THE next and last excursion of which I purpose extracting some account from my notebook, was commenced with the intention of proceeding from Gibraltar to Madrid, late in the autumn of the year 1833; at which time, the cholera having broken out in various parts of the kingdom of Seville, it was necessary to “shape a course” that should not subject my companion and self to the purifying process of a lazaret; a rigid quarantine system having been adopted by the other kingdoms bordering the infected territory.

We hired three horses for the journey; that is to say, for any portion of it we might choose to perform on horseback: two for ourselves, and one to carry our portmanteaus, as well as the mozo charged with their care and our guidance.

We found, on enquiry, that by avoiding two or three towns lying upon the road, we could reach Cordoba without deviating much from the direct route to that city, whence we purposed continuing our journey to the capital by the diligence. We proceeded accordingly to Ronda, which place being in the kingdom of Granada, was open to us; and thither I will at once transport my readers, the road to it having already been fully described. After sojourning a couple of days at the little capital of the SerranÍa, comforting my numerous old and kind friends with the opinion (which the event, I was happy to find, confirmed), that the new enemy against which their country had to contend—the dreaded cholera—would not cross the mountain barrier that defended their city; we proceeded on our journey, taking the road to Puente Don Gonzalo, on the Genil, thereby avoiding Osuna, which lay upon the direct road to Cordoba, but in the infected district.

In an hour from the time of our leaving Ronda, we crossed the rocky gulley which has been noticed as traversing the fertile basin in which the city stands, laterally, bearing the little river Arriate to irrigate its western half, and in the course of another hour reached the northern extremity of this fruitful district. The hills here offer an easy egress from the rock-bound basin; but, though nature has left this one level passage through the mountains, art has taken no advantage of it to improve the state of the road, for a viler trocha is not to be met with, even in the rudest part of the SerranÍa.

The view of the rich plain and dark battlements of Ronda is remarkably fine.

After winding amongst some round-topped hills, the road at length reaches a narrow rocky pass, which closes the view of the vale of Ronda, and a long deep valley opens to the north, the mouth of which appears closed by a barren mountain, crowned by the old castle of Teba.

The path now undergoes a slight improvement, and, after passing some singular table-rocks, and leaving the little village of La Cueva del Becerro on the left, reaches the venta de Virlan. We, however, had inadvertently taken a track that, inclining slightly to the right, led us into the bottom of the valley, and in about four miles (from the pass) brought us to the miserable little village of Serrato. The proper road, from which we had strayed, keeps along the side of the hills, about half a mile off, on the left; and upon it, and three miles from the first venta, is another, called del Ciego. Yet a little further on, but situated on an elevated ridge overlooking the valley, is the little town of CaÑete la Real.

From Serrato our road led us to the old castle of Ortoyecar, ere rejoining the direct route; which it eventually does, about a mile before reaching the foot of the mountain of Teba.

This singular feature is connected by a very low pass with the chain of sierra on the left, and, stretching from west to east about three-quarters of a mile, terminates precipitously along the river Guadaljorce. The road, crossing over the pass, and leaving on the right a steep paved road, that zig-zags up the mountain, winds round to the west, keeping under the precipitous sides of the ridge, and avoiding the town of Teba, which, perched on the very summit, but having a northern aspect, can only be seen when arrived at the north side of the rude mound; and there another winding road offers the means of access to the place.

The base of the mountain is, on this side, bathed by a little rivulet that flows eastward to the Guadaljorce, called the Sua de Teba. It is erroneously marked on the Spanish maps as running on the south side of the ridge, but the only stream which is there to be met with, is a little rivulet that takes its rise near Becerro and waters the valley by which we had descended; and it does not approach within a mile of Teba, but sweeps round to the eastward a little beyond the old castle of Ortoyecar, and discharges itself into the river Ardales.

