Our conductor stopped not, and spoke not, until we had reached the very top of the town, and then, leading our horses into a commodious stable, he ushered us into his own abode; wherein he assured us, if the accommodation he could offer was suitable, “we had but to mandar.” It consisted of a large sala and an alcoba, or recess, for a bed; the latter scrupulously clean, the former lofty and airy. We, therefore, expressed our entire satisfaction, requesting only that a couple of mattresses might be spread upon the floor; a friend, who had joined us at Gaucin, rendering this increase of accommodation necessary.
Having given instructions to that effect, Don Francisco Labato—for such our host informed us were his nombre y appellido,[66] not omitting to add, that he was a clerigo beneficiado[67]—proposed to accompany us, to cast an ojeada[68] upon the curious old town, from the ruined battlements of its ancient fortress; observing that there was yet abundance of time to do so, “ere Phœbus took his evening plunge into the western ocean.”
We gladly accepted the proffered ciceroneship of our classical host, and, mounting the rugged pathway up the isolated crag, in a few minutes reached the plateau at its summit. It would be hardly possible to select a less convenient site for a town than that occupied by Casares. Pent in to the north and south between impracticable crags, and bounded on the other two sides by deep ravines; it can, in fact, be reached only, either by describing a wide circuit to gain the mountains, rising at its back; or, by ascending a rough winding path, practised in the side of the castle hill.
The principal part of the town is clustered round the base of the old fortress, the houses rising one above another in steps, as it were, and occupying no more of the valuable space than is necessary to give them a secure foundation. The streets, which are barely wide enough to allow a paniered donkey to pass freely, are formed out of the live rock, and, here and there, are cut in wide steps, to render the ascent less difficult and dangerous. These flat slabs of native limestone, when heated by a summer sun, though passable enough by unshod animals, afford but a precarious footing to a horse’s iron-bound hoofs.
The castle can only be approached through the town, and although its walls have long been in ruins, yet, so strong are its natural defences, that the muzzles of a few rusty old guns, propped up by stones, and protruded from the prostrate parapets, were sufficient to deter the French from making any attempt upon the place during the war of independence:—such, at least, is the version of the inhabitants.
That Casares was a Roman town is almost proved by the name it yet bears; but the matter is placed beyond a doubt on examining the old foundations of the castle, which are clearly of a date anterior to the occupation of Spain by the Saracens.
The name it anciently bore strikes me as being equally obvious, viz., Cæsaris Salutariensis; so designated from the mineral waters in its neighbourhood, which, though now known by the name of the modern town of Manilba, are within the termino of Casares. For, not only were the valuable properties of these springs well known to the Romans, but, according to the common belief in the country, they performed a wonderful cure on one of the emperors—Trajan, I think.
Cæsaris Salutariensis is mentioned by Pliny, amongst the Latin towns of the conventus gaditanus; the limits of which country may, at first sight, appear to be somewhat stretched to include Casares; but Barbesula, which stood at the mouth of the river Guadiaro, at an equal distance from Cadiz, (as is clearly proved by inscriptions found there,) is also mentioned by that excellent authority as one of the stipendiary towns of the same county; and the order in which they are enumerated, viz., those first which were nearest to the capital, tends to confirm my supposition.
On our return from the old castle, which commands a splendid view, we were not displeased to find that our host was no despiser of the good things of this world, much as he gave us to understand that all his thoughts were directed towards the never-ending joys of that which is to come. Every thing bespoke a well-conducted ménage; the house, besides being clean and tastily decorated with flowers, was provided with some solid comforts. The Cura’s niece—his housekeeper, butler, and factotum—was pretty, as well as intelligent and obliging. His cuisine was tolerably free from garlic and grease, his wine from aniseed. Our horses were up to their knees in fresh straw; and three clean beds were prepared for ourselves.
Our host excused himself from partaking of our meal, he having already dined, and, whilst we were doing justice to his good catering, paced up and down the room pretending to read, but in reality watching our movements, and, as it at first struck us, looking after his silver spoons: but divers testy hints given to his bright-eyed niece that her constant attendance upon us was unnecessary, soon made it evident that she was the object of his solicitude; as, judging from the occasional direction of our eyes, he rightly conjectured what was the subject of our conversation. Anon, however, he would approach the table, thrust the volume of Homilies under his left arm, and, taking a pinch of snuff, (which he said was “bueno para el estudio”[69]) ask our way of thinking on various subjects, political and theological, always prefacing his interrogatories by some observation, either on his passion for study, the cosmopolitan bent of his mind, or the superiority his learning gave him over the vulgar prejudices of the age. And, at length, when the table was cleared, the niece gone, and he had elicited from us that we were all three English, he observed, without further circumlocution, “Pues Señores, you are not members of the Santa Iglesia, Catolica Romana?"