I was walking late one night alone in the Alameda of Saint James, considering in what direction I should next bend my course, for I had been already ten days in this place; the moon was shining gloriously, and illumined every object around to a considerable distance.The Alameda was quite deserted;everybody, with the exception of myself, having for some time retired.I sat down on a bench and continued my reflections, which were suddenly interrupted by a heavy stumping sound.
Turning my eyes in the direction from which it proceeded, Iperceived what at first appeared a shapeless bulk slowly advancing: nearer and nearer it drew, and I could now distinguish the outline of a man dressed in coarse brown garments, a kind of Andalusian hat, and using as a staff the long peeled branch of a tree.He had now arrived opposite the bench where I was seated, when, stopping, he took off his hat and demanded charity in uncouth tones and in a strange jargon, which had some resemblance to the Catalan.The moon shone on grey locks and on a ruddy weather-beaten countenance which I at once recognized: "Benedict Mol," said I, "is it possible that Isee you at Compostella?"
"Och, mein Gott, es ist der Herr!" replied Benedict.
"Och, what good fortune, that the Herr is the first person Imeet at Compostella."
MYSELF.- I can scarcely believe my eyes.Do you mean to say that you have just arrived at this place?
BENEDICT.- Ow yes, I am this moment arrived.I have walked all the long way from Madrid.
MYSELF.- What motive could possibly bring you such a distance?
BENEDICT.- Ow, I am come for the schatz - the treasure.
I told you at Madrid that I was coming; and now I have met you here, I have no doubt that I shall find it, the schatz.
MYSELF.- In what manner did you support yourself by the way?
BENEDICT.- Ow, I begged, I bettled, and so contrived to pick up some cuartos; and when I reached Toro, I worked at my trade of soap-making for a time, till the people said I knew nothing about it, and drove me out of the town.So I went on and begged and bettled till I arrived at Orense, which is in this country of Galicia.Ow, I do not like this country of Galicia at all.
MYSELF.- Why not?
BENEDICT.- Why! because here they all beg and bettle, and have scarce anything for themselves, much less for me whom they know to be a foreign man.O the misery of Galicia.When I arrive at night at one of their pigsties, which they call posadas, and ask for bread to eat in the name of God, and straw to lie down in, they curse me, and say there is neither bread nor straw in Galicia; and sure enough, since I have been here Ihave seen neither, only something that they call broa, and a kind of reedy rubbish with which they litter the horses: all my bones are sore since I entered Galicia.
MYSELF.- And yet you have come to this country, which you call so miserable, in search of treasure?
BENEDICT.- Ow yaw, but the schatz is buried; it is not above ground; there is no money above ground in Galicia.Imust dig it up; and when I have dug it up I will purchase a coach with six mules, and ride out of Galicia to Lucerne; and if the Herr pleases to go with me, he shall be welcome to go with me and the schatz.
MYSELF.- I am afraid that you have come on a desperate errand.What do you propose to do? Have you any money?
BENEDICT.- Not a cuart; but I do not care now I have arrived at Saint James.The schatz is nigh; and I have, moreover, seen you, which is a good sign; it tells me that the schatz is still here.I shall go to the best posada in the place, and live like a duke till I have an opportunity of digging up the schatz, when I will pay all scores.
"Do nothing of the kind," I replied; "find out some place in which to sleep, and endeavour to seek some employment.In the mean time, here is a trifle with which to support yourself;but as for the treasure which you have come to seek, I believe it only exists in your own imagination." I gave him a dollar and departed.
I have never enjoyed more charming walks than in the neighbourhood of Saint James.In these I was almost invariably accompanied by my friend the good old bookseller.The streams are numerous, and along their wooded banks we were in the habit of straying and enjoying the delicious summer evenings of this part of Spain.Religion generally formed the topic of our conversation, but we not unfrequently talked of the foreign lands which I had visited, and at other times of matters which related particularly to my companion."We booksellers of Spain," said he, "are all liberals; we are no friends to the monkish system.How indeed should we be friends to it? It fosters darkness, whilst we live by disseminating light.We love our profession, and have all more or less suffered for it;many of us, in the times of terror, were hanged for selling an innocent translation from the French or English.Shortly after the Constitution was put down by Angouleme and the French bayonets, I was obliged to flee from Saint James and take refuge in the wildest part of Galicia, near Corcuvion.Had Inot possessed good friends, I should not have been alive now;as it was, it cost me a considerable sum of money to arrange matters.Whilst I was away, my shop was in charge of the ecclesiastical officers.They frequently told my wife that Iought to be burnt for the books which I had sold.Thanks be to God, those times are past, and I hope they will never return."Once, as we were walking through the streets of Saint James, he stopped before a church and looked at it attentively.
As there was nothing remarkable in the appearance of this edifice, I asked him what motive he had for taking such notice of it."In the days of the friars," said he, "this church was one of refuge, to which if the worst criminals escaped, they were safe.All were protected there save the negros, as they called us liberals." "Even murderers, I suppose?" said I.
