Autumnal Morning—The World’s End—Corcuvion—Duyo—The Cape—A Whale—The
Outer Bay—The Arrest—The Fisher-Magistrate—Calros Rey—Hard of
Belief—Where is your Passport?—The Beach—A mighty Liberal—The
Handmaid—The Grand Baintham—Eccentric Book—Hospitality.
It was a beautiful autumnal morning when we left the _choza_ and pursued
our way to Corcuvion. I satisfied our host by presenting him with a
couple of _pesetas_, and he requested as a favour, that if on our return
we passed that way, and were overtaken by the night, we would again take
up our abode beneath his roof. This I promised, at the same time
determining to do my best to guard against the contingency; as sleeping
in the loft of a Gallegan hut, though preferable to passing the night on
a moor or mountain, is anything but desirable.
So we again started at a rapid pace along rough bridle-ways and
footpaths, amidst furze and brushwood. In about an hour we obtained a
view of the sea, and, directed by a lad whom we found on the moor
employed in tending a few miserable sheep, we bent our course to the
north-west, and at length reached the brow of an eminence, where we
stopped for some time to survey the prospect before us.
It was not without reason that the Latins gave the name of _Finis terræ_
to this district. We had arrived exactly at such a place as in my
boyhood I had pictured to myself as the termination of the world, beyond
which there was a wild sea, or abyss, or chaos. I now saw far before me
an immense ocean, and below me a long and irregular line of lofty and
precipitous coast. Certainly in the whole world there is no bolder coast
than the Gallegan shore, from the debouchement of the Minho to Cape
Finisterre. It consists of a granite wall of savage mountains, for the
most part serrated at the top, and occasionally broken, where bays and
firths like those of Vigo and Pontevedra intervene, running deep into the
land. These bays and firths are invariably of an immense depth, and
sufficiently capacious to shelter the navies of the proudest maritime
nations.
There is an air of stern and savage grandeur in everything around, which
strongly captivates the imagination. This savage coast is the first
glimpse of Spain which the voyager from the north catches, or he who has
ploughed his way across the wide Atlantic: and well does it seem to
realize all his visions of this strange land. “Yes,” he exclaims, “this
is indeed Spain—stern, flinty Spain—land emblematic of those spirits to
which she has given birth. From what land but that before me could have
proceeded those portentous beings who astounded the Old World and filled
the New with horror and blood. Alva and Philip, Cortez and Pizarro—stern
colossal spectres looming through the gloom of bygone years, like yonder
granite mountains through the haze, upon the eye of the mariner. Yes,
yonder is indeed Spain; flinty, indomitable Spain; land emblematic of its
sons!”
As for myself, when I viewed that wide ocean and its savage shore, I
cried, “Such is the grave, and such are its terrific sides; those moors
and wilds, over which I have passed, are the rough and dreary journey of
life. Cheered with hope, we struggle along through all the difficulties
of moor, bog, and mountain, to arrive at—what? The grave and its dreary
sides. Oh, may hope not desert us in the last hour—hope in the Redeemer
and in God!”
We descended from the eminence, and again lost sight of the sea amidst
ravines and dingles, amongst which patches of pine were occasionally
seen. Continuing to descend, we at last came, not to the sea, but to the
extremity of a long narrow firth, where stood a village or hamlet; whilst
at a small distance, on the western side of the firth, appeared one
considerably larger, which was indeed almost entitled to the appellation
of town. This last was Corcuvion; the first, if I forget not, was called
Ria de Silla. We hastened on to Corcuvion, where I bade my guide make
inquiries respecting Finisterre. He entered the door of a wine-house,
from which proceeded much noise and vociferation, and presently returned,
informing me that the village of Finisterre was distant about a league
and a half. A man, evidently in a state of intoxication, followed him to
the door. “Are you bound for Finisterre, _Cavalheiros_?” he shouted.
“Yes, my friend,” I replied, “we are going thither.”
“Then you are going amongst a _fato de borrachos_,” {22} he answered.
“Take care that they do not play you a trick.”
We passed on, and, striking across a sandy peninsula at the back of the
town, soon reached the shore of an immense bay, the north-westernmost end
of which was formed by the far-famed cape of Finisterre, which we now saw
before us stretching far into the sea.
