I had returned from a walk in the country, on a glorious sunshiny morning of the Andalusian winter, and was directing my steps towards my lodging: as I was passing by the portal of a large gloomy house near the gate of Xeres, two individuals, dressed in zamarras, emerged from the archway, and were about to cross my path, when one, looking in my face, suddenly started back, exclaiming in the purest and most melodious French:—“What do I see?  If my eyes do not deceive me—it is himself.  Yes, the very same as I saw him first at Bayonne; then long subsequently beneath the brick wall at Novogorod; then beside the Bosphorus; and last at—at—  Oh, my respectable and cherished friend, where was it that I had last the felicity of seeing your well-remembered and most remarkable physiognomy?”

Baron Taylor.—And wherefore, my most respectable B---?  Is not Spain the land of the arts; and is not Andalusia of all Spain that portion which has produced the noblest monuments of artistic excellence and inspiration?  Surely you know enough of me to be aware that the arts are my passion; that I am incapable of imagining a more exalted enjoyment than to gaze in adoration on a noble picture.  Oh, come with me! for you, too, have a soul capable of appreciating what is lovely and exalted; a soul delicate and sensitive.  Come with me, and I will show you a Murillo, such as . . .  But first allow me to introduce you to your compatriot.  My dear Monsieur W---, turning to his companion (an English gentleman, from whom and from his family I subsequently experienced unbounded kindness and hospitality on various occasions, and at different periods at Seville), allow me to introduce to you my most cherished and respectable friend, one who is better acquainted with gypsy ways than the Chef des Bohémiens à Triana, [220] one who is an expert whisperer and horse-sorcerer; and who, to his honour I say it, can wield hammer and tongs, and handle a horseshoe with the best of the smiths amongst the Alpujarras of Granada.

In the course of my travels I have formed various friendships and acquaintances, but no one has more interested me than Baron Taylor, [221] and there is no one for whom I entertain a greater esteem and regard.  To personal and mental accomplishments of the highest order he unites a kindness of heart rarely to be met with, and which is continually inducing him to seek for opportunities of doing good to his fellow-creatures, and of contributing to their happiness; perhaps no person in existence has seen more of the world and life in its various phases than himself.  His manners are naturally to the highest degree courtly, yet he nevertheless possesses a disposition so pliable that he finds no difficulty in accommodating himself to all kinds of company, in consequence of which he is a universal favourite.  There is a mystery about him, which, wherever he goes, serves not a little to increase the sensation naturally created by his appearance and manner.  Who he is, no one pretends to assert with downright positiveness: it is whispered, however, that he is a scion of royalty; and who can gaze for a moment upon that most graceful figure, that most intelligent but singularly moulded countenance, and those large and expressive eyes, without feeling as equally convinced that he is of no common lineage, as that he is no common man?  Though possessed of talents and eloquence which would speedily have enabled him to attain to an illustrious position in the state, he has hitherto, and perhaps wisely, contented himself with comparative obscurity, chiefly devoting himself to the study of the arts and of literature, of both of which he is a most bounteous patron.

CHAPTER XVI.

After a sojourn of about fourteen days at Seville, I departed for Cordova.  The diligence had for some time past ceased running, owing to the disturbed state of the province.  I had therefore no resource but to proceed thither on horseback.  I hired a couple of horses, and engaged the old Genoese, of whom I have already had occasion to speak, to attend me as far as Cordova, and to bring them back.  Notwithstanding we were now in the depths of winter, the weather was beautiful, the days sunny and brilliant, though the nights were rather keen.  We passed by the little town of Alcalá, [223] celebrated for the ruins of an immense Moorish castle, which stand on a rocky hill, overhanging a picturesque river.  The first night we slept at Carmona, another Moorish town, distant about seven leagues from Seville.  Early in the morning we again mounted and departed.  Perhaps in the whole of Spain there is scarcely a finer Moorish monument of antiquity than the eastern side of this town of Carmona, which occupies the brow of a lofty hill, and frowns over an extensive vega or plain, which extends for leagues unplanted and uncultivated, producing nothing but brushwood and carrasco.  Here rise tall and dusky walls, with square towers at short distances, of so massive a structure that they would seem to bid defiance alike to the tooth of time and the hand of man.  This town, in the time of the Moors, was considered the key to Seville, and did not submit to the Christian arms till after a long and desperate siege: the capture of Seville followed speedily after.  The vega upon which we now entered forms a part of the grand despoblado or desert of Andalusia, once a smiling garden, but which became what it now is on the expulsion of the Moors from Spain, when it was drained almost entirely of its population.  The towns and villages from hence to the Sierra Morena, which divides Andalusia from La Mancha, are few and far between, and even of these several date from the middle of the last century, when an attempt was made by a Spanish minister to people this wilderness with the children of a foreign land.

At about midday we arrived at a place called Moncloa, which consisted of a venta, and a desolate-looking edifice which had something of the appearance of a château; a solitary palm tree raised its head over the outer wall.  We entered the venta, tied our horses to the manger, and having ordered barley for them, we sat down before a large fire, which burned in the middle of the venta.  The host and hostess also came and sat down beside us.  “They are evil people,” said the old Genoese to me in Italian, “and this is an evil house; it is a harbouring place for thieves, and murders have been committed here, if all tales be true.”  I looked at these two people attentively; they were both young, the man apparently about twenty-five years of age.  He was a short thick-made churl, evidently of prodigious strength; his features were rather handsome, but with a gloomy expression, and his eyes were full of sullen fire.  His wife somewhat resembled him, but had a countenance more open and better tempered; but what struck me as most singular in connexion with these people, was the colour of their hair and complexion.  The latter was fair and ruddy, and the former of a bright auburn, both in striking contrast to the black hair and swarthy visages which in general distinguish the natives of this province.  “Are you an Andalusian?” said I to the hostess.  “I should almost conclude you to be a German.”

