“Is he a Spaniard?” I inquired.

“I will send him to you to-morrow,” said Borrego, “you will best learn from his own mouth who and what he is.”

The next day, as I had just sat down to my sopa, my hostess informed me that a man wished to speak to me.  “Admit him,” said I, and he almost instantly made his appearance.  He was dressed respectably in the French fashion, and had rather a juvenile look, though I subsequently learned that he was considerably above forty.  He was somewhat above the middle stature, and might have been called well made, had it not been for his meagreness, which was rather remarkable.  His arms were long and bony, and his whole form conveyed an idea of great activity united with no slight degree of strength.  His hair was wiry, but of jetty blackness; his forehead low; his eyes small and grey, expressive of much subtlety and no less malice, strangely relieved by a strong dash of humour; the nose was handsome, but the mouth was immensely wide, and his under jaw projected considerably.  A more singular physiognomy I had never seen, and I continued staring at him for some time in silence.  “Who are you?” I at last demanded.

Man.—God forbid that I should be either, mi Lor; j’ai l’honneur d’être de la nation Grecque; my name is Antonio Buchini, native of Pera the Belle, [265a] near to Constantinople.

Myself.—And what brought you to Spain?

Buchini.—Mi Lor, je vais vous raconter mon histoire du commencement jusqu’ici.  My father was a native of Sceira, [265b] in Greece, from whence at an early age he repaired to Pera, where he served as janitor in the hotels of various ambassadors, by whom he was much respected for his fidelity.  Amongst others of these gentlemen, he served him of your own nation: this occurred at the time that there was war between England and the Porte. [266a]  Monsieur the ambassador had to escape for his life, leaving the greater part of his valuables to the care of my father, who concealed them at his own great risk, and when the dispute was settled, restored them to monsieur, even to the most inconsiderable trinket.  I mention this circumstance to show you that I am of a family which cherishes principles of honour, and in which confidence may be placed.  My father married a daughter of Pera, et moi je suis l’unique fruit de ce mariage.  Of my mother I know nothing, as she died shortly after my birth.  A family of wealthy Jews took pity on my forlorn condition and offered to bring me up, to which my father gladly consented; and with them I continued several years, until I was a beau garçon; they were very fond of me, and at last offered to adopt me, and at their death to bequeath me all they had, on condition of my becoming a Jew.  Mais la circoncision n’étoit guère à mon goût, especially that of the Jews, for I am a Greek, am proud, and have principles of honour.  I quitted them, therefore, saying that if ever I allowed myself to be converted, it should be to the faith of the Turks, for they are men, are proud, and have principles of honour like myself.  I then returned to my father, who procured me various situations, none of which were to my liking, until I was placed in the house of Monsieur Zea.

Myself.—You mean, I suppose, Zea Bermudez, [266b] who chanced to be at Constantinople.

Buchini.—Just so, mi Lor, and with him I continued during his stay.  He put great confidence in me, more especially as I spoke the pure Spanish language, which I acquired amongst the Jews, who, as I have heard Monsieur Zea say, speak it better than the present natives of Spain.

I shall not follow the Greek step by step throughout his history, which was rather lengthy: suffice it to say, that he was brought by Zea Bermudez from Constantinople to Spain, where he continued in his service for many years, and from whose house he was expelled for marrying a Guipuzcoan damsel, who was fille de chambre to Madame Zea; since which time it appeared that he had served an infinity of masters, sometimes as valet, sometimes as cook, but generally in the last capacity.  He confessed, however, that he had seldom continued more than three days in the same service, on account of the disputes which were sure to arise in the house almost immediately after his admission, and for which he could assign no other reason than his being a Greek, and having principles of honour.  Amongst other persons whom he had served was General Cordova, who he said was a bad paymaster, and was in the habit of maltreating his domestics.  “But he found his match in me,” said Antonio, “for I was prepared for him; and once, when he drew his sword against me, I pulled out a pistol and pointed it in his face.  He grew pale as death, and from that hour treated me with all kinds of condescension.  It was only pretence, however, for the affair rankled in his mind; he had determined upon revenge, and on being appointed to the command of the army, he was particularly anxious that I should attend him to the camp.  Mais je lui ris au nez, made the sign of the cortamanga, [268] asked for my wages, and left him; and well it was that I did so, for the very domestic whom he took with him he caused to be shot upon a charge of mutiny.”

“I am afraid,” said I, “that you are of a turbulent disposition, and that the disputes to which you have alluded are solely to be attributed to the badness of your temper.”

“What would you have, Monsieur?  Moi je suis Grec, je suis fier, et j’ai des principes d’honneur.  I expect to be treated with a certain consideration, though I confess that my temper is none of the best, and that at times I am tempted to quarrel with the pots and pans in the kitchen.  I think, upon the whole, that it will be for your advantage to engage me, and I promise you to be on my guard.  There is one thing that pleases me relating to you, you are unmarried.  Now, I would rather serve a young unmarried man for love and friendship, than a Benedick for fifty dollars per month.  Madame is sure to hate me, and so is her waiting-woman; and more particularly the latter, because I am a married man.  I see that mi Lor is willing to engage me.”

“But you say you are a married man,” I replied; “how can you desert your wife? for I am about to leave Madrid, and to travel into the remote and mountainous parts of Spain.”