Along a beach of dazzling white sand we advanced towards the cape, the
bourne of our journey. The sun was shining brightly, and every object
was illumined by his beams. The sea lay before us like a vast mirror,
and the waves which broke upon the shore were so tiny as scarcely to
produce a murmur. On we sped along the deep winding bay, overhung by
gigantic hills and mountains. Strange recollections began to throng upon
my mind. It was upon this beach that, according to the tradition of all
ancient Christendom, Saint James, the patron saint of Spain, preached the
Gospel to the heathen Spaniards. Upon this beach had once stood an
immense commercial city, the proudest in all Spain. This now desolate
bay had once resounded with the voices of myriads, when the keels and
commerce of all the then known world were wafted to Duyo. {23}
“What is the name of this village?” said I to a woman, as we passed by
five or six ruinous houses at the bend of the bay, ere we entered upon
the peninsula of Finisterre.
“This is no village,” said the Gallegan, “this is no village, Sir
Cavalier; this is a city, this is Duyo.”
So much for the glory of the world! These huts were all that the roaring
sea and the tooth of time had left of Duyo, the great city! Onward now
to Finisterre.
It was mid-day when we reached the village of Finisterre, consisting of
about one hundred houses, and built on the southern side of the
peninsula, just before it rises into the huge bluff head which is called
the Cape. We sought in vain for an inn or _venta_, where we might stable
our beast; at one moment we thought that we had found one, and had even
tied the animal to the manger. Upon our going out, however, he was
instantly untied and driven forth into the street. The few people whom
we saw appeared to gaze upon us in a singular manner. We, however, took
little notice of these circumstances, and proceeded along the straggling
street until we found shelter in the house of a Castilian shopkeeper,
whom some chance had brought to this corner of Galicia—this end of the
world. Our first care was to feed the animal, who now began to exhibit
considerable symptoms of fatigue. We then requested some refreshment for
ourselves; and in about an hour, a tolerably savoury fish, weighing about
three pounds, and fresh from the bay, was prepared for us by an old woman
who appeared to officiate as housekeeper. Having finished our meal, I
and my uncouth companion went forth, and prepared to ascend the mountain.
We stopped to examine a small dismantled fort or battery facing the bay,
and, whilst engaged in this examination, it more than once occurred to me
that we were ourselves the objects of scrutiny and investigation; indeed,
I caught a glimpse of more than one countenance peering upon us through
the holes and chasms of the walls. We now commenced ascending
Finisterre; and, making numerous and long _détours_, we wound our way up
its flinty sides. The sun had reached the top of heaven, whence he
showered upon us perpendicularly his brightest and fiercest rays. My
boots were torn, my feet cut, and the perspiration streamed from my brow.
To my guide, however, the ascent appeared to be neither toilsome nor
difficult. The heat of the day for him had no terrors, no moisture was
wrung from his tanned countenance; he drew not one short breath; and
hopped upon the stones and rocks with all the provoking agility of a
mountain goat. Before we had accomplished one-half of the ascent, I felt
myself quite exhausted. I reeled and staggered. “Cheer up, master mine;
be of good cheer, and have no care,” said the guide. “Yonder I see a
wall of stones; lie down beneath it in the shade.” He put his long and
strong arm round my waist, and, though his stature compared with mine was
that of a dwarf, he supported me as if I had been a child to a rude wall
which seemed to traverse the greater part of the hill, and served
probably as a kind of boundary. It was difficult to find a shady spot:
at last he perceived a small chasm, perhaps scooped by some shepherd as a
couch in which to enjoy his _siesta_. In this he laid me gently down,
and, taking off his enormous hat, commenced fanning me with great
assiduity. By degrees I revived, and, after having rested for a
considerable time, I again attempted the ascent, which, with the
assistance of my guide, I at length accomplished.
We were now standing at a great altitude between two bays, the wilderness
of waters before us. Of all the ten thousand barks which annually plough
those seas in sight of that old cape, not one was to be descried. It was
a blue shiny waste, broken by no object save the black head of a
spermaceti whale, which would occasionally show itself at the top,
casting up thin jets of brine. The principal bay, that of Finisterre, as
far as the entrance, was beautifully variegated by an immense shoal of
_sardinhas_, on whose extreme skirts the monster was probably feasting.