Myself.—And what chance brought your grandparents into this country?

Hostess.—There are several, both on this side of Cordova and the other.  The nearest is Luisiana, about two leagues from hence, from which place both my husband and myself come; the next is Carlota, [226] which is some ten leagues distant, and these are the only colonies of our people which I have seen; but there are others farther on, and some, as I have heard say, in the very heart of the Sierra Morena.

The hostess glanced at me for a moment, then looked at her husband and smiled: the latter, who had hitherto been smoking without uttering a word, though with a peculiarly surly and dissatisfied countenance, now flung the remainder of his cigar amongst the embers, then springing up, he muttered, “Disparate!” and “Conversacion!” and went abroad.

A short time before sunset of the third day after our departure from Seville, we found ourselves at the Cuesta del Espinal, or hill of the thorn tree, at about two leagues from Cordova;—we could just descry the walls of the city, upon which the last beams of the descending luminary were resting.  As the neighbourhood in which we were was, according to the account of my guide, generally infested with robbers, we used our best endeavours to reach the town before the night should have entirely closed in.  We did not succeed, however, and before we had proceeded half the distance, pitchy darkness overtook us.  Throughout the journey we had been considerably delayed by the badness of our horses, especially that of my attendant, which appeared to pay no regard to whip or spur: his rider also was no horseman, it being thirty years, as he at length confessed to me, since he last mounted in a saddle.  Horses soon become aware of the powers of their riders, and the brute in question was disposed to take great advantage of the fears and weakness of the old man.  There is a remedy, however, for most things in this world.  I became so wearied at last at the snail’s pace at which we were proceeding, that I fastened the bridle of the sluggish horse to the crupper of mine; then sparing neither spur nor cudgel, I soon forced my own horse into a kind of trot, which compelled the other to make some use of his legs.  He twice attempted to fling himself down, to the great terror of his aged rider, who frequently entreated me to stop and permit him to dismount.  I, however, took no notice of what he said, but continued spurring and cudgelling with unabated activity, and with such success, that in less than half an hour we saw lights close before us, and presently came to a river and a bridge, which crossing, we found ourselves at the gate of Cordova, without having broken either our horses’ knees or our own necks.

He opened the gate and admitted us into a spacious courtyard, and then forthwith again secured the gate with various bolts and bars.  “Are you afraid that the Carlists should pay you a visit,” I demanded, “that you take so much precaution?”  “It is not the Carlists we are afraid of,” replied the porter; “they have been here already, and did us no damage whatever.  It is certain scoundrels of this town that we are afraid of, who have a spite against the master of the house, and would murder both him and his family, could they but find an opportunity.”

I was about to inquire the cause of this enmity, when a thick bulky man, bearing a light in his hand, came running down a stone staircase, which led into the interior of the building.  Two or three females, also bearing lights, followed him.  He stopped on the lowest stair.  “Whom have we here?” he exclaimed; then advancing the lamp which he bore, the light fell full upon my face.  “Ola!” he exclaimed; “is it you?  Only think,” said he, turning to the female who stood next him, a dark-featured person, stout as himself, and about his own age, which might border upon fifty; “only think, my dear, that at the very moment we were wishing for a guest, an Englishman should be standing before our doors, for I should know an Englishman at a mile’s distance, even in the dark.  Juanito,” cried he to the porter, “open not the gate any more to-night, whoever may ask for admission.  Should the nationals come to make any disturbance, tell them that the son of Belington [230] is in the house ready to attack them sword in hand unless they retire; and should other travellers arrive, which is not likely, inasmuch as we have seen none for a month past, say that we have no room, all our apartments being occupied by an English gentleman and his company.”

I soon found that my friend the posadero was a most egregious Carlist.  Before I had finished supper—during which, both himself and all his family were present, surrounding the little table at which I sat, and observing my every motion, particularly the manner in which I handled my knife and fork and conveyed the food to my mouth—he commenced talking politics.  “I am of no particular opinion, Don Jorge,” said he, for he had inquired my name in order that he might address me in a suitable manner; “I am of no particular opinion, and I hold neither for King Carlos nor for the chica Isabel: nevertheless, I lead the life of a dog in this accursed Cristino town, which I would have left long ago, had it not been the place of my birth, and did I but know whither to betake myself.  Ever since the troubles have commenced, I have been afraid to stir into the street, for no sooner do the canaille of the town see me turning round a corner, than they forthwith exclaim, ‘Halloo, the Carlist!’ and then there is a run and a rush, and stones and cudgels are in great requisition; so that unless I can escape home, which is no easy matter, seeing that I weigh eighteen stone, my life is poured out in the street, which is neither decent nor convenient, as I think you will acknowledge, Don Jorge.  You see that young man,” he continued, pointing to a tall swarthy youth who stood behind my chair, officiating as waiter; “he is my fourth son, is married, and does not live in the house, but about a hundred yards down the street.  He was summoned in a hurry to wait upon your worship, as is his duty: know, however, that he has come at the peril of his life.  Before he leaves this house, he must peep out into the street to see if the coast is clear, and then he must run like a partridge to his own door.  Carlists! why should they call my family and myself Carlists?  It is true that my eldest son was a friar, and when the convents were suppressed, betook himself to the royal ranks, in which he has been fighting upwards of three years; could I help that?  Nor was it my fault, I trow, that my second son enlisted with Gomez and the royalists when they entered Cordova.  God prosper him, I say; but I did not bid him go!  So far from being a Carlist, it was I who persuaded this very lad who is present to remain here, though he would fain have gone with his brother, for he is a brave lad and a true Christian.  ‘Stay at home,’ said I, ‘for what can I do without you?  Who is to wait upon the guests when it pleases God to send them?  Stay at home, at least till your brother, my third son, comes back; for, to my shame be it spoken, Don Jorge, I have a son a soldier and a sergeant in the Cristino armies, sorely against his own inclination, poor fellow, for he likes not the military life, and I have been soliciting his discharge for years; indeed, I have counselled him to maim himself, in order that he might procure his liberty forthwith.  So I said to this lad, ‘Stay at home, my child, till your brother comes to take your place and prevent our bread being eaten by strangers, who would perhaps sell me and betray me;’ so my son staid at home, as you see, Don Jorge, at my request, and yet they call me a Carlist!”