“My wife will receive the moiety of my wages while I am absent, mi Lor, and therefore will have no reason to complain of being deserted.  Complain! did I say; my wife is at present too well instructed to complain.  She never speaks nor sits in my presence, unless I give her permission.  Am I not a Greek, and do I not know how to govern my own house?  Engage me, mi Lor; I am a man of many capacities—a discreet valet, an excellent cook, a good groom and light rider; in a word, I am Ρωμαϊκός. [269a]  What would you more?”

I asked him his terms, which were extravagant, notwithstanding his principes d’honneur.  I found, however, that he was willing to take one-half.

I had no sooner engaged him than, seizing the tureen of soup, which had by this time become quite cold, he placed it on the top of his fore finger, or rather on the nail thereof, causing it to make various circumvolutions over his head, to my great astonishment, without spilling a drop, then springing with it to the door, he vanished, and in another moment made his appearance with the puchera, which, after a similar bound and flourish, he deposited on the table; then suffering his hands to sink before him, he put one over the other, and stood at his ease, with half-shut eyes, for all the world as if he had been in my service twenty years.

And in this manner Antonio Buchini entered upon his duties.  Many was the wild spot to which he subsequently accompanied me; many the wild adventure of which he was the sharer.  His behaviour was frequently in the highest degree extraordinary, but he served me courageously and faithfully: such a valet, take him for all in all—

“His like I ne’er expect to see again.”

Kosko bakh, Anton. [269b]

CHAPTER XX.

Some days previous to my departure I was very much indisposed, owing to the state of the weather, for violent and biting winds had long prevailed.  I had been attacked with a severe cold, which terminated in a disagreeable cough, which the many remedies I successively tried seemed unable to subdue.  I had made preparations for departing on a particular day, but, owing to the state of my health, I was apprehensive that I should be compelled to defer my journey for a time.  The last day of my stay in Madrid, finding myself scarcely able to stand, I was fain to submit to a somewhat desperate experiment, and by the advice of the barber-surgeon who visited me, I determined to be bled.  Late on the night of that same day he took from me sixteen ounces of blood, and having received his fee left me, wishing me a pleasant journey, and assuring me, upon his reputation, that by noon the next day I should be perfectly recovered.

A few minutes after his departure, whilst I was sitting alone, meditating on the journey which I was about to undertake, and on the rickety state of my health, I heard a loud knock at the street door of the house, on the third floor of which I was lodged.  In another minute Mr. S---, [271] of the British embassy, entered my apartment.  After a little conversation, he informed me that Mr. Villiers had desired him to wait upon me to communicate a resolution which he had come to.  Being apprehensive that, alone and unassisted, I should experience great difficulty in propagating the Gospel of God to any considerable extent in Spain, he was bent upon exerting to the utmost his own credit and influence to further my views, which he himself considered, if carried into proper effect, extremely well calculated to operate beneficially on the political and moral state of the country.  To this end it was his intention to purchase a very considerable number of copies of the New Testament, and to dispatch them forthwith to the various British consuls established in different parts of Spain, with strict and positive orders to employ all the means which their official situation should afford them to circulate the books in question, and to assure their being noticed.  They were, moreover, to be charged to afford me, whenever I should appear in their respective districts, all the protection, encouragement, and assistance which I should stand in need of.  I was of course much rejoiced on receiving this information, for, though I had long been aware that Mr. Villiers was at all times willing to assist me, he having frequently given me sufficient proof, I could never expect that he would come forward in so noble, and, to say the least of it, considering his high diplomatic situation, so bold and decided a manner.  I believe that this was the first instance of a British ambassador having made the cause of the Bible Society a national one, or indeed of having favoured it directly or indirectly.  What renders the case of Mr. Villiers more remarkable is that, on my first arrival at Madrid, I found him by no means well disposed towards the Society.  The Holy Spirit had probably illumined his mind on this point.  I hoped that by his means our institution would shortly possess many agents in Spain, who, with far more power and better opportunities than I myself could ever expect to possess, would scatter abroad the seed of the Gospel, and make of a barren and thirsty wilderness a green and smiling corn-field.

A word or two about the gentleman who paid me this nocturnal visit.  Though he has probably long since forgotten the humble circulator of the Bible in Spain, I still bear in mind numerous acts of kindness which I experienced at his hands.  Endowed with an intellect of the highest order, master of the lore of all Europe, profoundly versed in the ancient tongues and speaking most of the modern dialects with remarkable facility—possessed, moreover, of a thorough knowledge of mankind—he brought with him into the diplomatic career advantages such as few, even the most highly gifted, can boast of.  During his sojourn in Spain he performed many eminent services for the government which employed him; services which, I believe, it had sufficient discernment to see, and gratitude to reward.  He had to encounter, however, the full brunt of the low and stupid malignity of the party who, shortly after the time of which I am speaking, usurped the management of the affairs of Spain.  This party, whose foolish manœuvres he was continually discomfiting, feared and hated him as its evil genius, taking every opportunity of showering on his head calumnies the most improbable and absurd.  Amongst other things, he was accused of having acted as an agent to the English government in the affair of La Granja, bringing about that revolution by bribing the mutinous soldiers, and more particularly the notorious Sergeant Garcia.  Such an accusation will of course merely extract a smile from those who are at all acquainted with the English character, and the general line of conduct pursued by the English government.  It was a charge, however, universally believed in Spain, and was even preferred in print by a certain journal, the official organ of the silly Duke of Frias, one of the many prime ministers of the moderado party who followed each other in rapid succession towards the latter period of the Carlist and Cristino struggle.  But when did a calumnious report ever fall to the ground in Spain by the weight of its own absurdity?  Unhappy land! not until the pure light of the Gospel has illumined thee, wilt thou learn that the greatest of all gifts is charity!

