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!”222 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,223 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?224 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;225 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.226 There are many who perish every year in the eddies of the Duero; it is a bad river; vaya usted con la Virgen, Caballero.”227 So I rode on through the pinares, or thin scanty pine forests, which skirt the way to Valladolid228 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.229 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 English230 and Scotch231 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.232
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,233 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.234 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?235 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.
CHAPTER XXII
Dueñas – Children of Egypt – Jockeyism – The Baggage Pony – The Fall – Palencia – Carlist Priests – The Look-out – Priestly Sincerity – Leon – Antonio alarmed – Heat and Dust.
After a sojourn of about ten days at Valladolid, we directed our course towards Leon. We arrived about noon at Dueñas,236 a town at the distance of six short leagues from Valladolid. It is in every respect a singular place: it stands on a rising ground, and directly above it towers a steep conical mountain of calcareous earth, crowned by a ruined castle. Around Dueñas are seen a multitude of caves scooped in the high banks and secured with strong doors. These are cellars, in which is deposited the wine, of which abundance is grown in the neighbourhood, and which is chiefly sold to the Navarrese and the mountaineers of Santander, who arrive in cars drawn by oxen, and convey it away in large quantities. We put up at a mean posada in the suburb for the purpose of refreshing our horses. Several cavalry soldiers were quartered there, who instantly came forth, and began, with the eyes of connoisseurs, to inspect my Andalusian entero. “A capital horse that would be for our troop,” said the corporal; “what a chest he has! By what right do you travel with that horse, señor, when so many are wanted for the queen’s service? He belongs to the requiso.”237 “I travel with him by right of purchase, and being an Englishman,” I replied. “Oh, your worship is an Englishman,” answered the corporal; “that, indeed, alters the matter. The English in Spain are allowed to do what they please with their own, which is more than the Spaniards are. Cavalier, I have seen your countrymen238 in the Basque provinces; vaya, what riders! what horses! They do not fight badly either. But their chief skill is in riding: I have seen them dash over barrancos to get at the factious, who thought themselves quite secure, and then they would fall upon them on a sudden and kill them to a man. In truth, your worship, this is a fine horse; I must look at his teeth.”
I looked at the corporal – his nose and eyes were in the horse’s mouth: the rest of the party, who might amount to six or seven, were not less busily engaged. One was examining his fore feet, another his hind; one fellow was pulling at his tail with all his might, while another pinched the windpipe, for the purpose of discovering whether the animal was at all touched there. At last, perceiving that the corporal was about to remove the saddle, that he might examine the back of the animal, I exclaimed —
“Stay, ye chabés of Egypt, ye forget that ye are hundunares,239 and are no longer paruguing grastes in the chardí.”
The corporal at these words turned his face full upon me, and so did all the rest. Yes, sure enough, there were the countenances of Egypt, and the fixed filmy stare of eye. We continued looking at each other for a minute at least, when the corporal, a villanous-looking fellow, at last said, in the richest gypsy whine imaginable, “The erray knows us, the poor Caloré! And he an Englishman! Bullati! I should not have thought that there was e’er a Busnó would know us in these parts, where Gitanos are never seen. Yes, your worship is right; we are all here of the blood of the Caloré. We are from Melegrana, your worship; they took us from thence and sent us to the wars. Your worship is right; the sight of that horse made us believe we were at home again in the mercado of Granada; he is a countryman of ours, a real Andalou. Por dios, your worship, sell us that horse; we are poor Caloré, but we can buy him.”
“You forget that you are soldiers,” said I. “How should you buy my horse?”
“We are soldiers, your worship,” said the corporal, “but we are still Caloré. We buy and sell bestis; the captain of our troop is in league with us. We have been to the wars, but not to fight; we left that to the Busné. We have kept together, and, like true Caloré, have stood back to back. We have made money in the wars, your worship. No tenga usted cuidao.240 We can buy your horse.”
Here he pulled out a purse, which contained at least ten ounces241 of gold.
“If I were willing to sell,” I replied, “what would you give me for that horse?”
“Then your worship wishes to sell your horse – that alters the matter. We will give ten dollars for your worship’s horse. He is good for nothing.”
“How is this?” said I. “You this moment told me he was a fine horse – an Andalusian, and a countryman of yours.”
“No, señor! we did not say that he was an Andalou. We said he was an Estremou, and the worst of his kind. He is eighteen years old, your worship, short-winded and galled.”
“I do not wish to sell my horse,” said I; “quite the contrary. I had rather buy than sell.”
“Your worship does not wish to sell your horse,” said the gypsy. “Stay, your worship; we will give sixty dollars for your worship’s horse.”
“I would not sell him for two hundred and sixty. Meclis! Meclis! say no more. I know your gypsy tricks. I will have no dealings with you.”
“Did I not hear your worship say that you wished to buy a horse?” said the gypsy.