“Gomez and his bands have lately been in Cordova,” [232] said I; “of course you were present at all that occurred: how did they comport themselves?”

“Bravely well,” replied the innkeeper, “bravely well, and I wish they were here still.  I hold with neither side, as I told you before, Don Jorge, but I confess I never felt greater pleasure in my life than when they entered the gate.  And then to see the dogs of nationals flying through the streets to save their lives—that was a sight, Don Jorge.  Those who met me then at the corner forgot to shout, ‘Hola! Carlista!’ and I heard not a word about cudgelling.  Some jumped from the wall and ran no one knows where, whilst the rest retired to the house of the Inquisition, which they had fortified, and there they shut themselves up.  Now you must know, Don Jorge, that all the Carlist chiefs lodged at my house—Gomez, Cabrera, and the Sawyer; and it chanced that I was talking to my Lord Gomez in this very room in which we are now, when in came Cabrera in a mighty fury—he is a small man, Don Jorge, but he is as active as a wild cat and as fierce.  ‘The canaille,’ said he, ‘in the Casa of the Inquisition refuse to surrender; give but the order, general, and I will scale the walls with my men, and put them all to the sword.’  But Gomez said, ‘No, we must not spill blood if we can avoid it.  Order a few muskets to be fired at them; that will be sufficient!’  And so it proved, Don Jorge, for after a few discharges their hearts failed them, and they surrendered at discretion: whereupon their arms were taken from them, and they were permitted to return to their own houses.  But as soon as ever the Carlists departed, these fellows became as bold as ever, and it is now once more, ‘Hola! Carlista!’ when they see me turning the corner; and it is for fear of them that my son must run like a partridge to his own home, now that he has done waiting on your worship, lest they meet him in the street, and kill him with their knives!”

“A middle-sized man,” replied the innkeeper; “grave and dark.  But the most remarkable personage in appearance of them all was the Sawyer: he is a kind of giant, so tall, that when he entered the doorway he invariably struck his head against the lintel.  The one I liked least of all was one Palillos, who is a gloomy savage ruffian, whom I knew when he was a postilion.  Many is the time that he has been at my house of old; he is now captain of the Manchegan thieves, for, though he calls himself a royalist, he is neither more nor less than a thief.  It is a disgrace to the cause that such as he should be permitted to mix with honourable and brave men.  I hate that fellow, Don Jorge: it is owing to him that I have so few customers.  Travellers are, at present, afraid to pass through La Mancha, lest they fall into his hands.  I wish he were hanged, Don Jorge, and whether by Cristinos or Royalists, I care not.”

“Toma!” said the landlord, “they are my best customers; I have had Englishmen in this house of all grades, from the son of Belington to a young medico, who cured my daughter, the chica here, of the earache.  How should I not know an Englishman?  There were two with Gomez, serving as volunteers.  Vaya: que gente! [234] what noble horses they rode, and how they scattered their gold about!  They brought with them a Portuguese, who was much of a gentleman, but very poor; it was said that he was one of Don Miguel’s people, and that these Englishmen supported him for the love they bore to royalty.  He was continually singing—

‘El Rey chegou—El Rey chegou,
E en Belem desembarcou!’ [235a]

Those were merry days, Don Jorge.  By-the-by, I forgot to ask your worship of what opinion you are?”

The next morning whilst I was dressing, the old Genoese entered my room: “Signore,” said he, “I am come to bid you farewell.  I am about to return to Seville forthwith with the horses.”

“Wherefore in such a hurry?” I replied.  “Assuredly you had better tarry till to-morrow; both the animals and yourself require rest.  Repose yourselves to-day, and I will defray the expense.”

“Thank you, Signore, but we will depart forthwith, for there is no tarrying in this house.”

“What is the matter with the house?” I inquired.