From the other side of the cape we looked down upon a smaller bay, the
shore of which was overhung by rocks of various and grotesque shapes;
this is called the outer bay, or, in the language of the country, _Praia
do mar de fora_: {26} a fearful place in seasons of wind and tempest,
when the long swell of the Atlantic pouring in is broken into surf and
foam by the sunken rocks with which it abounds. Even on the calmest day
there is a rumbling and a hollow roar in that bay which fill the heart
with uneasy sensations.
On all sides there was grandeur and sublimity. After gazing from the
summit of the cape for nearly an hour, we descended.
On reaching the house where we had taken up our temporary habitation, we
perceived that the portal was occupied by several men, some of whom were
reclining on the floor drinking wine out of small earthen pans, which are
much used in this part of Galicia. With a civil salutation I passed on,
and ascended the staircase to the room in which we had taken our repast.
Here there was a rude and dirty bed, on which I flung myself, exhausted
with fatigue. I determined to take a little repose, and in the evening
to call the people of the place together, to read a few chapters of the
Scripture, and then to address them with a little Christian exhortation.
I was soon asleep, but my slumbers were by no means tranquil. I thought
I was surrounded with difficulties of various kinds, amongst rocks and
ravines, vainly endeavouring to extricate myself; uncouth visages showed
themselves amidst the trees and in the hollows, thrusting out cloven
tongues, and uttering angry cries. I looked around for my guide, but
could not find him; methought, however, that I heard his voice down a
deep dingle. He appeared to be talking of me. How long I might have
continued in these wild dreams I know not. I was suddenly, however,
seized roughly by the shoulder, and nearly dragged from the bed. I
looked up in amazement, and by the light of the descending sun I beheld
hanging over me a wild and uncouth figure; it was that of an elderly man,
built as strong as a giant, with much beard and whisker, and huge bushy
eyebrows, dressed in the habiliments of a fisherman; in his hand was a
rusty musket.
_Myself_.—Who are you, and what do you want?
_Figure_.—Who I am matters but little. Get up and follow me; it is you I
want.
_Myself_.—By what authority do you thus presume to interfere with me?
_Figure_.—By the authority of the _justicia_ of Finisterre. Follow me
peaceably, Calros, or it will be the worse for you.
“Calros,” said I, “what does the person mean?” I thought it, however,
most prudent to obey his command, and followed him down the staircase.
The shop and the portal were now thronged with the inhabitants of
Finisterre, men, women, and children; the latter for the most part in a
state of nudity, and with bodies wet and dripping, having been probably
summoned in haste from their gambols in the brine. Through this crowd
the figure whom I have attempted to describe pushed his way with an air
of authority.
On arriving in the street, he laid his heavy hand upon my arm, not
roughly, however. “It is Calros! it is Calros!” said a hundred voices;
“he has come to Finisterre at last, and the _justicia_ have now got hold
of him.” Wondering what all this could mean, I attended my strange
conductor down the street. As we proceeded, the crowd increased every
moment, following and vociferating. Even the sick were brought to the
doors to obtain a view of what was going forward, and a glance at the
redoubtable Calros. I was particularly struck by the eagerness displayed
by one man, a cripple, who, in spite of the entreaties of his wife, mixed
with the crowd, and having lost his crutch, hopped forward on one leg,
exclaiming, “_Carracho_! _tambien voy yo_!” {28}
We at last reached a house of rather larger size than the rest; my guide,
having led me into a long low room, placed me in the middle of the floor,
and then hurrying to the door, he endeavoured to repulse the crowd who
strove to enter with us. This he effected, though not without
considerable difficulty, being once or twice compelled to have recourse
to the butt of his musket to drive back unauthorized intruders. I now
looked round the room. It was rather scantily furnished: I could see
nothing but some tubs and barrels, the mast of a boat, and a sail or two.