The deep-sunk banks and muddy bottom of the Suda de Teba, render it impassable excepting at the bridge. This rickety structure is apparently the same which existed in the time of Rocca, who, in his “Memoirs of the War in Spain,” gives a very spirited account of the military operations of the French and serranos in this neighbourhood.

The locality of Teba is most faithfully described by that author; indeed I know no one who has given so graphic an account of this part of Spain generally.

The ascent to the town on this (the northern) side, is yet more difficult than that in the opposite direction; but the place will amply repay the labour of a visit, for the view from it is extremely fine, and the extensive ruins of its ancient defences, evidently of Roman workmanship, are well worthy of observation.

The position of Teba, with reference to other places in the neighbourhood, and to the circumjacent country, is so inaccurately given in all maps which I have seen, that the antiquaries seem quite to have overlooked it as the probable site of Ategua, so celebrated for its obstinate defence against Julius CÆsar.

Morales—without the slightest grounds, as far as the description of the country accords with the assumption—imagined Ategua to have stood where he maintains some ruins, “called by the country-people Teba la Vieja,” are to be seen between CastrÒ el Rio and Codoba; but, as I pointed out in the case of Ronda, and Ronda la Vieja, it is absurd to suppose that an old Teba could ever have existed, since Teba itself is a Roman town, and its present name a mere corruption of that which it bore in times past.

Other Spanish authors place Ategua at Castro el Rio, some at Baena, some elsewhere; but almost all appear anxious to fix its site near the river Guadajoz, which they have determined, in their own minds, must be the Salsus mentioned by Hirtius.

La MartiniÈre, with his usual inaccuracy, says, that the Guadajoz falls into the Salado: he should rather have said, that it is formed from the confluence of various salados; for, as I have elsewhere observed, salado is a general term for all water-courses, and not the name of a river.[122]

It seems, however, probable, that the Romans gave the name Salsus to some river impregnated with salt, which many streams in this part of Spain are; and since there is an extensive salt-lake still existing near Alcaudete, on the very margin of the Guadajoz, that river has hastily been concluded to be that of the Roman historian. But, it appears strange, if the Guadajoz be the Salsus of Hirtius, that Pliny, when describing the course of the Boetis, and the principal streams which fell into it, should have omitted to mention that river, as being one of its affluents; for the Salsus, from the recentness of the war between CÆsar and the sons of Pompey, must have been much spoken of in Pliny’s time.

But what, to me, proves most satisfactorily that the Guadajoz is not the Salsus, is, that it so ill agrees with the minute description given of the river by Hirtius himself;—for, in speaking of the Salsus he says,[123] “It runs through the plains, and divides them from the mountains, which all lie upon the side of Ategua, at about two miles’ distance from the river;” and again, “But what proved principally favourable to Pompey’s design of drawing out the war, was the nature of the country, (i. e. about Ategua) full of mountains, and extremely well adapted to encampments;”[124] and, from what again follows, it is evident that Ategua stood upon the summit of a mountain.

Now the Guadajoz nowhere runs so as to divide the plains from the mountains. It issues from the mountains of AlcalÀ Real, many miles before reaching CastrÒ el Rio, and between that last-named town and Cordoba, there is no ground that can be called mountainous.

The country bordering the Guadajoz, in the lower part of its course, differs as decidedly with the statement that the neighbourhood of Ategua was “full of mountains,” if we suppose the town to have stood anywhere below CastrÒ el Rio.

It is again improbable that Ategua could have stood on the site of the supposed Teba la Vieja, or any place in that neighbourhood, since it is mentioned[125] as being a great provision dÉpÔt of the Pompeians; which would scarcely have been the case had it been within twenty miles of the city of Cordoba. And again, it is not likely that CÆsar would have commenced the campaign by laying siege to a place within such a short distance of Cordoba, since the invested town might so readily have received succour from that city, and his adversary would, by such a step, have had the advantage of combining all his forces to attack him during the progress of the siege.