“I find no fault with the house,” replied the Genoese; “it is the people who keep it of whom I complain.  About an hour since, I went down to get my breakfast, and there, in the kitchen, I found the master and all his family.  Well, I sat down and called for chocolate, which they brought me, but ere I could despatch it, the master fell to talking politics.  He commenced by telling me that he held with neither side, but he is as rank a Carlist as Carlos Quinto: [235b] for no sooner did he find that I was of the other opinion than he glared at me like a wild beast.  You must know, Signore, that in the time of the old constitution I kept a coffee-house at Seville, which was frequented by all the principal liberals, and was, indeed, the cause of my ruin; for, as I admired their opinions, I gave my customers whatever credit they required, both with regard to coffee and liqueurs, so that by the time the constitution was put down and despotism re-established, I had trusted them with all I had.  It is possible that many of them would have paid me, for I believe they harboured no evil intention; but the persecution came, the liberals took to flight, and, as was natural enough, thought more of providing for their own safety than of paying me for my coffee and liqueurs; nevertheless, I am a friend to their system, and never hesitate to say so.  So the landlord, as I told your worship before, when he found that I was of this opinion, glared at me like a wild beast.  ‘Get out of my house,’ said he, ‘for I will have no spies here;’ and thereupon he spoke disrespectfully of the young Queen Isabel and of Christina, who, notwithstanding she is a Neapolitan, [236a] I consider as my countrywoman.  Hearing this, your worship, I confess that I lost my temper and returned the compliment, by saying that Carlos was a knave, and the Princess of Beira [236b] no better than she should be.  I then prepared to swallow the chocolate, but ere I could bring it to my lips, the woman of the house, who is a still ranker Carlist than her husband, if that be possible, coming up to me struck the cup into the air as high as the ceiling, exclaiming, ‘Begone, dog of a negro; you shall taste nothing more in my house.  May you be hanged even as a swine is hanged!’  So your worship sees that it is impossible for me to remain here any longer.  I forgot to say that the knave of a landlord told me that you had confessed yourself to be of the same politics as himself, or he would not have harboured you.”

CHAPTER XVII.

Mosque at Cordova

I have said that Cordova has no remarkable edifices, save its cathedral, yet this is perhaps the most extraordinary place of worship in the world.  It was originally, as is well known, a mosque, built in the brightest days of Arabian dominion in Spain.  In shape it was quadrangular, with a low roof, supported by an infinity of small and delicately rounded marble pillars, many of which still remain, and present at first sight the appearance of a marble grove; the greater part, however, were removed when the Christians, after the expulsion of the Moslems, essayed to convert the mosque into a cathedral, [239] which they effected in part by the erection of a dome, and by clearing an open space for a choir.  As it at present exists, the temple appears to belong partly to Mahomet, and partly to the Nazarene; and though this jumbling together of massive Gothic architecture with the light and delicate style of the Arabians produces an effect somewhat bizarre, it still remains a magnificent and glorious edifice, and well calculated to excite feelings of awe and veneration within the bosom of those who enter it.

The Moors of Barbary seem to care but little for the exploits of their ancestors: their minds are centred in the things of the present day, and only so far as those things regard themselves individually.  Disinterested enthusiasm, that truly distinguishing mark of a noble mind, and admiration for what is great, good, and grand, they appear to be totally incapable of feeling.  It is astonishing with what indifference they stray amongst the relics of ancient Moorish grandeur in Spain.  No feelings of exultation seem to be excited by the proof of what the Moor once was, nor of regret at the consciousness of what he now is.  More interesting to them are their perfumes, their papouches, their dates, and their silks of Fez and Maraks, [240a] to dispose of which they visit Andalusia; and yet the generality of these men are far from being ignorant, and have both heard and read of what was passing in Spain in the old time.  I was once conversing with a Moor at Madrid, with whom I was very intimate, about the Alhambra of Granada, which he had visited.  “Did you not weep,” said I, “when you passed through the courts, and thought of the Abencerrages?” [240b]  “No,” said he, “I did not weep; wherefore should I weep?”  “And why did you visit the Alhambra?” I demanded.  “I visited it,” he replied, “because, being at Granada on my own affairs, one of your countrymen requested me to accompany him thither, that I might explain some of the inscriptions.  I should certainly not have gone of my own accord, for the hill on which it stands is steep.”  And yet this man could compose verses, and was by no means a contemptible poet.  Once at Cordova, whilst I was in the cathedral, three Moors entered it, and proceeded slowly across its floor in the direction of a gate, which stood at the opposite side.  They took no farther notice of what was around them than by slightly glancing once or twice at the pillars, one of them exclaiming, “Huáje del Mselmeen, hudje del Mselmeen” (things of the Moors, things of the Moors), and showed no other respect for the place where Abderrahman the Magnificent prostrated himself of old, than facing about on arriving at the farther door and making their egress backwards; yet these men were hajis and talibs, [241a] men likewise of much gold and silver—men who had read, who had travelled, who had seen Mecca, and the great city of Negroland. [241b]

I remained in Cordova much longer than I had originally intended, owing to the accounts which I was continually hearing of the unsafe state of the roads to Madrid.  I soon ransacked every nook and cranny of this ancient town, formed various acquaintances amongst the populace, which is my general practice on arriving at a strange place.  I more than once ascended the side of the Sierra Morena, in which excursions I was accompanied by the son of my host, the tall lad of whom I have already spoken.  The people of the house, who had imbibed the idea that I was of the same way of thinking as themselves, were exceedingly courteous; it is true, that in return I was compelled to listen to a vast deal of Carlism, in other words, high treason against the ruling powers in Spain, to which, however, I submitted with patience.  “Don Jorgito,” said the landlord to me one day, “I love the English; they are my best customers.  It is a pity that there is not greater union between Spain and England, and that more English do not visit us.  Why should there not be a marriage?  The king will speedily be at Madrid.  Why should there not be bodas between the son of Don Carlos and the heiress of England?”

