The virtues of the sulphureous spring have long been known; but it is only within the last few years that the increasing reputation of the medicated source led a company of speculators to build the village which now stands in its vicinity; the scattered cottages of the Huerta having been found quite incapable of lodging the vast crowd of valetudinarians, annually drawn to the spot. The same parties have yet more recently erected a chapel, and also the Fonda, mentioned in the preceding chapter.
The little village is built with the regularity of even Wiesbaden itself, but nothing can well be more different in other respects than it is from that, or any other watering-place, which I have ever visited. It consists of five or six parallel stacks of houses, forming streets which open at one end upon the bank overhanging the now sulphurated stream, that flows down from Casares; and which abut, at the other, against the side of the lofty mountain whence the medicated spring issues. These streets are covered in with trellis-work, over which vines are trained, rendering them cool, as well as agreeable to the sight. The houses are all built on a uniform plan, namely, they have no upper story, and contain but one room each; which room is furnished with the usual Spanish kitchen-range—that is, with three or four little bricked stoves built into a kind of dresser. By this arrangement, every room is, of itself, capable of forming a complete establishment; and in most cases, indeed, it does serve the triple purposes of a kitchen, a refectory, and a dormitory, to its frugal inmates. When a family is large, however, an entire lareet must be hired for its accommodation.
The principal speculator in the joint-stock village is a gentleman of Estepona; and El Señor Juan—or Tio Juan, as he is familiarly called by those admitted to his intimacy—is a poor relative, who, for the slight perquisites of office, readily undertook the charge of the infant establishment.
The choice of the Tio was, in every respect, a judicious one; for, having drunk himself off the crutches on which he hobbled down to the baths, he has become a kind of walking advertisement of the efficacy of the waters. He is not, however, like the unsightly fellows who perambulate the streets of London with placards, a silent one; for I know of no man more thoroughly versed in the art of viva voce puffing than Tio Juan; and then he has stored his memory with such a fund of useful watering-place information, that he is a perfect guide to the Hedionda and its environs.
The Tio and I soon became wonderful cronies; I derived great amusement from his cuentas—he, much gratification from my nightly whisky-toddy. In fact, the two dovetailed into each other in a most remarkable manner; for, when once the Tio had attached one of his long stories to a (pint) bottle of “poteen,” there was no possibility of separating them—they drew cork and breath together, and together only they came to a conclusion.
He knew every body that visited the baths, and every thing about them; could point out those who came for health, and those who were allured by dissipation; could tell which ladies and gentlemen were looking out for matrimony, which for intrigue; whether the buxom widow had fruitful vineyards and olive grounds with her weeds; whether the young ladies had shining onzas to recommend them as well as sparkling eyes.
Then the Tio knew where every medicinal herb grew that was suited to any given case—could point out the haunt of every covey of red-legged partridges in the vicinity—could tell to an hour when a flight of quail would cross from the parched shores of Africa—when the matchless becafigos would alight upon the neighbouring fig-trees—and, as the season advanced, he would mark the time to a nicety when the first annual visit of the woodcocks might be looked for to the wooded glens beyond the baths.
As the historian of the wonder-working spring, the Tio was not less valuable; though, it must be confessed, the terms in which he conveyed the idea of its vast antiquity were any thing but prepossessing; viz., “Pues! saben ustedes, que esa hedionda es mas vieja que la sarna.” “Know then, gentlemen, that this fetid spring is older than the itch.” In other respects, however, the information he had collected, besides being most rare, possessed a freshness that was truly delightful; “Siglos hay,[75]” he would continue, “the spring was endemoniado, for Carlomagno, or some other great hero of the most remote antiquity, drove an evil spirit into the mountain, which said spirit, to be revenged on mankind, poisoned the source whence the stream flows. Saint James, however, arriving in the country soon after—having taken Spain under his especial protection—determined to expel this imp of Satan. This was done accordingly, and the devil went over into Barbary, (where he eventually stirred up the Moors against the adopted children of Santiago—the story of Don Rodrigo and La Cava being all a fable,) leaving nothing but his sulphur behind.”
“The good saint, to perpetuate the fame of the miracle he had wrought, next determined to endue the spring with extraordinary curative properties; not depriving it, however, of the unusually bad smell left by the devil, that the marvellous work he was about to perform might be the more apparent to future generations.”
“Some years after this, the baths were visited by ‘muchos emperadores de Roma;’[76] amongst others, Trajan and Hercules; as also by the famous Roland; and, ‘segun dicen,’ by un Ingles, llamado Malbrù, y otra gente muy principal.”[77] “In those days,” continued the Tio, “there were palathios, posa’a, y to’o,[78] but then came the Moors (with the devil in their train), and laid every thing waste. They had not the power, however, to deprive the stream of its virtues; and great they are, and most justly celebrated por todo la España.”[79]