said Cordova.

It is, however, by no means my intention to write an account of the political events which were passing around me at this period; suffice it to say that Mendizabal, finding himself thwarted in all his projects by the Regent and the general, the former of whom would adopt no measure which he recommended, whilst the latter remained inactive, and refused to engage the enemy, which by this time had recovered from the check caused by the death of Zumalacarregui, [180b] and was making considerable progress, resigned, and left the field, for the time, open to his adversaries, though he possessed an immense majority in the Cortes, and had the voice of the nation, at least the liberal part of it, in his favour.

Thereupon [181a] Isturitz [181b] became head of the cabinet, Galiano minister of marine, and a certain Duke of Rivas minister of the interior.  These were the heads of the moderado government; but as they were by no means popular at Madrid, and feared the nationals, they associated with themselves one who hated the latter body, and feared nothing, a man of the name of Quesada—a very stupid individual, but a great fighter, who, at one period of his life, had commanded a legion or body of men called the Army of the Faith, whose exploits, both on the French and Spanish side of the Pyrenees, are too well known to require recapitulation.  This person was made captain-general of Madrid. [181c]

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

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

After an hour’s debate, the Cortes were dissolved without it being necessary to call in the aid of the redoubtable Quesada, and Galiano forthwith gave me a letter to his colleague, the Duke of Rivas, in whose department he told me was vested the power either of giving or refusing the permission to print the book in question.  The duke was a very handsome young man, of about thirty, an Andalusian by birth, like his two colleagues.  He had published several works—tragedies, I believe—and enjoyed a certain kind of literary reputation.  He received me with the greatest affability; and having heard what I had to say, he replied with a most captivating bow, and a genuine Andalusian grimace: “Go to my secretary; go to my secretary—el hará por usted el gusto.” [183]  So I went to the secretary, whose name was Oliban, an Aragonese, who was not handsome, and whose manners were neither elegant nor affable.  “You want permission to print the Testament?”  “I do,” said I.  “And you have come to his Excellency about it?” continued Oliban.  “Very true,” I replied.  “I suppose you intend to print it without notes?”  “Yes.”  “Then his Excellency cannot give you permission,” said the Aragonese secretary.  “It was determined by the Council of Trent that no part of the Scripture should be printed in any Christian country without the notes of the church.”  “How many years was that ago?” I demanded.  “I do not know how many years ago it was,” said Oliban; “but such was the decree of the Council of Trent.”  “Is Spain at present governed according to the decrees of the Council of Trent?” I inquired.  “In some points she is,” answered the Aragonese, “and this is one.  But tell me, who are you?  Are you known to the British minister?”  “Oh yes, and he takes a great interest in the matter.”  “Does he?” said Oliban; “that indeed alters the case: if you can show me that his Excellency takes an interest in this business, I certainly shall not oppose myself to it.”

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

So the next day I called upon Galiano, at his marine or admiralty office (what shall I call it?), and from thence we proceeded to the bureau of the interior, a magnificent edifice, which had formerly been the casa of the Inquisition, where we had an interview with Oliban, whom Galiano took aside to the window, and there held with him a long conversation, which, as they spoke in whispers, and the room was immensely large, I did not hear.  At length Galiano came to me, and said, “There is some difficulty with respect to this business of yours, but I have told Oliban that you are a friend of mine, and he says that that is sufficient; remain with him now, and he will do anything to oblige you.  Your affair is settled—farewell.”  Whereupon he departed, and I remained with Oliban, who proceeded forthwith to write something, which having concluded, he took out a box of cigars, and having lighted one and offered me another, which I declined, as I do not smoke, he placed his feet against the table, and thus proceeded to address me, speaking in the French language.