“It would certainly tend to bring a considerable number of English to Spain,” said I, “and it would not be the first time that the son of a Carlos has married a Princess of England.” [242a]

The host mused for a moment, and then exclaimed, “Carracho, Don Jorgito, if this marriage could be brought about, both the king and myself should have cause to fling our caps in the air.”

The house or posada in which I had taken up my abode was exceedingly spacious, containing an infinity of apartments, both large and small, the greater part of which were, however, unfurnished.  The chamber in which I was lodged stood at the end of an immensely long corridor, of the kind so admirably described in the wondrous tale of Udolfo. [242b]  For a day or two after my arrival I believed myself to be the only lodger in the house.  One morning, however, I beheld a strange-looking old man seated in the corridor, by one of the windows, reading intently in a small thick volume.  He was clad in garments of coarse blue cloth, and wore a loose spencer over a waistcoat adorned with various rows of small buttons of mother of pearl; he had spectacles upon his nose.  I could perceive, notwithstanding he was seated, that his stature bordered upon the gigantic.  “Who is that person?” said I to the landlord, whom I presently met; “is he also a guest of yours?”  “Not exactly, Don Jorge de mi alma,” [243a] replied he.  “I can scarcely call him a guest, inasmuch as I gain nothing by him, though he is staying at my house.  You must know, Don Jorge, that he is one of two priests who officiate at a large village [243b] at some slight distance from this place.  So it came to pass, that when the soldiers of Gomez entered the village, his reverence went to meet them, dressed in full canonicals, with a book in his hand, and he, at their bidding, proclaimed Carlos Quinto [243c] in the market-place.  The other priest, however, was a desperate liberal, a downright negro, and upon him the royalists laid their hands, and were proceeding to hang him.  His reverence, however, interfered, and obtained mercy for his colleague, on condition that he should cry Viva Carlos Quinto! which the latter did in order to save his life.  Well, no sooner had the royalists departed from these parts than the black priest mounts his mule, comes to Cordova, and informs against his reverence, notwithstanding that he had saved his life.  So his reverence was seized and brought hither to Cordova, and would assuredly have been thrown into the common prison as a Carlist, had I not stepped forward and offered to be surety that he should not quit the place, but should come forward at any time to answer whatever charge might be brought against him; and he is now in my house, though guest I cannot call him, for he is not of the slightest advantage to me, as his very food is daily brought from the country, and that consists only of a few eggs and a little milk and bread.  As for his money, I have never seen the colour of it, notwithstanding they tell me that he has buenas pesetas.  However, he is a holy man, is continually reading and praying, and is, moreover, of the right opinion.  I therefore keep him in my house, and would be bail for him were he twenty times more of a skinflint than he seems to be.”

Such was the first conversation which passed between his reverence and myself.  He soon conceived no inconsiderable liking for me, and favoured me with no little of his company.  Unlike our friend the landlord, I found him by no means inclined to talk politics, which the more surprised me, knowing, as I did, the decided and hazardous part which he had taken on the late Carlist irruption into the neighbourhood.  He took, however, great delight in discoursing on ecclesiastical subjects and the writings of the fathers.

“I was not speaking metaphorically, Don Jorge,” replied my companion; “and by rearing doves, I mean neither more nor less than that I supply the market of Cordova with pigeons, and occasionally that of Seville; for my birds are very celebrated, and plumper or fatter flesh than theirs I believe cannot be found in the whole kingdom.  Should you come to my village, you will doubtless taste them, Don Jorge, at the venta where you will put up, for I suffer no dovecotes but my own within my district.  With respect to the souls of my parishioners, I trust I do my duty—I trust I do, as far as in my power lies.  I always took great pleasure in these spiritual matters, and it was on that account that I attached myself to the Santa Casa [246] of Cordova, the duties of which I assisted to perform for a long period.”

“Your reverence has been an inquisitor?” I exclaimed, somewhat startled.

“From my thirtieth year until the time of the suppression of the holy office in these afflicted kingdoms.”

“You both surprise and delight me,” I exclaimed.  “Nothing could have afforded me greater pleasure than to find myself conversing with a father formerly attached to the holy house of Cordova.”

The old man looked at me steadfastly.  “I understand you, Don Jorge.  I have long seen that you are one of us.  You are a learned and holy man; and though you think fit to call yourself a Lutheran and an Englishman, I have dived into your real condition.  No Lutheran would take the interest in church matters which you do, and with respect to your being an Englishman, none of that nation can speak Castilian, much less Latin.  I believe you to be one of us—a missionary priest; and I am especially confirmed in that idea by your frequent conversation and interviews with the Gitanos; you appear to be labouring among them.  Be, however, on your guard, Don Jorge; trust not to Egyptian faith; they are evil penitents, whom I like not.  I would not advise you to trust them.”

“I do not intend,” I replied; “especially with money.  But to return to more important matters:—of what crimes did this holy house of Cordova take cognizance?”

“You are of course aware of the matters on which the holy office exercises its functions.  I need scarcely mention sorcery, Judaism, and certain carnal misdemeanours.”

“Que sé yo?” [247] said the old man, shrugging up his shoulders.  “How should I know?  The church has power, Don Jorge, or at least it had power, to punish for anything, real or unreal; and, as it was necessary to punish in order to prove that it had the power of punishing, of what consequence whether it punished for sorcery or any other crime?”

“Did many cases of sorcery occur within your own sphere of knowledge?”

“One or two, Don Jorge: they were by no means frequent.  The last that I remember was a case which occurred in a convent at Seville.  A certain nun was in the habit of flying through the windows and about the garden over the tops of the orange-trees.  Declarations of various witnesses were taken, and the process was arranged with much formality: the fact, I believe, was satisfactorily proved.  Of one thing I am certain, that the nun was punished.”