Again, another objection presents itself, namely, that Ategua is represented as a particularly strong place,[126] which, from the nature of the ground in that part of the country—that is, between CastrÒ el Rio and Cordoba—no town could well have been; situation, rather than art, constituting the strength of towns in those days.

We will now return to Teba, the locality of which agrees infinitely better with the account of Ategua given by Hirtius, whilst the River Guadaljorce, which flows in its vicinity, answers perfectly his description of the Salsus; for, along its right bank a plain extends all the way to the Genil; on its left, “at two miles’ distance,” rises a wall of Sierra; and the whole country, beyond, is “full of mountains, all lying on the side of” Teba. That is to say, the mountain range continues in the same direction, and possesses the same marked character, although the Guadaljorce breaks through it ere reaching so far west as Teba; for, by a vagary of nature, this stream quits the wide plain of the Genil to throw itself into a rocky gorge, and after describing a very tortuous course, gains, at length, the vale of Malaga.

Now this very circumstance strikes me, on attentive consideration, as tending rather to strengthen than otherwise the supposition that Teba is Ategua; for CÆsar’s army is not stated to have crossed the Salsus on its march from Cordoba to Ategua; from which we must conclude that Ategua was on the right bank of the river; whilst other circumstances prove that the town was some distance from the river, and encompassed by mountains.

Pompey, however, following CÆsar from Cordoba, and proceeding to the relief of Ategua, crosses the Salsus, and fixes his camp “on these mountains (i. e. the mountains ‘which all lie on the side of Ategua’) between Ategua and Ucubis, but within sight of both places,” being, as is distinctly said afterwards, separated from his adversary by the Salsus.

Thus, therefore, though his camp was on the same range of mountains as Ategua, yet he was separated from that town by a river: a peculiarity, in the formation of the ground, which suits the locality of Teba, but would be difficult to make agree with any other place.

The only very apparent objection to this hypothesis is, that CÆsar’s cavalry is mentioned as having, on one occasion, pursued the foraging parties of his adversary “almost to the very walls of Codoba.” But this was when Pompey (after his first failure to relieve Ategua) had drawn off his army towards Cordoba. It does not follow, therefore, that CÆsar’s troops pursued his adversary’s parties from Ategua, though he was still besieging that place, but it may rather be supposed that his cavalry was sent after the enemy to harass them on their march, and watch their future movements.

One might, indeed, on equally good grounds, maintain that Ategua was within a day’s march of Seville; since, on Pompey’s finally abandoning the field, Hirtius says,[127] “the same day he decamped, (from Ucubis, which was within sight of Ategua) and posted himself in an olive wood over against Hispalis.”

With respect to this knotty point of distance it is further to be observed, that on CÆsar’s breaking up his camp from before Cordoba, his march is spoken of as being towards Ategua, implying that the two places did not lie within a day’s march of each other; and the supposition that they were more than a few leagues apart is strengthened by the place, and order in which Ategua is mentioned by the methodical Pliny; viz., amongst the cities lying between the Boetis and the Mediterranean Sea, and next in succession to Singili,[128] which, doubtless, was on the southern bank of the Genil, towards Antequera.

The Guadaljorce has as good claims to the name of Salsus, as any other river in the country, since the mountains about Antequera, amongst which it takes its rise, were in former days noted for the quantity of salt they produced; and though the river Guadaljorce now carries its name to the sea, yet, in the time of the Romans, such was not the case; for, in those days, by whatever name that river may have been distinguished, it was dropt on forming its junction with the Sigila, (now the Rio Grande) in the vega of Malaga, although, of the two, the latter is the inferior stream.

The fort of Ucubis, stated by Hirtius to have been destroyed by CÆsar, we may suppose stood on the side of the mountains overlooking the Salsus or Guadaljorce, towards Antequera; and it does not seem improbable that that city is the Soricaria mentioned by the same historian; for Anticaria, though noticed in the Itinerary of Antoninus, is not amongst the cities of Boetica enumerated by Pliny.

