In “The Zincali” Borrow used some of his private notes and others supplied by Spanish friends, together with parts of letters to the Bible Society. It used to be supposed that “The Bible in Spain” was made up almost entirely from these letters. But this has now been disproved by the newly published “Letters of George Borrow to the Bible Society.” {163a} These letters are about half the length of “The Bible in Spain,” and yet only about a third part of them was used by Borrow in writing that book. Some of his letters were never received by the Society and had probably been lost on the way. But this was more of a disaster to the Society than to Borrow. He kept journals {163b} from which his letters were probably copied or composed; and he was able, for example, in July, 1836, to send the Society a detailed and dated account of his entry into Spain in January, and his intercourse with the Gypsies of Badajoz. It is also possible that the letters lent to him by the Society were far more numerous than those returned by him. He missed little that could have been turned to account, unless it was the suggestion that if he knew the country his safest way from Seville to Madrid was to go afoot in the dress of beggar or Gypsy, and the remark that in Tangier one of his principal associates was a black slave, whose country was only three days journey from Timbuctoo. {163c} He had already in 1835 planned to write “a small volume” on what he was about to see and hear in Spain, and it must have been from notes or full journals kept with this view that he drew for “The Zincali” and still more for “The Bible in Spain.” He wrote his journals and letters very much as Cobbett his “Rural Rides,” straight after days in the saddle. Except when he was presenting a matter of pure business he was not much troubled by the fact that he was addressing his employers, the Bible Society. He did not always begin “Bible” with a capital B, an error corrected by Mr. Darlow, his editor. He prefixed “Revd. and dear sir,” and thought little more about them unless to add such a phrase as: “A fact which I hope I may be permitted to mention with gladness and with decent triumph in the Lord.” He did not, however, scorn to make a favourable misrepresentation of his success, as for example in the interview with Mendizabal, which was reduced probably to the level of the facts in its book form. The Society were not always pleased with his frankness and confidence, and the Secretary complained of things which were inconvenient to be read aloud in a pious assembly, less concerned with sinners than with repentance, and not easily convinced by the improbable. He sent them, for example, after a specimen Gypsy translation of the Gospel of St. Luke and of the Lord’s Prayer, “sixteen specimens of the horrid curses in use amongst the Spanish Gypsies,” with translations into English. These do not re-appear either in “The Bible in Spain” or in the edition of Borrow’s letters to the Society. He spared them, apparently, the story of Benedict Moll and many another good thing that was meant for mankind.

I should be inclined to think that a very great part of “The Bible in Spain” was written as the letters were, on the spot. Either it was not sent to the Society for fear of loss, or if copied and sent to them, it was lost on the way or never returned by Borrow after he had used it in writing the book, for the letters are just as careful in most parts as the book, and the book is just as fresh as the letters. When he wrote to the Society, he said that he told the schoolmaster “the Almighty would never have inspired His saints with a desire to write what was unintelligible to the great mass of mankind”; in “The Bible in Spain” he said: “It [i.e., the Bible] would never have been written if not calculated by itself to illume the minds of all classes of mankind.” Continuous letters or journals would be more likely to suit Borrow’s purpose than notes such as he took in his second tour to Wales and never used. Notes made on the spot are very likely to be disproportionate, to lay undue stress on something that should be allowed to recede, and would do so if left to memory; and once made they are liable to misinterpretation if used after intervals of any length. But the flow and continuity of letters insist on some proportion and on truth at least to the impression of the day, and a balance is ensured between the scene or the experience on the one hand and the observer on the other.

“The Zincali” was not published before Borrow realised what a treasure he had deposited with the Bible Society, and not long afterwards he obtained the loan of his letters to make a new book on his travels in Spain. Borrow’s own account, in his preface to the second edition of “The Zincali,” is that the success of that book, and “the voice not only of England but of the greater part of Europe” proclaiming it, astonished him in his “humble retreat” at Oulton. He was, he implies, inclined to be too much elated. Then the voice of a critic—whom we know to have been Richard Ford—told him not to believe all he heard, but to try again and avoid all his second hand stuff, his “Gypsy poetry, dry laws, and compilations from dull Spanish authors.” And so, he says, he began work in the winter, but slowly, and on through summer and autumn and another winter, and into another spring and summer, loitering and being completely idle at times, until at last he went to his summer house daily and finished the book. But as a matter of fact “The Zincali” had no great success in either public or literary esteem, and Ford’s criticism was passed on the manuscript, not the printed book.