The next day verified the prediction of the Spanish surgeon; I had to a considerable degree lost my cough and fever, though, owing to the loss of blood, I was somewhat feeble.  Precisely at twelve o’clock the horses were led forth before the door of my lodging in the Calle de Santiago, and I prepared to mount; but my black entero of Andalusia would not permit me to approach his side, and, whenever I made the attempt, commenced wheeling round with great rapidity.

“The Romany chal [274a] to his horse did cry,
   As he placed the bit in his horse’s jaw,
‘Kosko gry!  Romany gry!
   Muk man kistur tute knaw.’” [274b]

We then rode forth from Madrid by the gate of San Vicente, directing our course to the lofty mountains which separate Old from New Castile.  That night we rested at Guadarrama, a large village at their foot, distant from Madrid about seven leagues.  Rising early on the following morning, we ascended the pass and entered into Old Castile.

After crossing the mountains, the route to Salamanca lies almost entirely over sandy and arid plains, interspersed here and there with thin and scanty groves of pine.  No adventure worth relating occurred during this journey.  We sold a few Testaments in the villages through which we passed, more especially at Peñaranda.  About noon of the third day, on reaching the brow of a hillock, we saw a huge dome before us, upon which the fierce rays of the sun striking, produced the appearance of burnished gold.  It belonged to the cathedral of Salamanca, and we flattered ourselves that we were already at our journey’s end; we were deceived, however, being still four leagues distant from the town, whose churches and convents, towering up in gigantic masses, can be distinguished at an immense distance, flattering the traveller with an idea of propinquity which does not in reality exist.  It was not till long after nightfall that we arrived at the city gate, which we found closed and guarded, in apprehension of a Carlist attack; and having obtained admission with some difficulty, we led our horses along dark, silent, and deserted streets, till we found an individual who directed us to a large, gloomy, and comfortless posada, that of the Bull, which we, however, subsequently found was the best which the town afforded.

A melancholy town is Salamanca; the days of its collegiate glory are long since past by, never more to return: a circumstance, however, which is little to be regretted; for what benefit did the world ever derive from scholastic philosophy?  And for that alone was Salamanca ever famous.  Its halls are now almost silent, and grass is growing in its courts, which were once daily thronged by at least eight thousand students; a number to which, at the present day, the entire population of the city does not amount.  Yet, with all its melancholy, what an interesting, nay, what a magnificent place is Salamanca!  How glorious are its churches, how stupendous are its deserted convents, and with what sublime but sullen grandeur do its huge and crumbling walls, which crown the precipitous bank of the Tormes, look down upon the lovely river and its venerable bridge!

My sojourn at Salamanca was rendered particularly pleasant by the kind attentions and continual acts of hospitality which I experienced from the inmates of the Irish College, to the rector of which I bore a letter of recommendation from my kind and excellent friend Mr. O’Shea, the celebrated banker of Madrid.  It will be long before I forget these Irish, more especially their head, Dr. Gartland, a genuine scion of the good Hibernian tree, an accomplished scholar, and a courteous and high-minded gentleman.  Though fully aware who I was, he held out the hand of friendship to the wandering heretic missionary, although by so doing he exposed himself to the rancorous remarks of the narrow-minded native clergy, who, in their ugly shovel hats and long cloaks, glared at me askance as I passed by their whispering groups beneath the piazzas of the Plaza.  But when did the fear of consequences cause an Irishman to shrink from the exercise of the duties of hospitality?  However attached to his religion—and who is so attached to the Romish creed as the Irishman?—I am convinced that not all the authority of the Pope or the Cardinals would induce him to close his doors on Luther himself, were that respectable personage at present alive and in need of food and refuge.

Honour to Ireland and her “hundred thousand welcomes!” [277a]  Her fields have long been the greenest in the world; her daughters the fairest; her sons the bravest and most eloquent.  May they never cease to be so!