Seated upon the tubs were three or four men coarsely dressed, like
fishermen or shipwrights. The principal personage was a surly
ill-tempered looking fellow of about thirty-five, whom eventually I
discovered to be the _alcalde_ of Finisterre, and lord of the house in
which we now were. In a corner I caught a glimpse of my guide, who was
evidently in durance, two stout fishermen standing before him, one with a
musket and the other with a boat-hook. After I had looked about me for a
minute, the _alcalde_, giving his whiskers a twist, thus addressed me:—
“Who are you, where is your passport, and what brings you to Finisterre?”
_Myself_.—I am an Englishman. Here is my passport, and I came to see
Finisterre.
This reply seemed to discomfit them for a moment. They looked at each
other, then at my passport. At length the _alcalde_, striking it with
his finger, bellowed forth:
“This is no Spanish passport; it appears to be written in French.”
_Myself_.—I have already told you that I am a foreigner. I of course
carry a foreign passport.
_Alcalde_.—Then you mean to assert that you are not _Calros Rey_.
_Myself_.—I never heard before of such a king, nor indeed of such a name.
_Alcalde_.—Hark to the fellow! he has the audacity to say that he has
never heard of Calros the pretender, who calls himself king.
_Myself_.—If you mean by Calros, the pretender Don Carlos, all I can
reply is, that you can scarcely be serious. You might as well assert
that yonder poor fellow, my guide, whom I see you have made prisoner, is
his nephew, the _Infante_ Don Sebastian. {29}
_Alcalde_.—See, you have betrayed yourself; that is the very person we
suppose him to be.
_Myself_.—It is true that they are both hunchbacks. But how can I be
like Don Carlos? I have nothing the appearance of a Spaniard, and am
nearly a foot taller than the pretender.
_Alcalde_.—That makes no difference; you of course carry many waistcoats
about you, by means of which you disguise yourself, and appear tall or
low according to your pleasure.
This last was so conclusive an argument that I had of course nothing to
reply to it. The _alcalde_ looked around him in triumph, as if he had
made some notable discovery. “Yes, it is Calros; it is Calros,” said the
crowd at the door. “It will be as well to have these men shot
instantly,” continued the _alcalde_; “if they are not the two pretenders,
they are at any rate two of the factious.”
“I am by no means certain that they are either one or the other,” said a
gruff voice.
The _justicia_ of Finisterre turned their eyes in the direction from
which these words proceeded, and so did I. Our glances rested upon the
figure who held watch at the door. He had planted the barrel of his
musket on the floor, and was now leaning his chin against the butt.
“I am by no means certain that they are either one or the other,”
repeated he, advancing forward. “I have been examining this man,”
pointing to myself, “and listening whilst he spoke, and it appears to me
that after all he may prove an Englishman; he has their very look and
voice. Who knows the English better than Antonio de la Trava, and who
has a better right? Has he not sailed in their ships; has he not eaten
their biscuit; and did he not stand by Nelson when he was shot dead?”
Here the _alcalde_ became violently incensed. “He is no more an
Englishman than yourself,” he exclaimed; “if he were an Englishman would
he have come in this manner, skulking across the land? Not so, I trow.
He would have come in a ship, recommended to some of us, or to the
Catalans. He would have come to trade—to buy; but nobody knows him in
Finisterre, nor does he know anybody, and the first thing, moreover, that
he does when he reaches this place is to inspect the fort, and to ascend
the mountain, where, no doubt, he has been marking out a camp. What
brings him to Finisterre, if he is neither Calros nor a _bribon_ of a
_faccioso_?”
I felt that there was a good deal of justice in some of these remarks,
and I was aware, for the first time, that I had indeed committed a great
imprudence in coming to this wild place, and among these barbarous
people, without being able to assign any motive which could appear at all
valid in their eyes. I endeavoured to convince the _alcalde_ that I had
come across the country for the purpose of making myself acquainted with
the many remarkable objects which it contained, and of obtaining
information respecting the character and condition of the inhabitants.