Teba was taken from the Moors by Alphonso XI., A.D. 1340. The inhabitants are a savage-looking tribe, and boast of having kept the French at bay during the whole period of the “war of independence.”[129]

There is a tolerable venta at the foot of the hill, near the bridge, at which we baited our horses. The distance from Ronda to Teba is 21 miles; from hence to Campillos is about six; the country is undulated, and road good, crossing several brooks, some flowing eastward to the Guadaljorce, others in the opposite direction to the Genil.

Campillos is situated at the commencement of a vast track of perfectly level country, that extends all the way to the river Genil. By some strange mistake it is laid down in the Spanish maps due east of Teba, whereas it is nearly north. It is four leagues (or about seventeen miles) from Antequera, and five leagues from Osuna. It is a neat town, clean, and well-paved, and contains 1000 vecinos escasos;[130] which may be reckoned at 5000 souls, six being the number usually calculated per vecino.

Campillos lies just within the border of the kingdom of Seville, and was, therefore, on forbidden ground; since, had we entered it, our clean bills of health would have been thereby tainted. We were consequently obliged to skirt round the town at a tether of several hundred yards. I regretted this much, for the place contains an excellent posada, bearing the—to Protestant ears—somewhat profane sign of “Jesus Nazarino,” and its keepers were old cronies of mine, our friendship having commenced some years before under rather peculiar circumstances, viz., in travelling from Antequera to Ronda, my horse met with an accident which obliged me to halt for the night at Campillos. Leaving to my servant the task of ordering dinner at the inn, I proceeded on foot to examine the town, and gain, if possible, some elevated spot in its vicinity whence I could obtain a good view of the country, being desirous to correct the mistake before alluded to, in the relative positions of Teba and Campillos on the maps.

Having found a point suited to this purpose, from whence I could see both Teba and the PeÑon de los Enamorados, (a remarkable conical mountain near Antequera,) I drew forth a pocket surveying compass, and took the bearings of those two points, as well as of several other conspicuous objects in the neighbourhood.

These ill-understood proceedings caused the utmost astonishment to a group of idlers, who, at a respectful distance, but with significant nods and mysterious whisperings, were narrowly watching my operations. These concluded, and the result of my observations committed to my pocket-book, I took a slight outline sketch of the bold range of mountains that stretches towards Granada, and returned to the inn.

On my first arrival there, I had merely addressed the usual compliment of the country to the innkeeper and his wife, and now, repeating my salutation to the lady—who only was present—I seated myself at the fire-place of the common apartment, and began writing in my pocket-book, replying very laconically to her various attempts at conversation; and at length obtaining no immediate answer to another endeavour to draw me out, she said, addressing herself, “no entiende,”[131] and offered no further interruptions to my scribbling.

I confess to the practice of a little deceit in the matter, as my answers certainly must have led her to believe that I was a very tyro at the Spanish vocabulary—a fancy in which I used often to indulge the natives when I wished to shirk conversation.

Soon afterwards the Posadero came in, and a whispered communication took place between him and his spouse, which gradually acquiring tone, I at length was able to catch distinctly, and heard the following conversation.

“You are quite certain he does not understand Spanish?” said mine host.

“Not a syllable,” replied his helpmate.

“He is about no good here, wife, that I can tell you.”

“There does not appear to be much mischief in him.”

“We must not trust to looks; I was at the chapel of the Rosario just now, and he walked up there, took an instrument from his pocket, marked down all the principal points of the country, and then drew them in that little book he is now writing in ... are you quite sure he does not understand Spanish?—I observed him smile just now.”

“No tienes cuidado,”[132] replied the wife; “I have tried him on all points.”

“Depend upon it he is mapeando el pais,”[133] resumed the husband.

“I think you ought forthwith to give notice of his doings to the Justicia,” answered the lady.