“Bu—”  And then he began to talk once more of the wearisome Council of Trent and I found that his writing in the paper, the offer of the cigar, and the long and prosy harangue were—what shall I call it?—mere φλυαρία. [186]

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

Towards the west, at the foot of the hill on which stands Madrid, is a canal running parallel with the Manzanares for some leagues, from which it is separated by pleasant and fertile meadows.  The banks of this canal, which was begun by Carlos Tercero [187] and has never been completed, are planted with beautiful trees, and form the most delightful walk in the neighbourhood of the capital.  Here I would loiter for hours, looking at the shoals of gold and silver fish which basked on the surface of the green sunny waters, or listening, not to the warbling of birds—for Spain is not the land of feathered choristers—but to the prattle of the narangero, or man who sold oranges and water by a little deserted water-tower just opposite the wooden bridge that crosses the canal, which situation he had chosen as favourable for his trade, and there had placed his stall.  He was an Asturian by birth, about fifty years of age, and about five feet high.  As I purchased freely of his fruit, he soon conceived a great friendship for me, and told me his history; it contained, however, nothing very remarkable, the leading incident being an adventure which had befallen him amidst the mountains of Granada, where, falling into the hands of certain gypsies, they stripped him naked, and then dismissed him with a sound cudgelling.  “I have wandered throughout Spain,” said he, “and I have come to the conclusion that there are but two places worth living in, Malaga and Madrid.  At Malaga everything is very cheap, and there is such an abundance of fish, that I have frequently seen them piled in heaps on the seashore; and as for Madrid, money is always stirring at the Corte, and I never go supperless to bed.  My only care is to sell my oranges, and my only hope that when I die I shall be buried yonder.”  And he pointed across the Manzanares, where, on the declivity of a gentle hill, at about a league’s distance, shone brightly in the sunshine the white walls of the Campo Santo, or common burying-ground of Madrid.

He was a fellow of infinite drollery, and, though he could scarcely read or write, by no means ignorant of the ways of the world: his knowledge of individuals was curious and extensive, few people passing his stall with whose names, character, and history he was not acquainted.  “These two gentry,” said he, pointing to a magnificently dressed cavalier and lady, who had dismounted from a carriage, and arm-in-arm were coming across the wooden bridge, followed by two attendants; “those gentry are the Infante Francisco Paulo, and his wife the Neapolitana, sister of our Christina.  He is a very good subject, but as for his wife—vaya—the veriest scold in Madrid; she can say carrajo with the most ill-conditioned carrier of La Mancha, giving the true emphasis and genuine pronunciation.  Don’t take off your hat to her, amigo—she has neither formality nor politeness; I once saluted her, and she took no more notice of me than if I had not been what I am, an Asturian and a gentleman, of better blood than herself.  Good day, Señor Don Francisco.  Que tal. [188]  Very fine weather this—vaya su merced con Dios.  Those three fellows, who just stopped to drink water, are great thieves, true sons of the prison.  I am always civil to them, for it would not do to be on ill terms; they pay me or not, just as they think proper.  I have been in some trouble on their account: about a year ago they robbed a man a little farther on beyond the second bridge.  By the way, I counsel you, brother, not to go there, as I believe you often do; it is a dangerous place.  They robbed a gentleman and ill-treated him, but his brother, who was an escribano, was soon upon their trail, and had them arrested; but he wanted some one to identify them, and it chanced that they had stopped to drink water at my stall, just as they did now.  This the escribano heard of, and forthwith had me away to prison to confront me with them.  I knew them well enough, but I had learnt in my travels when to close my eyes and when to open them; so I told the escribano that I could not say that I had ever seen them before.  He was in a great rage, and threatened to imprison me; I told him he might, and that I cared not.  Vaya, I was not going to expose myself to the resentment of those three and to that of their friends; I live too near the Hay Market for that.  Good day, my young masters.  Murcian oranges, as you see; the genuine dragon’s blood.  Water sweet and cold.  Those two boys are the children of Gabiria, comptroller of the queen’s household, and the richest man in Madrid; they are nice boys, and buy much fruit.  It is said their father loves them more than all his possessions.  The old woman who is lying beneath yon tree is the Tia Lucilla; she has committed murders, and as she owes me money, I hope one day to see her executed.  This man was of the Walloon guard—Señor Don Benito Mol, how do you do?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not a cuart, [191] not a cuart; these two wash-balls are all that I possess.”

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

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

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

“I have no thoughts of plying my trade at Lucerne,” replied Benedict; “and now, as I see you are a German man, lieber Herr, and as I like your countenance and your manner of speaking, I will tell you in confidence that I know very little of my trade, and have already been turned out of several fabriques as an evil workman; the two wash-balls that I carry in my pocket are not of my own making.  In kurzem, [192] I know little more of soap-boiling than I do of tailoring, horse-farriery, or shoe-making, all of which I have practised.”

