Arrival at Miaxadas.--Monotonous singing.--Dismal
country.--Truxillo.--A rainy morning.--Resume our journey.--Immense
wood of cork-trees.--Almaraz.--Reception by the escrivano.--A
terrific volume.--Village of Laval de Moral.--Range of lofty
mountains.--Calzada.
Wednesday, Dec. 5th, 1787.
About five leagues from Merida we stopped at a hovel too wretched to
afford shelter even to our mules. The situation, amidst green hills
scattered over with picturesque ilex, is not unpleasant; and such was
the mildness of the day, that we spread our table on a knoll, and dined
in the open air, surrounded by geese and asses, to whom I distributed
ample slices of water-melons. From this spot three short leagues brought
us to Miaxadas, where we arrived at night. Its inhabitants were gathered
in clusters at their doors, each holding a lamp, and crying, “Biva!
Biva!”
Instead of entering a dirty posada, my courier ushered me into a sort
of gallery, with a handsome arched roof, matted all over, and set round
with gilt chairs. The donna de la casa made very low obeisances, not
without great primness, and her maids sang tirannas with a wailful
monotony that wore my very soul out.
Thursday, Dec. 6th.
Soaking rain and dismal country, thick strewn with fragments of rock.
Mountains wrapped in mists,--here and there a few green spots studded
with mushrooms. We went seven leagues without stopping, and reached
Truxillo by four. It was this gloomy city, situated on a black eminence,
that gave birth to the ruthless Pizarro, the scourge of the Peruvians,
and the murderer of Atabaliba. We were lodged in a very tolerable
posada, unmolested by speech-makers, and heard no noise but the
trickling of showers.
Friday, Dec. 7th.
I was awakened at five: the gutters were pouring, and all the
water-spouts of Truxillo streaming with rain. An hour and a half did I
pass in a ghostly twilight, my candles being packed up, and all the oil
of the house expended. It required great exertion on the part of my
vigilant courier to prevail on our hulky muleteers to expose themselves
to the bad weather.
At length, with much ado, we rumbled out of Truxillo, and after
traversing for the space of two leagues the nakedest and most dreary
region I ever beheld, a faint gleam of sunshine melted the deadly white
of the thick clouds which hung over us, and the horizon brightening up,
we discovered a wood of cork-trees interspersed with lawns extending as
far as the eye could stretch itself. These green spots continued to
occur our whole way to Saraseços. There we halted, dined in haste at not
half so wretched a posada as I had been taught to expect, and continuing
our route, the sky clearing, ascended a mountain, from whose brow we
looked down on a valley variegated with patches of ploughed land, wild
shrubberies, and wandering rivulets.
We had not much time to feast our eyes with this pastoral prospect; the
clouds soon rolled over it, and we found ourselves in a damp fog. The
rest of our journey to Almaraz was a total blank; we saw nothing and
heard nothing, and arrived at the place of our destination in perfect
health and stupidity.
The escrivano, who is the judge and jury of the village, was so kind as
to accommodate us with his house, and so polite as not to incommode us
with his presence. He is a holy man, and a strenuous advocate for the
immaculate conception, no less than three large folios upon that
mysterious subject lying about in his apartment.
Saturday, Dec. 8th.
Whilst the muleteers were harnessing their beasts together with rotten
cords, I took up a little old book of my pious host’s, full of the most
dismal superstitions, entitled _Espeio de Cristal fino, y Antorcha que
aviva el alma_, and read in it till I was benumbed with horror. Many
pages are engrossed with a description of the state into which the
author imagines we are plunged immediately after death. The body he
supposes conscious of all that befalls it in the grave, of exchanging
its warm, comfortable habitation for the cold, pestilential soil of a
churchyard, conscious that its friends have abandoned it for ever, and
of its inability to call them back; to be sensible of the approaches and
progress of the most loathsome corruption, and to hear the voice of an
accusing angel, recapitulating its offences, and summoning it to the
judgment of God. The book ends with a vehement exhortation to repent
while there is yet time, and to procure by fervent prayer, and ample
donations to religious communities, the intercession of the host of
martyrs and of Nuestra Señora. I can easily conceive these scarecrow
publications of infinite use in frightening three parts of mankind out
of their senses, prolonging the reign, and swelling the coffers of the
clergy.
The horrid images I had seen in this (Espeio) mirror haunted my fancy
for several hours. To dissipate them I mounted my horse, and eagerly
inhaled the fresh breezes that blew over springing herbage, and wastes
of lavender. The birds were singing, the clouds dividing, and
discovering long tracts of soft blue sky. I galloped gaily along a level
country, interspersed with woods of ilex, to the village of Laval de
Moral, where the inhabitants were most devoutly employed in their
churches conciliating the favour of the madonna by keeping holy the
festival of the immaculate conception. There the coach coming up with
me, I got in; and the mules dragging it along at a rate which in the
days of my fire and fury would have made me thump out its bottom with
impatience, I fell into a resigned slumber, and am ignorant of every
object between Laval de Moral and Calzada, in sight of which town I
awoke near five in the evening.
The sun was setting in a sea of molten gold, and tinging the snows of a
range of lofty mountains, which I discovered for the first time bounding
our horizon. I might have seen them before most probably, had they not
remained till this evening wrapped up in rainy vapours.
It is at their base the Escurial is situated. I had the consolation of
stepping out of the coach at Calzada into a house with cheerful, neat
apartments, with an open gallery, where I walked contemplating the red
streams of light, and brilliant skirted clouds of the western sky, till
dinner came upon table. Though the doors and windows were all wide open,
I suffered no inconvenience worth mentioning from cold. The master of
the house, a portly, pompous barber-surgeon, most firm in his belief of
the supremacy of Spain over every country in the universe, confessed,
however, the weather was uncommonly warm, and that so mild a month of
December was rather extraordinary.