The posada where I had put up was a good specimen of the old Spanish inn, being much the same as those described in the time of Philip the Third or Fourth.  The rooms were many and large, floored with either brick or stone, generally with an alcove at the end, in which stood a wretched flock bed.  Behind the house was a court, and in the rear of this a stable, full of horses, ponies, mules, machos, and donkeys, for there was no lack of guests, who, however, for the most part slept in the stable with their caballerias, being either arrieros or small peddling merchants who travelled the country with coarse cloth or linen.  Opposite to my room in the corridor lodged a wounded officer, who had just arrived from San Sebastian on a galled broken-kneed pony: he was an Estrimenian, [277b] and was returning to his own village to be cured.  He was attended by three broken soldiers, lame or maimed, and unfit for service: they told me that they were of the same village as his worship, and on that account he permitted them to travel with him.  They slept amongst the litter, and throughout the day lounged about the house smoking paper cigars.  I never saw them eating, though they frequently went to a dark cool corner, where stood a bota or kind of water pitcher, which they held about six inches from their black filmy lips, permitting the liquid to trickle down their throats.  They said they had no pay, and were quite destitute of money, that su merced the officer occasionally gave them a piece of bread, but that he himself was poor and had only a few dollars.  Brave guests for an inn, thought I; yet, to the honour of Spain be it spoken, it is one of the few countries in Europe where poverty is never insulted nor looked upon with contempt.  Even at an inn, the poor man is never spurned from the door, and if not harboured, is at least dismissed with fair words, and consigned to the mercies of God and his mother.  This is as it should be.  I laugh at the bigotry and prejudices of Spain; I abhor the cruelty and ferocity which have cast a stain of eternal infamy on her history; but I will say for the Spaniards, that in their social intercourse no people in the world exhibit a juster feeling of what is due to the dignity of human nature, or better understand the behaviour which it behoves a man to adopt towards his fellow beings.  I have said that it is one of the few countries in Europe where poverty is not treated with contempt, and I may add, where the wealthy are not blindly idolized.  In Spain the very beggar does not feel himself a degraded being, for he kisses no one’s feet, and knows not what it is to be cuffed or spit upon; and in Spain the duke or the marquis can scarcely entertain a very overweening opinion of his own consequence, as he finds no one, with perhaps the exception of his French valet, to fawn upon or flatter him.

During my stay at Salamanca I took measures that the word of God might become generally known in his celebrated city.  The principal bookseller of the town, Blanco, a man of great wealth and respectability, consented to become my agent here, and I in consequence deposited in his shop a certain number of New Testaments.  He was the proprietor of a small printing-press, where the official bulletin of the place was published.  For this bulletin I prepared an advertisement of the work, in which, amongst other things, I said that the New Testament was the only guide to salvation; I also spoke of the Bible Society, and the great pecuniary sacrifices which it was making with the view of proclaiming Christ crucified, and of making his doctrine known.  This step will perhaps be considered by some as too bold, but I was not aware that I could take any more calculated to arouse the attention of the people—a considerable point.  I also ordered numbers of the same advertisement to be struck off in the shape of bills, which I caused to be stuck up in various parts of the town.  I had great hope that by means of these a considerable number of New Testaments would be sold.  I intended to repeat this experiment in Valladolid, Leon, St. Jago, [279] and all the principal towns which I visited, and to distribute them likewise as I rode along.  The children of Spain would thus be brought to know that such a work as the New Testament is in existence, a fact of which not five in one hundred were then aware, notwithstanding their so frequently repeated boasts of their Catholicity and Christianity.

CHAPTER XXI.

On Saturday, June 10, I left Salamanca for Valladolid.  As the village where we intended to rest was only five leagues distant, we did not sally forth till midday was past.  There was a haze in the heavens which overcast the sun, nearly hiding his countenance from our view.  My friend, Mr. Patrick Cantwell, of the Irish College, [280a] was kind enough to ride with me part of the way.  He was mounted on a most sorry-looking hired mule, which I expected would be unable to keep pace with the spirited horses of myself and man; for he seemed to be twin-brother of the mule of Gil Perez, on which his nephew made his celebrated journey from Oviedo to Peñaflor. [280b]  I was, however, very much mistaken.  The creature, on being mounted, instantly set off at that rapid walk which I have so often admired in Spanish mules, and which no horse can emulate.  Our more stately animals were speedily left in the rear, and we were continually obliged to break into a trot to follow the singular quadruped, who, ever and anon, would lift his head high in the air, curl up his lip, and show his yellow teeth, as if he were laughing at us, as perhaps he was.  It chanced that none of us were well acquainted with the road; indeed, I could see nothing which was fairly entitled to that appellation.  The way from Salamanca to Valladolid is amongst a medley of bridle-paths and drift-ways, where discrimination is very difficult.  It was not long before we were bewildered, and travelled over more ground than was strictly necessary.  However, as men and women frequently passed on donkeys and little ponies, we were not too proud to be set right by them, and by dint of diligent inquiry we at length arrived at Pitiegua, four leagues from Salamanca, a small village, containing about fifty families, consisting of mud huts, and situated in the midst of dusty plains, where corn was growing in abundance.  We asked for the house of the cura, an old man whom I had seen the day before at the Irish College, and who, on being informed that I was about to depart for Valladolid, had exacted from me a promise that I would not pass through his village without paying him a visit and partaking of his hospitality.

A woman directed us to a cottage somewhat superior in appearance to those contiguous.  It had a small portico, which, if I remember well, was overgrown with a vine.  We knocked loud and long at the door, but received no answer; the voice of man was silent, and not even a dog barked.  The truth was, that the old curate [282] was taking his siesta, and so were his whole family, which consisted of one ancient female and a cat.  The good man was at last disturbed by our noise and vociferation, for we were hungry, and consequently impatient.  Leaping from his couch, he came running to the door in great hurry and confusion, and, perceiving us, he made many apologies for being asleep at a period when, he said, he ought to have been on the look-out for his invited guest.  He embraced me very affectionately, and conducted me into his parlour, an apartment of tolerable size, hung round with shelves, which were crowded with books.  At one end there was a kind of table or desk covered with black leather, with a large easy-chair, into which he pushed me, as I, with the true eagerness of a bibliomaniac, was about to inspect his shelves; saying, with considerable vehemence, that there was nothing there worthy of the attention of an Englishman, for that his whole stock consisted of breviaries and dry Catholic treatises on divinity.