“Were you troubled with much Judaism in these parts?”

“Wooh!  Nothing gave so much trouble to the Santa Casa as this same Judaism.  Its shoots and ramifications are numerous, not only in these parts, but in all Spain; and it is singular enough, that, even among the priesthood, instances of Judaism of both kinds were continually coming to our knowledge, which it was of course our duty to punish.”

“Is there more than one species of Judaism?” I demanded.

“What is my opinion!  Que sé yo?” said the old man, shrugging up his shoulders still higher than on the former occasion; “but I will tell you.  I think, on consideration, that it is quite right and proper; why not?  Let any one pay a visit to my church, and look at her as she stands there, tan bonita, tan guapita [249a]—so well dressed and so genteel—with such pretty colours, such red and white, and he would scarcely ask me why Maria Santísima should not be adored.  Moreover, Don Jorgito mio, this is a church matter, and forms an important part of the church system.”

“And now, with respect to carnal misdemeanours.  Did you take much cognizance of them?”

“Amongst the laity, not much; we, however, kept a vigilant eye upon our own body; but, upon the whole, were rather tolerant in these matters, knowing that the infirmities of human nature are very great indeed.  We rarely punished, save in cases where the glory of the church and loyalty to Maria Santísima made punishment absolutely imperative.”

“And what cases might those be?” I demanded.

“I allude to the desecration of dovecotes, Don Jorge, and the introduction therein of strange flesh, for purposes neither seemly nor convenient.”

“Your reverence will excuse me for not yet perfectly understanding.”

“I mean, Don Jorge, certain acts of flagitiousness practised by the clergy in lone and remote palomares in olive-grounds and gardens; actions denounced, I believe, by the holy Pablo in his first letter to Pope Sixtus. [249b]  You understand me now, Don Jorge, for you are learned in church matters.”

“I think I understand you,” I replied.

After remaining several days more at Cordova, I determined to proceed on my journey to Madrid, though the roads were still said to be highly insecure.  I, however, saw but little utility in tarrying and awaiting a more tranquil state of affairs, which might never arrive.  I therefore consulted with the landlord respecting the best means of making the journey.  “Don Jorgito,” he replied, “I think I can tell you.  You say you are anxious to depart, and I never wish to keep guests in my house longer than is agreeable to them; to do so would not become a Christian innkeeper.  I leave such conduct to Moors, Cristinos, and Negros.  I will further you on your journey, Don Jorge: I have a plan in my head which I had resolved to propose to you before you questioned me.  There is my wife’s brother, who has two horses which he occasionally lets out for hire; you shall hire them, Don Jorge, and he himself shall attend you to take care of you and to comfort you, and to talk to you, and you shall pay him forty dollars for the journey.  Moreover, as there are thieves upon the route, and malos sujetos [250] such as Palillos and his family, you shall make an engagement and a covenant, Don Jorge, that provided you are robbed and stripped on the route, and the horses of my wife’s brother are taken from him by the thieves, you shall, on arriving at Madrid, make good any losses to which my wife’s brother may be subject in following you.  This is my plan, Don Jorge, which no doubt will meet with your worship’s approbation, as it is devised solely for your benefit, and not with any view of lucre or interest either to me or mine.  You will find my wife’s brother pleasant company on the route; he is a very respectable man, and one of the right opinion, and has likewise travelled much; for between ourselves, Don Jorge, he is something of a contrabandista, and frequently smuggles diamonds and precious stones from Portugal, which he disposes of sometimes in Cordova and sometimes at Madrid.  He is acquainted with all the short cuts, all the atajos, Don Jorge, and is much respected in all the ventas and posadas on the way.  So now give me your hand upon the bargain, and I will forthwith repair to my wife’s brother to tell him to get ready to set out with your worship the day after to-morrow.”

CHAPTER XVIII.

One fine morning I departed from Cordova, in company with the contrabandista; the latter was mounted on a handsome animal, something between a horse and a pony, which he called a jaca, of that breed for which Cordova is celebrated.  It was of a bright bay colour, with a star in its forehead, with strong but elegant limbs, and a long black tail which swept the ground.  The other animal, which was destined to carry me to Madrid, was not quite so prepossessing in its appearance.  In more than one respect it closely resembled a hog, particularly in the curving of its back, the shortness of its neck, and the manner in which it kept its head nearly in contact with the ground; it had also the tail of a hog, and meandered over the ground much like one.  Its coat more resembled coarse bristles than hair; and with respect to size, I have seen many a Westphalian hog quite as tall.  I was not altogether satisfied with the idea of exhibiting myself on the back of this most extraordinary quadruped, and looked wistfully on the respectable animal on which my guide had thought proper to place himself.  He interpreted my glances, and gave me to understand that as he was destined to carry the baggage, he was entitled to the best horse—a plea too well grounded on reason for me to make any objection to it.