Borrow and his wife took about six months to prepare the letters for publication as a book. He took great pains with the writing and only worked when he was in the mood. His health was not quite good, as he implies in the preface to “The Zincali,” and he tried “the water system” and also “lessons in singing,” to cure his indigestion and sleeplessness. He had the advantage of Ford’s advice, to avoid fine writing, mere description, poetry and learned books, and to give plenty of “racy, real, genuine scenes, and the more out of the way the better,” stories of adventure, extraordinary things, prisons, low life, Gypsies, and so on. He was now drawing entirely from “his own well,” and when the book was out Ford took care to remark that the author had cast aside the learned books which he had used as swimming corks in the “Zincali,” and now “leaped boldly into the tide” unaided. John Murray’s reader sent back the manuscript to be revised and augmented, and after this was done, “The Bible in Spain” was published, at the end of 1842, when Borrow was thirty-nine.

“The Bible in Spain” was praised and moreover purchased by everyone. It was translated into French, American, Russian, and printed in America. The “AthenÆum” found it a “genuine book”; the “Examiner” said that “apart from its adventurous interest, its literary merit is extraordinary.” Ford compared it with an old Spanish ballad, “going from incident to incident, bang, bang, bang!” and with Gil Blas, and with Bunyan. Ford, it must be remembered, had ridden over the same tracks as Borrow in Spain, but before him, and had written his own book with a combination of learning and gusto that is one of the rarest of literary virtues. Like Borrow he wrote fresh from the thing itself when possible, asserting for example that the fat of the hams of Montanches, when boiled, “looked like melted topazes, and the flavour defies language, although we have dined on one this very day, in order to secure accuracy and undeniable prose.” For the benefit of the public Ford pointed out that “the Bible and its distribution have been the business of his existence; whenever moral darkness brooded, there, the Bible in his hand, he forced his way.”

When Borrow was actually in Spain he was much influenced by the conditions of the moment. The sun of Spain would shine so that he prized it above English civilization. The anarchy and wildness of Spain at another time would make him hate both men and land. But more lasting than joy in the sun and misery at the sight of misery was the feeling that he was “adrift in Spain, the land of old renown, the land of wonder and mystery, with better opportunities of becoming acquainted with its strange secrets and peculiarities than, perhaps, ever yet were afforded to any individual, certainly to a foreigner.” When he entered it, by crossing a brook, out of Portugal, he shouted the Spanish battle-cry in ecstasy, and in the end he described his five years in Spain as, “if not the most eventful”—he cannot refrain from that vainglorious dark hint—yet “the most happy years” of his existence. Spain was to him “the most magnificent country in the world”: it was also “one of the few countries in Europe where poverty is not treated with contempt, and I may add, where the wealthy are not blindly idolized.” His book is a song of wild Spain when Spain was Spain.

Borrow, as we already know, had in him many of the powers that go to make a great book, yet “The Zincali” was not a great book. The important power developed or employed later which made “The Bible in Spain” a great book was the power of narrative. The writing of those letters from Spain to the Bible Society had taught him or discovered in him the instinct for proportion and connection which is the simplest, most inexplicable and most essential of literary gifts. With the help of this he could write narrative that should suggest and represent the continuity of life. He could pause for description or dialogue or reflection without interrupting this stream of life. Nothing need be, and nothing was, alien to the narrator with this gift; for his writing would now assimilate everything and enrich itself continually.

The reader could follow, as he preferred, the Bible distribution in particular, or the Gypsies, or Borrow himself, through the long ways and dense forests of the book, and through the moral darkness of Spain. It could be treated as a pious book, and as such it was attacked by Catholics, as “Lavengro” still is. For certainly Borrow made no secret of his piety. When “a fine young man of twenty-seven, the only son of a widowed mother . . . the best sailor on board, and beloved by all who were acquainted with him” was swept off the ship in which Borrow was sailing, and drowned, as he had dreamed he would be, the author exclaimed: “Truly wonderful are the ways of Providence!” When a Spanish schoolmaster suggested that the Testament was unintelligible without notes, Borrow informed him that on the contrary the notes were far more difficult, and “it would never have been written if not calculated of itself to illume the minds of all classes of mankind.” The Bible was, in his published words, “the well-head of all that is useful and conducive to the happiness of society”; and he told the poor Catalans that their souls’ welfare depended on their being acquainted with the book he was selling at half the cost price. He could write not unlike the author of “The Dairyman’s Daughter,” as when he exclaimed: “Oh man, man, seek not to dive into the mystery of moral good and evil; confess thyself a worm, cast thyself on the earth, and murmur with thy lips in the dust, Jesus, Jesus!” He thought the Pope “the head minister of Satan here on earth,” and inspired partly by contempt of Catholics, he declared that “no people in the world entertain sublimer notions of the uncreated eternal God than the Moors . . . and with respect to Christ, their ideas even of Him are much more just than those of the Papists.” And he said to the face of the Spanish Prime Minister: “It is a pleasant thing to be persecuted for the Gospel’s sake.” Nor was this pure cant; for he meant at least this, that he loved conflict and would be fearless and stubborn in battle; and, as he puts it, he was “cast into prison for the Gospel’s sake.”