“Then I know not how you can hope to live like a Herzog in your native canton, unless you expect that the men of Lucerne, in consideration of your services to the Pope and to the King of Spain, will maintain you in splendour at the public expense.”

“Lieber Herr,” said Benedict, “the men of Lucerne are by no means fond of maintaining the soldiers of the Pope and the King of Spain at their own expense.  Many of the guard who have returned thither beg their bread in the streets; but when I go, it shall be in a coach drawn by six mules, with a treasure, a mighty Schatz which lies in the church of Saint James of Compostella, in Galicia.”

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

“My good German Herr,” said Benedict, “it is no church Schatz, and no person living, save myself, knows of its existence: nearly thirty years ago, amongst the sick soldiers who were brought to Madrid, was one of my comrades of the Walloon Guard, who had accompanied the French to Portugal; he was very sick and shortly died.  Before, however, he breathed his last, he sent for me, and upon his death-bed told me that himself and two other soldiers, both of whom had since been killed, had buried in a certain church at Compostella a great booty which they had made in Portugal; it consisted of gold moidores and of a packet of huge diamonds from the Brazils; the whole was contained in a large copper kettle.  I listened with greedy ears, and from that moment, I may say, I have known no rest, neither by day nor night, thinking of the Schatz.  It is very easy to find, for the dying man was so exact in his description of the place where it lies, that were I once at Compostella, I should have no difficulty in putting my hand upon it; several times I have been on the point of setting out on the journey, but something has always happened to stop me.  When my wife died, I left Minorca with a determination to go to Saint James; [193a] but on reaching Madrid, I fell into the hands of a Basque woman, who persuaded me to live with her, which I have done for several years.  She is a great Hax, [193b] and says that if I desert her she will breathe a spell which shall cling to me for ever.  Dem Gottsey Dank, [193c] she is now in the hospital, and daily expected to die.  This is my history, lieber Herr.”

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

CHAPTER XIV.

In the mean time the affairs of the moderados did not proceed in a very satisfactory manner; they were unpopular at Madrid, and still more so in the other large towns of Spain, in most of which juntas had been formed, which, taking the local administration into their own hands, declared themselves independent of the queen and her ministers, and refused to pay taxes; so that the government was within a short time reduced to great straits for money.  The army was unpaid, and the war languished—I mean on the part of the Cristinos, for the Carlists were pushing it on with considerable vigour; parties of their guerillas [194] scouring the country in all directions, whilst a large division, under the celebrated Gomez, was making the entire circuit of Spain.  To crown the whole, an insurrection was daily expected at Madrid, to prevent which the nationals were disarmed, which measure tended greatly to increase their hatred against the moderado government, and especially against Quesada, with whom it was supposed to have originated.

In fact, a few days afterwards, I had an interview with Isturitz at the palace, and for the sake of brevity I shall content myself with saying that I found him perfectly well disposed to favour my views.  “I have lived long in England,” said he; “the Bible is free there, and I see no reason why it should not be free in Spain also.  I am not prepared to say that England is indebted for her prosperity to the knowledge which all her children, more or less, possess of the sacred writings; but of one thing I am sure, namely, that the Bible has done no harm in that country, nor do I believe that it will effect any in Spain.  Print it, therefore, by all means, and circulate it as extensively as possible.”  I retired, highly satisfied with my interview, having obtained, if not a written permission to print the sacred volume, what, under all circumstances, I considered as almost equivalent—an understanding that my biblical pursuits would be tolerated in Spain; and I had fervent hope that, whatever was the fate of the present ministry, no future one, particularly a liberal one, would venture to interfere with me, more especially as the English ambassador was my friend, and was privy to all the steps I had taken throughout the whole affair. [196]

