Departure from Salamanca—Reception at Pitiegua—The Dilemma—Sudden
Inspiration—The Good Presbyter—Combat of Quadrupeds—Irish
Christians—Plains of Spain—The Catalans—The Fatal
Pool—Valladolid—Circulation of the Scriptures—Philippine Missions—English
College—A Conversation—The Gaoleress.
On Saturday, the tenth of June, 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, 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. 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 was 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 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 lookout 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.”
Observing that we contented ourselves with merely tasting it, he looked
at us with astonishment, and inquired the reason of our not drinking. We
told him that we seldom drank ardent spirits; and I added, that as for
myself, I seldom tasted even wine, but like himself, was content with the
use of water. He appeared somewhat incredulous, but told us to do
exactly what we pleased, and to ask for what was agreeable to us. We
told him that we had not dined, and should be glad of some substantial
refreshment. “I am afraid,” said he, “that I have nothing in the house
which will suit you; however, we will go and see.”
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 this 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 every thing 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, 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 demigod.” 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 dispatched 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.”
But I was eager to continue my journey, and my friend was no less anxious
to return to Salamanca. Upon taking leave of the hospitable curate, I
presented him with a copy of the New Testament. He received it without
uttering a single word, and placed it on one of the shelves of his study;
but I observed him nodding significantly to the Irish student, perhaps as
much as to say, “Your friend loses no opportunity of propagating his
book”; for he was well aware who I was. I shall not speedily forget the
truly good presbyter, Anthonio Garcia de Aguilar, Cura of Pitiegua.
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 lone 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 (_savage
mules_) 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 outhouse 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 mutes. 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 mute 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
refastened 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 conversation
passing between the innkeeper and his wife:—
_Innkeeper_.—Muger, it appears to me that we have evil guests in the
house.
_Wife_.—You mean the last comers, the Caballero and his servant. Yes, I
never saw worse countenances in my life.
_Innkeeper_.—I do not like the servant, and still less the master. He
has neither formality nor politeness: he tells me that he is not French,
and when I spoke to him of the Irish Christians, he did not seem to
belong to them. I more than suspect that he is a heretic or a Jew at
least.
_Wife_.—Perhaps they are both. Maria Santissima! what shall we do to
purify the house when they are gone?
_Innkeeper_.—O, as for that matter, we must of course charge it in the
cuenta.
I slept soundly, and rather late in the morning arose and breakfasted,
and paid the bill, in which, by its extravagance, I found the
purification had not been forgotten. The travelling merchants had
departed at daybreak. We now led forth the horses, and mounted; there
were several people at the door staring at us. “What is the meaning of
this?” said I to Antonio.
“It is whispered that we are no Christians,” said Antonio; “they have
come to cross themselves at our departure.”
In effect, the moment that we rode forward a dozen hands at least were
busied in this evil-averting ceremony. Antonio instantly turned and
crossed himself in the Greek fashion,—much more complex and difficult
than the Catholic.
“_Mirad que Santiguo_! _que Santiguo de los demonios_!” {196} 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, 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,
“_Carals_, _que es eso_? 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; 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. There are
many who perish every year in the eddies of the Duero; it is a bad river;
_vaya usted con la Virgen_, _Caballero_.” So I rode on through the
pinares, or thin scanty pine forests, which skirt the way to Valladolid
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 Escurva. 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. 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 connexion 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 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 and Scotch 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_.—This is a noble edifice in which you dwell, Father; I should
think it would contain at least two hundred students.
_Rector_.—More, my son; it is intended for more hundreds than it now
contains single individuals.
_Myself_.—I observe that some rude attempts have been made to fortify it;
the walls are pierced with loopholes in every direction.
_Rector_.—The nationals of Valladolid visited us a few days ago, and
committed much useless damage; they were rather rude, and threatened me
with their clubs: poor men, poor men.
_Myself_.—I suppose that even these missions, which are certainly
intended for a noble end, experience the sad effects of the present
convulsed state of Spain?
_Rector_.—But too true: we at present receive no assistance from the
government, and are left to the Lord and ourselves.
_Myself_.—How many aspirants for the mission are you at present
instructing?
_Rector_.—Not one, my son; not one. They are all fled. The flock is
scattered and the shepherd left alone.
_Myself_.—Your reverence has doubtless taken an active part in the
mission abroad?
_Rector_.—I was forty years in the Philippines, my son, forty years
amongst the Indians. Ah me! how I love those Indians of the Philippines.
_Myself_.—Can your reverence discourse in the language of the Indians?
_Rector_.—No, my son. We teach the Indians Castilian. There is no
better language, I believe. We teach them Castilian, and the adoration
of the Virgin. What more need they know?
_Myself_.—And what did your reverence think of the Philippines as a
country?
_Rector_.—I was forty years in the Philippines, but I know little of the
country. I do not like the country. I love the Indians. The country is
not very bad; it is, however, not worth Castile.
_Myself_.—Is your reverence a Castilian?
_Rector_.—I am an _Old_ Castilian, my son.
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 encloses 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, 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. 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? 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.
_Lady_.—I believe you. I am a daughter of that prison, my father was
alcayde, and my son might hope to be so, were he not a fool.
_Myself_.—His countenance then belies him strangely: I should be loth to
purchase that youngster for a fool.
_Gaoleress_.—You would have a fine bargain if you did; he has more
picardias than any Calabozero in Toro. What I mean is, that he does not
take to the prison as he ought to do, considering what his fathers were
before him. He has too much pride—too many fancies; and he has at length
persuaded me to bring him to Valladolid, where I have arranged with a
merchant who lives in the Plaza to take him on trial. I wish he may not
find his way to the prison: if he do, he will find that being a prisoner
is a very different thing from being a son of the prison.
_Myself_.—As there is so much merriment at Toro, you of course attend to
the comfort of your prisoners.
_Gaoleress_.—Yes, we are very kind to them; I mean to those who are
caballeros; but as for those with vermin and miseria, what can we do? It
is a merry prison that of Toro; we allow as much wine to enter as the
prisoners can purchase and pay duty for. This of Valladolid is not half
so gay: there is no prison like Toro. I learned there to play on the
guitar. An Andalusian cavalier taught me to touch the guitar and to sing
à la Gitana. Poor fellow, he was my first novio. Juanito, bring me the
guitar, that I may play this gentleman a tune of Andalusia.
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.