In 1843, no doubt, what first recommended this book to so many thousands was the Protestant fervour and purpose of the book, and the romantic reputation of Spain. At this day Borrow’s Bible distribution is mainly of antiquarian and sectarian interest. We should not estimate the darkness of Madrid by the number of Testaments there in circulation and daily use, nor on the other hand should we fear, like Borrow, to bring them into contempt by making them too common. Yet his missionary work makes the necessary backbone of the book. He was, as he justly said, “no tourist, no writer of books of travels.” His work brought him adventure as no mere wandering could have done. What is more, the man’s methods are still entertaining to those who care nothing about the distribution itself. Where he found the remains of a robber’s camp he left a New Testament and some tracts. To carry the Bibles over the flinty hills of Galicia and the Asturias he bought “a black Andalusian stallion of great power and strength, . . . unbroke, savage and furious”: the cargo, he says, would tame the animal. He fixed his advertisement on the church porch at Pitiegua, announcing the sale of Testaments at Salamanca. He had the courage without the ferocity of enthusiasm, and in the cause of the Bible Society he saw and did things which little concerned it, which in fact displeased it, but keep this book alive with a great stir and shout of life, with a hundred pages where we are shown what the poet meant by “forms more real than living men.” We are shown the unrighteous to the very life. What matters it then if the author professes the opinion that “the friendship of the unrighteous is never of long duration”? Nevertheless, these pious ejaculations are not without their value in the composition of the author’s amazing character.

Borrow came near to being a perfect traveller. For he was, on the one hand, a man whose individuality was carved in clear bold lines, who had a manner and a set of opinions as remarkable as his appearance. Thus he was bound to come into conflict with men wherever he went: he would bring out their manners and opinions, if they had any. But on the other hand he had abounding curiosity. He was bold but not rude: on the contrary he was most vigilantly polite. He took snuff, though he detested it; he avoided politics as much as possible: “No, no!” he said, “I have lived too long with Romany chals and Petulengres to be of any politics save Gypsy politics,” in spite of what he had said in ’32 and was to say again in ’57. When he and the Gypsy Antonio came to Jaraicejo they separated by Antonio’s advice. The Gypsy got through the town unchallenged by the guard, though not unnoticed by the townspeople. But Borrow was stopped and asked by a man of the National Guard whether he came with the Gypsy, to which he answered, “Do I look a person likely to keep company with Gypsies?” though, says he, he probably did. Then the National asked for his passport:

“I remembered having read that the best way to win a Spaniard’s heart is to treat him with ceremonious civility. I therefore dismounted, and taking off my hat, made a low bow to the constitutional soldier, saying, ‘SeÑor Nacional, you must know that I am an English gentleman travelling in this country for my pleasure. I bear a passport, which on inspecting you will find to be perfectly regular. It was given me by the great Lord Palmerston, Minister of England, whom you of course have heard of here. At the bottom you will see his own handwriting. Look at it and rejoice; perhaps you will never have another opportunity. As I put unbounded confidence in the honour of every gentleman, I leave the passport in your hands whilst I repair to the posada to refresh myself. When you have inspected it, you will perhaps oblige me so far as to bring it to me. Cavalier, I kiss your hands.’

“I then made him another low bow, which he returned with one still lower, and leaving him now staring at the passport and now looking at myself, I went into a posada, to which I was directed by a beggar whom I met.

“I fed the horse, and procured some bread and barley, as the Gypsy had directed me. I likewise purchased three fine partridges of a fowler, who was drinking wine in the posada. He was satisfied with the price I gave him, and offered to treat me with a copita, to which I made no objection. As we sat discoursing at the table, the National entered with the passport in his hand, and sat down by us.

“National.—‘Caballero, I return you your passport; it is quite in form. I rejoice much to have made your acquaintance. I have no doubt that you can give me some information respecting the present war.’