“Ay, and lose a good customer by having him taken to prison!” rejoined the patriotic innkeeper; “time enough to do that in the morning after he has paid his bill; but as to the propriety of giving information wife, I agree with you perfectly.”

“He must be one of the rascally gavachos from Cadiz,” (a French garrison at this time occupied that fortress,) “but what right has he to take his notes of our pueblo?[134] I thought of questioning the servant, who does speak a few words of Spanish, before he took the horses to the smithy, but Don Guillelmo came in and put it out of my head. Suppose I make another attempt to find out from himself what brings him here?"

“Do so,” said her lord and master; and, with this permission, she advanced towards me with a very gracious smile, and articulating every syllable most distinctly, in the hope of making her interrogation perfectly intelligible, “begged to know if my worship was a Frenchman.”

“Yo,” said I, pointing to myself, as if I did not clearly understand her; “nix.”

“Ingles?” demanded she, returning to the charge.

“Si,” replied I, with a nod affirmative.

“Valga mi Dios!” exclaimed she, turning to her husband; “he is English! how delighted I am! what a time it is since I saw an Englishman! how can we make him comfortable?”

“Poco a poco,”[135] observed the inn-keeper—“English or French he has no business to be mapeando our country, and the Alcalde ought to know of it.”

“Disparate!”[136] exclaimed the wife; “what does his mapeando signify if he is an Englishman? are they not our best friends?[137] Is it not the same as if a Spaniard were doing it, only that it will be better done?”

“Very true,” admitted mine host; “they have, indeed, been our friends, and will soon again, I trust, give us a proof of their friendship, by assisting to drive these French scoundrels across the Pyrenees, and allowing us to settle our own differences.”

Pocketing my memorandum book, I now rose from my seat and addressing the landlady, “con gentil donayre y talante,”[138] as Don Quijote says, asked, in the best Castillian I could put together, when it was probable I should have dinner, as from having been the greater part of the morning on horseback, I was not only very hungry, but should be glad to retire early to my bed.

Never were two people more astonished than mine host and his spouse at this address. Had I detected them in the act of pilfering my saddlebags, they could not have looked more guilty. They offered a thousand apologies, but seemed to think the greatest affront they had put upon me was that of mistaking me for a Frenchman.

“I ought at once to have known you were no braggart gavacho,” said the landlord, “by your not making a noise on entering the house—calling for every thing and abusing every body—How do you think one of these gentry, who came into Spain as friends, to tranquillize the country, behaved to our Alcalde? The Frenchman wanted a billet, and finding the office shut, went to the Alcalde’s house for it. The Alcalde was at dinner with a couple of friends; he begged the officer to be seated, saying he would send for the Escribano and have a billet made out for him—‘And am I to be kept waiting for your clerk?’ said the Frenchman; ‘a pretty joke, indeed.’ ‘He will be here in an instant,’ said the Alcalde; ‘pray have a little patience, and be seated.’ ‘Patience, indeed!’ exclaimed the other; ‘make the billet out directly yourself, or I’ll pull the house about your ears.’ ‘Juicio! seÑor,’ replied the Mayor; ‘do you not see that I am at dinner?’ ‘What are you at now?’ said the Frenchman; and, laying hold of one corner of the tablecloth, he drew it, plates, dishes, glasses, and every thing, off the table. This is the way our French friends behave to us!”

I now satisfied the worthy couple that their fears of mischief arising from my “mapeando el pais,” were quite groundless; and mine host showed great intelligence in comprehending what I wished to correct in the Spanish map; the error in which he saw at once, when I pointed to the setting sun; his wife standing by and exclaiming “que gente tan fina los Ingleses!”[139]

No advantage was taken of the knowledge of my country in making out the bill, and I departed next morning with their prayers that I might travel in company with all the saints in the calendar.