He could understand no such motives. “What did you ascend the mountain
for?” “To see prospects.” “_Disparate_! I have lived at Finisterre
forty years, and never ascended that mountain. I would not do it in a
day like this for two ounces of gold. You went to take altitudes, and to
mark out a camp.” I had, however, a staunch friend in old Antonio, who
insisted, from his knowledge of the English, that all I said might very
possibly be true. “The English,” said he, “have more money than they
know what to do with, and on that account they wander all over the world,
paying dearly for what no other people care a groat for.” He then
proceeded, notwithstanding the frowns of the _alcalde_, to examine me in
the English language. His own entire knowledge of this tongue was
confined to two words—_knife_ and _fork_, which words I rendered into
Spanish by their equivalents, and was forthwith pronounced an Englishman
by the old fellow, who, brandishing his musket, exclaimed:—
“This man is not Calros; he is what he declares himself to be, an
Englishman, and whosoever seeks to injure him shall have to do with
Antonio de la Trava, _el valiente de Finisterra_.” No person sought to
impugn this verdict, and it was at length determined that I should be
sent to Corcuvion, to be examined by the _alcalde mayor_ of the district.
“But,” said the _alcalde_ of Finisterre, “what is to be done with the
other fellow? He at least is no Englishman. Bring him forward, and let
us hear what he has to say for himself. Now, fellow, who are you, and
what is your master?”
_Guide_.—I am Sebastianillo, a poor broken mariner of Padron, and my
master for the present is the gentleman whom you see, the most valiant
and wealthy of all the English. He has two ships at Vigo laden with
riches. I told you so when you first seized me up there in our _posada_.
_Alcalde_.—Where is your passport?
_Guide_.—I have no passport. Who would think of bringing a passport to
such a place as this, where I don’t suppose there are two individuals who
can read? I have no passport; my master’s passport of course includes
me.
_Alcalde_.—It does not. And since you have no passport, and have
confessed that your name is Sebastian, you shall be shot. Antonio de la
Trava, do you and the musketeers lead this Sebastianillo forth, and shoot
him before the door.
_Antonio de la Trava_.—With much pleasure, _Señor Alcalde_, since you
order it. With respect to this fellow, I shall not trouble myself to
interfere. He at least is no Englishman. He has more the look of a
wizard or _nuveiro_; one of those devils who raise storms and sink
launches. Moreover, he says he is from Padron, and those of that place
are all thieves and drunkards. They once played me a trick, and I would
gladly be at the shooting of the whole _pueblo_.
I now interfered, and said that if they shot the guide they must shoot me
too; expatiating at the same time on the cruelty and barbarity of taking
away the life of a poor unfortunate fellow who, as might be seen at the
first glance, was only half-witted; adding, moreover, that if any person
was guilty in this case it was myself, as the other could only be
considered in the light of a servant acting under my orders.
“The safest plan, after all,” said the _alcalde_, “appears to be to send
you both prisoners to Corcuvion, where the head _alcalde_ can dispose of
you as he thinks proper. You must, however, pay for your escort; for it
is not to be supposed that the housekeepers of Finisterre have nothing
else to do than to ramble about the country with every chance fellow who
finds his way to this town.” “As for that matter,” said Antonio, “I will
take charge of them both. I am the _valiente_ of Finisterre, and fear no
two men living. Moreover, I am sure that the captain here will make it
worth my while, else he is no Englishman. Therefore let us be quick, and
set out for Corcuvion at once, as it is getting late. First of all,
however, captain, I must search you and your baggage. You have no arms,
of course? But it is best to make all sure.”
Long ere it was dark I found myself again on the pony, in company with my
guide, wending our way along the beach in the direction of Corcuvion.
Antonio de la Trava tramped heavily on before, his musket on his
shoulder.
_Myself_.—Are you not afraid, Antonio, to be thus alone with two
prisoners, one of whom is on horseback? If we were to try, I think we
could overpower you.
_Antonio de la Trava_.—I am the _valiente de Finisterra_, and I fear no
odds.
_Myself_.—Why do you call yourself the _valiente_ of Finisterre?
_Antonio de la Trava_.—The whole district call me so. When the French
came to Finisterre and demolished the fort, three perished by my hand. I
stood on the mountain, up where I saw you scrambling to-day. I continued
firing at the enemy, until three detached themselves in pursuit of me.
The fools! two perished amongst the rocks by the fire of this musket, and
as for the third, I beat his head to pieces with the stock. It is on
that account that they call me the _valiente_ of Finisterre.