“Myself.—‘I shall be very happy to afford so polite and honourable a gentleman any information in my power.’”

He won the hearts of the people of Villa Seca by the “formality” of his behaviour and language; for he tells us that in such remote places might still be found the gravity of deportment and the grandiose expressions which are scoffed at as exaggerations in the romances. He speaks of himself in one place as strolling about a town or neighbourhood, entering into conversation with several people whom he met, shopkeepers, professional men, and others. Near Evora he sat down daily at a fountain and talked with everyone who came to it. He visited the College of the English Catholics at Lisbon, excusing himself, indeed, by saying that his favourite or his only study was man. His knowledge of languages and his un-English appearance made it easier for him to become familiar with many kinds of men. He introduced himself among some Jews of Lisbon, and pronounced a blessing: they took him for a powerful rabbi, and he favoured their mistake so that in a few days he knew all that related to these people and their traffic. On his journey in Galicia, when he was nearing Finisterra, the men of the cabin where he rested took him for a Catalan, and “he favoured their mistake and began with a harsh Catalan accent to talk of the fish of Galicia, and the high duties on salt.” When at this same cabin he found there was no bed, he went up into the loft and lay down on the boards’ without complaint. So in the prison at Madrid he got on so well with the prisoners that on the third day he spoke their language as if he were “a son of the prison.” At Gibraltar he talked to the man of Mogador in Arabic and was taken for “a holy man from the kingdoms of the East,” especially when he produced the shekel which had been given him by Hasfeldt: a Jew there believed him to be a Salamancan Jew. At Villafranca a woman mistook his voice in the dark for that of “the German clockmaker from Pontevedra.” For some time in 1839 he went among the villages dressed in a peasant’s leather helmet, jacket and trousers, and resembling “a person between sixty and seventy years of age,” so that people addressed him as Uncle, and bought his Testaments, though the Bible Society, on hearing it, “began to inquire whether, if the old man were laid up in prison, they could very conveniently apply for his release in the proper quarter.” {173}

He saw men and places, and with his pen he created a land as distinct, as wild, as vast, and as wonderful as the Spain of Cervantes. He did this with no conscious preconceived design. His creation was the effect of a multitude of impressions, all contributory because all genuine and true to the depth of Borrow’s own nature. He had seen and felt Spain, and “The Bible in Spain” shows how; nor probably could he have shown it in any other way. Not but what he could speak of Spain as the land of old renown, and of himself—in a letter to the Bible Society in 1837—as an errant knight, and of his servant Francisco as his squire. He did not see himself as he was, or he would have seen both Don Quixote and Sancho Panza in one, now riding a black Andalusian stallion, now driving an ass before him.

Only a power as great as Borrow’s own could show how this wild Spain was built up. For it was not done by this and that, but by a great man and a noble country in a state of accord continually vibrating.

Thus he drew near to Finisterra with his wild Gallegan guide:

“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 bridleways 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 which opened before us.

“It was not without reason that the Latins gave the name of FinisterrÆ 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 dÉbouchement of the Minho to Cape Finisterra. 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—Alba 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 Finisterra. He entered the door of a wine-house, from which proceeded much noise and vociferation, and presently returned, informing me that the village of Finisterra 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 Finisterra, cavalheiros?’ he shouted.

“‘Yes, my friend,’ I replied; ‘we are going thither.’

“‘Then you are going amongst a flock of drunkards’ (fato de borrachos), 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 Finisterra, which we now saw before us stretching far into the sea.

“Along the 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, St. 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.

“‘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 Finisterra.

“‘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 Finisterra.”

He spends little time on such declamatory description, but it is essential to the whole effect. This particular piece is followed by the difficulty of a long ascent, by a sleep of exhaustion on a rude and dirty bed, by Borrow’s arrest as the Pretender, Don Carlos, in disguise, by an escape from immediate execution into the hands of an Alcalde who read “Jeremy Bentham” day and night; all this in one short chapter.

Equally essential is the type of landscape represented by the solitary ruined fort in the monotonous waste between Estremoz and Elvas, which he climbed to over stones that cut his feet:

“Being about to leave the place, I heard a strange cry behind a part of the wall which I had not visited; and hastening thither, I found a miserable object in rags seated upon a stone. It was a maniac—a man about thirty years of age, and I believe deaf and dumb. There he sat, gibbering and mowing, and distorting his wild features into various dreadful appearances. There wanted nothing but this object to render the scene complete; banditti amongst such melancholy desolation would have been by no means so much in keeping. But the manaic on his stone, in the rear of the wind-beaten ruin overlooking the blasted heath, above which scowled the leaden heaven, presented such a picture of gloom and misery as I believe neither painter nor poet ever conceived in the saddest of their musings. This is not the first instance in which it has been my lot to verify the wisdom of the saying that truth is sometimes wilder than fiction.”