The direct road from Campillos to Cordoba is by way of La Rodd; but, in the present instance, it was necessary to avoid that town, and proceed to La Fuente de Piedra, which is situated a few miles to the eastward, and without the sanitory circle drawn round the cholera.

The distance from Campillos to this place is two long leagues, which may be reckoned nine miles.

La Fuente de Piedra is a small village, of about sixty houses, surrounded with olive-grounds, and abounding in crystal springs. The medicinal virtues of one of these sources (which rises in the middle of the place) led to the building of the village; and the painful disease for which in especial this fountain is considered a sovereign cure, has given its name to the place. We arrived very late in the evening, and found the posada most miserable.

On leaving La Fuente de Piedra we took the road to Puente Don Gonzalo, and at about three miles from the village crossed the great road from Granada to Seville, which is practicable for carriages the greater part, but not all the way; a little beyond this the Sierra de Estepa rises on the left of the route, to the height of several hundred feet above the plain. The town of Estepa is not seen, being on the western side of the hill; it is supposed to be the Astapa of the Romans, the horrible destruction of which is related by Livy.

The inhabitants, on the approach of Scipio, aware of the exasperated feelings of the Romans towards them, piled all their valuables in the centre of the forum, placed their wives and children upon the top, and leaving a few of their young men to set fire to the pile in the event of their defeat, rushed out upon the Roman army. They were all killed, the pile was lighted, and a heap of ashes was the only trophy of their conquerors.

The Roman historian says, the people of Astapa “delighted in robberies.” I wonder if he thought his countrymen exempt from similar propensities!

In three hours we reached Cazariche. The road merely skirts the village, being separated from it by an abundant stream, which, serving to irrigate numerous gardens and orchards, renders the last league of the ride very agreeable, which otherwise, from the flatness of the country to the eastward, would be uninteresting. This rivulet is called La Salada; but its volume is far too small to make one suppose for a moment that it is the Salsus.

At five miles from Cazariche, keeping along the left bank of the Salada the whole distance, but not crossing it, as marked on the maps, the road reaches Miragenil. This is a small village, situated on the southern bank of the Genil, and communicating, by means of a bridge, with Puente Don Gonzalo.

The river here forms the division between the kingdoms of Seville and Cordoba; and the two governments not having agreed as to the superior merits of wood or stone, one-half the bridge is built of the former, the other half of the latter material.

Puente Don Gonzalo stands on a steep acclivity, commanding the bridge and river. It is a town of some consideration, containing several manufactories of household furniture, numerous mills, and a population of 6000 souls.

Florez, on the authority of a stone found near Cazariche (which he calls Casaliche), whereon the word VENTIPO was inscribed, supposed Ventisponte,[140] to have been situated somewhere in the vicinity of Puente Don Gonzalo. But if this stone had been carried to Cazariche, it may have been taken there from any other point of the compass as well as from that in which Puente Don Gonzalo is situated.

Other authorities suppose this town to be on the site of Singilis; but that place, as already stated, has been pretty clearly proved to have been nearer Antequera.

The “provechasos aguas del divino Genil,”[141] after cleansing the town of Puente Don Gonzalo, are turned to the best possible account, in irrigating gardens and turning mill-wheels; and the road to Cordoba, after proceeding for about a mile along the verdant valley that stretches to the westward, ascends the somewhat steep bank which pens in the stream to the north, and for four hours wanders over a flat uninteresting country to Rambla; passing, in the whole distance of fifteen miles, but two running streams, three farm-houses, and the miserable village of Montalban. This latter is distant about a mile and a half from Rambla.

We saw but little of this town, having arrived late at night, and departed from it at an early hour on the following morning; but it is of considerable size, and situated on the north side of a steep hill. We found the inn excessively dirty and exorbitantly dear; indeed it may be laid down as a general rule with Spanish as well as Swiss inns, that the charges are high in proportion to the badness of the fare and accommodation.