It is not my intention to describe minutely the various incidents of this journey.  Leaving at our right the mountains of Jaen, we passed through Andujar and Bailen, and on the third day reached Carolina, a small but beautiful town on the skirts of the Sierra Morena, inhabited by the descendants of German colonists.  Two leagues from this place we entered the defile of Despeñaperros, which, even in quiet times, has an evil name, on account of the robberies which are continually being perpetrated within its recesses, but at the period of which I am speaking, it was said to be swarming with banditti.  We of course expected to be robbed, perhaps stripped and otherwise ill treated; but Providence here manifested itself.  It appeared that the day before our arrival, the banditti of the pass had committed a dreadful robbery and murder, by which they gained forty thousand reals. [254a]  This booty probably contented them for a time: certain it is that we were not interrupted.  We did not even see a single individual in the pass, though we occasionally heard whistles and loud cries.  We entered La Mancha, where I expected to fall into the hands of Palillos and Orejita. [254b]  Providence again showed itself.  It had been delicious weather; suddenly the Lord breathed forth a frozen blast, the severity of which was almost intolerable.  No human being but ourselves ventured forth.  We traversed snow-covered plains, and passed through villages and towns to all appearance deserted.  The robbers kept close in their caves and hovels, but the cold nearly killed us.  We reached Aranjuez late on Christmas-day, and I got into the house of an Englishman, where I swallowed nearly a pint of brandy: it affected me no more than warm water.

On the following day we arrived at Madrid, where we had the good fortune to find everything tranquil and quiet.  The contrabandista continued with me for two days, at the end of which time he returned to Cordova upon the uncouth animal on which I had ridden throughout the journey.  I had myself purchased the jaca, whose capabilities I had seen on the route, and which I imagined might prove useful in future journeys.  The contrabandista was so satisfied with the price which I gave him for his beast, and the general treatment which he had experienced at my hands during the time of his attendance upon me, that he would fain have persuaded me to retain him as a servant, assuring me that, in the event of my compliance, he would forget his wife and children and follow me through the world.  I declined, however, to accede to his request, though I was in need of a domestic; I therefore sent him back to Cordova, where, as I subsequently learned, he died suddenly, about a week after his return.

CHAPTER XIX.

She was a woman of about thirty-five years of age, rather good-looking, and with a physiognomy every lineament of which bespoke intelligence of no common order.  Her eyes were keen and penetrating, though occasionally clouded with a somewhat melancholy expression.  There was a particular calmness and quiet in her general demeanour, beneath which, however, slumbered a firmness of spirit and an energy of action which were instantly displayed whenever necessary.  A Spaniard, and, of course, a Catholic, she was possessed of a spirit of toleration and liberality which would have done honour to individuals much her superior in station.  In this woman, during the remainder of my sojourn in Spain, I found a firm and constant friend, and occasionally a most discreet adviser.  She entered into all my plans, I will not say with enthusiasm, which, indeed, formed no part of her character, but with cordiality and sincerity, forwarding them to the utmost of her ability.  She never shrank from me in the hour of danger and persecution, but stood my friend notwithstanding the many inducements which were held out to her by my enemies to desert or betray me.  Her motives were of the noblest kind—friendship, and a proper feeling of the duties of hospitality: no prospect, no hope of self-interest, however remote, influenced this admirable woman in her conduct towards me.  Honour to Maria Diaz, the quiet, dauntless, clever Castilian female!  I were an ingrate not to speak well of her, for richly has she deserved an eulogy in the humble pages of The Bible in Spain.

She was a native of Villa Seca, a hamlet of New Castile, situated in what is called the Sagra, [257] at about three leagues’ distance from Toledo.  Her father was an architect of some celebrity, particularly skilled in erecting bridges.  At a very early age she married a respectable yeoman of Villa Seca, Lopez by name, by whom she had three sons.  On the death of her father, which occurred about five years previous to the time of which I am speaking, she removed to Madrid, partly for the purpose of educating her children, and partly in the hope of obtaining from the government a considerable sum of money for which it stood indebted to her father at the time of his decease, for various useful and ornamental works, principally in the neighbourhood of Aranjuez.  The justness of her claim was at once acknowledged; but, alas! no money was forthcoming, the royal treasury being empty.  Her hopes of earthly happiness were now concentrated in her children.  The two youngest were still of a very tender age; but the eldest, Juan José Lopez, a lad of about sixteen, was bidding fair to realize the warmest hopes of his affectionate mother.  He had devoted himself to the arts, in which he had made such progress that he had already become the favourite pupil of his celebrated namesake Lopez, [258] the best painter of modern Spain.  Such was Maria Diaz, who, according to a custom formerly universal in Spain, and still very prevalent, retained the name of her maidenhood though married.  Such was Maria Diaz and her family.

One of my first cares was to wait on Mr. Villiers, who received me with his usual kindness.  I asked him whether he considered that I might venture to commence printing the Scriptures without any more applications to government.  His reply was satisfactory: “You obtained the permission of the government of Isturitz,” said he, “which was a much less liberal one than the present.  I am a witness to the promise made to you by the former ministers, which I consider sufficient.  You had best commence and complete the work as soon as possible, without any fresh application; and should any one attempt to interrupt you, you have only to come to me, whom you may command at any time.”  So I went away with a light heart, and forthwith made preparation for the execution of the object which had brought me to Spain.

I shall not enter here into unnecessary details, which could possess but little interest for the reader; suffice it to say that, within three months from this time, an edition of the New Testament, consisting of five thousand copies, was published at Madrid.  The work was printed at the establishment of Mr. Borrego, [259a] a well-known writer on political economy, and proprietor and editor of an influential newspaper called El Español.  To this gentleman I had been recommended by Isturitz himself, on the day of my interview with him.  That unfortunate minister had, indeed, the highest esteem for Borrego, and had intended raising him to the station of minister of finance, when the revolution of La Granja occurring, of course rendered abortive this project, with perhaps many others of a similar kind which he might have formed.