His care now was to furnish us with refreshments.  In a twinkling, with the assistance of his old attendant, he placed on the table several plates of cakes and confectionery, and a number of large uncouth glass bottles, which I thought bore a strong resemblance to those of Schiedam, and indeed they were the very same.  “There,” said he, rubbing his hands; “I thank God that it is in my power to treat you in a way which will be agreeable to you.  In those bottles there is Hollands, thirty years old;” and producing two large tumblers, he continued, “fill, my friends, and drink—drink it every drop if you please, for it is of little use to myself, who seldom drink aught but water.  I know that you islanders love it, and cannot live without it; therefore, since it does you good, I am only sorry that there is no more.”

Thereupon he led us through a small yard at the back part of his house, which might have been called a garden or orchard if it had displayed either trees or flowers; but it produced nothing but grass, which was growing in luxuriance.  At one end was a large pigeon-house, which we all entered; “for,” said the curate, “if we could find some nice delicate pigeons they would afford you an excellent dinner.”  We were, however, disappointed; for, after rummaging the nests, we only found very young ones, unfitted for our purpose.  The good man became very melancholy, and said he had some misgivings that we should have to depart dinnerless.  Leaving the pigeon-house, he conducted us to a place where there were several skeps of bees, round which multitudes of the busy insects were hovering, filling the air with their music.  “Next to my fellow-creatures,” said he, “there is nothing which I love so dearly as these bees; it is one of my delights to sit watching them, and listening to their murmur.”  We next went to several unfurnished rooms, fronting the yard, in one of which were hanging several flitches of bacon, beneath which he stopped, and, looking up, gazed intently upon them.  We told him that, if he had nothing better to offer, we should be very glad to eat some slices of his bacon, especially if some eggs were added.  “To tell the truth,” said he, “I have nothing better, and if you can content yourselves with such fare I shall be very happy; as for eggs, you can have as many as you wish, and perfectly fresh, for my hens lay every day.”

So, after everything was prepared and arranged to our satisfaction, we sat down to dine on the bacon and eggs, in a small room, not the one to which he had ushered us at first, but on the other side of the doorway.  The good curate, though he ate nothing, having taken his meal long before, sat at the head of the table, and the repast was enlivened by his chat.  “There, my friends,” said he, “where you are now seated once sat Wellington and Crawford, after they had beat the French at Arapiles, [284] and rescued us from the thraldom of those wicked people.  I never respected my house so much as I have done since they honoured it with their presence.  They were heroes, and one was a demi-god.”  He then burst into a most eloquent panegyric of El Gran Lord, as he termed him, which I should be very happy to translate, were my pen capable of rendering into English the robust thundering sentences of his powerful Castilian.  I had till then considered him a plain, uninformed old man, almost simple, and as incapable of much emotion as a tortoise within its shell; but he had become at once inspired: his eyes were replete with a bright fire, and every muscle of his face was quivering.  The little silk skull-cap which he wore, according to the custom of the Catholic clergy, moved up and down with his agitation; and I soon saw that I was in the presence of one of those remarkable men who so frequently spring up in the bosom of the Romish church, and who to a child-like simplicity unite immense energy and power of mind—equally adapted to guide a scanty flock of ignorant rustics in some obscure village in Italy or Spain, as to convert millions of heathens on the shores of Japan, China, and Paraguay.

He was a thin spare man, of about sixty-five, and was dressed in a black cloak of very coarse materials; nor were his other garments of superior quality.  This plainness, however, in the appearance of his outward man was by no means the result of poverty; quite the contrary.  The benefice was a very plentiful one, and placed at his disposal annually a sum of at least eight hundred dollars, of which the eighth part was more than sufficient to defray the expenses of his house and himself; the rest was devoted entirely to the purest acts of charity.  He fed the hungry wanderer, and despatched him singing on his way, with meat in his wallet and a peseta in his purse; and his parishioners, when in need of money, had only to repair to his study, and were sure of an immediate supply.  He was, indeed, the banker of the village, and what he lent he neither expected nor wished to be returned.  Though under the necessity of making frequent journeys to Salamanca, he kept no mule, but contented himself with an ass, borrowed from the neighbouring miller.  “I once kept a mule,” said he; “but some years since it was removed without my permission by a traveller whom I had housed for the night: for in that alcove I keep two clean beds for the use of the wayfaring, and I shall be very much pleased if yourself and friend will occupy them, and tarry with me till the morning.”