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

And a few days showed that he had, indeed, cause for much melancholy meditation: in less than a week occurred the revolution of La Granja, [197] as it is called.  La Granja, or the Grange, is a royal country seat, situated amongst pine forests on the other side of the Guadarrama hills, about twelve leagues distant from Madrid.  To this place the Queen Regent Christina had retired, in order to be aloof from the discontent of the capital, and to enjoy rural air and amusements in this celebrated retreat, a monument of the taste and magnificence of the first Bourbon who ascended the throne of Spain.  She was not, however, permitted to remain long in tranquillity; her own guards were disaffected, and more inclined to the principles of the constitution of 1823 than to those of absolute monarchy, which the moderados were attempting to revive again in the government of Spain.  Early one morning, a party of these soldiers, headed by a certain Sergeant Garcia, entered her apartment, and proposed that she should subscribe her hand to this constitution, and swear solemnly to abide by it.  Christina, however, who was a woman of considerable spirit, refused to comply with this proposal, and ordered them to withdraw.  A scene of violence and tumult ensued, but the Regent still continuing firm, the soldiers at length led her down to one of the courts of the palace, where stood her well-known paramour, Muñoz, bound and blindfolded.  “Swear to the constitution, you she-rogue,” vociferated the swarthy sergeant.  “Never!” said the spirited daughter of the Neapolitan Bourbons.  “Then your cortejo shall die!” replied the sergeant.  “Ho! ho! my lads; get ready your arms, and send four bullets through the fellow’s brain.”  Muñoz was forthwith led to the wall, and compelled to kneel down, the soldiers levelled their muskets, and another moment would have consigned the unfortunate wight to eternity, when Christina, forgetting everything but the feelings of her woman’s heart, suddenly started forward with a shriek, exclaiming, “Hold, hold!  I sign, I sign!”

The day after this event [198] I entered the Puerta del Sol at about noon.  There is always a crowd there about this hour, but it is generally a very quiet motionless crowd, consisting of listless idlers calmly smoking their cigars, or listening to or retailing the—in general—very dull news of the capital; but on the day of which I am speaking, the mass was no longer inert.  There was much gesticulation and vociferation, and several people were running about shouting, “Viva la constitucion!”—a cry which, a few days previously, would have been visited on the utterer with death, the city having for some weeks past been subjected to the rigour of martial law.  I occasionally heard the words, “La Granja!  La Granja!” which words were sure to be succeeded by the shout of “Viva la constitucion!”  Opposite the Casa de Postas [199] were drawn up in a line about a dozen mounted dragoons, some of whom were continually waving their caps in the air and joining the common cry, in which they were encouraged by their commander, a handsome young officer, who flourished his sword, and more than once cried out with great glee, “Long live the constitutional queen!  Long live the constitution!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was the glorious day of Quesada’s existence, his glorious and last day.  I call it the day of his glory, for he certainly never before appeared under such brilliant circumstances, and he never lived to see another sun set.  No action of any conqueror or hero on record is to be compared with this closing scene of the life of Quesada, for who, by his single desperate courage and impetuosity, ever stopped a revolution in full course?  Quesada did: he stopped the revolution at Madrid for one entire day, and brought back the uproarious and hostile mob of a huge city to perfect order and quiet.  His burst into the Puerta del Sol was the most tremendous and successful piece of daring ever witnessed.  I admired so much the spirit of the “brute bull” that I frequently, during his wild onset, shouted “Viva Quesada!” for I wished him well.  Not that I am of any political party or system.  No, no!  I have lived too long with Romany Chals [204a] and Petulengres [204b] to be of any politics save gypsy politics; and it is well known that, during elections, the children of Roma side with both parties so long as the event is doubtful, promising success to each; and then when the fight is done, and the battle won, invariably range themselves in the ranks of the victorious.  But I repeat that I wished well to Quesada, witnessing, as I did, his stout heart and good horsemanship.  Tranquillity was restored to Madrid throughout the remainder of the day; the handful of infantry bivouacked in the Puerta del Sol.  No more cries of “long live the constitution” were heard; and the revolution in the capital seemed to have been effectually put down.  It is probable, indeed, that had the chiefs of the moderado party but continued true to themselves for forty-eight hours longer, their cause would have triumphed, and the revolutionary soldiers at La Granja would have been glad to restore the Queen Regent to liberty, and to have come to terms, as it was well known that several regiments, who still continued loyal, were marching upon Madrid.  The moderados, however, were not true to themselves; that very night their hearts failed them, and they fled in various directions—Isturitz and Galiano to France; and the Duke of Rivas to Gibraltar.  The panic of his colleagues even infected Quesada, who, disguised as a civilian, took to flight.  He was not, however, so successful as the rest, but was recognized at a village about three leagues from Madrid, and cast into the prison by some friends of the constitution.  Intelligence of his capture was instantly transmitted to the capital, and a vast mob of the nationals, some on foot, some on horseback, and others in cabriolets, instantly set out.  “The nationals are coming,” said a paisano to Quesada.  “Then,” said he, “I am lost,” and forthwith prepared himself for death.