_Myself_.—How came you to serve with the English fleet? I think I heard
you say that you were present when Nelson fell.
_Antonio de la Trava_.—I was captured by your countrymen, captain; and as
I had been a sailor from my childhood, they were glad of my services. I
was nine months with them, and assisted at Trafalgar. I saw the English
admiral die. You have something of his face, and your voice, when you
spoke, sounded in my ears like his own. I love the English, and on that
account I saved you. Think not that I would toil along these sands with
you if you were one of my own countrymen. Here we are at Duyo, captain.
Shall we refresh?
We did refresh, or rather Antonio de la Trava refreshed, swallowing pan
after pan of wine, with a thirst which seemed unquenchable. “That man
was a greater wizard than myself,” whispered Sebastian, my guide, “who
told us that the drunkards of Finisterre would play us a trick.” At
length the old hero of the Cape slowly rose, saying that we must hasten
on to Corcuvion, or the night would overtake us by the way.
“What kind of person is the _alcalde_ to whom you are conducting me?”
said I.
“Oh, very different from him of Finisterre,” replied Antonio. “This is a
young _Señorito_, lately arrived from Madrid. He is not even a Gallegan.
He is a mighty liberal, and it is owing chiefly to his orders that we
have lately been so much on the alert. It is said that the Carlists are
meditating a descent on these parts of Galicia. Let them only come to
Finisterre; we are liberals there to a man, and the old _valiente_ is
ready to play the same part as in the time of the French. But, as I was
telling you before, the _alcalde_ to whom I am conducting you is a young
man, and very learned, and, if he thinks proper, he can speak English to
you, even better than myself, notwithstanding I was a friend of Nelson,
and fought by his side at Trafalgar.”
It was dark night before we reached Corcuvion. Antonio again stopped to
refresh at a wine-shop, after which he conducted us to the house of the
_alcalde_. His steps were by this time not particularly steady, and on
arriving at the gate of the house, he stumbled over the threshold and
fell. He got up with an oath, and instantly commenced thundering at the
door with the stock of his musket. “Who is it?” at length demanded a
soft female voice in Gallegan. “The _valiente_ of Finisterre,” replied
Antonio; whereupon the gate was unlocked, and we beheld before us a very
pretty female with a candle in her hand. “What brings you here so late,
Antonio?” she inquired. “I bring two prisoners, _mi pulida_,” replied
Antonio. “_Ave Maria_!” she exclaimed. “I hope they will do no harm.”
“I will answer for one,” replied the old man; “but as for the other, he
is a _nuveiro_, and has sunk more ships than all his brethren in Galicia.
But be not afraid, my beauty,” he continued, as the female made the sign
of the cross: “first lock the gate, and then show me the way to the
_alcalde_. I have much to tell him.” The gate was locked, and bidding
us stay below in the court-yard, Antonio followed the young woman up a
stone stair, whilst we remained in darkness below.
After the lapse of about a quarter of an hour we again saw the candle
gleam upon the staircase, and the young female appeared. Coming up to
me, she advanced the candle to my features, on which she gazed very
intently. After a long scrutiny she went to my guide, and having
surveyed him still more fixedly, she turned to me, and said, in her best
Spanish, “_Señor_ Cavalier, I congratulate you on your servant. He is
the best-looking _mozo_ in all Galicia. _Vaya_! if he had but a coat to
his back, and did not go barefoot, I would accept him at once as a
_novio_; but I have unfortunately made a vow never to marry a poor man,
but only one who has got a heavy purse and can buy me fine clothes. So
you are a Carlist, I suppose? _Vaya_! I do not like you the worse for
that. But, being so, how went you to Finisterre, where they are all
_Cristinos_ and _negros_? Why did you not go to my village? None would
have meddled with you there. Those of my village are of a different
stamp to the drunkards of Finisterre. Those of my village never
interfere with honest people. _Vaya_! how I hate that drunkard of
Finisterre who brought you; he is so old and ugly; were it not for the
love which I bear to the _Señor Alcalde_, I would at once unlock the gate
and bid you go forth, you and your servant, _el buen mozo_”. {37}
Antonio now descended. “Follow me,” said he; “his worship the _alcalde_
will be ready to receive you in a moment.” Sebastian and myself followed
him upstairs to a room, where, seated behind a table, we beheld a young
man of low stature, but handsome features, and very fashionably dressed.