At Oropesa he heard from the barber-surgeon of the mysterious Guadarrama mountains, and of the valley that lay undiscovered and unknown for thousands of years until a hunter found there a tribe of people speaking a language unknown to anyone else and ignorant of the rest of men. Rough wild ways intersect the book. Thunder storms overhang it. Immense caverns echo beneath it. The travellers left behind a mill which “stood at the bottom of a valley shaded by large trees, and its wheels were turning with a dismal and monotonous noise,” and they emerged, by the light of “a corner of the moon,” on to the wildest heath of the wildest province of Spain, ignorant of their way, making for a place which the guide believed not to exist. They passed a defile where the carrier had been attacked on his last journey by robbers, who burnt the coach by means of the letters in it, and butchered all except the carrier, who had formerly been the master of one of the gang: as they passed, the ground was still saturated with the blood of one of the murdered soldiers and a dog was gnawing a piece of his skull. Borrow was told of an old viper catcher caught by the robbers, who plundered and stripped him and then tied his hands behind him and thrust his head into his sack, “which contained several of these horrible reptiles alive,” and so he ran mad through the villages until he fell dead. As a background, he had again and again a scene like that one, whose wild waters and mountains, and the “Convent of the Precipices” standing out against the summit, reminded him at once of Salvator Rosa and of Stolberg’s lines to a mountain torrent: “The pine trees are shaken. . . .” Describing the cave at Gibraltar, he spoke of it as always having been “a den for foul night birds, reptiles, and beasts of prey,” of precipice after precipice, abyss after abyss, in apparently endless succession, and of an explorer who perished there and lay “even now rotting in the bowels of the mountain, preyed upon by its blind and noisome worms.”

When he saw a peaceful rich landscape in a bright sunny hour, as at Monte Moro, he shed tears of rapture, sitting on and on in those reveries which, as he well knew, only enervate the mind: or he felt that he would have desired “no better fate than that of a shepherd on the prairies or a hunter on the hills of Bembibre”: or looking through an iron-grated door at a garden court in Seville he sighed that his fate did not permit him to reside in such an Eden for the remainder of his days. For as he delights in the dismal, grand, or wild, so he does with equal intensity in the sweetness of loveliness, as in the country about Seville: “Oh how pleasant it is, especially in springtide, to stray along the shores of the Guadalquivir! Not far from the city, down the river, lies a grove called Las Delicias, or the Delights. It consists of trees of various kinds, but more especially of poplars and elms, and is traversed by long, shady walks. This grove is the favourite promenade of the Sevillians, and there one occasionally sees assembled whatever the town produces of beauty or gallantry. There wander the black-eyed Andalusian dames and damsels, clad in their graceful silken mantillas; and there gallops the Andalusian cavalier on his long-tailed, thick-maned steed of Moorish ancestry. As the sun is descending, it is enchanting to glance back from this place in the direction of the city; the prospect is inexpressibly beautiful. Yonder in the distance, high and enormous, stands the Golden Tower, now used as a toll-house, but the principal bulwark of the city in the time of the Moors. It stands on the shore of the river, like a giant keeping watch, and is the first edifice which attracts the eye of the voyager as he moves up the stream to Seville. On the other side, opposite the tower, stands the noble Augustine Convent, the ornament of the faubourg of Triana; whilst between the two edifices rolls the broad Guadalquivir, bearing on its bosom a flotilla of barks from Catalonia and Valencia. Farther up is seen the bridge of boats which traverses the water. The principal object of this prospect, however, is the Golden Tower, where the beams of the setting sun seem to be concentrated as in the focus, so that it appears built of pure gold, and probably from that circumstance received the name which it now bears. Cold, cold must the heart be which can remain insensible to the beauties of this magic scene, to do justice to which the pencil of Claude himself were barely equal. Often have I shed tears of rapture whilst I beheld it, and listened to the thrush and the nightingale piping forth their melodious songs in the woods, and inhaled the breeze laden with the perfume of the thousand orange gardens of Seville.

‘Kennst du das land wo die citronen bluhen?’”

If a scene was not in fact superlative his creative memory would furnish it with what it lacked, giving the cathedral of Palencia, for example, windows painted by Murillo.