We reached Pedroso shortly before nightfall.  It was a small village, containing about thirty houses, and intersected by a rivulet, or, as it is called, a regata.  On its banks women and maidens were washing their linen, and singing couplets; the church stood alone and solitary on the farther side.  We inquired for the posada, and were shown a cottage, differing nothing from the rest in general appearance.  We called at the door in vain, as it is not the custom of Castile for the people of these halting-places to go out to welcome their visitors: at last we dismounted and entered the house, demanding of a sullen-looking woman where we were to place the horses.  She said there was a stable within the house, but we could not put the animals there, as it contained malos machos [287] belonging to two travellers, who would certainly fight with our horses, and then there would be a funcion, which would tear the house down.  She then pointed to an out-house across the way, saying that we could stable them there.  We entered this place, which we found full of filth and swine, with a door without a lock.  I thought of the fate of the cura’s mule, and was unwilling to trust the horses in such a place, abandoning them to the mercy of any robber in the neighbourhood.  I therefore entered the house, and said resolutely that I was determined to place them in the stable.  Two men were squatted on the ground, with an immense bowl of stewed hare before them, on which they were supping; these were the travelling merchants, the masters of the mules.  I passed on to the stable, one of the men saying softly, “Yes, yes, go in and see what will befall.”  I had no sooner entered the stable than I heard a horrid discordant cry, something between a bray and a yell, and the largest of the machos, tearing his head from the manger to which he was fastened, his eyes shooting flames, and breathing a Whirlwind from his nostrils, flung himself on my stallion.  The horse, as savage as himself, reared on his hind legs, and, after the fashion of an English pugilist, repaid the other with a pat on the forehead, which nearly felled him.  A combat instantly ensued, and I thought that the words of the sullen woman would be verified by the house being torn to pieces.  It ended by my seizing the mule by the halter, at the risk of my limbs, and hanging upon him with all my weight, whilst Antonio, with much difficulty, removed the horse.  The man who had been standing at the entrance now came forward, saying, “This would not have happened if you had taken good advice.”  Upon my stating to him the unreasonableness of expecting that I would risk horses in a place where they would probably be stolen before the morning, he replied, “True, true, you have perhaps done right.”  He then re-fastened his macho, adding for additional security a piece of whipcord, which he said rendered escape impossible.

After supper, I roamed about the village.  I addressed two or three labourers whom I found standing at their doors; they appeared, however, exceedingly reserved, and with a gruff “buenas noches” turned into their houses without inviting me to enter.  I at last found my way to the church porch, where I continued some time in meditation.  At last I bethought myself of retiring to rest; before departing, however, I took out and affixed to the porch of the church an advertisement to the effect that the New Testament was to be purchased at Salamanca.  On returning to the house, I found the two travelling merchants enjoying profound slumber on various mantas, or mule-cloths, stretched on the floor.  “You are a French merchant, I suppose, Caballero,” said a man, who it seemed was the master of the house, and whom I had not before seen.  “You are a French merchant, I suppose, and are on the way to the fair of Medina.”  “I am neither Frenchman nor merchant,” I replied, “and, though I purpose passing through Medina, it is not with the view of attending the fair.”  “Then you are one of the Irish Christians from Salamanca, Caballero,” said the man; “I hear you come from that town.”  “Why do you call them Irish Christians?” I replied.  “Are there pagans in their country?”  “We call them Christians,” said the man, “to distinguish them from the Irish English, who are worse than pagans, who are Jews and heretics.”  I made no answer, but passed on to the room which had been prepared for me, and from which, the door being ajar, I heard the following short conversation passing between the innkeeper and his wife:—

“It is whispered that we are no Christians,” said Antonio; “they have come to cross themselves at our departure.”

“Mirad que Santiguo! que Santiguo de los demonios!” [290] exclaimed many voices, whilst for fear of consequences we hastened away.

The day was exceedingly hot, and we wended our way slowly along the plains of Old Castile.  With all that pertains to Spain, vastness and sublimity are associated: grand are its mountains, and no less grand are its plains, which seem of boundless extent, but which are not tame unbroken flats, like the steppes of Russia.  Rough and uneven ground is continually occurring: here a deep ravine and gully worn by the wintry torrent; yonder an eminence not unfrequently craggy and savage, at whose top appears the lone solitary village.  There is little that is blithesome and cheerful, but much that is melancholy.  A few solitary rustics are occasionally seen toiling in the fields—fields without limit or boundary, where the green oak, the elm, or the ash are unknown; where only the sad and desolate pine displays its pyramid-like form, and where no grass is to be found.  And who are the travellers of these districts?  For the most part arrieros, with their long trains of mules hung with monotonous tinkling bells.  Behold them with their brown faces, brown dresses, and broad slouched hats;—the arrieros, the true lords of the roads of Spain, and to whom more respect is paid in these dusty ways than to dukes and condes;—the arrieros, sullen, proud, and rarely courteous, whose deep voices may be sometimes heard at the distance of a mile, either cheering the sluggish animals, or shortening the dreary way with savage and dissonant songs.