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

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

A huge bowl of coffee was then called for, which was placed upon a table, around which gathered the national soldiers.  There was silence for a moment, which was interrupted by a voice roaring out, “El pañuelo!”  A blue kerchief was forthwith produced, which appeared to contain a substance of some kind; it was untied, and a gory hand and three or four dissevered fingers made their appearance, and with these the contents of the bowl were stirred up.  “Cups! cups!” cried the nationals. . . .

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

‘Una noche sinava en tucue.’ [207a]

You shake your head, Don Jorge.  Ha, ha; I am young, and youth is the time for pleasure.  Well, well, out of compliment to you, who are an Englishman and a monró, it shall not be that, but something liberal, something patriotic, the Hymn of Riego. [207b]  Hasta despues, Don Jorge!” [207c]

CHAPTER XV.

At the commencement of November [208] I again found myself on the salt water, on my way to Spain.  I had returned to England shortly after the events which have been narrated in the last chapter, for the purpose of consulting with my friends, and for planning the opening of a biblical campaign in Spain.  It was now determined by us to print the New Testament, with as little delay as possible, at Madrid; and I was to be entrusted with the somewhat arduous task of its distribution.  My stay in England was very short, for time was precious, and I was eager to return to the field of action.

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

On Monday, the 7th, we again started, and made for the Bay of Biscay.  The sea was high, and the wind strong and contrary; nevertheless, on the morning of the fourth day, we were in sight of the rocky coast to the north of Cape Finisterre.  I must here observe, that this was the first voyage that the captain who commanded the vessel had ever made on board of her, and that he knew little or nothing of the coast towards which we were bearing.  He was a person picked up in a hurry, the former captain having resigned his command on the ground that the ship was not seaworthy, and that the engines were frequently unserviceable.  I was not acquainted with these circumstances at the time, or perhaps I should have felt more alarmed than I did, when I saw the vessel approaching nearer and nearer the shore, till at last we were only a few hundred yards distant.  As it was, however, I felt very much surprised; for having passed it twice before, both times in steam-vessels, and having seen with what care the captains endeavoured to maintain a wide offing, I could not conceive the reason of our being now so near this dangerous region.  The wind was blowing hard towards the shore, if that can be called a shore which consists of steep abrupt precipices, on which the surf was breaking with the noise of thunder, tossing up clouds of spray and foam to the height of a cathedral.  We coasted slowly along, rounding several tall forelands, some of them piled up by the hand of nature in the most fantastic shapes.  About nightfall Cape Finisterre was not far ahead—a bluff, brown granite mountain, whose frowning head may be seen far away by those who traverse the ocean.  The stream which poured round its breast was terrific, and though our engines plied with all their force, we made little or no way.

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

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

I found my excellent friend W--- in good health.  During my absence he had been doing everything in his power to further the sale of the sacred volume in Portuguese: his zeal and devotedness were quite admirable.  The distracted state of the country, however, during the last six months, had sadly impeded his efforts.  The minds of the people had been so engrossed with politics, that they found scarcely any time to think of the welfare of their souls.  The political history of Portugal had of late afforded a striking parallel to that of the neighbouring country.  In both a struggle for supremacy had arisen between the court and the democratic party; in both the latter had triumphed, whilst two distinguished individuals had fallen a sacrifice to the popular fury—Freire [212a] in Portugal, and Quesada in Spain.  The news which reached me at Lisbon from the latter country was rather startling.  The hordes of Gomez [212b] were ravaging Andalusia, which I was about to visit on my way to Madrid; Cordova had been sacked and abandoned, after a three days’ occupation by the Carlists.  I was told that if I persisted in my attempt to enter Spain in the direction which I proposed, I should probably fall into their hands at Seville.  I had, however, no fears, and had full confidence that the Lord would open the path before me to Madrid.