The ground in the vicinity of Rambla is planted chiefly with vines, and but two short leagues to the eastward is situated Montilla, where, in the estimation of Spaniards, the best wine of the province is grown. It is extremely dry; and, as I have mentioned before, gives its name to the Sherry called Amontillado.

Rambla is just midway between Puente Don Gonzalo and Cordoba, viz. sixteen miles from each. The country is hilly, and mostly under tillage, but where its cultivators reside puzzles one to guess, as there is not a house on the road in the whole distance, and but two towns visible from it, viz. Montemayor and Fernan NuÑez, both within six miles of Rambla.

The first-named of these places disputes with Montilla the honour of being the Roman city of UlÍa, the only inland town of Boetica that held out for CÆsar against the sons of Pompey, previous to his arrival in the country.[142] It appears doubtful[143] whether UlÍa is mentioned by Pliny, but it is noticed in the Roman Itinerary (Gadibus Cordubam) as eighteen miles from Cordoba, a distance that agrees better with Montilla than Montemayor; indeed the former almost declares itself in the very name it yet bears, Montilla; the double l in Spanish having the liquid sound of li, making it a corruption of Mont UlÍa.

At about four miles from Cordoba the Guadajoz, or river of Castro, is crossed by fording, and between it and the GuadalquivÍr the ground is broken by steep hills. The road falls into the Arrecife from Seville, on reaching the suburb on the left bank of the river.

We took up our abode at the Posada de la MesangerÍa; a particularly comfortable house, as Spanish inns go, that had been opened for the accommodation of the diligence travellers since my former visit to the city. The patio, ornamented with a bubbling fountain of icy-cold water, and shaded with a profusion of all sorts of rare creepers and flowering shrubs, afforded a cool retreat at all hours of the day; which, though we were in the month of October, was very acceptable.

Whilst seated at breakfast, under the colonnade that encompasses the court, the morning after our arrival, the master of the inn waited upon us to know if we required a valet de place during our sojourn at Cordoba, as a very intelligent old man, who spoke French like a native, and was in the habit of attending upon caballeros forasteros[144] in the above-named capacity, was then in the house, and begged to place his services at our disposition.

I replied, that having before visited his city, I considered myself sufficiently acquainted with its sights to be able to dispense with this, otherwise useful, personage’s attendance; but our host seemed so desirous that we should employ the old man, “We might have little errands to send him upon—some purchases to make; in fact, we should find the Tio Blas so useful in any capacity, and it would be such an act of charity to employ him,"—that we finally acceded to his proposal, and the Tio was accordingly ushered in.

He was a tall, and, though emaciated, still erect old man, whose tottering gait, and white and scanty hairs, would have led to the belief that his years had already exceeded the number usually allotted to the life of man, but that his deep-sunk eyes were shaded by dark and beatling brows, and yet sparkled occasionally with the fire of youth; proving that hardships and misfortunes had brought him somewhat prematurely to the brink of the grave.

It struck me at the first glance that I had seen him before, but when, and under what circumstances, I could not recall to my recollection. After some conversation, as to what had been his former occupation, &c., he remarked, addressing himself to me, “I think, Caballero, that this is not the first time we have met—many years have elapsed since—many (to me) most eventful years, and they have wrought great changes in my appearance. And, indeed, some little difference is perceptible also in yours, for you were a mere boy then; but, still, time has not laid so heavy a hand on you as on the worn-out person of him who stands before you, and in whom you will, doubtless, have difficulty in recognizing the reckless Blas Maldonado!"

Time had, indeed, effected great changes in him, morally as well as physically; for not only had the powerful, well-built man, dwindled into a tottering, emaciated driveller, but the daring, impious bandit, had become a weak and superstitious dotard.

My curiosity strongly piqued to learn how changes so wonderful had been brought about, we immediately engaged the Tio to attend upon us; and, during the few days circumstances compelled us to remain at Cordoba, I elicited from him the following account of the events which had chequered his extraordinary career since we had before met.