Late in the afternoon we reached Medina del Campo, [291] formerly one of the principal cities of Spain, though at present an inconsiderable place.  Immense ruins surround it in every direction, attesting the former grandeur of this “city of the plain.”  The great square or market-place is a remarkable spot, surrounded by a heavy massive piazza, over which rise black buildings of great antiquity.  We found the town crowded with people awaiting the fair, which was to be held in a day or two.  We experienced some difficulty in obtaining admission into the posada, which was chiefly occupied by Catalans from Valladolid.  These people not only brought with them their merchandise, but their wives and children.  Some of them appeared to be people of the worst description: there was one in particular, a burly savage-looking fellow, of about forty, whose conduct was atrocious; he sat with his wife, or perhaps concubine, at the door of a room which opened upon the court: he was continually venting horrible and obscene oaths, both in Spanish and Catalan.  The woman was remarkably handsome, but robust, and seemingly as savage as himself; her conversation likewise was as frightful as his own.  Both seemed to be under the influence of an incomprehensible fury.  At last, upon some observation from the woman, he started up, and drawing a long knife from his girdle, stabbed at her naked bosom; she, however, interposed the palm of her hand, which was much cut.  He stood for a moment viewing the blood trickling upon the ground, whilst she held up her wounded hand; then, with an astounding oath, he hurried up the court to the Plaza.  I went up to the woman and said, “What is the cause of this?  I hope the ruffian has not seriously injured you.”  She turned her countenance upon me with the glance of a demon, and at last with a sneer of contempt exclaimed, “Caráls, que es eso? [292]  Cannot a Catalan gentleman be conversing with his lady upon their own private affairs without being interrupted by you?”  She then bound up her hand with a handkerchief, and going into the room brought a small table to the door, on which she placed several things, as if for the evening’s repast, and then sat down on a stool.  Presently returned the Catalan, and without a word took his seat on the threshold; then, as if nothing had occurred, the extraordinary couple commenced eating and drinking, interlarding their meal with oaths and jests.

We spent the night at Medina, and departing early next morning, passed through much the same country as the day before, until about noon we reached a small venta, distant half a league from the Duero; [293a] here we reposed ourselves during the heat of the day, and then, remounting, crossed the river by a handsome stone bridge, and directed our course to Valladolid.  The banks of the Duero in this place have much beauty: they abound with trees and brushwood, amongst which, as we passed along, various birds were singing melodiously.  A delicious coolness proceeded from the water, which in some parts brawled over stones or rippled fleetly over white sand, and in others glided softly over blue pools of considerable depth.  By the side of one of these last sat a woman of about thirty, neatly dressed as a peasant; she was gazing upon the water, into which she occasionally flung flowers and twigs of trees.  I stopped for a moment to ask a question; she, however, neither looked up nor answered, but continued gazing at the water as if lost to consciousness of all beside.  “Who is that woman?” said I to a shepherd, whom I met the moment after.  “She is mad, la pobrecita,” said he; “she lost her child about a month ago in that pool, and she has been mad ever since.  They are going to send her to Valladolid, to the Casa de los Locos. [293b]  There are many who perish every year in the eddies of the Duero; it is a bad river; vaya usted con la Virgen, Caballero.” [293c]  So I rode on through the pinares, or thin scanty pine forests, which skirt the way to Valladolid [293d] in this direction.

Valladolid is seated in the midst of an immense valley, or rather hollow, which seems to have been scooped by some mighty convulsion out of the plain ground of Castile.  The eminences which appear in the neighbourhood are not properly high grounds, but are rather the sides of this hollow.  They are jagged and precipitous, and exhibit a strange and uncouth appearance.  Volcanic force seems at some distant period to have been busy in these districts.  Valladolid abounds with convents, at present deserted, which afford some of the finest specimens of architecture in Spain.  The principal church, though rather ancient, is unfinished: it was intended to be a building of vast size, but the means of the founders were insufficient to carry out their plan.  It is built of rough granite.  Valladolid is a manufacturing town, but the commerce is chiefly in the hands of the Catalans, of whom there is a colony of nearly three hundred established here.  It possesses a beautiful alameda, or public walk, through which flows the river Escueva.  The population is said to amount to sixty thousand souls.

We put up at the Posada de las Diligencias, a very magnificent edifice.  This posada, however, we were glad to quit on the second day after our arrival, the accommodation being of the most wretched description, and the incivility of the people great; the master of the house, an immense tall fellow, with huge moustaches and an assumed military air, being far too high a cavalier to attend to the wants of his guests, with whom, it is true, he did not appear to be overburdened, as I saw no one but Antonio and myself.  He was a leading man amongst the national guards of Valladolid, and delighted in parading about the city on a clumsy steed, which he kept in a subterranean stable.

Our next quarters were at the Trojan Horse, an ancient posada, kept by a native of the Basque provinces, who at least was not above his business.  We found everything in confusion at Valladolid, a visit from the factious being speedily expected.  All the gates were blockaded, and various forts had been built to cover the approaches to the city.  Shortly after our departure the Carlists actually did arrive, under the command of the Biscayan chief, Zariategui. [295]  They experienced no opposition, the staunchest nationals retiring to the principal fort, which they, however, speedily surrendered, not a gun being fired throughout the affair.  As for my friend the hero of the inn, on the first rumour of the approach of the enemy, he mounted his horse and rode off, and was never subsequently heard of.  On our return to Valladolid, we found the inn in other and better hands, those of a Frenchman from Bayonne, from whom we received as much civility as we had experienced rudeness from his predecessor.

In a few days I formed the acquaintance of the bookseller of the place, a kind-hearted, simple man, who willingly undertook the charge of vending the Testaments which I brought.