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

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

Early on the 24th I embarked for Seville, in the small Spanish steamer the Betis. [214]  The morning was wet, and the aspect of nature was enveloped in a dense mist, which prevented my observing surrounding objects.  After proceeding about six leagues, we reached the north-eastern extremity of the Bay of Cadiz, and passed by San Lucar, an ancient town near to the spot where the Guadalquivir disembogues itself.  The mist suddenly disappeared, and the sun of Spain burst forth in full brilliancy, enlivening all round, and particularly myself, who had till then been lying on the deck in a dull melancholy stupor.  We entered the mouth of “The Great River,” for that is the English translation of Wady al Kebir, as the Moors designated the ancient Betis.  We came to anchor for a few minutes at a little village called Bonanza, at the extremity of the first reach of the river, where we received several passengers, and again proceeded.  There is not much in the appearance of the Guadalquivir to interest the traveller: the banks are low and destitute of trees, the adjacent country is flat, and only in the distance is seen a range of tall blue sierras.  The water is turbid and muddy, and in colour closely resembling the contents of a duck-pool; the average width of the stream is from 150 to 200 yards.  But it is impossible to move along this river without remembering that it has borne the Roman, the Vandal, and the Arab, and has been the witness of deeds which have resounded through the world, and been the themes of immortal songs.  I repeated Latin verses and fragments of old Spanish ballads till we reached Seville, at about nine o’clock of a lovely moonlight night.

Seville contains ninety thousand inhabitants, and is situated on the eastern bank of the Guadalquivir, about eighteen leagues from its mouth; it is surrounded with high Moorish walls, in a good state of preservation, and built of such durable materials that it is probable they will for many centuries still bid defiance to the encroachments of time.  The most remarkable edifices are the cathedral and alcazar, or palace of the Moorish kings.  The tower of the former, called La Giralda, [215] belongs to the period of the Moors, and formed part of the grand mosque of Seville: it is computed to be one hundred ells in height, and is ascended not by stairs or ladders, but by a vaulted pathway, in the manner of an inclined plane.  This path is by no means steep, so that a cavalier might ride up to the top, a feat which Ferdinand the Seventh is said to have accomplished.  The view from the summit is very extensive, and on a fine clear day the mountain ridge called the Sierra de Ronda may be discovered, though upwards of twenty leagues distant.  The cathedral itself is a noble Gothic structure, [216a] reputed the finest of the kind in Spain.  In the chapels allotted to the various saints are some of the most magnificent paintings which Spanish art has produced; indeed, the cathedral of Seville is at the present time far more rich in splendid paintings than at any former period, possessing many very recently removed from some of the suppressed convents, particularly from the Capuchin and San Francisco.

No one should visit Seville without paying particular attention to the alcazar, that splendid specimen of Moorish architecture.  It contains many magnificent halls, particularly that of the ambassadors, so called, which is in every respect more magnificent than the one of the same name within the Alhambra of Granada.  This palace was a favourite residence of Peter the Cruel, [216b] who carefully repaired it without altering its Moorish character and appearance.  It probably remains in much the same state as at the time of his death.

On the right side of the river is a large suburb, called Triana, communicating with Seville by means of a bridge of boats; [216c] for there is no permanent bridge across the Guadalquivir, owing to the violent inundations to which it is subject.  This suburb is inhabited by the dregs of the populace, and abounds with Gitanos or gypsies.  About a league and a half to the north-west stands the village of Santi Ponce: at the foot and on the side of some elevated ground higher up are to be seen vestiges of ruined walls and edifices, which once formed part of Italica, the birthplace of Silius Italicus and Trajan, from which latter personage Triana derives its name.

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

Gomez had not hitherto paid a visit to Seville: when I arrived he was said to be in the neighbourhood of Ronda.  The city was under watch and ward: several gates had been blocked up with masonry, trenches dug, and redoubts erected; but I am convinced that the place would not have held out six hours against a resolute attack.  Gomez had proved himself to be a most extraordinary man; and with his small army of Aragonese and Basques had, within the last four months, made the tour of Spain.  He had very frequently been hemmed in by forces three times the number of his own, in places whence escape appeared impossible; but he had always baffled his enemies, whom he seemed to laugh at.  The most absurd accounts of victories gained over him were continually issuing from the press at Seville; amongst others, it was stated that his army had been utterly defeated, himself killed, and that twelve hundred prisoners were on their way to Seville.  I saw these prisoners: instead of twelve hundred desperadoes, [218] they consisted of about twenty poor, lame, ragged wretches, many of them boys from fourteen to sixteen years of age.  They were evidently camp-followers, who, unable to keep up with the army, had been picked up straggling in the plains and amongst the hills.

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