“I do not want to buy a horse,” said I; “if I need anything it is a pony to carry our baggage. But it is getting late. Antonio, pay the reckoning.”
“Stay, your worship, do not be in a hurry,” said the gypsy; “I have got the very pony which will suit you.”
Without waiting for my answer, he hurried into the stable, from whence he presently returned, leading an animal by a halter. It was a pony of about thirteen hands high, of a dark red colour; it was very much galled all over, the marks of ropes and thongs being visible on its hide. The figure, however, was good, and there was an extraordinary brightness in its eye.
“There, your worship,” said the gypsy; “there is the best pony in all Spain.”
“What do you mean by showing me this wretched creature?” said I.
“This wretched creature,” said the gypsy, “is a better horse than your Andalou!”
“Perhaps you would not exchange,” said I, smiling.
“Señor, what I say is, that he shall run with your Andalou, and beat him.”
“He looks feeble,” said I; “his work is well-nigh done.”
“Feeble as he is, señor, you could not manage him; no, nor any Englishman in Spain.”
I looked at the creature again, and was still more struck with its figure. I was in need of a pony to relieve occasionally the horse of Antonio in carrying the baggage which we had brought from Madrid, and though the condition of this was wretched, I thought that by kind treatment I might possibly soon bring him round.
“May I mount this animal?” I demanded.
“He is a baggage pony, señor, and is ill to mount. He will suffer none but myself to mount him, who am his master. When he once commences running, nothing will stop him but the sea. He springs over hills and mountains, and leaves them behind in a moment. If you will mount him, señor, suffer me to fetch a bridle, for you can never hold him in with the halter.”
“This is nonsense,” said I. “You pretend that he is spirited in order to enhance the price. I tell you his work is done.”
I took the halter in my hand and mounted. I was no sooner on his back than the creature, who had before stood stone still, without displaying the slightest inclination to move, and who in fact gave no farther indication of existence than occasionally rolling his eyes and pricking up an ear, sprang forward like a racehorse, at a most desperate gallop. I had expected that he might kick or fling himself down on the ground, in order to get rid of his burden, but for this escapade I was quite unprepared. I had no difficulty, however, in keeping on his back, having been accustomed from my childhood to ride without a saddle. To stop him, however, baffled all my endeavours, and I almost began to pay credit to the words of the gypsy, who had said that he would run on until he reached the sea. I had, however, a strong arm, and I tugged at the halter until I compelled him to turn slightly his neck, which from its stiffness might almost have been of wood; he, however, did not abate his speed for a moment. On the left side of the road down which he was dashing was a deep trench, just where the road took a turn towards the right, and over this he sprang in a sideward direction. The halter broke with the effort; the pony shot forward like an arrow, whilst I fell back into the dust.
“Señor,” said the gypsy, coming up with the most serious countenance in the world, “I told you not to mount that animal unless well bridled and bitted. He is a baggage pony, and will suffer none to mount his back, with the exception of myself who feed him.” (Here he whistled, and the animal, who was scurring over the field, and occasionally kicking up his heels, instantly returned with a gentle neigh.) “Now, your worship, see how gentle he is. He is a capital baggage pony, and will carry all you have over the hills of Galicia.”
“What do you ask for him?” said I.
“Señor, as your worship is an Englishman, and a good ginete, and, moreover, understands the ways of the Caloré, and their tricks and their language also, I will sell him to you a bargain. I will take two hundred and sixty dollars for him, and no less.”
“That is a large sum,” said I.
“No, señor, not at all, considering that he is a baggage pony, and belongs to the troop, and is not mine to sell.”
Two hours’ ride brought us to Palencia,242 a fine old town, beautifully situated on the Carrion, and famous for its trade in wool. We put up at the best posada which the place afforded, and I forthwith proceeded to visit one of the principal merchants of the town, to whom I was recommended by my banker in Madrid. I was told, however, that he was taking his siesta. “Then I had better take my own,” said I, and returned to the posada. In the evening I went again, when I saw him. He was a short bulky man, about thirty, and received me at first with some degree of bluntness; his manner, however, presently became more kind, and at last he scarcely appeared to know how to show me sufficient civility. His brother had just arrived from Santander, and to him he introduced me. This last was a highly intelligent person, and had passed many years of his life in England. They both insisted upon showing me the town, and, indeed, led me all over it, and about the neighbourhood. I particularly admired the cathedral, a light, elegant, but ancient Gothic edifice.243 Whilst we walked about the aisles, the evening sun, pouring its mellow rays through the arched windows, illumined some beautiful paintings of Murillo,244 with which the sacred edifice is adorned. From the church my friends conducted me to a fulling mill in the neighbourhood, by a picturesque walk. There was no lack either of trees or water, and I remarked, that the environs of Palencia were amongst the most pleasant places that I had ever seen.