He appeared to be inditing a letter, which, when he had concluded, he
delivered to a secretary to be transcribed. He then looked at me for a
moment fixedly, and the following conversation ensued between us:—
_Alcalde_.—I see that you are an Englishman, and my friend Antonio here
informs me that you have been arrested at Finisterre.
_Myself_.—He tells you true; and but for him I believe that I should have
fallen by the hands of those savage fishermen.
_Alcalde_.—The inhabitants of Finisterre are brave, and are all liberals.
Allow me to look at your passport? Yes, all in form. Truly it was very
ridiculous that they should have arrested you as a Carlist.
_Myself_.—Not only as a Carlist, but as Don Carlos himself.
_Alcalde_.—Oh! most ridiculous; mistake a countryman of the grand
Baintham for such a Goth!
_Myself_.—Excuse me, sir, you speak of the grand somebody.
_Alcalde_.—The grand Baintham. He who has invented laws for all the
world. I hope shortly to see them adopted in this unhappy country of
ours.
_Myself_.—Oh! you mean Jeremy Bentham. Yes! a very remarkable man in his
way.
_Alcalde_.—In his way! in all ways. The most universal genius which the
world ever produced:—a Solon, a Plato, and a Lope de Vega.
_Myself_.—I have never read his writings. I have no doubt that he was a
Solon; and as you say, a Plato. I should scarcely have thought, however,
that he could be ranked as a poet with Lope de Vega.
_Alcalde_.—How surprising! I see, indeed, that you know nothing of his
writings, though an Englishman. Now, here am I, a simple _alcalde_ of
Galicia, yet I possess all the writings of Baintham on that shelf, and I
study them day and night.
_Myself_.—You doubtless, sir, possess the English language.
_Alcalde_.—I do. I mean that part of it which is contained in the
writings of Baintham. I am most truly glad to see a countryman of his in
these Gothic wildernesses. I understand and appreciate your motives for
visiting them: excuse the incivility and rudeness which you have
experienced. But we will endeavour to make you reparation. You are this
moment free: but it is late; I must find you a lodging for the night. I
know one close by which will just suit you. Let us repair thither this
moment. Stay, I think I see a book in your hand.
_Myself_.—The New Testament.
_Alcalde_.—What book is that?
_Myself_.—A portion of the sacred writings, the Bible.
_Alcalde_.—Why do you carry such a book with you?
_Myself_.—One of my principal motives in visiting Finisterre was to carry
this book to that wild place.
_Alcalde_.—Ha, ha! how very singular. Yes, I remember. I have heard
that the English highly prize this eccentric book. How very singular
that the countrymen of the grand Baintham should set any value upon that
old monkish book!
It was now late at night, and my new friend attended me to the lodging
which he had destined for me, and which was at the house of a respectable
old female, where I found a clean and comfortable room. On the way I
slipped a gratuity into the hand of Antonio, and on my arrival, formally,
and in the presence of the _alcalde_, presented him with the Testament,
which I requested he would carry back to Finisterre, and keep in
remembrance of the Englishman in whose behalf he had so effectually
interposed.
_Antonio_.—I will do so, your worship, and when the winds blow from the
north-west, preventing our launches from putting to sea, I will read your
present. Farewell, my captain, and when you next come to Finisterre, I
hope it will be in a valiant English bark, with plenty of contraband on
board, and not across the country on a pony, in company with _nuveiros_
and men of Padron.
Presently arrived the handmaid of the _alcalde_ with a basket, which she
took into the kitchen, where she prepared an excellent supper for her
master’s friend. On its being served up the _alcalde_ bade me farewell,
having first demanded whether he could in any way forward my plans.
“I return to Saint James to-morrow,” I replied, “and I sincerely hope
that some occasion will occur which will enable me to acquaint the world
with the hospitality which I have experienced from so accomplished a
scholar as the _Alcalde_ of Corcuvion.”