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, 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.”
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 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.”
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, Antonio 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 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:—
_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 Santísima_! what shall we do to
purify the house when they are gone?
_Innkeeper_.—Oh, 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_!” {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_.—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. {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.
_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.