The Spanish version of the New Testament which was thus published had been made many years before by a certain Padre Filipe Scio, [259b] confessor of Ferdinand the Seventh, and had even been printed, but so encumbered by notes and commentaries as to be unfitted for general circulation, for which, indeed, it was never intended.  In the present edition the notes were of course omitted, and the inspired word, and that alone, offered to the public.  It was brought out in a handsome octavo volume, and presented, upon the whole, a rather favourable specimen of Spanish typography.  The mere printing, however, of the New Testament at Madrid could be attended with no utility whatever, unless measures, and energetic ones, were taken for the circulation of the sacred volume.

I had determined, after depositing a certain number of copies in the shops of the booksellers of Madrid, to ride forth, Testament in hand, and endeavour to circulate the word of God amongst the Spaniards, not only of the towns, but of the villages; amongst the children not only of the plains, but of the hills and mountains.  I intended to visit Old Castile, and to traverse the whole of Galicia and the Asturias; to establish Scripture depôts in the principal towns, and to visit the people in secret and secluded spots; to talk to them of Christ, to explain to them the nature of His book, and to place that book in the hands of those whom I should deem capable of deriving benefit from it.  I was aware that such a journey would be attended with considerable danger, and very possibly the fate of St. Stephen might overtake me; but does the man deserve the name of a follower of Christ who would shrink from danger of any kind in the cause of Him whom he calls his Master?  “He who loses his life for my sake shall find it,” are words which the Lord Himself uttered.  These words were fraught with consolation to me, as they doubtless are to every one engaged in propagating the Gospel in sincerity of heart, in savage and barbarian lands. . . .

I now purchased another horse; for these animals, at the time of which I am speaking, were exceedingly cheap.  A royal requisition was about to be issued for five thousand, the consequence being that an immense number were for sale, for, by virtue of this requisition, the horses of any person not a foreigner could be seized for the benefit of the service.  It was probable that, when the number was made up, the price of horses would be treble what it then was, which consideration induced me to purchase this animal before I exactly wanted him.  He was a black Andalusian stallion [261] of great power and strength, and capable of performing a journey of a hundred leagues in a week’s time; but he was unbroke, savage, and furious.  A cargo of Bibles, however, which I hoped occasionally to put on his back, would, I had no doubt, thoroughly tame him, especially when labouring up the flinty hills of the north of Spain.  I wished to have purchased a mule, but, though I offered thirty pounds for a sorry one, I could not obtain her; whereas the cost of both the horses—tall, powerful, stately animals—scarcely amounted to that sum.

The state of the surrounding country at this time was not very favourable for venturing forth.  Cabrera [262] was within nine leagues of Madrid, with an army nearly ten thousand strong; he had beaten several small detachments of the queen’s troops, and had ravaged La Mancha with fire and sword, burning several towns.  Bands of affrighted fugitives were arriving every hour, bringing tidings of woe and disaster; and I was only surprised that the enemy did not appear, and by taking Madrid, which was almost at his mercy, put an end to the war at once.  But the truth is, that the Carlist generals did not wish the war to cease, for as long as the country was involved in bloodshed and anarchy they could plunder, and exercise that lawless authority so dear to men of fierce and brutal passions.  Cabrera, moreover, was a dastardly wretch, whose limited mind was incapable of harbouring a single conception approaching to grandeur—whose heroic deeds were confined to cutting down defenceless men, and to forcing and disembowelling unhappy women; and yet I have seen this wretched fellow termed by French journals (Carlist, of course) the young, the heroic general!  Infamy on the cowardly assassin!  The shabbiest corporal of Napoleon would have laughed at his generalship, and half a battalion of Austrian grenadiers would have driven him and his rabble army headlong into the Ebro. [263]

I now made preparations for my journey into the north.  I was already provided with horses well calculated to support the fatigues of the road and the burdens which I might deem necessary to impose upon them.  One thing, however, was still lacking, indispensable to a person about to engage on an expedition of this description; I mean a servant to attend me.  Perhaps there is no place in the world where servants more abound than at Madrid, or at least fellows eager to proffer their services in the expectation of receiving food and wages, though, with respect to the actual service which they are capable of performing, not much can be said; but I was in want of a servant of no common description, a shrewd active fellow, of whose advice, in cases of emergency, I could occasionally avail myself; courageous withal, for it certainly required some degree of courage to follow a master bent on exploring the greater part of Spain, and who intended to travel, not under the protection of muleteers and carmen, but on his own cabalgaduras.  Such a servant, perhaps, I might have sought for years without finding; chance, however, brought one to my hand at the very time I wanted him, without it being necessary for me to make any laborious perquisitions.  I was one day mentioning the subject to Mr. Borrego, at whose establishment I had printed the New Testament, and inquiring whether he thought that such an individual was to be found in Madrid, adding that I was particularly anxious to obtain a servant who, besides Spanish, could speak some other language, that occasionally we might discourse without being understood by those who might overhear us.  “The very description of person,” he replied, “that you appear to be in need of, quitted me about half an hour ago, and, it is singular enough, came to me in the hope that I might be able to recommend him to a master.  He has been twice in my service: for his talent and courage I will answer; and I believe him to be trustworthy, at least to masters who may chime in with his humour, for I must inform you that he is a most extraordinary fellow, full of strange likes and antipathies, which he will gratify at any expense, either to himself or others.  Perhaps he will attach himself to you, in which case you will find him highly valuable; for, if he please, he can turn his hand to anything, and is not only acquainted with two, but half a dozen languages.”