I found literature of every description at the lowest ebb at Valladolid.  My newly acquired friend merely carried on bookselling in connection with other business; it being, as he assured me, in itself quite insufficient to afford him a livelihood.  During the week, however, that I continued in this city, a considerable number of copies were disposed of, and a fair prospect opened that many more would be demanded.  To call attention to my books, I had recourse to the same plan which I had adopted at Salamanca, the affixing of advertisements to the walls.  Before leaving the city I gave orders that these should be renewed every week; from pursuing which course I expected that much and manifold good would accrue, as the people would have continual opportunities of learning that a book which contains the living word was in existence, and within their reach, which might induce them to secure it, and consult it even unto salvation. . . .

In Valladolid I found both an English [296a] and Scotch [296b] College.  From my obliging friends, the Irish at Salamanca, I bore a letter of introduction to the rector of the latter.  I found this college an old gloomy edifice, situated in a retired street.  The rector was dressed in the habiliments of a Spanish ecclesiastic, a character which he was evidently ambitious of assuming.  There was something dry and cold in his manner, and nothing of that generous warmth and eager hospitality which had so captivated me in the fine Irish rector of Salamanca; he was, however, civil and polite, and offered to show me the curiosities of the place.  He evidently knew who I was, and on that account was, perhaps, more reserved than he otherwise would have been: not a word passed between us on religious matters, which we seemed to avoid by common consent.  Under the auspices of this gentleman, I visited the college of the Philippine Missions, which stands beyond the gate of the city, where I was introduced to the superior, a fine old man of seventy, very stout, in the habiliments of a friar.  There was an air of placid benignity on his countenance which highly interested me; his words were few and simple, and he seemed to have bid adieu to all worldly passions.  One little weakness was, however, still clinging to him.

Myself.—Your reverence has doubtless taken an active part in the mission abroad?

Rector.—I am an Old Castilian, my son. [298]

From the house of the Philippine Missions my friend conducted me to the English College: this establishment seemed in every respect to be on a more magnificent scale than its Scottish sister.  In the latter there were few pupils, scarcely six or seven, I believe, whilst in the English seminary I was informed that between thirty and forty were receiving their education.  It is a beautiful building, with a small but splendid church, and a handsome library.  The situation is light and airy: it stands by itself in an unfrequented part of the city, and, with genuine English exclusiveness, is surrounded by a high wall, which incloses a delicious garden.  This is by far the most remarkable establishment of the kind in the Peninsula, and I believe the most prosperous.  From the cursory view which I enjoyed of its interior, I of course cannot be expected to know much of its economy.  I could not, however, fail to be struck with the order, neatness, and system which pervaded it.  There was, however, an air of severe monastic discipline, though I am far from asserting that such actually existed.  We were attended throughout by the sub-rector, the principal being absent.  Of all the curiosities of this college, the most remarkable is the picture-gallery, which contains neither more nor less than the portraits of a variety of scholars of this house who eventually suffered martyrdom in England, in the exercise of their vocation in the angry times of the Sixth Edward and fierce Elizabeth.  Yes, in this very house were many of those pale, smiling, half-foreign priests educated, who, like stealthy grimalkins, traversed green England in all directions; crept into old halls beneath umbrageous rookeries, fanning the dying embers of Popery, with no other hope nor perhaps wish than to perish disembowelled by the bloody hands of the executioner, amongst the yells of a rabble as bigoted as themselves; priests like Bedingfield and Garnet, [299] and many others who have left a name in English story.  Doubtless many a history, only the more wonderful for being true, could be wrought out of the archives of the English Popish seminary at Valladolid.

There was no lack of guests at the Trojan Horse, where we had taken up our abode at Valladolid.  Amongst others who arrived during my sojourn was a robust buxom dame, exceedingly well dressed in black silk, with a costly mantilla.  She was accompanied by a very handsome, but sullen and malicious-looking urchin of about fifteen, who appeared to be her son.  She came from Toro, a place about a day’s journey from Valladolid, and celebrated for its wine. [300a]  One night, as we were seated in the court of the inn enjoying the fresco, the following conversation ensued between us.

Lady.—Vaya, vaya, what a tiresome place is Valladolid!  How different from Toro!

Myself.—I should have thought that it is at least as agreeable as Toro, which is not a third part so large.

Lady.—As agreeable as Toro!  Vaya, vaya!  Were you ever in the prison of Toro, Sir Cavalier?

Myself.—I have never had that honour; the prison is generally the last place which I think of visiting.

Lady.—See the difference of tastes: I have been to see the prison of Valladolid, and it seems as tiresome as the town.

Myself.—Of course, if grief and tediousness exist anywhere, you will find them in the prison.

Lady.—Not in that of Toro.

Myself.—What does that of Toro possess to distinguish it from all others?

Lady.—What does it possess?  Vaya!  Am I not the carcelera?  Is not my husband the alcayde? [300b]  Is not that son of mine a child of the prison?

Myself.—I beg your pardon, I was not aware of that circumstance; it of course makes much difference.

The carcelera had a fine voice, and touched the favourite instrument of the Spaniards in a truly masterly manner.  I remained listening to her performance for nearly an hour, when I retired to my apartment and my repose.  I believe that she continued playing and singing during the greater part of the night, for as I occasionally awoke I could still hear her; and even in my slumbers the strings were ringing in my ears.